Travel and Verse

stories of travel, medical missions, and more

Category: Travel Journal (Page 6 of 15)

Great American Road Trip, Part 1

March 4, 2021 / / 3 Comments

Travel Journal, 94

“We’re moving,” my dad said, “Heading to Tennessee.”

 

They had been wanting to get out of California for quite some time. And now seemed about as good a time as any.

 

I’m on the phone with him.

 

“That’s great!”

 

Honestly, I’d been expecting it and wanting to see them closer to us in the Midwest.

 

“When are you leaving?”

 

He answered that he had to be at his next place of work in about 2 weeks. My eyes got very big. I had already promised to help them move and drive their two cars across the country. California to Tennessee. With some finagling, I’d be able to get some extra time off work and fly to Sacramento in a couple of weeks.

 

Cut to two weeks later.

 

I stand at the garage sipping coffee, and looking outside. From the nearby radio speakers, a song by Tears for Fears declares that, “everybody wants to rule the world.” While I ponder the possibility of this declaration’s truthfulness, the song fades away and the station announces, “Continuous ’80s hits!”

 

But the cheese-ball, sing-song radio station group sings the words and pronounces each syllable forcefully.

 

It sounds more like, “Con-tin-you-us-hate-dees HITS!”

 

The sun warms me.

 

California is indeed beautiful. And though it’s winter time here too, you never have to shovel sunshine. California’s natural beauty is it’s best and most valuable resource. Mountains, deserts, ocean, and forests—California has it all. There should really be no reason for people to move out of California. But alas, there are many reasons, and most of them apolitical, though politics may be one of the catalysts for moving to a different state.

 

The cost of living is skyrocketing, taxes are outrageous, and the increasing homelessness verges on the post-apocalyptic. And don’t even think about the crime-rate. Now, people are leaving in droves.

 

As I stand sipping my coffee, I turn my head to see an enormous armored SWAT vehicle slowly (with haunting silence) coast by the house. Three SUV squad vehicles follow closely behind. And in the middle is a black van with six heavily armed officers hanging out of the sliding doors. They stop at a house a couple of blocks away and bust a huge illegal marijuana grow.

 

This is a normal thing. This happens all the time. My folks are looking forward to the change in venue.

 

So, we finish with the packing. And when the moving crew cleans out the boxes and beds, et cetera, we pack our own vehicles and begin the road trip. But before we leave, the truck driver gazes seriously into our eyes and tells us that we must stop for lunch at Rudy’s Barbeque in Amarillo, TX. My dad and I agree to these terms.

 

We left before noon. Still plenty of drivable day.

 

Ah, the great American road trip. It has been birthed out of the American culture, growing mainly from the post-world war II era. The glories of an excellent economy, reasonably priced vehicles, and an excellent highway system developed the tradition of the American road trip back in the ’50s. And starting in 1956, construction began on the interstate system. Most families had at least one car. The economy flourished. Families took to the road in search of the Grand Canyon, Mount Rushmore, cheap camping, and Wall Drug.

 

Such nostalgia like the famed route 66 and cheesy roadside tourist traps help to make Americana what it is today.

 

But our road trip more closely resembles a scene from The Cannonball Run than a leisurely road trip.

 

anthony forrest

Roary Stories: Tales of the Travelosuar, part 3

February 11, 2021 / / 0 Comments

Travel Journal, 93

That's amazing!

Many years ago, my wife and I traveled to both The Netherlands and Israel separated by only one month. I have written about both trips before. But I left out one major detail regarding a certain toy dinosaur. In fact, Roary’s traveled to roughly the same places that we’ve traveled. He doesn’t always make it out of the pocket in which he rides, but he’s there nonetheless.

Our first trip to The Netherlands took us to Haarlem, adjacent to the city of Amsterdam. Our main objective was to see the Corrie Ten Boom museum. So prior to flying in, I emailed the museum inquiring about a tour, specifically an English tour. My Dutch language abilities are nonexistent. We had it all set up and ready to go. Our trip to Haarlem opened our eyes and enlightened us. I can’t speak for Roary, but I imagine that he was also enlightened. But he’s made of rubber, so who knows?

