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[lureofthehorizon]

Lilac Syrup

[lureofthehorizon]

Ooooooh-hio

My first “traveling for business” trip was EXACTLY what I had anticipated.  …except different.

I flew into the Cincinnati airport (which isn’t even in the same state as Cincinnati) and was immediately greeted with malaise.  I don’t mean to bag on Ohio-uns, because I definitely feel your pain living in Kansas, but there wasn’t much to work with.  I’m sure if I had the time, money, and inclination to dig a little bit, hidden treasures would reveal themselves.  But I had very little of all three.

The cold grey rain met me at the airport and stayed with me the entire two days until I flew above the clouds to return back to Kansas City.  God, for whatever reason, does not allow the sun to shine on that part of the Buckeye State.

I vowed to “experience” each location to which I am sent and not take for granted any part of traveling on someone else’s dime, but not much hinders my motivation to explore like cold and rain.  Put those together as cold rain and Scottie is staying in for the night.  This basically sums up my night alone in an Ohio hotel room:

Had the weather been nicer I could have played.  I was literally staying the backyard of King Island Amusement Park.  (Yes, I know I’m pushing 40 and would go alone to an amusement park.  You don’t have to like it.  Get your own blog!)  The lobby pamphlet rack offered dozens of options to go see and do.  Instead I sat in my room.  I wrote.  I drank five dollar wine.  I watched Monday Night Football.  I fell asleep with Nick at Night as my lullaby.

And from the time I woke until I flew out over the Ohio River:

I don’t know what to expect for my next destination, but hopefully mother nature will cooperate with the gods of decent locations and I will be able to better take advantage of my opportunity.

Stay tuned.

[lureofthehorizon]

The itch…

Out of boredom today I have been cruising airline websites; daydreaming about taking them up on their fare sale offers.  I do this often as a means of escapism as well as pending winter-stuck in Kansas-self torture.  Typically, about this time of year, I wax nostalgically about airports and the potential they hold.  A part of me truly loves airports.  It could be a greater statement about my genetic make up that I enjoy being at place that’s sole purpose is exchange; bring some in - take some away - repeat.  To me, it’s more than that.  To me, it is the possibility.  I have always loved stepping through the cabin door knowing that when I step through it again, I will be someplace else.

Having said that, there is so much to hate about the act of airline flying.  The belittling post 9/11 security checkpoints.  The overpriced airport food and drinks.  The crammed seating and the recycled air.  The over talkers, snorers, 1 1/2 seat takers, arm rest monopolizers, the body odor person, etc.  But to me, it’s the bigger picture that I dislike about flying.  It isn’t traveling, it’s transporting.  You aren’t experiencing anything.  You are doing your best, for a given period of time, to both ignore and be ignored until you get to point B.

Theroux wrote, “I dislike planes.  And whenever I am in one - suffering the deafening drone and the chilly airlessness that is peculiar to planes - I always suspect that the land we are overflying is rich and wonderful and that I am missing it all.”

That is why I love the window seat.  It’s as close as I can get to experiencing anything other than the dull headache and watch staring that comes with commercial air travel.  Maybe for my fortieth birthday (which is approaching far too quickly) I will do something drastic.  I’ll travel the world.  I’ll make a lap.  I will cross every longitudinal line and will not set a single foot inside of an airplane.

Man, wouldn’t that be somethin’…

[lureofthehorizon]

Florida in Twenty Hours or Less

LOCATION:  Ft Lauderdale, FL

WEATHER: Upper 70’s / overcast/ sporadic rain

A quick run through security, a brief St Louis layover, and a relaxing three hour southbound flight and, as I touched down in Fort Lauderdale, Florida, I could see the palm trees from my window seat.  As I’ve said many times before, I know I’m where I want to be when I see palm trees.  I saw palm trees and I was happy.

