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Stella Katharine Barcelona

I spent about a month in Europe after I graduated high school. We visited five countries and nine cities, yet Spain was not included in our itinerary. I’ve wanted to visit Spain ever since my high school Spanish teacher taught an entire unit on the fourth largest country in Europe. I was fascinated with Spain’s rich history and our many cultural differences. By the end of high school, Spain had all but disappeared from my thoughts; I was more focused on the countries included in my high school trip. However, freshman year of college brought The Human Event which brought Don Quixote into my life. I immediately felt guilty for forgetting about my beloved Spanish kingdom.

My favorite thing about Spain is its geographical diversity. In the heartland of Meseta, ranching and grain production thrive on the broad central plateau. To the south of the heartland, citrus orchards cover the valley of the Guadalquivir River, which rises into the Sierra Nevada. In the northwest, the tall peaks of the Cantabrian Mountains are separated by thick forests and rain-swept valleys. To top it all off, the mainland is bordered to the south and east by the Mediterranean.

Of the ten largest cities in Spain, Barcelona has always been my favorite. Originally a Roman city, Barcelona is in the autonomous community of Catalonia and has a population of 4.7 million. In the early 1900s, Barcelona was a strong, modern cultural melting pot. Even after the Spanish Civil War in 1936, Barcelona’s economy continued to develop and prosper through and beyond the 21st century. In fact, the city successfully hosted the Olympic Games in 1992.

I spent a total of four days in the city of Barcelona. My flight left Phoenix at 3:30pm on Monday and arrived in Barcelona at around 2pm on Tuesday with an hour layover in Chicago. We were back in Phoenix by Sunday morning. I went with my best friend Stella. She is the best traveling companion I’ve ever had the pleasure to travel with and my trip would not have been the same without her.

DAY 1: HOTEL EXPLORATION

Stella and I decided to stay in Hotel Barceló Raval, a modern, trendy hotel in the El Raval neighborhood in the Ciutat Vella district. El Raval has become a diverse community with about 50% of its population being immigrants from all over the world. The hotel is also just a few blocks from Las Ramblas and a seven-minute walk away from Drassanes Metro station; a perfect location. We spent the rest of our Tuesday unpacking and exploring our new home for the next five days. Our room matched the “night life” vibe of the eclectic barrio with it’s modern, chic furniture and electric purple lighting. The hotel had free Wi-Fi (always a plus), a flat-screen TV, coffeemaker, and iPod dock. While we didn’t plan on staying in our room too much, it was comforting to know that we had a nice place to recharge.

After unpacking, we went out and bought Barcelona Cards. The Barcelona Card covers the Metro, bus, and all other public transportation and offers great discounts at museums, shops, restaurants, and nightclubs. We spent the rest of the afternoon and night on the rooftop terrace, which consists of an outdoor pool, bar, lounge, and Mediterranean restaurant. We met some other travelers while sipping on cocktails and eating Raval-style spicy fries and homemade croquettes. Most of the travelers were from either the United States or other parts of Europe, specifically the UK and Eastern Europe. We made plans with a couple of girls from Ireland to go down to the beach the next morning. I was surprised by how friendly everyone was that night. It might have been because of the drinks, but I like to think it’s because traveling keeps people open to meeting new people and stepping outside of their comfort zones. For me, traveling is more than just seeing amazing sights and having fantastic experiences, it’s about interacting with people that I would have never even seen if I hadn’t left the tiny confines of my room in the little bubble that is Scottsdale, AZ.

 DAY 2: THE BEACHES

We decided to hit the beach on our second day because we knew we would be exhausted from our flight. La Barceloneta is the most popular beach because it’s the easiest to find and is closest to the center of the city. However, Stella and I had heard good things about Platja Mar Bella, the local favorite. It’s one of the farthest beaches from our hotel, but that means less crowds. We hopped on the bus for about ten minutes to get to the Metro Selva de Mar. From there we took line 4 all the way up to Poblenou, a 14-minute walk from the shoreline. After 45 minutes of travel, we set up our umbrella and towels and dug our toes into the sand.

