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alicescripts · 6 years

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Live show: Los Angeles, California

On October 30, we are releasing the Alice Isn’t Dead novel, a complete reimagining of the story from the ground up. It is a standalone thriller novel for anyone looking for a scary page-turner, whether they’ve heard this podcast or not. Available for preorder now. And preordering helps authors out tremendously, so please consider it. Thanks so much!

Hi, this is Joseph Fink. What you’re about to hear is the live Alice Isn’t Dead performance at the Largo in Los Angeles on April 5, 2018. This live episode was not any material from the podcast, but instead was a standalone show focused on the weird and interesting sites and places of LA. It was an incredible night, and thank you to those who came out to see it. Enjoy the show.

Oh. I’m sorry, I uh, I didn’t expect um, I-I didn’t know that anybody would be listening. [clears throat] OK. Um, when you tell a story, you should expect an audience but sometimes I don’t think about that. I just tell the story the same way I breathe, just move life in an out of my body. I suppose you could listen if you want.

My name is Keisha. I’m a truck driver. It’s weird isn’t it the-the way say our jobs as though they were an identity rather than a thing we do for money. I mean do you think that outside of capitalism we’d confuse our self image with what pays the bills? [chuckles] Sorry. I-I got away from myself. Story not polemic, right.

I became a truck driver because, well, that-that’s a long one. I thought my wife alice was dead. But she isn’t dead. And she’s out there somewhere on the highways and back roads, and I’m trying to find her. Just driving my truck around and around looking for her. That’s who I am really. I am the one that looks for Alice. And Alice is the one who isn’t dead, but isn’t here.

I was in Los Angeles. All downtowns are the same downtown, they are landscapes built for the facilitation of money and business without thought to he human experience. And we are tiny to these monuments and that we are allowed to pass among them is a privilege, not a right. Still each downtown bears some mark of its city. The LA downtown, despite surface similarities, could not be mistaken for New York or Chicago, it’s too eclectic. It’s too strange in its architecture. LA is, is much more than movies but – movies infuse everything because movies are the only history the city will acknowledge. The history of the indigenous people, the history of the Latino people, these are set aside. The city looked at all the people that had already come and thought, ah! A blank slate! And so they did not draw from the Gabrielino or the Chumash or even the Spanish in their missions, they drew from the movies. From the foundational idea that LA could and should be anywhere in the world. So the style of LA is every style, each house and each neighborhood built in wildly different ways. It’s art deco and Spanish stucco and mid-century modern.

In Brand Park, out in Glendale, there’s this enormous house turned public library that is less actual Middle Eastern and more movie Middle Eastern, built by the wealthy white man whose garden that park once was. There’s nowhere in LA that feels stylistically of one piece, and it is that incoherence that provides the coherence of the city.

You see, I’ve come to town on your word, Alice. Only it wasn’t your word direct of course just – whispers through a network of safe houses and gatekeepers, those living on the fringe of society who can be trusted with the kinds of messages we send back and forth. But who knows how the messages mutate mouth to mouth? But still, even through this mutilation of intent, I can hear your voice, like a heartbeat, your skin and bone.

It’s Tanya in Omaha, a friend of the cause, who reaches out to me on my radio to finally lay your words to rest. There’s a meeting in Los Angeles, you’ve heard. You don’t know the exact nature and purpose of this meeting, no one seems to, but the word is that it’s a meeting of those at the heart of it, the ones that are making the real choices, that shape every decision that we think we freely make. So I’ve come to town to find that meeting. I will find this meeting and then… shit, I don’t know. And then I will decide what to do next.

I’m faced with a mystery that’s so much bigger than myself that it sits like an uneven weight in my chest. I feel off balance, so I take comfort in smaller mysteries, ones that don’t matter at all. In Pico-Robertson, a five minute walk from six different synagogues, and a celebrity chef kosher Mexican restaurant called Mexikosher, is a strange synagogue with no windows. The architecture is unmistakable. Modern LA Jewish has a certain look and this place has it, right down to the arches designed to look like the two tablets of the Commandments. Except this synagogue is several stories tall, and with no visible entrance.

What does it mean to blend in? What-what does it mean to, to disguise, what does it mean to stick out? These are intrinsically Jewish questions. A people that has, throughout over a thousand years of oppression, variously done all three. And this way too the building is very Jewish. Of course it is not a synagogue. It is, in fact, 40 oil wells hidden inside a soundproofed structure designed to look like a synagogue. And it is not the only one, just five minutes down the road is an office building with no doors and no windows, that one is 50 wells.

The machinery of our system is not hidden below us, it is disguised among us. Rocks that are actually utility boxes, trees that are cell towers. That vacant house that we walk by day after day, the one with the opaque windows? Actually a maintenance entrance for the metro.

Which buildings are real and which ones are disguises? It doesn’t matter, I suppose. But that’s what makes me enjoy considering it.

Sylvia’s here too. She’s really come a long way from the teenage runaway I first discovered on the side of a highway. Did you tell her about the secret meeting, Alice? She is both more vulnerable and far braver than either of us, did you send her to this place? [sighs] We reunited on one of the vacant cul-de-sacs near LAX, where neighborhoods that had once been an airport’s buffer zone were now demolished.

“Heya,” Sylvia said, as though we were meeting at the continental breakfast at a hotel, not on a dark empty street after months of not seeing each other. “Hey yourself,” I said. “Why did you come?” She shrugged, performed nonchalance. “Same reason as you, I guess.”

Well then I guess neither of us knew. Because I had no idea why I was there, I didn’t even knew who was meeting in this town, let’s start with that. OK what what organization, what secret brotherhood, what ancient cabal that influences world events is now sitting around the table in some sterile backroom in this sunny, thirsty city?