Almost exactly one month later, Roary traveled to Israel with us. We hesitate to drag Roary out on all of our adventures. To be honest with you, the logistics of bringing a toy dinosaur to museums, UNESCO heritage sites, and religious locales, borders on the absurd. Everywhere I go, it’s in the back of my mind: where can I take a picture of this crazy little dino? And then, when I have mustered the courage and bottled up my embarrassment, I reach into my bag and brandish the one and only Roary.

Heads turn. Giggles begin. I can feel the eyes looking at me or looking away. When somebody does something odd, it can be hard to put your finger on it. As a paramedic, I often see behavior that disarms other people. When people do things that don’t fit inside our mental frame or expectation, it registers as, well, odd.

So when I placed Roary on a rock ledge with the Dome of the Rock of Jerusalem in the background, I imagined that the lookers-on would scoff and jeer. But alas, no.

Our friends who lived in Jerusalem at the time took us to this location specifically to find a pose for Roary. They were getting into it. The overlook on which we stood overwhelmed us. Possibly the most important city on the planet lay before us. Parts of the Old City could be seen from here. We had already stood at the Western Wall. I’d seen bullet holes in the stone from the Six-Day war in 1967. And now we stood with the Dome in the background, the sun setting before us.

And there sat Roary, in all his regal majesty. We snapped our photos. We all laughed. And out of nowhere I heard a Dutch-tinted English voice.

“That’s amazing!”

I turned to see another traveler gawking at our escapades.

I smiled. Perhaps I didn’t hear him correctly.

“What’s that?” I ask.

“That’s amazing!”

Confused as ever, I just smiled again and said something stupid, like, “Oh yeah,” or, “thanks.” I can’t remember. The only thing stranger than me taking a picture of my toy dinosaur by the Dome of the Rock, was this older Dutch guy standing by as a curious observer.

He called his wife over. And now she began watching.

“That’s amazing,” she repeated in the same flabbergasted style.

As I neared the point of calling the Israeli loony bin, the gentleman strolled over to me and asked me a very unexpected question.

“May I borrow?”

I had no idea what he was talking about.

“My camera?” I asked. What else could he mean?

“No, no—the dinosaur!”

I slowly handed Roary over the clearly wacko Dutch guy. He reached out and grabbed him. He then hurried over to the same ledge Roary had just finished his photo shoot. He propped Roary up, jut like we had done before, and began taking his picture.

I have since that moment felt less and less embarrassed with taking pictures of Roary. People get it. It’s fun. It’s funny. And it’s something we can enjoy everywhere we go. When people look and laugh, they are most likely laughing because it’s hilarious, no because it’s embarrassing.

But this story isn’t over.

As we spoke with our new friends, they told us how they hailed from the city of Haarlem in The Netherlands. We said that we had just returned from there and excitedly told them of our trip to a lovely little museum in that very city. To top it all off, the wife exclaimed that she currently works at and curates that exact museum. In fact, I had probably been emailing with her regarding an English-speaking tour, not one month ago. She conducts the Dutch tours.

Laughs and smiles were shared all around. And I can only say that I am thankful for the little dinosaur that helps us grow closer to people around the world. He even helps to unite strangers in the most unique ways.

 

anthony forrest

 

Keep up with Roary’s Stories!

Part 1: Seattle Bus Ride

Part 2: How it began

Roary Story: Tales of the Travelosaur, part 2

January 28, 2021 / / 0 Comments

Travel Journal, 92

How it began

Traveling the world accompanied by a toy dinosaur draws attention. And I am not one for drawing unneeded attention. And to top it off, I imagine most people don’t think to themselves, “there must be an excellent reason why this full-grown man is playing with a toy dinosaur by the Liberty Bell.”

I assure you, lookers-on, there is a reason. Good or not, you be the judge.

Once upon a time, in the wild west of Cody, Wyoming, there lived a small boy with a love of dinosaurs. This is a ridiculous statement, since all small boys love dinosaurs. One Christmas or birthday or Easter (some such gifty-day), the small boy received a plastic mesh bag filled with delightful plastic dinosaurs. There were triceratopses and brachiosaurs and tyrannosaurs and all-kinds-of-saurs.