We arrived at Mar Bella in the early afternoon, right around siesta time, and the beach was filled with people our age. For the first hour, Stella and I were introverted and simply enjoyed the sounds of the beach. At first I felt like I was missing out on something, as if the museums and restaurants were going to disappear by the end of the day. We planned every hour of our trip, including resting time at the beach. Yet, during our resting time, I was restless. I re-read the same page of my book for about an hour as Stella lay in the sun. Finally, I gave up and ran out to the crystal blue waters. Bodysurfing is one of my favorite things to do because it reminds me of my grandmother.

For most of my life, my family would vacation in San Diego over summer vacation. I was ten-years old when I first told my grandma that the Mission Beach water scared me. As a native Hawaiian, she laughed, grabbed my hand, and walked with me until the water reached my hips. She told me that the ocean was incredibly powerful and deserved our utmost respect; after all, we were guests in its home. She said, “Sometimes you don’t want people in your room, right? Well, the ocean is the same way. Sometimes, it doesn’t want people in it, so it’s rough and choppy. But other times, the ocean loves to have friends, so it’s welcoming and smooth.” If I went into the ocean when it was clear it didn’t want friends, there was nothing I could do to stop it from dragging me out or under because I wasn’t respecting its rules. My grandma then spent the next two hours teaching me how to bodysurf and how to recognize which waves were safe and which waves could hurt me. It’s comforting to know that no matter where I go in the world, if there is a beach, I’ll feel like my grandma is just on the shore, watching over me. (Mission Beach Pictured Below).

As the siesta period ended, the younger locals and tourists started to pack up their belongings. The group next to us asked if we wanted to head to Port Olímpic with them and, of course, we said yes. Stella and I made a promise that we would try to say yes to as many invitations as possible, within reason. Port Olímpic is a 25-minute walk down the coast from Mar Bella and only a 15-minute walk away from La Barceloneta. Yes, Stella and I had said we weren’t going to the overcrowded, tourist-favorite, but the nightlife at La Barceloneta lasts until six in the morning, how could we resist? Plus, we had locals to show us the proper way of doing things. Although, is there a “right” way to travel? Can it be taught by someone else? Kerouac (1957) believes “the best teach is experience and not through someone’s distorted point of view,” which I agree with on some levels. Experience is a good way to learn, but I don’t think there is shame in asking for help, especially when you’re in a foreign land.  

DAY 3: GOTHIC QUARTER

To recover from clubbing the night before, Stella and I took the day to explore the Gothic Quarter, a 15-minute walk away from our hotel. I spent most of the day pretending to be Picasso. Picasso went to a Fine Arts school that used to be on Calle Avinyó and, therefore, spent much of his formative years in the Gothic Quarter. We started at Plaça del Rei, my favorite attraction in the Barri Gòtic; I love medieval architecture.  The Palau Reial Major, the royal palace, for those who do not speak Catalan, sits at the back of the Placa del Rei with the Mirador del Rei Martí sitting imposingly on one side. I felt like I had been ripped out of the 21st century and dropped into the 13th century with my Canon still grasped tightly in my hands, feeling ever so out of place.

Stella’s favorite spot was the Catedral de la Barcelona, the seat of the Archbishop of Barcelona. We both were drawn in by the gargoyles. Stella’s mom is an architect, so she gave me a quick history of the gargoyle. Apparently, they were designed to carry rainwater away from the side of a building to protect the mortar from water damage. Architects made gargoyles into fantastic creatures because the longer the gargoyle, the farther the water was thrown from the wall. Yet, even knowing this information, I can’t help but feel superstitious. Almost every Disney movie uses gargoyles to show that a castle is evil, so if anything, blame my childhood.