I could have asked Sylvia what she knew about it, but I didn’t. I felt like I would be following a script you gave to me, Alice, and I am not interested in your dictating my actions. So instead I asked her: “How you been?” And she took a long slow breath that was more answer than words could ever be. “[sighs] I’ve been good,” she said. “You know, trying my best, finding places to sleep, finding a friendly face on the other side of a meal.” She shrugged. “I guess it’s the same struggle for everyone. But those of us who live on the road, everything is amplified, you know?” I do know. Goddammit, I know.

I wasn’t even sure where in the region this meeting might be held. So I drove out east to the desert where the mountains looked like set backdrops, unreal and perfect, taking up half the sky. Palm Springs, the town killed by cheap plane tickets. Why drive two hours from the city for the weekend, when it’s possible to weekend in Honolulu or Costa Rica instead? Then, having died, Palm Springs hung on just long enough for everything dated about it to become vintage cool. Now it’s back, a mid-century modern paradise of steel beams and rock walls and that style of beautiful, but featureless wooden security fence that only exists in Southern California. Old motels not updated since the heyday of the 50’s now are converted to hip resorts with (farmed) table food and upscale tiki bars. The city is an Instagram feed. Which is both snark and compliment, because it is a genuinely beautiful place.

I wondered the town, feeling that there was something worth finding there, but unsure where it would be hidden. I visited Elvis’ Honeymoon Hideaway, a garish airplane of a house with giant wings of a roof looming at the end of a cul-de-sac, providing kitsch to the dwindling population of Elvis enthusiasts.

That house was built on sale for 9 million a few years back and is now reduced to an easy 4, so make those owners an offer and you too could own a house that is listed as a historical site. A place where Elvis had sex a few times. It probably doesn’t have a dishwasher, though, so… Just south of Cathedral City, I saw a sign that looked familiar. It’s this huge neon pink elephant, mouth wide in mid-laugh, splashing herself. A pink elephant carwash. The sign has a twin sister in Seattle, that one is famous. It was weird running into her in the desert too. It was like driving through the suburbs and suddenly finding out that 150 years ago, they also built an Eiffel tower in Pomona.

I stopped the car and I just gawked up at her. It made me so happy. And then, looking down from the sign, the horror came to me. I saw someone walking towards me with a shuffle that I recognized. Like their legs had no muscle or bone but were heavy sacks of meat attached to their body. One dead leg thrust forward after another, and as the man came close, he looked up and I went from dread suspicion to horrible certainty.

He’s one of those creatures that I call Thistle men. Sagging human faces hung limply on skulls that are the wrong shape. Yellow teeth, yellow eyes. They are serial murderers hunting the back roads of our highway systems, and one of them was here.

He made eye contact with me. He laughed, a sound like hanging knives clattering together. And then he was gone. The neon elephant’s face no longer seemed friendly. I mean it, too, seemed to be laughing.

Sylvia and I, we split up for the day. We just watched the traffic and people, looking for suspicious crowds, folks that don’t fit in with the tourists and the beautiful people working as baristas just for now. Of course we don’t know what those suspicious crowds would even look like. Grey men in grey suits going greyly about the tedious business of running the world? Or, like the Thistle men, monsters of hideous aspect?

I reached out to my friend Lynn who works as a dispatcher at my trucking company. She and I became friends soon after I started. She doesn’t take shit, I don’t give shit, we get along that way. “Any unusual moments in Los Angeles?” I said. “Strange shipments, unsual routings, anything?” “You know I can’t tell you that,” she said. “What if I said please?” I said. She snorted into the phone. [chuckles] “In that case, sure,” she said. “I always like you when I’m polite, let me see what I can find.”

Sylvia and I saw nothing of note that day. We ate together at a Korean barbeque place built into the dome of what had once been a restaurant shaped like a hat. “This is nice,” she said towards the end of the dinner. It was, it really was.

You know, a city is defined by its people but it’s haunted by its ruins. There are no cities without vacant lots, the skeletons of buildings, ample evidence of disaster and failure. Our eyes slide past them because they tell a different story about our city than the one we wanna hear. A story in which all of this could slip away in a moment. Even though we know this fact is true, even more for Los Angeles than most cities. This city will some day be shaken to the ground, or burned, or covered over with mud, or drowned by the rising sea or strangled by draught. The question is, as it is for each of us in our personal lives, not if it will die but how.

I like to go and look at these broken places where the refuse of recent history shows. It allows me to look at a region differently, maybe see what I was missing. And if a secret meeting was gonna be hidden here, where but in the cracks? So I peer in. I search.

Above the Pacific Coast highway in the hills of Malibu that are so beautiful when they aren’t falling or burning, is what remains of a house. That house was a mansion built in the 50’s and burned in the 80’s when its location finally caught up to it. There’s now a popular hike that goes right into the ruins, so any walker can go see this place where people lived as recently as 30 years ago. A ruin shouldn’t be so new. A Roman home destroyed by a volcano, well OK you know. A medieval castle, sure. Even an old stone settler’s hut, 100 years old, alright, OK that make sense. But a house that once held a television and a shower? It feels wrong to walk on the foundation, stepping over the bases of walls and around the chimney. It was a home not so long ago, and now it is transformed. Transformation is uncomfortable, and easily mistaken for an ending.

In Griffith Park, I met with Sylvia in the old zoo. All the animal enclosures are still there, and you can sit in them and look at where once caged animals lived, and now wild animals are free to come and go.

Sylvia and I sat in the artificial caves, trying to imagine what the purpose of this secret meeting was. Sure, generally the word was out that it was a meeting of those in control in order to further control us, but specifics were, as they often are, lacking. Sylvia asked me: “Do you feel like this story is too convenient?” And I had no way to respond but nodding. “But we still have to look for it, right?” she said. And I nodded again.