The boy loved playing with his dinosaurs. Until one day, the boy returned home from church with his family and found that the dinosaurs had been brutally deformed and mutilated.

The dinosaurs lay scattered across the living room floor. My seven-year-old mind struggled to grasp such a horrifying mass grave of plastic dinos. It did not take a criminal autopsy to discover that the family dog, Bogie, would now be labeled a plastic dinosaur serial killer. None went unmaimed. Each bore the wounds of missing faces, lopped tails, and amputated legs. How can this poor boy play with these terrifying toys that once gave him so much joy? In the words of the immortal Joseph Conrad in his novel Heart of Darkness, “The horror!”

As you can imagine, I was indeed horrified. But that was ages ago. And I promise, my mental and behavioral health has not overly suffered from loss of dinosaurs. And I have since forgiven and granted clemency and full pardon to the schnauzer known as Bogie.

As you can very well imagine, I remind my family of this story often. I joke with them that such trauma scarred me for life. It’s all in jest.

Twenty years later, we all met at a hotel in Fargo, ND. It was one of those rare times when we all get together. With family spread all over the US, seeing everybody at once borders on the impossible.

“This is for you,” my parents said, handing me a small gift. I tore the wrapping paper wildly. To my delight, they had given me a small rubber and plastic dinosaur—a T-rex. And we all had a great laugh about how now I couldn’t tell the story of having my childhood ruined by dino-destructive trauma. (I still bring it up. No one can stop me!)

The next morning, I awoke with craftiness and hilarity in my heart. I proceeded to take pictures of the little T-rex in all sorts of comical positions performing impossible actions, such as brushing his teeth and sitting in the hotel hot tub. I began texting these pictures to the family at around 6 a.m.

Each text said one thing: roar. Thus, Roary was born. And thus he came into our lives. He now travels all over the world, seeking adventure and mischief. He has been in some fun pictures and has given us a great amount of joy. We enjoy the reactions we get from on-lookers. And we enjoy the objective of taking a picture with Roary in remarkable locations.

“What have we started,” my family bemoaned, all those years ago in Fargo.

But it started long ago, in a living room far, far away—with a little boy, distraught over losing his plastic toys.

anthony forrest

 

Keep up with Roary’s Stories!

Part 1: Seattle Bus Ride

Roary Story: Tales of the Travelosaur, part 1

January 21, 2021 / / 3 Comments

Travel Journal, 91

Seattle Bus Ride

I hear it all the time:

“It rains constantly in Seattle.”

But each time I go there, the sun shines. Apparently, they get something over 150 days of rain a year. But is that all day? Or just part of the day. I don’t know.  Sure, the city lies on the coast in a very temperate zone. It’s almost like a North American version of Barcelona, Spain, just not as hot. But though they tons of rain, it’s worth a visit. And all political and social strife you might see on the news can’t change the fact that this is coffee Mecca, and that the Pike Place Market has outrageous fish and chips.

But I wasn’t there for the food, coffee, meteorology, or sociopolitical lesson. I simply missed my flight. But a missed flight is nothing to complain about when it gets you a 24-hour stopover in a place like Seattle.

So here I was, sitting on a bus near the Space Needle. At that moment I turned and looked down to my backpack. Something seemed amiss. The side pocket looked baren. And in fact, it was. Suddenly a cold sweat developed and I began frantically looking around my seat and on the floor.

Where was he?!

Panicked, I say out loud, “Roary?”

The person sitting next to me cast me a concerned and embarrassed look. But I don’t pay him any attention.

And at this point, you may need an explanation. For the past several years, I have carried a small, rubber and plastic dinosaur—a t-rex to be exact.

His name is Roary—you know, because he’s a dinosaur and he, well, roars.

He rides in the side pocket of my backpack and I take him out at various locales around the world for less-than-ordinary photo opportunities. And it has gotten me concerned looks from concerned citizens on multiple occasions. While I have never declared or claimed even a modicum of mental stability, I promise, it’s harmless.