We must have been really drawn to churches because we found ourselves standing in front of the Basílica de Santa Maria del Pi after wandering for a few minutes. The stairs up should have killed one of us, but we made it to one of the most amazing views I’ve ever seen and that’s saying something because I’ve been to the top of the Cattedrale di Santa Maria del Fiore in Florence. There are places to sit all around the Basilica, so Stella and I brought out some cheese and crackers and people-watched for about an hour. It was so peaceful that we were able to sit there comfortably without talking. I wrote in my journal and Stella sketched the surrounding area. We ate at the Restaurant Gabriel Barcelona and ate delicious seafood paella. I know Thoreau was talking about forests and nature when he said, “Wildness is the preservation of the World,” but I truly believe that places like Gothic Quarter preserve the Old World.

FINAL DAY: GAUDÍ

Antoni Gaudí’s works deserve at least a full day of exploration. Before we started off on our Guadí-inspired quest, Stella and I learned as much as we could about Gaudí. What is the point of appreciating art if you don’t understand where it comes from? Gaudí was a Catalan native and possibly the best-known practitioner of Catalan Modernism. He was unafraid to use different mediums in his architecture: ceramics, glass, wood etc. Gaudí rarely drew plans of his work, instead creating 3D-scale models and improvising details as they came to him. We are alike in the way. I prefer to improvise most of my life, which is both a strength and a weakness. Although, after looking at his works, I will never be as good as he is at improvising greatness.

La Sagrada Familia, his unfinished masterpiece, was beyond words. It’s hard to believe that the church still has nine years left of construction. I don’t know how it could become more beautiful and awe-inspiring than it already is. Walking through the interior felt like walking through a stone and glass forest made from water colors. It was hypnotic and left me speechless. Stella and I did not speak once while inside the church. It felt wrong to sully the experience with words. Gaudí didn’t need words, why should we?

A 30-minute bus ride later found us strolling the colorful gardens and buildings of Park Güell, named a World Heritage Site under “Works of Antoni Gaudí” in 1984. The view from the entrance is almost surreal, it’s a mythical jungle hiding in the one of the most populous cities in the world. For a fee, we saw the ground and first floors of Gaudí’s house; he lived there from 1906 until 1925. I hoped that being in the same house as him would ignite some creativity later for my writings, but if anything, it dampened my creativity. I just felt so insignificant compared to his long-lasting works of art. I was content to be an audience member for once. Stella and I felt happy to simply sit in the Park Güell and appreciate the genius of one man. 

Our final stop was Casa Milà, a building that the locals originally despised and the last private residence Gaudí designed. The outside looks like one of Salvador Dalí’s paintings. The curved stone and iron beams make it look like the front is constantly moving, which would make sense since the inside of building drastically changes as you walk through it. I left that building with two truths. First, the definition of beauty is forever-changing, as seen by the locals recent reclaiming of the building. Second, if a building is eliciting emotion from you, it’s most likely designed by Antoni Gaudí.  

LAST THOUGHTS

While I never doubted the wisdom of Mark Twain, this trip solidified one of his most important lessons: “Travel is fatal to prejudice, bigotry and narrow-mindedness.” I was always open-minded, but seeing the beauty of Barcelona made me realize how lucky I am to be alive in this world. G.K. Chesterton once said, “The traveler sees what he sees. The tourist sees what he has come to see.” I may not have seen all that I wanted or planned to see, but I wouldn’t change the trip in any way. I’m not in any hurry, I’ve got the rest of my life, and the world, to become a world traveler. Maybe I’ll let you know when I’m there.  

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When in Rome, Do Whatever You Want

MacCannell says tourism is popular because it reaffirms our beliefs that people are different, that my life differs from the life of a woman living in New York. However, as tourists, as we try to experience different places, we also stay in similar hotels with the same conveniences and go out to bars and clubs easily found at home. We visit the iconic structure or attraction found in every city and expect to become enlightened and cultured. It’s problematic, but how else are we supposed to see the world? I know that tourist experiences are not authentic. I also don’t care. I travel to escape the normality that is my life in Arizona, to have fun and experience only the remarkable parts of my destination.