As the sun moved behind the hills, it got very cold. She said, “Yeah”. And I said, “Yeah.” And neither one of us meant it.

Gentrification comes for us all. Let’s leave aside for a moment the many issues of endangered communities and rocketing prices, and consider just two cases of what people will look past to get access to LA property. December 6, 1959, in the hills just below Griffith Park, a doctor lived with his wife in a mansion with an incredible view. The Christmas tree was up for the season, wrapped gifts underneath. At 4:30 in the morning, the doctor got out of bed, retrieved a ball-peen hammer and murdered his wife with it. Then he attacked his daughter, though she survived. And then he took a handful of pills and was dead by the time police arrived.

That house stood empty ever since, still filled with the family’s things: the furniture, the tree, wrapped gifts underneath. A prime house in a prime LA area, but who would live in a house where such horror had happened? For 60 years, no one. Well, the house sold for 2.2 million last year. A view of the city, just above those (-) [0:21:06]. Well at this point, who wouldn’t take some hauntings and a terrible bloody past for that?

Meanwhile the Cecil Hotel in Hollywood, site of an inordinate number of murders and suicides, where the Night Stalker lived in the 80’s while causing terror across the region, where just a few years back, a body floated in the water tank for days before being discovered, is now the boutique Stay on Main. A rebranding for this rebranded city. Even our murders are getting gentrified.

Maybe it’s me. I don’t know, maybe I just don’t like change. Change is often wonderful. But we should definitely think hard about what we are changing into, and what that change might mean. We should just spend a little time thinking about that.

[long break]

Still searching for this meeting. I went up the coast, over the Grade and down toward Axnard, not as cool as Ventura or as rich as Camarillo. Oxnard gets by. As I waited to hear from Lynn, I walked on Silver Strand, just watching the surfers. Many, even now in the winter. Nothing will keep them out of those frigid Alaskan currents. I headed south to Channel Island harbor. It was absolutely peaceful on its shore. The ocean is chattering and restless, the harbor sleeps. It does not stir except to send crumbling waves in the wake of the few boats in and out.

During my walk, I saw a rowboat. Old, practically falling apart. Something about the occupants of the rowboat made me look closer. Stooped figures in awkward postures that looked painful. One of them turned to face me, though the boat was 60 feet offshore, and even at that distance, I could see. Two Thistle men, floating in a rowboat in the (Sound).

“Ooooooooooooooooo,” one of them shouted at me in a gentle high-pitched voice. “Ffffffffffffffffffffffffffff.” There was something that looked a lot like a human arm poking out over the rim of the rowboat.

I returned to my truck. Not everything is my problem.

Worship is a feeling so all-encompassing that it can be easy to misunderstand from outside. Take the worship of Santa Muerte, a Mexican (folk) saint of death, likely a legacy of pre-Colombian devotion, dressed in the clothes of the colonizing religion. The church has spent a long time trying to suppress her worship, but of course the church has never been good at actually suppressing much, and devotion to Santa Muerte has only spread in recent times.

Like many figures of death, she represents healing and well-being. Religion often lies in embracing contradiction. Those on the outside, they see this as a weakness but those on the inside recognize it as strength. The temple of Santa Muerte in Los Angeles is just down on Melrose Avenue, sharing a building, as everything in LA does now, with a weed store. It is a one-room shrine established by a husband and wife, full of life-sized skeletons bearing (-) [0:25:04]. It would be easy as an outsider to default to one’s own associations with skeletons and come to one’s own emotional conclusions, but it is healthier to embrace the contradiction of these symbols of death. That, after all, physically hold us up for as long as we live. To deny Santa Muerte is to deny our own bodies.

Meanwhile on the other end of the spectrum, the Bob Baker Marionette Theater carries a different kind of worship: devotion to a performance style that time has left behind. And the outside of the building is – let’s face it, it’s creepy. Because, like skeletons, puppets have taken on a certain cultural connotation in the wider world. But we should try to see it from the inside, as the earnest expression of performance and joy.

Mm mm. No I can’t. Mm mm, I ju- not with puppets. Skeletons, fine. Loose-skinned monsters from whatever world, well I’ve deal with them, but puppets? Mm mm.

Lynn got back to me. “You didn’t hear this from me,” she said. “That goes without saying,” I said. “No it doesn’t,” she responded, “because I just told you that. Now, there have been some shipments that don’t belong to any company. Or the company info is missing from them, I can’t understand what I’m looking that. They certainly don’t hold up to any scrutiny at all, so I don’t think that they were expecting scrutiny. These things stand out so bad that they might as well be big red arrows pointing at a location in Los Angeles.”

It was late afternoon. Sylvia was asleep in the back of the truck’s cab. I lowered my voice. “Where?” She told me. I looked at Sylvia, knowing she would want me to wake her up, to take her with me. But I didn’t. I let her sleep. I went alone. Better that one of us survive.

I went where Lynn told me: up La Cienega, past a mall and a hospital. I came to the address she gave me. An unassuming place. If it weren’t for the brightly lit shine, I might not have even spotted it from the street. I went through the gates. There was a courtyard there, deserted. The air was still and there was no sound, but the stillness felt temporary, like the pause after an act of violence before anyone can get over their shock and react. I continued through the doors to a dark room. Not the grand hall I might have expected for a meeting like this, but a cozy place. Rows of theater seats. A stage draped in red curtains, from which a speaker stood addressing the crowd. There was music. Was that music? Or was it the shifting and squirming of inhuman bodies? Because there was something inhuman in this place, I could feel it. Not the people in the seats, they seemed completely human. Looking up at the person speaking, following the narrative, and slowly having information dawn on them.

