Travel and Verse

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Category: Travel Journal (Page 5 of 15)

World War II and the Power of Story

August 5, 2021 / / 2 Comments
My Great-Grandpa Donald Butler

Travel Journal, 106

Nobody talks about the second day. We hear mostly about the first day. Sure, June 6th of 1944 deserves attention. The initial landing at Normandy beach in France, that immovable D-Day (codename Operation Overlord), stands in the minds of Americans like a WWII monument.

But what about the second day? What happened on June 7th?

Wave after wave of allied military transport continues to land on the now crowded beach. And not the kind of crowd you’d typically see at the beach. Though some of the bodies had been moved to designated areas, innumerable still lay about the war-stage. Though the sun shines through spotty clouds, a greyness hangs in the air. It looks like a storm is building. Spools of concertina razor-wire jingle as the sea pushes it up the sand, and then back down the sand. It’s not going anywhere. The wire doesn’t float. It just makes a clinking noise and catches Army-green jackets. But nobody can hear the noise. The constant, disorienting rhythm of distant, and not so distant gunfire pummels every eardrum for miles.

It’s amazing how the ocean still holds onto the blood and rubbish of battle. Bodies lay everywhere. The flowing and moving water still just keeps it all close to shore. Guns and barricades and broken implements and empty cigarette packs lie around like a haunting yard sale. The seagulls, apathetic to human plight, seem to be enjoying themselves.

Hundreds, no thousands, of amphibious vehicles landed yesterday. Now, today, many more keep showing up. A boy who lied about his age jumps out of the back of one of those vehicles, and into the freezing water. He wants to be here. Well, he did want to be here. But that’s changing rapidly. His buddies feel the same way. But now they’re very wet, very cold, and very scared. Bullets fling past them at every angle. They are rushing into a fight that they thought they understood. But who understands war? He thought he understood it until the metal platform of that amphibious vehicle slammed into the sea, and an ugly scene of the real face of war lay before he and his buddies.  A lot of his buddies, and maybe him, will be dead within a few days. Maybe this day. And he knows it. So he holds his rifle close to his chest and pushes up the beach with the other men. Nearby, a commanding officer shouts orders and action-plans. But he can’t hear his CO over the waves and the gunfire and the beat of his own heart. A seagull squawks, fighting another seagull over a bloodied bandage. Unheard razor-wire sloshes in the waves.

How long is this going to last? They’re told the Allies are “winning.” But what does that mean anyway? How can this be what it looks like to win? But deep down, he still wants to be here, in Normandy, France; fighting for the freedom of not just Americans, but for those under oppression. There’s talk that Hitler has prison camps that some call “death camps.” It’s a place for Jews, and Catholic priests, and homosexuals, and political foes, and everyone else that the Third Reich thinks unclean and unworthy of humanity. But those are only stories he hears. Only time will tell the truth. If only this war could end. So he fights his way up the beach further to the next barricade, to the next assignment, and, later, on to the third day of the landing at Normandy beach. They made a lot of headway yesterday. But today, the 7th of June, the second day of the D-Day invasion, the fight continues…

Of course, I wasn’t there. I’m in my mid-thirties, sitting at a kitchen table writing about a topic I can barely broach. D-Day took place 77 years ago. Admittedly, I didn’t even really research anything. I have no idea if that’s what it looked like to be there. I made it all up.

Or did I?

I don’t know about you, but WWII history intrigues me deeply. History in general takes up massive hard drive space in my brain. But what you just read about the second day at Normandy was complete fiction.

Or was it?

Sure, I set the scene and painted a picture. I can make educated guesses as to the nature of waves and seagulls. I wasn’t at Normandy, and I’m certainly no historian. But I have been influenced, just like you and everybody else in this country, by the history taught us and the people who lived it. We are influenced by the living memories of others and the fruits of their labors. However, the fact remains that I simply wasn’t there. We rely then, on those who came before us to teach us through story and memory.

My great-grandpa, Donald Butler, like many other American grandfathers, fought in WWII. In fact, he actually did land at Normandy beach on the second day of the invasion. I don’t know much about his time there. I never asked him about it. That’s one of the many topics I wish I would have asked him about before he died. But I remember him and I remember the history enough to at least think about what it was like. According to my great-grandma Jean and my Grammy (their daughter, my grandma), he was with the second wave at Normandy, and trucked supplies all over the country. I’ve recently been thinking about Great-Grandpa Don and his stories, his contributions to the National Memory that continue to build a post-WWII world. Like the time he almost ran over General Patton. Or the time that he shot all the lights out of the barracks, much to the chagrin of his Sergeant. But most of all, the time he landed at Normandy beach on the second day of Operation Overlord. He and the story of Normandy beach have influenced my thinking and existence to a fundamental level.