For example, I went to New York with my mom this December. I saw the Statue of Liberty and paid my respects at the 9/11 memorial. I an “authentic” New York pizza and ran with mom through Central Park. I saw the most beautiful works of art at the Met and MoMA. I went ice skating at the Rockefeller Center and marveled at St. Patrick’s cathedral on the opposite side of the street. I walked through and ate some of the best food I’ve ever had in Chinatown and Little Italy. I walked through Times Square and saw Hamilton at the Richard Roger’s Theatre. We were non-stop and yet there was still so much we didn’t see or experience. Would I say I now know what it’s like to live in New York City? No, not at all. In fact, the average New Yorker stays away from all the attractions and areas I just listed. I probably was more likely to walk with or run in to people from Wisconsin or Texas than someone from New York City. 

The closest we got to experiencing “real” life in the Big Apple was when we took the subway. We weren’t taking the subway to get to anywhere in particular, the subway itself was the destination. We weren’t even using the subway for what it was made for or in a way that natives use it. It was like we were watching animals in a zoo in their “natural habitat.” We’d both seen countless videos of people playing music, dancing, or doing something Vine worthy. There were hundreds of these videos, so we figured something interesting had to happen if we stayed on long enough. We got on the Seventh Avenue Line after visiting Colombia Law School. 30 seconds after we sit down, a man gets on the subway and starts screaming about how the government puts mind control devices in McDonald’s food so they’ll be able to mobilize all the fat people against the upcoming rebellion. He got off on the next stop. We brushed it off. I’ve experienced similar outbursts on the light rail. After ten minutes of ordinary people sitting with their phones and books, refusing to make eye contact with anyone, and a few more crazies claiming the Statue of Liberty talks to them about who is going to heaven or hell, we gave up, got off at the next stop, 79th St., and walked to a sports bar called The Gin Mill for drinks and wings.

I’m just now realizing that when my mom and I got a real glimpse of New York City, or real life in New York City, it made us feel uncomfortable because it didn’t match our expectations. We thought the videos on the internet were an authentic representation of riding a subway in NYC. When reality didn’t match our expectations, we ran the other way. We didn’t want to know that people lead average lives in the “City that Never Sleeps.” We wanted to believe that every aspect of New York was better and brighter than life in Arizona. We weren’t expecting to see normal things that reminded us of home. This city was supposed to be magic 24/7. After the subway, we kept to the certified tourist-friendly areas, the places that pop up when you search “What to do in New York City” on Google.

Everyone is a tourist at some point in their life. We shouldn’t be ashamed of being called a tourist. However, we should acknowledge that we’re only experiencing the tip of the iceberg when visiting a new place for the first time. However, each time we return, a little bit more of the iceberg reveals itself to us. Everyone starts out as a tourist, but through exploration and experience, we can all become travelers.

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Do I Have IT? Probably Not.

Thousands of Kerouac worshippers are going to die as they read this sentence, but I must be honest with myself. On the Road is possibly my least favorite book of all time. I had to read the book in chunks while reading other, entire books in between those chunks. It’s not because I don’t like classics; I love books like Wuthering Weights, Middlemarch, A Separate Peace, Invisible Man etc. On the Road was, and is, important; it defined the Beat Generation. However, just because something is important, doesn’t mean that it’s good.

On the Road uses stream of consciousness, which makes me feel like I’m reading the ramblings of a drunk or someone on speed. It doesn’t help that Dean Moriarty is essentially experiencing one never-ending manic episode. He talks fast and rambles on for multiple pages without any main point in sight. Kerouac tries to paint him as a ladies’ man or the 1950s version of a player, but doesn’t succeed; he’s just a scumbag.

Speaking of the ladies, I do not think Kerouac was a fan of a woman with intelligence or a purpose beyond sex and objectification. The women are defined in either negative or sexual terms. According to Sal, Marylou is the typical dumb blonde with a hot body and pretty face. Sal thinks women are boring and that they want nothing in life but to restrict his and Dean’s freedom. I thought Kerouac was supposed to define a new generation full of hippie and progressive ideas? It’s safe to say that I have nothing in common with this group of boys and their hedonistic travels. However, I will say that I had one thing in common with Sal this Spring Break: we both yearn for something more than a normal, status quo life.