Almost seamlessly I breezed through the airport and into my rental Ford Escape.  Proving that I learned from my last trip, before driving into the unknown I hooked up the iPod, dialed up some Bruce Springsteen, plugged in my phone and locked in my position on its GPS.  Immediately the windows were down and the warm tropical air was blowing all around me as I headed out of the airport and made my way to Las Olas Boulevard.  Las Olas is a famous Ft Lauderdale thoroughfare that is home to high end retail, big houses, big boats lining the inter-coastal waterway, and a variety of other shops, restaurants, and bars.

I drove east on Las Olas until I hit A1A, parked the car, and walked out knee deep into the ocean.  The overcast sky was not very welcoming, but it didn’t matter.  I felt at home.  The wind blew strong as waves were breaking about thirty feet offshore in a constant barrage against the shore.  I only had about a half an hour of daylight so I soaked it all in until darkness settled in and my view of the ocean faded to black.

In surrender I climbed back into the Escape and headed North on A1A.  There wasn’t much activity on the beach or the shops and restaurants along the coast.  I drove up into the city of Fort Lauderdale Beach and found Aruba Beach Cafe that offered live music, tropical drinks, and a table on the beach.

I ordered (and recommend) a 1/2 loaf of Bimini Bread with honey butter, a burger and fries, and a Budweiser.  I sat alone at a small table in the corner of the outdoor patio.  The funny thing is that most people were inside listening to the guy playing guitar and singing.  There was probably five or more empty tables between my little table and the nearest other patron.  I could just barely make out the waves rolling onto the sand in the darkness in front of me.  I made small talk with the waitress and a drunk guy who stumbled into my view facing the ocean, held his arms out to the side and yelled, “How f#cking great is this?!?”  …I assumed the question was rhetorical but he then turned and looked at me for an answer.  We chatted for a while and he turned out to be a pretty nice guy.

I considered walking the beach before retiring to the hotel, but the thought of the undeniable lonliness was more than I cared to entertain.  I drove inland about 10 miles, checked in, and called it a night with some quick online movie at 0123 movies free I watched on their hotel smart-TV 

My alarm sounded before sunup and I thoughtlessly dressed and drove right back to Aruba Beach Cafe.  With inter-coastal drawbridge traffic, the ten mile drive took about a half an hour.  Without much conscious thought I headed out for a sunrise jog.  Again, consistently proving that God doesn’t want me to be too happy, the morning was completely overcast with occasional raindrops pelting me in the face.  I was forced to dodge the washed up jellyfish landmines, but managed to get a couple of miles in.  The clean ocean air breeds fitness.  It is so easy to walk, run, bike, climb, or swim when tropical air is filling your lungs; even in the rain.

As quickly as I came to Florida, I was forced to leave.  After my jog I cleaned up at the hotel, went to work for a few hours and in a torential downpour returned to the airport and my static existence in Kansas.

Less than one full day in Florida, but it was enough to keep my batteries charged until I return to the ocean.

[lureofthehorizon]

Memphis, Tennessee

    Fifty eight minutes from wheels up in Kansas City to wheels down in Memphis, TN.  I slept through the beverage cart sprinting by and woke just before the rubber hit the runway.  Through the airport, into the rental car, and straight to the job.  By 9 a.m. my “work” was complete and I had approximately eleven hours to take in as much as I possibly could.

I picked up my cell phone, opened the GPS Navigation and said, “Graceland” into the voice command.  The technological leash guided my way and ten minutes later I rolled up Elvis Presley Boulevard to the home of the King of Rock and Roll.  The grounds were barren except for the few security guards that were just coming on duty.  The first tour wasn’t until 10 a.m. so I walked around the Convair 880 jet named the Lisa Marie now parked across the street from the house.  It was massive and I found myself envisioning a life where I could travel to any place with a straight piece of asphalt big enough to land my plane.  Elvis truly was the king!