In fact, the people in the seats did not at all seem like the kind of people I would expect at a meeting like this. Were these the powerful, the wicked? Were these the unseen hands ushering us to disaster? Looks can be deceiving. Everything can be deceiving, up to and including the truth, but no. I did not think that these were monsters, I thought they were people like me. People lured to the spot for the same reason I had been, because the story of the meeting had been a very good story. It played exactly into how I had thought the world works. It fed my suspicions and it led me to this place. And I think the same is true for every person in that room. They were there, like I was there, looking for a good story. But why were they led there? Hmm? If the meeting itself was a decoy, then what was the true purpose of this moment?

And that’s when I saw them. Lingering in the shadows at the edges of the crowd. Men with faces that sagged. Flesh that peeled. Yellow teeth, yellow eyes. Thistle men ringed the crowd. (Wools to sheep, parks to bunnies). Hunters. Prey. Did the people in their seats notice? Did they look into the shadows and see the inhuman eyes peering back at them, did they smell the breath of the Thistle men, like mildew, like soil? A smell of rot from deep within, cold lungs, did they hear the occasional laugh coming from a gurgling broken throat? Did they look beside them at seats that were empty and think, wasn’t someone here just moments ago? Or was there? But surely there wasn’t, because where could they have gone? And then the shadows at the edges of the crowd, the people that had once sat in those seats, were led into a place from which they could never return.

I understood. A simple plan: tell an irresistible story. A story that is exactly what all of us fighting Thistle might want to hear. That we were right all along. That the world really is against us in so simple and easy a way that the culprits could all meet in one room. And we would come to hear that story, and then Thistle would take us. Why hunt when instead they could lure?

Standing in the door to that hall of horrors, I saw the faces of the Thistle men as they turned and noticed. One gave a yelp and started to lope towards me and I fled. Where the courtyard had been empty, it was now packed shoulder to shoulder full of men with loose faces and eyes that went yellow at the edges and wet lips hiding sharp teeth. They were waiting for the crowd inside. Hungry creatures preparing to feed on any person that stepped out of that theater. I pushed into and past them, using their momentary surprise to escape, and I ran until my throat was dry and ragged, through that courtyard and out to where the lights of the strip club across the way flashed back and forth, back and forth, and then into my car and then onto the maze of freeways where it is so easy to disappear.

I kept my eye glued on the mirrors, but no one was chasing me. Somewhere behind me, an audience of innocents remained in Thistle’s trap, and I wouldn’t help them. I couldn’t.

Instead, I went back to the truck. Sylvia was still asleep in the cot. I sat in the driver’s seat. I was exhausted. The sun had fully set, and I allowed my eyelids to drift downwards. “Hi,” said Sylvia. She was in the passenger’s seat turned sideways towards me. It was light again. I don’t know how long I’d slept, I know I didn’t dream. There are small mercies in life, I guess. “Did you find out anything?” Sylvia said. I looked in her eyes. She’s so young. It wasn’t right and it wasn’t fair that she was out here like me on this labyrinth of roads and rest stops. But that’s just what it was. For her and for me and for so many others.

And she looked at me with trust. And I looked right back and I said, “I didn’t find anything. I don’t think the meeting is even real. Let’s get out of here.” Sylvia yawned, she stretched, she nodded. “Yeah OK,” she said. “Might as well. Too bad this turned out to be nothin’.” “Too bad,” I said.

So now here I am telling the story from just outside of Ashland, Oregon. Los Angeles is hundreds of miles behind me now. It isn’t far enough.

I love you, Alice. I stayed alive another day. You do the same, OK? OK.

[applause]

Joseph Fink: Thank you to everyone who came out for our Largo show. We will be back in two weeks with chapter 1 of our third and final season. This show would not be possible without our Patreon supporters. Such as the incredible Ethel Morgan, the indomitable Lilith Newman, the victorious Chris Jensen, and the electrifying Melissa (Lumm).

If you would like to join these folks in helping us make this show, please check out patreon.com/aliceisntdead, where you can get rewards like director’s commentary on every episode, live video streams with the cast and crew, bonus episodes, and more.

Thanks for listening, and see you soon.

#alice isn't dead #alice isn't dead transcripts #live at the largo #live shows #los angeles california #they changed the name as soon as i had posted this #so i changed the name of the post too #long post

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lindoig1 · 6 years

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Hitting the Wall - Day 3

Another early start. Good job, we are still jet-lagged and waking early.

Up, showered, dressed, gorged silly over our smorgasbord breakfast and under the care of our guide Mary and driver Lee by 8am. I had booked this tour separately so we weren’t sure what to expect, but it worked out fine.

We went to the Wall - the Great Chinese Wall - via a couple of other stops, starting with the Jade Garden factory. It was a real eye opener and the work there was fandangtastic! Jade comes in a veritable rainbow of colours, from the traditional green through greys and brown to pristine, transparent white, but there are also a range of pinks and oranges, even stark blues and yellows and we saw them all. And it is carved into an endless variety of exquisite and extraordinarily beautiful objects. These may be tiny figures, often of animals, probably weighing in at 20 gams or so - or lions and elephants weighing as much the real thing, certainly at least a few tonnes, all carved and polished from a single stone. They had a couple of jade ships that were composed of many interlocking jointed pieces that were several metres long - I think they said the larger one took 70,000 hours to complete.

The drive out was quite interesting with small commercial areas, collections of larger business offices, many from well-known brands and huge conglomerates of residential towers. No skyscrapers anywhere – maybe a 25-floor ceiling right across Beijing, but groups of 30 or 40 towers in quite a lot of places. One feature I found interesting was that the road was lined with dense areas of trees on both sides – and a fringe of spectacular rose bushes for maybe 50km at the edge of the road in both directions.