At least, that’s what I thought until I looked around my seat on a Seattle bus and couldn’t find Roary anywhere. Perhaps this attachment isn’t healthy after all. I tell myself that I will have time to get a psych evaluation later, I have to find my green little friend! I fear that I left him at a coffee shop. Travel would not be the same without him.

Roary has traveled far and wide. He has been to five continents, almost 20 countries, and every State in the Union. And I’ve apparently betrayed him, forgetting him on a dirty table in a dirty coffee shop while I sipped a latte. How could I?

I was actually nearing the shedding of tears when I grabbed my backpack. I stepped off the bus and slung the bag over my shoulder. Just then I happened to see what I had missed.

I have two side pockets in my backpack; one on the left and the other on the right. I usually let Roary ride around in the left pocket. But today, I must have put him in the right pocket.

“Roary!” I cried out loud (with people all around me).

“There you are! I’ve been worried sick.”

Reunited, I promised to take better care of him. And I don’t think there were too many hard feelings. At least, he’s never said anything about it.

anthony forrest

Favorite Trips: Of Strong Hands and Reservations

December 31, 2020 / / 1 Comment

Once a month I will post a favorite story from the year prior

Travel Journal, 90

Would you like to hear a confession?

I had never had a massage. I’ve heard tell of two-hour-long massages. A complete stranger touching a rubbing my body in a calculated and meticulous way just hasn’t ever attracted me. And then when they’re done…you pay them. Paying for a massage seems a little, shall we say, illegally scandalous?

But this story is not about preconceptions. It’s about stepping into and through the looking glass, breaking down barriers. It’s about trying strange dishes and going strange places.

It’s about strong hands.

I walked into the house and found my dear friends from college (eons ago) speaking with their language tutor. As they chatted, I disappeared to shower away the travel-blues and airplane funk. Even more than sleep, I find that a cup of coffee and a hot shower cures most ailments and alleviates most travel woes. But if I was asked to nail down one negative aspect of travel, I would immediately reply with, “back pain.” Sitting knees-to-chest on a plane and sleeping in all manners of positions wreaks havoc on my body. And though the hot shower helped, it had been nearly 8,500 miles of airplane travel to get here.

After cleaning up, I joined in on the English side of the conversation.

“You okay?” I was asked, upon sitting. I must have winced.

“Oh yeah,” I lied.

“Are you sure?” My poker face could use some work.

“I’ll be alright,” I confessed, “my back just gets sore when I travel.”

Translations ensued and bilingual discussion commenced. It was decided (for me?) that I should get a massage. But I have never had a massage, said I.

No matter, said they. I needed a massage—but not just any massage.

No.

The only hands with power enough to lift the dark discomfort from my body were the hands of the great Pak Omar. Who, you might ask?

“His hands are like magic,” said the local language teacher. But finding him could be difficult. And for the next several days, we tried getting in contact with him, to no avail.

I was not sure if he even existed—this magical remover of back pain. Was he a legend? A name whispered in the wind? Was he a story fathers with aching backs believed in, like a pain soothing Santa Clause?

But finally, one day, we received news of his whereabouts and an appointment was set.

We pulled up to the small home to find Pak Omar waiting for us. We removed our shoes and he led us into the house. A couple of wooden benches lined the wall and two children watch a television on the floor. Omar disappeared and reappeared wearing what looked like a nicer, new shirt. I took his hand and noticed the sheer strength in this elderly Malaysian man (who, by the way, is greatly respected in his community).  My friend communicated my back-pain. He led me into a small room with a little wooden table, a pillow on one end.

Face-down, I laid on the cold wood and Pak Omar went to work. With those powerful hands he poked and prodded and whittled away the knots. Sometimes it felt like a waterfall of relief. And sometimes it felt like he was running me over with a large truck. But after twenty minutes, I knew I was a different man. Not only did I find relief from my back pain, but I now understood massage. But then he sat me up and looked at my shoulders.

With grunting, we tried communicating. He told me to turn my head from side to side. I did. Then I told me to reach and touch my toes. I did that, too. But he was not pleased with my performance.

Soon he put me on the floor. And before I knew what was going on, he sat behind me, wrapped his legs around and under mine and used an English word that frightened me.