I recently thought about Grandpa Don while I walked through the labyrinth that is the National WWII Museum in New Orleans, Louisiana. If you happen to make it to The Big Easy, ease your way pass the French Quarter, pass the cheap booze, and pass the souvenirs. Do yourself, and mankind, a favor. Go to the National WWII Museum. Educate yourself, teach yourself, and remember. Wall after wall of relics, history, uniforms, weapons, and war paraphernalia lay out a story of heartbreaking truth. And guess what? It’s not just their story.

It’s your story. The people who fought during that time, formed this time—the time in which you live right now. It’s all the same story. This is why we study history and are drawn to the true tales of our grandfathers.

One of the exhibits at the National WWII Museum is called Dimensions in Testimony. Men like my Great-Grandpa Don have stories that need telling. The Shoah Foundation sat with several of these men and talked for hundreds of hours, recording their oral history and experiences. Through the use of artificial intelligence, an interactive, programed recording can have a “conversation” with the museum-goer.

The screen in front of me displayed a man sitting on a chair. I pressed the button on the podium microphone and asked a question, “what was it like seeing the prison camps for the first time?” The picture moved and the recorded man began to talk and tell me of liberating the prisoners.

A famous quote says something about being doomed to repeat history if we don’t learn from our past. It’s a tight and nicely packaged saying that strikes a chord with most people. It suggests that we learn from our past to build our future in a better way. But history, such as D-Day, does not influence our future. I can’t change the future—nobody can. It hasn’t happened yet.

History informs us on how to live in the now—in this time. It’s active, alive. Learning WWII history, hearing a story, or see a museum could dislodge an emotion or thought, rewire your brain, and make you live differently.

You may go to a museum. You may see pictures of Dachau or Auschwitz—sunken, sullen people with rags hanging from their bodies stand looking glumly at the camera. You may think to yourself, “that’s a person. They did that to a person.” You may leave the museum and find yourself treating people with a bit more kindness. History changes us in the now.

I may not have been on that beach in Normandy, France on June 7th, 1944, but my great-grandfather was. And maybe yours was too. Their stories and experiences shape how we live. Those who don’t learn from history may or may not be doomed to repeat it. I don’t know. But if you have a chance to go to the National WWII Museum, I can promise you a better understanding of the story in which you live, and maybe even a slightly improved world.

Or better yet here’s an idea, if you can, talk to your great-grandparents. Boy, do they have stories for you.

 

anthony forrest

Iceland: on the people and culture

July 15, 2021 / / 0 Comments

Travel Journal, 105

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

Iceland: on hot springs

Iceland: on hot springs

July 8, 2021 / / 0 Comments

Travel Journal, 104

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

Iceland: on Covid testing and travel in a post-pandemic world

July 1, 2021 / / 1 Comment

Travel Journal, 103

*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.

Jazz Manifesto, part 1

May 20, 2021 / / 1 Comment

Travel Journal, 100

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

Roary Stories: Tales of the Travelosaur, part 4

April 15, 2021 / / 0 Comments

Travel Journal, 99

Abduckted

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

 

Keep up with Roary’s Stories!

Part 1: Seattle Bus Ride

Part 2: How it began

Part 3: That’s Amazing!

Surfing Salvation

April 1, 2021 / / 0 Comments

Travel Journal, 98

I suppose you can tell a lot about somebody by the shoes they wear. At dinner last night, we saw a guy walk by us wearing khaki short and sandals with knee-high tube socks. Without needing a full description, you were probably able to scrape together a picture in your mind of a late middle-aged Midwesterner with sunblock on his nose. I can think of these two friends that work in commercial real estate. They wear nice dress shoes most of the time. They are businessmen and influencers in their community—and their shoes are a dead giveaway.

Personally, I can’t wear anything other than running shoes. My feet don’t want anything else. I’ve been spoiled with cushy running shoes for too long. Work, church, casual; I am wearing running shoes. Why? Because I run.

You can tell a lot about somebody by their shoes.

So, here I am, straddling a surf board in Hawaii, the Big Island. The guy teaching me to surf is on his board next to me. And we are having a great time. He’s funny, intelligent, wildly intuitive with the ocean, and extremely patient with me. I’m learning well and catching small waves.