By the time I wandered back inside to buy a tour ticket a crowd had formed; a surprisingly large crowd for a wintery overcast Monday morning.  I was Waldo in a page full of charicatures of what you would expect a Graceland tour group to look like.  (I tell myself that but I suppose the reality is I was every bit one of them.)  We were issued a digital headset for our self guided tour and a small bus took us across to the mansion.  I stepped out of the bus and there I was, at the base of the entrance of Graceland.  I looked left and right, up and down, and all I could think was…  that’s it?

Admittedly the inside, although rightfully dated and small by today’s standards, was just cool.  This is where Elvis sat.  Elvis walked this hallway.  This is where Elvis ate.  Everything had an almost religious vibe to it - tangible yet transcendent.  Being a fan of rock and roll I can appreciate the contribution of Elvis Presley but often think the legend has outgrown the man.  Either way I was with throngs of other sheep being herded because we were in Memphis and that’s what you do in Memphis; you see Graceland.  The living room was ornate with peacock stained glass and white furniture.  The kitchen was relatively small, but according to Lisa Marie who was talking into my headset during that part of the tour, was where everyone gathered.  And just beyond the kitchen is the famous jungle room where the green carpet on the floor matched the green carpet on the ceiling.  I wasn’t sure what to expect from the jungle room that I heard about so often, but that wasn’t it.  The let down of the room itself was counterbalanced by the fact that Elvis recorded his last two albums in that room.  We’ll call it a wash.

The tour concluded at the grave of the king himself.  I equate that with seeing the Eiffel Tower, the Grand Canyon, and the Topless Tenors in Las Vegas.  It was something that only after seeing, I deemed my life a little more fulfilled. Long Live the King!

Next stop - Beale Street, often called “The home of the blues”.

As I followed my GPS directions towards Beale Street I saw signs pointing the way to Sun Studio.  Sun Studio is a gem that I hadn’t considered.  I could not leave Memphis without seeing it with my own eyes.

    The entrance to Sun Studio is, of course, the gift shop where you buy the tickets for the tour as well as t-shirts, stickers, hats, shot glasses, and everything else that could fit the Sun logo.  I bought the ticket and spent my half an hour wait for the tour to begin looking at the pictures and memorabilia on the walls.  Immediately I realized that, even though I knew that a few rock legends got their start at Sun, I had no idea what role that building truly played in the conception and mass exposure of rock and roll music.

Our tour guide, El Dorado (lead singer of the not so famous El Dorado and the Ruckus), escorted us up the stairs and into a small, one room museum.  El Dorado gave the tour with an incredible amount of animation as well as undeniable conviction.  He had a passion for the subject and a genuine charisma that led me to want to take the tour again just to hear him talk.

I stood in overwhelming revernce in the small studio room where Elvis, Johnny Cash, Carl Perkins, Jerry Lee Lewis, Howling Wolf, Roy Orbison, as well as others wrote and recorded.  It was… heavy and it touched my soul.

I spent my last few hours walking up and down the world famous Beale Street where the “Memphis Blues” were born.  The style was molded by the likes of Beale Street regulars like B.B. King, Louis Armstrong, Albert King, and Muddy Waters.  I stumbled into Dyer’s for a double cheeseburger, a Budweiser, and a fried twinkie.

Blues bars lined both sides of the block spewing soulful notes from pentatonic minor scales.  My favorite memory of Beale was the woman I heard belting out the blues as good as anyone I had ever heard.  I couldn’t tell if it was a band or a recording that seduced my ears, but either way, her voice was hypnotic and strong and dominated the other sounds along the street.  As I approached the courtyard where the sound was coming from I was amazed.  A three piece band played up on the stage to a couple of dozen completely empty tables.  The singer, with a cordless mic, sat alone at a table singing like she was in a sold out arena, as she casually flipped through a magazine.  Unbelievable!      

Heading back north up Beale street I stopped in at Silky O’Sullivans, the Rum Boogie Cafe, and B.B. King’s Blues Club to sample adult beverages before flying out.  The sun had disappeared and so did my time.  Over the span of twelve hours I consumed every ounce of Memphis I could get, and I loved it.