“Relax” 

And with little notice, he started cracking my back and shoulder like twigs and branches. I stood up in a daze and Pak Omar went to work on my shoulders and neck.

I must have gotten the premier package, thought I.

But when all was done, I felt like a little Lego man who had been disassembled and then put back together. And boy did I feel great.

We shared a cup of tea and, without any language skills, talked about nothing. We just smiled and grunted back and forth.

Both my friend and I got massages that day. And it cost us 12 US dollars, for both of us. If I lived there, in the beauty and wonder of Malaysia, Pak Omar would have a steady client in this weary traveler.

 

anthony forrest

Dark Magic

December 17, 2020 / / 0 Comments

Travel Journal, 89

My work as a paramedic has led me down strange roads. And the care I’ve provided has caused me to think differently about modern medicine. Don’t get me wrong, I still believe in modern medicinal treatments. But if I was some kind of plague doctor in the Early Middle Ages, my type of patient care would probably get me burned at the stake, or maybe drowned, or both. I hear that was pretty popular.

For example, I was treating a patient many, many years ago. As part of this person’s treatment, I administered a very strong medication with a psychoactive and hallucinogenic affect. It’s not a medication used often; it can be an addictive-controlled substance. And to be honest with you, I didn’t use it very often. But as I injected the medicine into the patient’s IV port, the patient’s eyes jittered for a while, he paused like a possessed mannequin, and time (for him at least for him) stopped. After a few moments, the patient began to move like a toy being rewound. He eventually looked at me with a shocked look on his face.

“How do you feel,” I asked.

With a wild look in his eyes he said, “It feels like you pulled my soul through the back of my head.”

If that wouldn’t get me gullied in the market square back in A.D. 850, what would?

As a general rule, I personally try to stay away from most medication. But I didn’t feel like I had a choice at the Haneda airport in Tokyo. We had just finished a great visit to Japan, one of our favorite places. My wife was leaving for the States soon. But my flight on to Malaysia to visit a college friend would leave two hours later. I had worked a 12-hour night shift that culminated in climbing onto a 13-hour flight to Tokyo. We had a whirlwind trip of excellent food and great experiences.

But I was tired. And I still had 10 more days in Malaysia.

Between all the traveling and the endless nights of work as a paramedic, sleep isn’t exactly something I get often.

After I got my wife to her gate and kissed goodbye, I wandered the airport in search of some coffee and then, I saw it—a small pharmacy nudged in the upstairs of the airport. It looked like a place most Americans wouldn’t go. Perfect.

My eyes scanned the shelves for something to help me sleep on my forthcoming 8-hour red-eye. And then I saw it.

The box had a little crescent moon and a tiny person sleeping on a bed with a line of “Zzzzzzz” floating from his head.

Being medically minded and endlessly curious, I got out the ‘Ol Google Translate and went to work on the ingredients list.

And Lo, listed before my eyes, were two ingredients made directly from Barbiturates—that long lost sedative no longer in use in the US. But here in Japan, a guy can buy the proverbial good stuff.

I bought my packet and walked to my gate. Just prior to the flight, I popped one tablet (as recommended) and then an additional two Benadryl (as is entirely not recommended).

The next eight hours are a blur of slow-motion flight attendants and on/off sleeping in strange positions. Never have I produced so much saliva. But I will say this; the flight went pretty quick.

Dark magic indeed.

 

anthony forrest

Favorite Trips: Seamless

December 3, 2020 / / 0 Comments

Every month I post a favorite story from the year prior.

From Travel Journal, 41

Both my wife and I grew up in small towns, I in the west and she in the north. We both remember dirt roads, corner stores, small communities, smaller buildings, and limited diversity. Though we live in a small town now, our lives are heavily peppered with city influences.

Traveling to cities over the years has grown on us, taught us. And though each may have their similarities, each city is different.

Our faces hit the sunlight as we climbed up and out of the hole in the ground. With subway stations every quarter mile or so, getting around is easy. All around us rose sky-scraping towers. And the streets were paved with the purest of golds—street food. At first blush, it looks like any other city, until, right in the middle of it all, a clearing in the concrete jungle reveals the Kabuki-za Theater.