While surfing, a lot of time is spent sitting on your board, waiting for the right waves. As we sit, we talk. We have nearly nothing in common. But we both love to spend time outside. I run. He surfs. I live in Minnesota. He lives in Hawaii. We get along great.

“Here it comes. Paddle! Paddle! Paddle!”

I’m paddling and can feel the back of the board begin to lift.

“Stand up, stand up!” I hear him yell.

I stand up, shift my weight, bend my knees, and keep my eyes forward. Where I look, that’s where the board goes. I shift my weight a bit more to the front and have a great ride. Eventually, I bail and drag my tired body onto the board. When I paddle back to where I started, I catch my breath.  We go over what went right and what I can improve on.

During a lull, I ask him about his own life. Right out of college, he got a job as an accountant at some high society firm in San Diego. He had been living in the city and surfing whenever he could. But guess what? He hated it. After three brutal years of company servitude, his girlfriend convinced him to move to her home—Hawaii.

“I hated it bro,” he says, smiling through his sunglasses.

“You know what it was? It was the shoes, man. I just hated wearing shoes.”

I laugh and kind of understand what he is saying. He had been fed a common worldview that the American male should go to college, pursue a safe career, slave away his 20s, 30s, and 40s, then die of an early coronary behind his desk before he retired. I embellished about half of that, but you know what I mean. There’s this prevailing idea that a nice safe career, building retirement, and working for the weekend is the only good option in life. It’s a major problem in Western Culture. Few have any sense of passion in what they do. Fewer still are happy.

This once-accountant has taught surfing happily for over a dozen years now. He doesn’t need to wear shoes. And he is contributing positively to his life and community.  Many cry foul, saying that this man is wasting his life. But there’s something to be said for the guy who decides that the proverbial “American Dream,” for him at least, is actually a nightmare. There’s something to be said for the guy who gives it all up to gain something of greater value. He’s brave, not foolish.

I am reminded of a quote from a man named Jim Elliot. He and four of his friends were missionaries to an uncontacted people group in Ecuador. They were speared to death soon after they made contact with the tribe. Their goal was to share the best of news with them—that Jesus is the Savior of mankind, that God wants us to be brought from death to life, and that He is the forgiver of sins. There is a bright treasure in the person of Jesus Christ. God has a place for us with Him in heaven.

Jim Elliot wrote in his journal that, “he is no fool who gives what he cannot keep, to gain what he cannot lose.”

Jim Elliot knew that if he was to give up the safe life, there may be risks. But living the safe life of milk toast tastes pretty soggy and bland when you’ve been confronted by a feast of treasure-treats and eternal delights. For Jim and his fellow missionaries, living the safe life meant that the tribal people of Ecuador would never taste those heavenly treats. Though they were killed, they laid the foundation for their wives and other missionaries to return and finish the work.

It’s hard to sit day after day, looking at forms and numbers, when there are gnarly waves and perfect coastlines calling out your name. Staying on the beach and playing it safe means that you won’t get crushed by waves. But you won’t get a fulfilling ride either.

Why stand on the beach, gazing out longingly to the sea?

Why wallow in the ordinary of this world?

Why wear shoes when you can tread barefoot with Son of God?

 

anthony forrest 

Great American Road Trip, conclusion

March 25, 2021 / / 0 Comments

Travel Journal, 97

I’m standing and waiting at a hotel in Van Buren, Arkensas. The lady in line before me couldn’t take any longer if she tried. She has a ton of questions: how many beds in the room? How many rooms in the hotel? Can she have a room close to the door? She starts in on giving the poor hotel employee her and her husband’s entire medical history. Then, when I think it couldn’t get more ridiculous, she pauses and says, “oh my, your hair is so nice! Is it real?

 

I look up from my phone. I gotta see this.

 

“Um, yes,” says the female employee.

 

“Oh, it’s so lovely, it could be a wig.”

 

I’m floored that the employee standing at the counter wasn’t apparently offended. But what shocks me the most is that this lady actually finds wig hair preferable to the real deal. I have never had the bravery, nay, audacity to make comments like that. I have to give her credit. She sure knows how to hold a conversation. I had an old boss tell me one time that the key to talking to people was to talk about them or, at least, talk about what they wanted to talk about. This is true about the people who seemingly make friends easily and all over the world. They meet somebody in the airport and see that they have snorkel gear with them. They talk about snorkeling for a while, and before you know it, they get invited to stay for dinner, then the weekend. Bang, friends for life. I want that boldness. But not too much boldness, like wig lady. Invitation to stay the weekend? I think not.