One last stop at Interstate Bar-B-Que for a plate of barbecued spaghetti and back on to the airplane.

    Memphis, it was a true pleasure.

[lureofthehorizon]

Surprise, AZ

I was scheduled to fly out mid afternoon which would have put me in Phoenix just in time to get my car, drive to my hotel, and watch the sunset into the desert.  About 30 minutes before my flight the bubbly female voice came over the loudspeaker asking for volunteers to bump to a later flight in exchange for airline credit.

…so I could spend an extra hour in the airport, for a flight I didn’t pay for, and receive free airline credit?  I was the first one to the desk to volunteer.

An hour and a half later I was on my flight, now with a layover in Albuquerque, sitting in a lucky last minute aisle seat, and a travel voucher in my backpack.  The couple next to me must have been in their sixties and appeared to be one of “those” couples that had been together so long that they were mirror images of the same person.  In perfect synchronicity, when the ok was given, they withdrew their iPads, opened their e-reading apps and read from their respective tablets.  Hers was white, his black; a paradox that distracted my entire flight.  My attention was briefly broken by a lady standing in the aisle right behind me who was attempting to calm her crying baby by rocking it with the ferocity of a child with a stubborn etch-a-sketch.  I didn’t rest much between Kansas City and Albequirqie.

After the layover, my notebook had one entry from the flight into Phoenix:

“If the overly effeminate flight attendant puts his junk on my shoulder one more time, I’m going to pinball machine pull that little thing.”

Arizona was dark when I arrived.  I checked out my rental Kia SUV, made my way to Grand Avenue, and headed north into Surprise.  After checking into the luxurious Comfort Inn I immediately left in search of some quality southwestern Mexican food.  I quickly found that Surprise is somewhat of a sleepy town and the sidewalks had been rolled up by 9:00.

I found Macayos which, after sitting down, I learned has about a thousand locations in Arizona and Vegas.  Oh well, the important facts are that they were open and they had 12 dollar margaritas served in the hat of a ceramic Mexican woman.  The food was good, but no more special than anywhere else I had eaten, and the margarita was big enough that I had brain freeze and a burning gut by the time I threw in the towel.  Back at the hotel the rest of my evening was spent searching the Internet for access to hiking trails in the nearby White Tank Mountains.

One hour before sunrise I woke, threw on my bright yellow Washington D.C. Marine Corps 10k long sleeve mock turtle neck and drove thirty minutes into the darkness.  I drove to White Tank Mountain Regional Park which is 30,000 acres of protected desert mountains.  It has a gift shop, hiking trails, and a few campsites.  The park technically wasn’t open yet, but there was a guy in the booth who allowed me to pay my $6 entry fee and drive up the mountain.

My headlights found a sign that said “Waddell Trail” so I pulled over, locked up the Kia, and jogged up the trail.  The sun was about a half an hour from climbing above the eastern horizon so there was just enough light to illuminate the trail.  About a hundred yards up the trail I stopped for moment.  Silence.  Not just quiet; but silence.  It wasn’t warm.  It wasn’t cool.  There was no wind to speak of.  I held my breath.  Complete silence.  I was basking in the moment when I suddenly recalled passing several Mountain Lion and snake warning signs before I found the trail.  If one of them got a hold of me, it would be days before someone started to smell my remains.  I proceeded up the mountain.

The crunch of the dry ground beneath my Nikes was the only sound.  I passed through fields of cactus that were surrounded by colorless mountains that made me feel like I was on a movie set.  I was short on time because I actually had to “work”, so I decided I would run for twenty five minutes into the desert, take a few minutes to enjoy being surrounded by the Sonoran desert and then run the twenty five minutes back.

On cue, I reached my stopping point, turned and looked down the valley, and saw the sun just beginning to break the horizon.  It was hypnotizing.  I’ve seen sunrise in the mountains and over the ocean, but never across a desert.  It was a different kind of beautiful.  The silhouetted cactus and rock formations became softly illuminated.  The sky revealed deep set blues and oranges that I had never seen before.  I took pictures, but as often is the case, they don’t do it justice.