Traffic flowed pretty well, but marked lanes seem quite superfluous, ornamental even, because everyone is constantly in the process of switching from one part of the road to another to try to get ahead of someone else – but nobody seems the least perturbed by it and there is only a very occasional toot – there are very few indicators in use, but once a vehicle gets its nose half a metre in front, it can simply merge into the next line/hodge-podge of traffic in the expectation that following vehicles will give way. Scary, but it seems to work fine. In the city, the traffic is denser (but nowhere has it been as dense as I expected) but road rules seem to be observed in the breach. No seat belts or crash helmets, just an occasional indicator, few lights at night (at least on the 2- and 3-wheelers). Most of the cars drive on the wrong side of the road (the right side) but not necessarily all. Parking is not a problem – nor is double parking. If you want to stop for a chat or consult a map or go into a nearby shop, you do so – at least it seems that way – but again, it doesn’t seem to bother anyone much. You would not, however, stop to use your phone: it seems mandatory to do that whilst driving, despite the signs forbidding it. (Our guide disputed some of my observations, but indicated that the very few fines handed out were hardly a deterrent – maybe less than 10% of ours.) There seems to be a separate section of road for bikes and motorbikes, but they often prefer the footpaths and seem oblivious to any signs, the existence of pedestrians or other vehicles. Crosswalks are entertaining board-games of skill – how many vehicles can cross simultaneously (or drive along the crosswalk) without hitting a pedestrian? Most traffic lights are colourful street art, bright areas of colour to entertain bored drivers – although there seems to be a handful of intersections where the rules do count for something.

One of the jade factory’s specialties is what they call family balls, concentric spheres with holes in them to allow the craftsmen (and women) to carve another ball inside the outer one/s. The simplest is perhaps 4-5cm in diameter and has 3 spheres, but we saw some about 20cm across with 9 concentric spheres, all independently movable inside each other. Apparently, families buy them and hand them down from generation to generation and they increase in value as they age. There is a massive showroom with tens of thousands of items available for purchase – up to the 3-metre high articulated urns costing hundreds of thousands of US dollars each. (We settled on a 3-sphere ball that we were able to purchase within our credit limit.)

Another thing we saw in the factory was a corridor of the most beautiful silk pictures: exotic figures and scenes tapestried into glowing, shimmering silken works of art – at least hundreds of hours must have gone into each one, maybe many hundreds, even thousands! The whole factory was quite wonderful and it is truly amazing what the human hand can create given the raw materials, the skills and limitless time and patience – far beyond my imagination.

We then drove on the Ming Tombs – we have been drowned in information, very little of which I can recall, but all the Ming Emperors and Empresses are buried in separate widely-dispersed tombs in the area – several square miles at least. Only one is open to the public and quite a bit of it has been restored since ‘The Great Leader’ attempted to destroy all vestige of pre-Mao powers. From the carpark, it is a reasonable walk with very steep areas and hundreds of stairs. Heather has been struggling with shortness of breath and the pollution here probably exacerbated that, so she didn’t make it all the way to the top. She returned to the base of the ‘mountain’ under which the tomb is located, but I made the grade and returned with photos to explain it to her – not that there was much to explain because the tomb area was rather plain – most of the relics recovered are in an exhibition area near Heather’s retreat and that was in an arbour – lots of very old trees, some more than 500 years old.

Then it was on to the Wall at Mutianyu, but lunch at the foot of the mountain first. That was included in the tour and it was adequate, but by no means anything more. We had settled on going up on the cable car rather than climbing all the way up. Good job too, because we had to stop for a breather several times on the steep ascent to the cable car station. It was a little adventure soaring above the trees on the way up and looking down on the intrepid souls tobogganing down the ‘luge’ rather than using the cable car to return to base. Unfortunately(?), there is a 65 year age limit on the toboggans so we missed out on that. Equally fortunately, they closed the toboggan rides just before we were ready to descend – it was starting to drizzle and maybe they didn’t want the younger people to get wet on the way down – wet pants maybe, but only from the thrill of the ride.

I never imagined I would walk on the Great Wall, so that is another tick on my Bucket List. Not really, because I never had that one on my List – but it was still an experience to remember. The views are astounding and the bloody history and feats of engineering are quite staggering – 18800km of Wall and tens of thousands of workers buried inside it, just bricked in where they fell, not to mention the savagery of the many wars. But it worked! China is still here, safe and sound on both sides of the Wall. The structure snakes along the ridge of the mountains – and pretty rugged they are at that! – and bifurcates to follow separate converging ridges in numerous places. Near where we were was a huge area of cleared mountainside with giant Chinese characters embedded saying ‘In Honour of Chairman Mao’ but I don’t think he really had anything at all to do with its construction all those thousands of years ago.