In February, I was invited to teach English in Costa Rica with the Peace Corps. My entire Spring Break was filled with doctor’s appointments so I can be medically cleared to serve for 27 months in a foreign country. It was a tedious and superficial week. I told myself that I would do something “new” and “exciting” every day, but, surprise, I didn’t. Instead, I spent the week in my room reading fiction books, watching Netflix, and studying the hundreds of pages of preservice material assigned by the Peace Corps. I left the house either to work out at the YMCA or to see a movie with my sister. I highly recommend Logan. However, in between those moments of monotony, I imagined what serving in Costa Rica would mean and if I even really deserved it.

I follow blogs written by current Costa Rican PCVs and they’re all adventurous and wild, always saying yes to the unknown, and thriving in strenuous living conditions with hundreds of cultural struggles, just amazing people. I doubt my ability to be amazing. Yes, I know, everyone doubts themselves when it comes to life-changing experiences, but I don’t just doubt my ability to be a Peace Corps volunteer, I doubt everything. I still don’t understand how I’ve made it this far, graduating with honors, a finalist for the psychology department’s best undergraduate research paper award, and other great successes in my academic and personal life. However, at the same time, during the week I realized I was so proud of myself and I found myself doing things characteristically reminiscent of the tunnel scene in The Perks of Being a Wallflower. I would just appreciate everything good in my life, yet not understand why I couldn’t feel daring or accomplished like the PCVs I read about, feeling both numb and alive at the same time. Unfortunately, I’m more like Sal Paradise than I realize.

My playlist accurately reflects these confusing and revelatory feelings. I chose some of these songs because of their lyrics, but for the most part, I chose songs that gave me the same butterfly feeling in my stomach I felt for most of Spring Break. In fact, a few songs are from different movies. Some songs represent the books I read over the week including The Underground Railroad by Colson Whitehead, Golden Son and Morning Star by Pierce Brown, The Fireman by Joe Hill, A Gathering of Shadows by V.E. Schwab, and The Girl with the Lower Back Tattoo by Amy Schumer.

This playlist is perfect for sitting in a rocking chair on a rainy day when you’re imagining that you’re the hero saving people from a larger-than-life villain. It’s also good for when you need to drown out the ever-deafening silence when doing busy work. It’s up to you how to use it; any scenario is fine. I guess that’s what I figured out over Spring Break. We’re all different and there’s no right or wrong way to live life. I’ll be fine in Costa Rica and I’ll do something exceptional, or maybe not. Maybe I’ll end up content like Sal or maybe I’ll end up like Dean still confused about my life and no real end in sight. That’s the great thing about life, you never know. I can’t read ahead, this time spoilers are no fun.  

https://open.spotify.com/user/1298699466/playlist/1czYWbzDWJteNvmGMUXXD2

List of Songs

An Act of Kindness by Bastille

Believer by Imagine Dragons

Experience by Ludovico Einaudi

Glitter & Gold by Barns Courtney

Glory by Bastille

The Greatest by Sia ft. Kendrick Lamar

Happier by Ed Sheeran

Heroes by David Bowie

History’s Door by Husky

Human by Rag’n’Bone Man

Hurt by Johnny Cash

The Imitation Game by Alexandre Desplat

Kids by OneRepublic

Nancy Mulligan by Ed Sheeran

One by U2

River by Bishop Briggs

Rocky Mountain High by John Denver

Run Boy Run (Instrumental) by Woodkid

Send Them Off! by Bastille

Shake It Off by Taylor Swift

Take Me Home, Country Roads by John Denver

There Is A God In You by Ramin Djawadi

Way Down We Go by Kaleo

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Free Thoughts on the Proceedings of the Sky Harbor Airport

I have mixed feelings about airports. If I’m flying out of Arizona, I feel like a kid walking into Disneyland for the first time. The airport is the start of an adventure to Philadelphia, Kansas City, or London, anywhere but Phoenix. If I’m flying into Arizona, I feel like a kid whose biggest hero turned out to be a complete and utter loser. The airport is the end of an adventure and the continuation of the monotonous routine of everyday life. Sure, my average life is filled with sparkling moments, but traveling by plane puts butterflies in my stomach, the good kind.