No, this is not New York, Chicago, London, or Paris.

This is Tokyo.

Some cities claim to mix old and new. But no place achieves such a pure blend as Tokyo. To your left: Yodobashi Camera, selling technology that most Americans won’t see for years. To your right: a Shinto shrine that is older than most sovereign nations.

And the blend is seamless.

From the subway station we step onto the famous Ginza and up to the old theater. We wait in line to buy our tickets, just for one act. Our attention spans are far too short for five hours of theater. Nearly a hundred of us filed into the doors and up the elevator, onto the fourth-floor mezzanine of the theater.

A curtain hangs below. It depicts Mount Fuji—the Rising Sun in the background. The play begins; the curtain is drawn. The actors below dance and portray an ancient story from the olden-time, the time of the Samurai. Their movements are lavishly exaggerated. And the milky-white face paint can be seen easily from my seat in the balcony. Drums beat. Three-stringed tones of the shamisen call. The audience shouts strange encouragements to their entertainers on the stage.

Yet not too far away, on the busy street below, taxis take businessmen to airports. Women walk into Louis Vuitton Stores. And sitters in booths try to convince passersby to change their cell phone plan.

Seamless and new.

Timeless and old.

This is Tokyo.

 

anthony forrest

Americana Series, Part 5: America the Thankful

November 26, 2020 / / 0 Comments

Travel Journal, 87

Several years ago, the college I was attending required that I spend 10 days in Boston for further education. After the long days of vigorous training, my wife flew out and tacked on a week-long, much-needed vacation.

Our goal?

See New England and especially the historical bits.

And what better place to start than Plymouth, Massachusetts? We found a nice little hotel nestled along the coast and began our journey through time. Though we absolutely adore places like Boston, the Cape, and all of Maine, the highlight of our trip had to be our time in historic Plymouth.

In my quest to find the goodness of America, should I not go back to the beginning? One of the most interesting and inspiring American pilgrimages that any American can take is the journey to Plymouth Plantation. In 1620, our ancestors which we now call pilgrims made their long voyage from the Old World to the New. Relics of that time still exist in a few locales.

We gazed down at the legendary Plymouth Rock, on which the pilgrims were thought to have first stepped. A recreation the Mayflower floats in the harbor. Pay the right price and you too can experience the wide, open ocean. Bust most of all, the original colony location, discovered long ago, is now the home of a unique “living history” museum. The colony buildings, fences, yards, and various structures have been rebuilt in near-perfect accuracy. Museum professionals and historians, as well as college students, dress up in period clothing and perform day-to-day living right in front of your eyes.

The story of the first Thanksgiving is beauty, tragedy, truth, and legend—all rolled into one amalgamation which we now celebrate each year. Records and writings of people like William Bradford, Governor of the colony, tell of setting aside several days of feasting to give thanks to God. On one such time of feasting, a group of Wampanoag natives showed up unannounced and spent a week sealing a treaty of peace between the two groups. Although, that peace would not last, it was certainly a time to be thankful. It is generally known that the Native Americans taught the pilgrims many life-saving skills. The colonists had been through terrible loss, burying nearly half of their own in the prior winter. And yet, they found a way to be thankful.

A rising tide of history denying, rewriting, and condemning has begun to rear its ugly head. Some groups of people don’t want to be associated with the ugly bits of American history. I certainly can’t condone bad behavior. But what has occurred in the past is done.

The history of our ancestors is not perfect. Slavery happened. Killing of Native people occurred. Death was everywhere. But to dig out the foundation is to rebuild upon the mud.

With all of the focus on the ugly history of America, it can be easy to forget that there was indeed a group of people who fled to this land seeking freedom. It’s easy to forget that they suffered beyond modern understanding. Their thanksgiving was not just a simple one-day meal and maybe some shopping later.

Their Thanksgiving was part of their life. They did not just decide to start giving thanks. They had to live it often. Because without gratitude, their living would seem hopeless and all the loss meaningless.

So now as modern-day Americans, we meet together to give thanks. And though a few other countries celebrate a day of thanksgiving, none compares to Thanksgiving in America. For we are a nation built on struggles and pain.