When we got back to the bottom of the mountain, Lee, our driver, asked Mary if we would mind another passenger in the car on the way back to the city. She had been on a large tour with a different company, but wanted to go back before the rest of the tour. Gullible us said it was OK, but she was the Dragon from Hell (Germany we think). She was furious that her tour would not take her back when she wanted to go and even more furious because our guide charged her a modest fee for the taxi ride. She then got really shitty because she wanted to sit in the front seat so she could take photos and the rear windows were tinted. Our guide put her in her place very courteously so she sat behind us fuming and ranting about the evils of the tourism industry. She wanted to go back to her hotel to collect her bags, then be taken to some institute of traditional medicine and then to the airport. Not sure she really expected us to take her, but she constantly hassled our guide for assistance on a raft of related issues and how to achieve them. Mary eventually got onto this woman’s tour company who reimbursed our tour company with the cost they had charged this woman for the ride and she quietened down a little when they gave her money back to her. But she kept on pestering for directions, how to do things and so on and when she was finally convinced that it would not be possible for her to do all she wanted on the day, she still kept on because she said she would be back in Beijing in a few weeks’ time and would tick off the rest of her objectives then. In the end, Heather told her to shut up and do her own research before she came back – it was our tour and we didn’t want to listen to any more of her harpy vitriol. She did keep quiet for the next hour or so with only occasional interruptions, allowing us to ask our own questions and receive the tourist information we had paid for. We eventually dropped her off near a Metro station with written instructions how to get to her hotel and she left with bad grace and nary a thankyou. We were all glad to see the back of her, but Mary had to give her her card because she intends milking Mary for everything she wants when she returns to Beijing. Lee was annoyed with her too and he was fun. He speaks no English but was very solicitous of us, giving us drinks and lollies, but quite ostentatiously, not for dragon lady! He held Heather’s hand and guided her very carefully over rough patches and was really a delightful gentle guy – as well as an excellent very smooth driver.

The final stop for the day was a traditional tea ceremony/buying opportunity where were served a variety of teas with a rapid fire patter about how good they all were before being ushered into the large shop and pressured into shelling out for things we didn’t want. The moment it became clear that we were not in the market, our highly solicitous tea-lady turned and walked away – message accepted both ways!

We were dropped back at our hotel a bit before 6pm, quite exhausted, but after a brief recovery, decided to eat in the hotel restaurant rather than walk any further. The meal was quite nice, but left a faint aftertaste when we paid the bill. Back to the room for a shower and crash into an exhausted sleep.

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mitmama · 5 years

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Amazing Vieques

Vieques | El Yunque | San Juan

My husband and I visited Vieques in mid-May for only a couple of days, but quickly fell in love with the place. This is my perfect vacation: laid back, barely any people, yet lots of fun things to do.

Our top 10 experiences Vieques:

Bioluminescent Bay

Wild horses

Stingrays

Unspoiled beaches

Cessna flight

Friendly people - local and transplant

Local food

Wild mangos

Music everywhere

Shy crabs

And the island is still recovering from Maria, with plenty of amenities for tourists, while the locals need tourism for their livelihood & recovery. Go experience the unique beauty and help out too!

Bioluminescent Bay

The reason we and probably a lot of people came to Vieques, the brightest bioluminescent display in the world at Mosquito Bay, did not disappoint. We signed up for a transparent kayak tour, which sounded cheesy but turned out to be a stroke of genius.

Bioluminescence is created by lots of single-cell microscopic organisms as they get excited by movement. As we kayaked closer to area of high concentration, first, we could see that every time our kayak paddle touches the water, there was a white or light blue splash. (Sorry you can’t see it very well on regular cameras like below.)

Then we find the same as our hands touched the water. You can even scoop up some water and watch the individual sparkles of the organisms on your hand! Then we find that at the transparent bottom of the boat shows streaks of brightness, like shooting stars, but covered by it.

In a word, magical! But nature's not done yet, then we saw fish swimming below us, leaving trails of brightness as they swim thru the water. It was a light show!

Note the bioluminescent display is brightest when there's little moon or lots of clouds. Our guide from Tainos Kayak was great, and said cheerfully that when there's full moon, they take a couple of days off. ;-)

Wild horses & Mangoes

Our kayak guide also told us, apparently back in the days there were plantations on the island, which all closed back in 1940s. Since then, the horses on the island turned wild. You can see them along the road, just taking it easy and eating grass or other vegetations.

As soon as my husband saw the horses, he was determined to feed one. We learned they like mangoes. As luck will have it, as we drove along, we saw ripe and green mangoes in the wild and picked a few. Rest see below. ;-)

Beach, Snorkeling & Sting Rays

There are two spots great for snorkeling on the island. First, Mosquito Pier, a man-made structure that sticks out a long way from the island and allows for deeper sea view and we heard also sea turtles. It was very deep though, so we got a bit scared and mostly stuck close to the pier. Still we saw lots of fish of all colors. Not as dense as Maui or Turks and Caicos, but more variety than e.g. Guadaloupe.

The second spot is Punta Arenas, or Green Beach, all the way at the west end of the island. The beach is breathtaking, and like other beaches on the island, had very few people. Turned out it's even prettier under the water with corals and fish. <ore amazing were giant sting rays that chill leisurely at the bottom, and occasionally go for a swim. I swam following one, and it was incredible. :)

Other places we tried including La Chiva, nice beach but mostly sea grass and we didn't much fish. Sun Bay is another nice beach. All of them have shallow water and are very swimmable.

Food & locals

We stayed at Esperanza, where there’s really one main street stretching from El Blok hotel to the excellent Malecon House where we had a great stay: they were thoughtful enough to provide bug spray, beach towers, and snorkeling gears.

The local food is Caribbean: meat (mostly pork and chicken) with fried arepas or tostones, or rice and beans. Below is the most amazing fried pork at El Guayacan, so good we went twice. :) Their mofongo, made from friend plantains and yucca, is also very tasty.

We highly recommend mango mojito on the island.

The people on the island are amazingly chill and friendly. My husband saw a guy drinking a cold beer and in thirst, asked if he could have one, and struck up a conversation in Spanish and a bit of English.

Everyone we met was nice and relaxed, both the locals and many transplants, from the south of US mostly. The island vibe even rubs off on visitors too, a good thing as we kept running into people at the beach or kayak tour or restaurant or hotel, as it’s a small island. :)

The locals love is Latin music perfect for dancing. We saw a number of trucks and vans fitted with a row of speakers, blasting away. It’s Partying on the Go! We also saw some locals galloping down the main street in Esperanza on their horses, women and children!