Why you ask? My family could not afford vacations outside the Southwest, so we drove to our vacation spots. My first flight was to visit my cousins in Houston, TX. It took two and a half hours to travel 1,008 miles. Even if we drove nonstop, it would have taken at least 17 hours to reach Houston. For nine-year-old Katharine, that plane was powered by magic and Harry Potter could eat my fairy dust from his overrated Nimbus 2000. 22-year-old Katharine knows how planes work, yet I cannot help feeling like Lucy from The Chronicles of Narnia as I walk through the jet bridge and into the airplane.

However, the field trip to Sky Harbor Airport left me feeling a bit distressed. I was having a good time until I remembered I was not a traveler today; I was merely an observer. I felt out of place even with the pretend departure and arrival. I felt like people could tell that I was not here to board a plane or pick up my luggage; I moved too slowly and there were zero signs of stress on my face. In fact, riding on the Sky Train was incredibly relaxing. It felt like I was in Japan or some futuristic utopia. 

I noticed the business travelers, the ones who only ever bring a carry on, slithered between people like garden snakes. Looking at their expressionless faces, you would think they were riding shot gun in their own body. It’s as if they cannot spare the energy it takes to just glance at their surroundings or acknowledge the existence of other people. I do not understand how they can remain so neutral as they walk through an international hub where diverse people and interesting stories walk through halls covered in Southwestern art and past stores filled with quintessential Arizona merchandise. I should write ads for the Sky Harbor experience.

It’s hard to imagine that only 82 years ago, Sky Harbor Airport was 285 acres of rural farmland nicknamed “The Farm”. Terminal 1 cost $835,000 (approximately $7.5 million with current inflation rates) and was one of the most advanced passenger terminals of the 1950s. I was sad to discover I could not see the original terminal since it was destroyed 26 years ago. 

Before this field trip, I’d only set foot inside Terminal 4. I’d never even thought about the existence of other terminals. Walking through Terminal 3 made me realize the enormity of Terminal 4. Terminal 3 cost $35 million ($152 million with current inflation rates) while Terminal 4 cost $248 million ($548 million with current inflation rates); that is a $396 million difference in size and worth. The airport has grown tremendously and now boasts one of the tallest control towers in North America. As I walked through the airport, I saw ongoing construction for even more additions. Will Sky Harbor ever stop growing or will it one day rival the size and traffic of Heathrow?

An airport’s history distinguishes itself from all the other airports around the world. However, I think the passengers and their histories offer a better picture of Sky Harbor. While I may have only focused on the quiet and quick, Sky Harbor is filled with families, children, couples, and independent adventurers united by a common thread: travel. I think we take airports for granted; it’s not just a means of transportation. An airport is a rare meeting of diverse cultures and attitudes without the conflict usually associated with cross-cultural relations. An airport does more than just ship people off; it brings people from all walks of life together to remind us we are not that different from each other, we all seek adventure and we all seek home.

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Camino de Greer

My mother’s good friend Claudia completed the Camino de Santiago this past summer just like Paulo from “The Pilgrimage.”  Her husband died from HA-MRSA a few years ago and her children have long since flown the nest, so to speak. Her mother died not long after her husband and her father is in a senior living center. I think she felt lost both physically and spiritually and hoped this pilgrimage would uncover something hidden inside of her.

I want to complete the pilgrimage to the Cathedral of Santiago de Compostela someday. Today though, I’m a busy college student living in a college town with an assignment to take a walk. I don’t have the luxury of living in a place with “good walks” like Thoreau. Any number of miles will take me past an apartment complex, shopping center, or fast food restaurant. There are no woods or babbling brooks with foxes and minks in Tempe, it’s a city. I figured my only option was to head to the Desert Botanical Gardens and take a walk through the cacti and brush.