 

After a reasonable night of sleep, I climb back into the car to drive to the McDonald’s for breakfast. (No Starbucks. I’m slumming it.) As soon as I turn the key an oldies station begins pummeling me with an advertisement for cars.

 

“A new car attracts better looking girls, unless you’re ugly. Take a chance. Buy a new car.” 

 

It’s early. And the logic seems sound. A+B=new car and good-looking girls. But it feels like there may be holes in that argument. Besides, I already have a good-looking girl. I’ll stick with my 2003 Subaru.

 

Slowly the approach of Tennessee came upon us and we were greeted by the skyline of Memphis in the distance. If we had any time at all, I would most certainly have recommended stopping into Marlowe’s BBQ (They will pick you up from a hotel in a pink limousine, for fee). The hill country on the Eastern side of Memphis rolls and rolls. Both deciduous and coniferous trees blind the freeway as do billboards that advertise such things as Loretta Lynn’s Ranch and Kitchen. The contrast between the land on the flats of New Mexico and the hills of Tennessee it’s fairly difficult to grasp. We drove nearly 2,000 miles on I-40 without seeing a lake. The first body of water we saw was someplace in Oklahoma. But now woods and houses-within-woods dot the landscape. Rivers snake underneath the freeway. And between the eastern border of Tennessee and Nashville, I see no less than a dozen signs for different Tennessee State Parks. It seems this place has much to offer.

 

Though California offers mountains and farmland and cities and coastline, Tennessee appears to be a good trade. Yes, Tennessee may get the occasional cold spell and the culture may be completely different. And yes, in California you don’t have to shovel sunshine. From what I’ve seen, the people in Tennessee are caring people. They say yes sir and yes ma’am. They smile and wish you a nice day. The State is far less crowded and the traffic, a breeze. Also, taxes are minimal. That’s not to say that California is evil. Sometimes, you just need different surroundings. My parents have lived in many different states. And that’s a good thing.

 

Variety creates a character observant to different cultures and people groups. Living in various places can literally make you a better person. It builds empathy and promotes love for others. A journey from California to Tennessee is more than just a road trip. Forgive the cliché. It’s more like a life trip. The same goes for travel.

 

Know a place.

 

Know its people.

 

An understanding begins to form.

 

Living and traveling to different places molds us into better Americans and better humans.

anthony forrest

Start at the beginning of the road trip: 

Part 1

Part 2

Part 3

Great American Road Trip, Part 3

March 18, 2021 / / 0 Comments

Travel Journal, 96

I groggily hop into the car and drive toward the Starbucks. Have I turned into a Starbucks person? Back when I worked as a barista at The Beta Coffeehouse in Cody, WY I used to say that, “friends don’t let friends drink Starbucks.” We mocked the overpriced company openly, claiming the coffee shop’s lack of soul. I want my coffee made by people passionate about coffee, not a college freshman who lack motivation and doesn’t even drink coffee. But that was a long time ago. Wyoming didn’t even have a Starbucks back then. In fact, neither did Minnesota.

But here I am pulling up to the window at a Starbucks. And besides, nothing else is open this early. Such is the road life. Remind me to chastise myself later. Over the intercom, a cheerful and bright voice beckons I give her my order. After moderate negotiation, I’ve ordered two blueberry oatmeals, a black coffee, and a latte. She regales me with a musical retelling of my order. It’s so early and I can’t help but smile as I pull up to the window. She takes my card, and I’ve never been so happy to give somebody $16 in my life. 

“You know,” I remark to the ‘bucks employee, “they’ve really selected the right person for the counter this morning. You are so happy, bubbly, and cheerful. I hope you have a great day.” 

“Ah,” she giggles dramatically placing her hand on her chest, “well, bless your heart! That’s so sweet of you. Have a wonderful day!” (If you just read that without some sort of southern accent, go back to the beginning of the paragraph and try again.) It’s desperately hard to have a bad day when people treat you like that.

Road, road, more road, range, prairie, mountains, and more of the same. Hours on end, ever easterly the wheels turned. New Mexico turns into Texas, and Texas turned into Oklahoma.

What’s this? A sign up ahead.

All capital letters: HITCHHIKERS MAY BE ESCAPING INMATES.

This comes as bit of a shock to me. I’ve picked up probably a dozen hitchhikers, none of which had killed me. How many were escaping inmates? It’s not a pleasant thought. I’m reminded of the joke that tells of a driver picking up a hitchhiker. The hitchhiker gets in and says that he is surprised to be picked up. He asks the driver, “what if I was some kind of serial killer?” The driver laughed and remarked, “well, what are the odds of two serial killers being in the same car?” Note to self, don’t pick up hitchhikers on interstate 40 between the Texas border and Oklahoma City.