Getting to/from Vieques

Book your ferry ticket ahead of time! We didn't know you could buy it online, apparently just started a few weeks ago. Turned out there some ferryboats were under repair, and we ended up having to wait from 9 till 1:30 to buy the ticket in person to return to San Juan, as we just missed getting on the 10:30 ferry, and was first inline for the next one. Time to practice island zen. ;-)

Vieques Ferry from Ceiba - book ahead: https://tickets.porferry.com/

VAL has flights to-from Ceiba for $40. Call if sold out as they may open new flights if they get just 6 people. https://www.viequesairlink.com/

Alternatively, can book flights from SJU directly, and save the hour drive to Ceiba.

We arrived on a Cessna 9-seater. Usually I'm chicken about flying in small planes, but turns out Vieques takes an hour taxi from San Juan airport, plus an hour ferry otherwise. So after much research, we hopped on a Cessna right after our flight from the mainland.

Our flight turned out to be more exhilarating than scary. Our plane had only another couple besides us, and we got to sit right behind the pilot.The small plane affords a much more intimate view. We saw San Juan close-up, the national park, and just gorgeous shades of the sea around Puerto Rico. We also got a nice aerial tour of Vieques before a quick landing. Then we find ourselves in the tiny Vieques airport. The cafe outside is a must-do: amazingly it has authentic Chinese dumplings made by a Chinese lady. :)

Lastly, Vieques also used to be a naval training base, closed in the early 2000s. That means there are lots of abandoned structure on the island as well. Overall, the island felt a bit wild and really unique. This is my favorite island now in the Caribbean. Such an amazing contrast with the sophistication of the capital San Juan.

#puerto rico #vieques #beach #caribbean

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shianhygge-imagines · 8 years

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In The Name Of Love [Wrench/Reader] Part 2

Well... You guys wanted it... so here... Enjoy the various emotions this will illicit! This gif is relevant to the end of the chapter. And gotta warn ya, there’s a bit of some NSFW imagery in the chapter... and I... I feel disgusted with myself typing it... but it’s essential to narrative because you all need to feel the hate that I’ve decided to instill into the narrative. Yes.

edit 1: Disgusted with Lydia/Wrench. that is what I meant.

|Masterlist|

In the Name of Love: Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4

Would you let me lead you even when you’re blind?