My departure was interrupted by a call from my father. He lived in Tempe during his last years of high school and went to ASU in the 70s. I told him how frustrated I was that Tempe didn’t have a Thoreau worthy walking path to help me with my feelings of adrift and uncertainty. He became equally frustrated with me and told me if I spent the $12 admission fee to walk in a museum when there was a perfectly good walking route 10 minutes from my apartment, he wouldn’t pay my rent. I couldn’t tell if he was joking, I normally can’t with my dad, so I grabbed my pad of paper from my pocket and wrote down directions to a place called Daley Park.

Apparently, my dad would walk to this park whenever he felt lost or confused about his life. He made sure to emphasize that it wasn’t the destination alone that cleared his head but also the walk from his house on Broadway and McClintock to Daley Park on Encanto and College. While my apartment is a bit closer than his house, he told me if I used Encanto I would see the same landmarks he did at my age. I began my pilgrimage around 3:30pm on Sunday, February 12.  

I went south on Rural from Apache for about 10 minutes. Honestly, there wasn’t much to see on this half-mile stretch to Encanto. This part of Rural is almost always bumper-to-bumper traffic with bikers zooming past one another without regard for pedestrians. I passed by a Chevron gas station, a Costa Vida Mexican grill, an empty Whataburger, and the Sonora Center, a place filled with freshman dorms. However, as soon as I turned on to Encanto Dr., I saw something that forced me to pull out my phone and take a picture. It was hauntingly beautiful and yet the simplest thing. It was the front yard of a house with four huge leafless trees dominating the landscape. Why was this so weird to me? Leafless trees are normal during the winter time. However, the places I usually frequent during the week always have thriving, green trees and plants despite the season. I used to find it comforting always being surrounded by green in a predominantly brown desert. Yet, now it just feels unnatural. I know this isn’t a revolutionary thought, but it’s the first thought of substance I had on my walk.

Google Maps told me the next part of my walk would take five minutes; it took me 20 minutes. I kept stopping and taking pictures of homes and white-flowered trees. More than once, I stopped at an orange tree and contemplated taking one as a snack. Eventually, I arrived at the first landmark, a telephone line with a pair of shoes hanging from the middle. Of course, I knew it wasn’t the same pair of shoes my dad had seen as a student, but he was confident there would be a pair of shoes there. My first thought was it must have been some college kids that thought it would be funny to string up a pair of their friend’s shoes, but then I saw how many young kids were at Daley Park, more than I originally thought. I guess it was possible some kid was bullied into giving up their shoes, an idea that made me surprisingly sad.

The second landmark was a red home with a white-picket fence. Apparently, it was where the Mayor of Tempe and his family lived when my dad was in high school; he was close friends with his son. I was confident it still wouldn’t be there; who still has white-picket fences besides on the cover of Better Homes and Gardens? As I walked away from the shoes that made me sad, I immediately saw the home; it wasn’t what I was expecting. It wasn’t like the typical white-picket fence from suburbia legends; it was tasteful and minimalist. I wondered who would be living there now and if having a white-picket fence made them feel happier.

The last landmark was a bench closest to the parking lot. At this bench, my father would read a non-fiction book or biography, his two favorite genres, or just sit and watch the world continue to move on without him. I lost of track of how long I sat at this bench. It was cloudy and dark for a Sunday afternoon and a slight breeze made goose bumps appear on my arms. I was there for a long time, just wandering aimlessly within my thoughts about who I was and who I wanted to be. I guess I was waiting for a spiritual awakening like Paulo had at El Cebrero.

I was awakened by the ring of phone; it was my dad wanting to know if I had made it and if I felt better. Surprisingly, I found myself smiling and saying yes, I did feel better. It was only then that I realized the point of walking to Daley Park. I was supposed to get lost in my thoughts and leave behind the stress of everyday life for abstract ideas and self-discovery. I’d like to say that I will walk to Daley Park again, but I won’t. I’m trying to be more honest with myself (an annoying result of the walk). But, maybe because I’m being honest with myself, I’ll be more likely to go back again. I’m not sure, which is fine. I’m perfectly content with being uncertain. That’s an improvement, right?