And yet we give thanks.

In this way, America is good.

 

anthony forrest

Keep up with the rest of the series:

Part 1: America the Good

Part 2: America the Broken

Part 3: America the Healing

Part 4: America the Classic

Americana Series, Part 4: America the Classic

November 12, 2020 / / 0 Comments

Travel Journal, 86

Gems of a simpler time still exist.

Our rental car careened down the narrow North Carolina roads. We flew into Charlotte to get to our destination. We were in search of a simpler time, a simpler place.

We happen to really love North Carolina. On one side sits the Atlantic Ocean and promises of warm beaches and weekend getaways. But the direction we drove took us to the hilly and rugged lands of Appalachia. Most states in the US make the same claim: that theirs is the most varied or diverse. And if anybody from North Carolina says that, they would be right. Mountains, ocean, warm weather, and cool weather; what’s not to love?

The summer sun shone down through the Loblolly pines. We looked at the instructions listed on the Airbnb notes.

“I think this is it,” I said, though my voice betrayed my doubts.

The notes said to follow this winding road to some road marker, then turn right under the flags hanging in the trees.

I looked up and saw that the only thing hanging in the trees was a filthy, old, and torn t-shirt. Hesitantly, I turned the small SUV into the presumed driveway. The notes had also warned us to bring a vehicle with 4-wheel drive.

My wife turned to me some weeks before this and said, with a brightness in her eyes, that she wanted to stay in a cabin in the middle of the woods. And I, like the dutiful husband I am, obliged.

The dense forest opened to a small clearing. In that clearing sat an ancient cabin. Over 100 years old, the cabin had been moved here, electricity and water added, and promptly placed online for rental.

We felt like settlers.

With water.

And electricity.

And internet.

Our car unloaded, we set off for town.

And to the great delight of my wife, a classic americana experience lay in wait.

Nearby sits the small town of Mount Airy. Close to that is Pilot Mountain. To anybody familiar with classic television, these names might sound familiar.

Andy Griffith grew up in Mount Airy. And his namesake TV show is actually based on his life in that place. We parked our car and walked the streets. Little shops resemble the actual show of the fifties. A small museum contains a fine collection of Mayberry paraphernalia. And down the road, summer tourists can visit an exact replica of Andy and Barney’s sheriff’s office.

We opened the door and immediately, my wife sat behind Andy’s desk and pretended to answer the phone. I locked myself into the cell where Otis often locked himself after a night of drinking. Later, we took a ride in one of the Ford Galaxie replicas of Andy’s police car.

Not far from Mount Airy is Pilot Mountain, another picturesque town. As chance would have, a classic car show had just started that day. What could be more classically American than a classic car show?

“Look,” said my wife, “a Chevy Belair!”

“Hey, another one!”

We took a picture near around 20 Chevy Belair cars that day.

The unmistakable flavor of America’s glory days perseveres and will do so as our nation ages. I believe that it is human nature to hold onto a seemingly simpler past. It reminds us of who we were, who we are, and where we are going. And it is an especially American thing to remember the glories of our days gone by.

In this way, America is good.

 

anthony forrest

 

Keep up with the rest of the series:

Part 1: America the Good

Part 2: America the Broken

Part 3: America the Healing

Americana Series, Part 3: America the Healing

November 5, 2020 / / 0 Comments

Travel Journal, 85

My wife and I drove our rental car past a Church sign in Delaware.

Canaan Baptist Church

It was Saturday and our flight was scheduled for tomorrow, Sunday afternoon.

“Do you think we have time to go to church?” she asked.

“Oh, probably.” I replied.

She pulled out her cell phone and began searching for the church service times and more information.

“Well,” she said, “we’ll have plenty of time to go.”

“Oh good, we might as well.”

“But,” she said smirking, “we might stand out a little bit.”

She began showing me pictures of the church’s worship service. The pictures showed a happy (and huge) congregation of Christians singing, serving, and worshiping.

And there was not a white Christian in sight.

But Church is Church, regardless of skin color. But we decided that what would stand out more than our skin color was our wardrobe. Our t-shirts and jeans just wouldn’t do. This church was more of a suit with cufflinks and dresses with white gloves kind of place.