Feeling a renewed sense of tranquility I sadly paused at the car, looked out over the desert mountains, drew a deep breath and left the park.

The rest of my Arizona time was basically spent doing the job I was sent there to do.  I stopped for a brief lunch at Jim’s Burgers and Eggs (More out of morbid curiosity than anything).  I am sad to report that it was mediocre and a truly forgettable meal.  I did stop back by the park for another brief hike.  I loved my short time in the desert, but knew I couldn’t stay for great lengths.  The saltwater would miss me.

…about 24 hours after I arrived in Phoenix, I was boarding the plane and leaving again.  I feel a post coming on about what this job is doing to my travel habits.

[lureofthehorizon]

Remembering:  Sailing the Gulf of Mexico

Last year friend and co-author Scott B. Williams asked if I would be interested in accompanying him as he sailed his boat from New Port Richey, Florida to his home port in Mississippi.  He sent me the map of his anticipated course and approximate itinerary.  Along with the itinerary he offered a piece of advice to this novice sailor.  “The worst thing you can put on a boat is a calendar.  At sea there are too many factors that can affect your plans and the sea really doesn’t care about your plans.”  I said yes and in the summer of 2013 I caught a flight from Kansas City to Tampa, Florida where Scott picked me up at the airport and we headed to the 27’ Cape Dory to make some last minute preparations before setting sail.Preparing the boat was surreal and reminiscent of the preparations that were done before embarking on a kayak excursion in the Virgin Islands I had taken in 2009 (As told in the upcoming book Why Do All the Locals Think We’re Crazy?).  Food, water, fuel, safety equipment, communication, backups to all of it.  Even writing about it now in retrospect, it ignites an adventurous excitement in me.  At about 6:00 p.m. Scott and I motored out through the channel markers and into the Gulf of Mexico.  As Florida disappeared behind us in the distance, the diesel motor was shut off and the mainsail was raised.  The sound of the fabric stretching out above us and the hard slap of the wind filling the sail was exhilarating.  The wind took hold of us and a pod of dolphins played alongside us as we sailed into the sunset (photo above). Daylight slowly faded into darkness and an umbrella of stars appeared above us.  We raised the jib to generate more speed.  Land had dropped out of sight leaving us to our own devices.  I had never felt more remote and vulnerable on any adventure before it.  There were no boats, no lights, no people, no signs to guide the way, no… nothing. We sat together in the cockpit talking of everything from sailing to book writing to celestial navigation to families to rum and everything in between.  The only light was the dim glow coming from the cockpit compass and the stars reflecting off the water as it slid behind us.  We took turns steering the boat and Scott continually checked our heading and took the time to teach me basic navigation in the process.  It was getting late and we decided that one of us should take the first shift steering while the other slept.  We would trade off in two hour shifts.  There was no way I was ready to sleep so I asked if I could stay up and steer.  Scott is a seasoned sailor and was used to nights alone on the ocean, and knew it was a marathon, not a sprint, so he was okay taking the first shift to sleep.  I was still buzzed on the excitement of it all and was quickly becoming addicted to the drug of utter solitude. He retired down below and I sat alone in the cockpit of his boat overwhelmed with a combined feeling of fear, excitement, and peace.  To put it dramatically it was a spiritual experience.  There I was, a 40 year old kid from Kansas somewhere atop the waves of the Gulf of Mexico, with more stars than I knew existed above me and had never felt more alone and alive.  I felt so… small.  Nature was in complete control and I was stripped down to simply the supplies we put aboard, Scott’s experience, and a primitive survival instinct.  There is far more to the story that I will share here someday, but for now I will simply remember day one: the thrill of the adventure, the love/fear of the ocean, harnessing the elements to propel us forward, and the blessing to be a part of it all.   I don’t know that there is anything more serene and beautiful than sunset on a calm sea.