P.S. Here’s two panoramic views of the park! 

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HON 394: Becoming a World Traveller

Tempe -> Old Town Scottsdale Farmer’s Market 

Using public transportation is incredibly empowering. I don’t have my own car, so I usually rely on others to get places. However, relying on others negatively affects my self-confidence. When I use city transit, I feel like I solved a problem by being resourceful and independent. I travelled from Point A to Point B using my own skill set. Taking the bus may not be as “resourceful” as starting a fire and building shelter in the woods, but in a city context, it’s close enough.

The destination was a farmer’s market in Old Town Scottsdale. City as Text activities require context, so I dug up as much as I could about the market. The Old Town Scottsdale farmer’s market has been operating for five years. They feature local farmers and specialty food producers with organic and pesticide-free produce, various meats, and culture-specific foods like tamales or Amish friendship breads. I also had to plan the actual trip by looking up bus times and the market’s hours of operation (Saturdays, 8am-1pm). I used the Valley Metro bus route 72 and got on at the stop on Rural Rd and University Dr. While not the closest stop to my apartment, it was after the bus’s detour to the Tempe Public Transportation Center. During the 16-minute walk to the bus stop, I kept thinking about the City as Text reading and how it emphasized being in strange surroundings, anchoring yourself to foreign ground. I’ve taken the route 72 countless times so this wouldn’t exactly be “foreign,” but I tried to think about how walking to a further stop put me in new surroundings. Instead of walking west on Apache Blvd and north on Rural Rd to get to University Dr., I took Terrace Rd, a diagonal “short-cut” that sits right outside my apartment complex.

It was almost nine in the morning when I finally got on the bus. I paid my two dollars and sat in the back on my own. The bus was essentially empty with a few homeless people taking an early morning nap. I spent the next 33-minutes writing potential questions about my farmer’s market adventure in my notebook. I didn’t realize until now how completely checked out I was during the whole bus ride. My headphones were in and my jacket hood covered a quarter of my face. I probably missed some interesting observations since the bus is technically a destination in of itself. A new social dynamic is created at each bus stop as new people get on and old people get off. Next time, I’ll make sure to notice those changes. At 9:27 AM, I got off at Scottsdale Rd and 2nd St., a whole new world compared to Tempe. It wouldn’t have been such a shock if I had watched the gradual change of scenery through the bus windows, but, again, I’d been hyper focused on my journal. After a two-minute walk from the bus stop to the above ground parking lot on Brown Ave and 1st St, I finally entered a relatively busy farmer’s market.

I took a few notes on my cell phone, but for the most part, I simply enjoyed my time as a market shopper. Well, I didn’t really buy anything, but I had enough bread samples to choke a horse. The market was filled with all types of people from all walks of life: families, teenagers, college-kids, seniors, etc. Shopping at a farmer’s market is not the same as shopping at a Fry’s or Safeway. First, people don’t come with lists to farmer’s markets; they roam freely between stands and buy food based on their current feelings. For example, people would buy a week’s-worth of green-chili chicken tamales not because they had a grocery list with that specific item but because the tamales smelled really good. Farmer’s market shopping is more impulsive and organic in that way. Second, I was one of three people who were at the farmer’s market alone. Attending farmer’s markets seems to be a group activity, a way to hang-out with your friends and family. It’s a community experience where you can connect with local vendors and learn more about where your food comes from and how it gets to your plate. It’s unusual and off-putting if you don’t have casual conversation with the local farmers and producers. They love talking about their product and hearing what you think about their product. However, on more than one occasion, I felt like a vendor genuinely cared about who I was and how life was treating me.

On the ride back to Tempe, I thought about the cheerful atmosphere and the friendly people. Why isn’t every grocery store like that? Because it’s not a grocery store. It’s an event, an experience. It combines delicious food and interesting people to bring back classic human connection. It helps you realize that there are faces behind the food you eat. It was a fantastic experience and it only took 41-minutes to get there. Not bad, not bad at all.