Like a sign from God himself, we drove at that very moment past a Salvation Army Thrift store. We found a dress for her and a suit for me. All for the balmy price of $28.

The next day, we pulled into the parking lot of Canaan Baptist Church. Right away, we knew we were in trouble, but not for any skin-color reason. My Salvation Army suit didn’t seem to make the cut. Everybody was dressed to the nines. Fine pin stripes, cufflinks, Rolex watches, silk everything, diamond rings, designer dresses, white gloves; we were woefully underdressed. But it really didn’t matter.

When the doors opened there was no hesitation. Fine folks immediately welcomed us with smiling faces and strong handshakes. The building was packed. We were greeted by no less than a dozen people on our way to our seats.

The usher pushed and shouldered through the God-fearing crowd, to find us wayward guests a couple of seats. I gazed at the pew to which the kind usher had appointed us.

Third row in the front.

Smack in the middle.

As we sat down, the sun shone in through the nearby stained-glass window and landed on us like a spotlight. I began feeling even more out of place.

But soon the service started with a rumble. All of my self-centered thoughts floated away. The choir stood up, adorned with glorious hats. The organ warbled. A jazzy bass player thumped out his notes. And the tisk tisk of the snare drum rounded it out. At that moment, it didn’t matter who we were; we all clapped and sang. They pumped out song after song, one after another with no pause or transition. The choir was unstoppable—swaying back and forth, praising God above. The organist bounced up and down on her bench. The only guy in the place without a suit jacket and tie was the bassist, and he needed all the ventilation he could get. The entire pastoral staff and church leadership clapped and sang on the platform. Then, as the last song started to wind down, the pastor shimmied over to the podium and helped the choir finish the song.

He gripped the pulpit with white knuckles and the preaching started. He opened the Bible and read several verses, “amen” being cried from the other church leaders, seated behind him. He made his points with power and inflection. The entire auditorium of congregants were involved in the worship of God. Each spoke their, “amen!” and “that’s right!” and “come on!” and “bring it, pastor!” By the time the message was over, we were unified in our worship and involvement in the service.

I had never been so close to a group of people so different than myself. And it was a beautiful thing—a perfect and life-altering moment shared with another culture.

What can be said of America’s racial tension that has not already been said? In my quest to remember America’s goodness, I think about the variety of people in this nation. With so many people groups and a seemingly endless spectrum of cultures, it really shouldn’t surprise us that there would be tension.

There has been much talk recently of systemic racism. And honestly, I am not in the position to speak at length about such an important topic. Does engrained and potent racism flow systemically through the bowels of our country, poisoning the very roots of who we are?

I have no idea. But I have seen racism. And I have seen hatred.

Tension is one thing. We can work with tension.

But racism? Appalling.

A hatred for any people group, is simply shameful. And we all know it when we see it.

So how do we fix this shameful behavior?

Spotting such ingrained behavior in my own life was tricky. But I really began noticing this pattern when I started traveling. It’s amazing how all the differences between such contrasting peoples simply melt away when we sit down for a meal in their home.

May I recommend boundary-widening experiences? May I beg of you one thing?

Travel—not to places and selfie-locations. But travel to people. Find them living their beautiful and different lives.

I have heard some say that they don’t, “see color.” But I do. God created us different. And those differences make us beautiful. Those differences are actually what bind us together.  

I believe it was Michelle Obama who said that, “it is hard to hate up close.”

In a world separated by cell phones and anonymity through the internet, what could be more foreign than experiencing another’s culture up close and personal?

And when we do reach out our hands grasping for those new cultures, the people beyond that boundary generally welcome us with open embraces. We fought the Civil War. Dr King cried out for Freedom. And we came out of the other side cleansed with fire. So when we walked into that welcoming church is Delaware, America the Healing took over. And the two drastically differing peoples were able to stand side-by-side, united by a hard past, a bright future, and the desire to worship the same God. Racism cannot exist in an environment of loving closeness.

So we fight for it—every day.

In this way, America is good.

 

anthony forrest

Keep up with the rest of the series:

Part 1: America the Good

Part 2:America the Broken

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