It seems like every 10 minutes a dashboard warning light flashes in front of the steering wheel. The bright red caution sign blinks a coffee cup with the words “Caution Tired Driver: Seek Rest Now.” Gee, thanks for the advice. Tell me something I don’t know. Though I pride myself as someone who is moderately environmentally mindful, I find that my passenger seat has begun to look like the museum of forgotten coffee cups, and I the curator. At one point on this trip, I walked into a gas station and all the coffee cups bowed to me, they’re king. At least that’s what’s happened in my imagination. It is a 33-hour drive. I may be delirious.

Somewhere in Oklahoma a building on my left declares in spray painted scrawls, “Joan Jett for President.” If that’s not an American political decision, I don’t know what is. I’ve seen political statements of all kinds so far. But this is by far the most interesting. I’m floored at how vocal we are as a nation. We want everybody to know where we stand—who we support. In fields, there lie huge bails of hay spray painted with the names of candidates. Guys in hats. Trucks with affiliated flags. Subarus with 30 or 40 bumper stickers. Americans are passionate people who feel strongly for their Nation. They love it here, as they should. Back in Texas, we made it to Rudy’s Barbeque for a burnt-ends sandwich (delicious, go there). Above us hung an enormous American flag. Not long ago, I was struck with the thought that I don’t really care if America is great. All I want is an America that is good. I do not love America for its politics or politicians. I do not love America for its ethics or morality, for those things waver and faulter. I love America for the Americans—the people. I love America for the Land. I love America for the heart and soul of loving our neighbors. This Land is my Land, this Land is your Land, as the old song says. And if we get Joan Jett for President, so be it.

anthony forrest

Start at the beginning of the road trip: 

Part 1

Part 2

Great American Road Trip, Part 2

March 11, 2021 / / 1 Comment

Travel Journal, 95

A 33-hour road trip across the country begs for more than just music. I perused the options on my phone for an audiobook. Lo and behold, the entire volume of The Chronicles of Narnia runs in approximate 33 hours. Jackpot. I’ll listen to that. But each time I hit pause on the audiobook, all I can think of is the radio jockey back in California announcing the next song and a chorus of cheesy singers blurting out:

Con-tin-you-us-hate-dees hits!

It will haunt me the entire trip.

It seems to take us longer to go through California than we had expected. In fact, we stayed the night in the thriving metropolis of Barstow, CA. We breathed a sigh of relief when we crossed the border. Gas prices dropped. The speed limit rose. Restaurant signs exclaimed their dining rooms open.

Though Arizona has much to offer, not much of it can be experienced while driving 80 mph on interstate 40. Up ahead a sign advertises a bear sanctuary called Bearizona. On my left a freight train moves in a cliched manner across a piney ridge. An RV pulls a 30-year-old Geotracker. I take a sip of my Coke zero. 23 hours to go.

And a green sign along the highway appeared to look at me in a sad fashion while I read on its face, “378 mi to Albuquerque.”

We would absolutely love to simply drive and drive, without stopping. But I drink too much coffee, and dad drinks too much Diet Coke. Besides, this trip would kill us if we didn’t stop. We seem to stop often. And then there’s the dogs. They have to walk around and drink too. The two little rascals sit in the front seat of my dad’s vehicle panting and sleeping and panting and sleeping. I can smell the dog breath a quarter mile behind him, in another car.

Somewhere in New Mexico we pull off at some exit looking for a gas station. The distance between locales with any kind of civilization keeps growing longer. We park the cars in front of the pumps and walk up to the door. It’s a dive. A sign on the door announces that the restrooms are only for paying customers and that they have to haul their water 50-miles to get it to this gas station. Of course, none of that matters. They’re closed anyway. Why would they be opened at 7:30 a.m. on a Wednesday literally right next to the interstate? No matter, I walk behind the dilapidated building and pee on a rusted over shipping container that must have been some kind of nightmarish lawn ornament for the broken-down RV sitting next to it. We drive on.

We’re desperately trying to drive the full distance in 3 days and 2 nights, really we are. But honestly, we will probably shamefully add another night. I have nothing to prove.

The sun disappeared behind us and the desert blackened almost instantly. The lack of life out here shocks me, but not for long. The road drops down into a lower plane and Albuquerque lights look like an ocean filled with orange dots.

anthony forrest 

 

Start at the beginning of the road trip:

Part 1

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