In the darkness, in the middle of the night

~~~~~

After your plane landed, you hurried through the airport once again, dragging your carry-on behind, face stern and urgent, and nobody dared stop you. You heart was beating fast, and you had every different type of plan for several different scenarios in your head. You were going to tell everyone in DedSec about Lydia. And there could only be a few outcomes:

Wrench would get angry at you as well as the others.

Wrench would get angry at you but not the others.

Nobody would get angry at you.

The first scenario had the highest percentage of occurring. You had to face it, the odds were stacked against you, especially if Lydia’s been flashing her body at people in the Hackerspace and being friendly. Your face darkened as you picked up your Tesla from the parking lot and drove it out towards the highway.

You suppose that Lydia was playing the long game. Luring a target, or in this case, a group of targets, into a false sense of security, and then striking to eliminate as many individuals at once as possible. There was no doubt in your mind that you were on her list of targets, and what with your ex-boyfriend’s big mouth sometimes, you guessed that Lydia probably already knew who you were. And if you suddenly arrived at the Hackerspace spouting out your suspicions, you’d make yourself the priority target. And when that happens…

Eyes still on the road, you took out your phone and dialed an untraceable number. When the person on the other line picked up, you only needed to say one thing, “So, I’m calling in that favor, Jordi.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~

You pulled up into the driveway behind the Hackerspace with bated breath. You had around ten plans in place just in case any of the predicted outcomes should happen. They were all insurance plans of sort, each with varying degrees of loss to you personally. But all their end goals were to prevent the deaths of the other DedSec members and to prosecute Lydia of her crimes.

Taking a deep breath, you got out of your car and punched in the code to the garage. But once you walked into the workshop, you heard a deep moan, and promptly turned to the left, a look of disgust on your face at what you saw.

You’d long since gotten used to the sight of Wrench’s bare ass. You’d long since memorized the very sight of him naked before you. The sight of him above, sweaty, and hilt deep within you, breathing heavy with each thrust into your aching core. The sight of him below you, hypnotized, enraptured, scared to let out those beautiful sounds as his blue green eyes watched as you rode him to completion.

But never in your life did you think that you would have to ever witness him with another. It was a hot brand on your mind, tainting, and spurring intense emotion within. They were on your cuddle spot. The spot, the structure, where you often spent your time cuddling Wrench when you were together. A structure which you had built out of love for the man. But now it supported the passions of a man who you still loved, and the woman who plotted to kill you all.

And as they continued to pant, somehow out of rhythm in their gyrating, you could only scowl and slam your hand onto the giant red button that closed the garage doors and plod towards the doors located on the opposite of the room. Kicking the doors open, you could vaguely hear that woman ask Wrench, “Who the hell was that?”

I will not shoot her. I will not shoot her. I will NOT SHOOT THAT FUCKING CUNT. You thought, storms reflected in your eyes. Storms that Marcus saw and backed away from. Storms that drew Ray towards your side. Storms that Sitara and Josh didn’t know how to define. The first statement out of your mouth after your long absence was, “We need to talk.”

“Uhh… I don’t know if you realized, but not everyone is here, Y/N.” Sitara pointed towards the garage doors.

In hindsight, it was rather short tempered of you, but there was an all consuming rage within you. Resentment for the position you were placed in and betrayal. Betrayal of the heart and betrayal of a friend. “I KNOW THAT EVERYONE ISN’T HERE, SITARA.” You’d never yelled at anyone in DedSec before, and your outburst left everyone in the room wide-eyed. A loud moan resounded from the other room, and you could feel your expression more than the others could see it. The angry flare of your nostrils, the deep intake of breath, the rising hairs on the back of your neck, the shudder through your body as your grab the hidden knife in your workdesk and throw it with extreme precision and strength at the garage door, the blade being buried to the hilt. “I SAID, ‘WE NEED TO TALK.’ As in, EVERYONE!”

“Y-Y/N… relax.” Marcus attempted to soothe you, his hands raised, “What’s got you worked up?”

“My problem?” Your eyes squinted into small slits. “My problem, is that Horatio’s dead. And all of you guys are floundering around! And WHEN THE FUCK was it our policy to let anyone that wasn’t one of us into this place!?” It came out as a snarl once the two horndogs in the other room finally joined you guys. “Ooh Welcome to the party lovebirds! Did ya have fun shagging the daylights out of each other? Oh! Of course you did. ‘Could fucking hear from in here.” You gestured for them to stay away from you, “Please stand a respectable distance away from me. Don’t want any of your bodily fluids near me.”

“What the FUCK is your PROBLEM, Y/N?” Wrench yelled, pulling Lydia to stand behind him. Oh. Now you’ve gone and pissed the poor boy off.

“My problem?” You wondered softly, then started to pace the room aggressively, “My problem is that Horatio’s dead and none of you bothered to find out why he was killed!”

Wrench folded his arms, mask displaying an angry face. “The Tezcas did it. And we took care of them.”

You continued your pacing, “That’s a how, not a why.”

“What the fuck is wrong with you!” You heard Sitara scream, halting your pace to a sudden stop.

“Oh… there’s nothing wrong with me.” You mumbled, head tilted up and biting down on your thumb in thought. And then you pointed at Lydia, not bothering to face in the woman’s direction. “But there’s something wrong with her.”

You could heard the gasps of outrage, “What? Me? Wrench, baby, are you going to let them talk to me like that?”

“What the fuck, Y/N! I thought we were cool with this!”

You didn’t acknowledge Lydia. There wasn’t any point. The little cunt was trying to make Wrench do all the work. So by jov, you would make Wrench do all the work. Your head turned to stare at his mask directly, “Oh. I was cool with it. Was cool when you started losing interest in me. Was cool when you started cheating on me. Was even cool when I broke up with you to let you date her. The minute I wasn’t cool with this.” You motioned ‘this’ with a circular movement of your hands, “Was when she plot Horatio’s murder.”

“Are you fucking kidding me? How dare you accuse me, you bitch!” Lydia insulted with a shrill crack of the voice, looking very convincing in her outrage. And in your quick glance towards her, you noticed that her top was extremely low cut, furthering your distaste.

“What? Are you kidding me, Y/N!” Sitara was the first to speak up, standing up for Lydia like the big sister figure that she always was. “There’s nothing on her! She’s an innocent! She doesn’t know anyone from Tezca!”

“Yeah! She’s got no connection with Blume, either!” Marcus jumped in, defending his best friend’s girlfriend. “You can’t just throw accusations around!”

“She’s working for Blume even now! I did the hacking!” You insisted, outraged that everyone was taking the deceiver’s side.

“Actually, she’s an ex-Blume employee.” you heard Josh pipe up, and you had hope. “But she was a low ranked employee. She couldn’t have any power.” And your hopes were shattered.

“You, too, Josh?” You demanded weakly before turning towards Ray, “Ray?” Nothing left your friend’s mouth. “I’m not wrong!” You insisted, turning in place to look at everyone. “She’s plotting against us!”

“You know what, Y/N?” Wrench stalked over towards you, standing in your face as he yelled, “I’m sick and tired of you trying to take away my happiness! Why can’t you stop being a jealous bitch about everything? Huh? Now you’ve resorted to making up lies about Lydia? MY GIRLFRIEND? And making up shit about Horatio’s death? HOW FUCKING DARE YOU!” He shoved you into your workdesk. “I FUCKING KNEW THAT THERE WAS SOMETHING OFF ABOUT YOU! AND NOW WE ALL KNOW! YOU’RE SCUM!”

Angry and betrayed, you shoved Wrench back with everything you had, “DON’T FUCKING TOUCH ME!” Your former friend fell to the floor and you sprinted out of the Hackerspace, through the garage and towards your car. A shot rang out and suddenly there was a dent in your car. Getting in, you quickly drove away from your former friends and towards your apartment.

Once there, you backed up all your files into a portable drive and shoved it into a dufflebag along with some extra clothes and some guns before deleting everything in your computer and hiding all your handwritten schematics in between the sheets of your mattress. Your meeting with the team had gone as well as you had predicted, but it had gone as planned. You’d successfully painted a target on your back.

So, after shoving the dufflebag under your bed, you waited.

And like you’d predicted, at around 2am, the doors to your apartment smashed open and two people ran in. You stood, gun drawn and started firing at the larger of the two individuals, hitting the person legs twice to make them bow, and another two shots were fired into the man’s lower torso. But you didn’t have time to do much else, when the smaller of your attackers came at you with a large machete knife, and you were forced to duck, attempting to maneuver your way around the room to avoid the slashes.

It was a dance in a way, you trying to get away from the knife while reloading the gun. But like most untrained dancers, you tripped and fell. You had been too busy looking out for the blade, that you’d forgotten about the larger man with the gun. It started off with a loud bang, and then the pain as you fell backwards in the bedroom. Then, your bladed assaulter was on top of you, and the blade went down, and you screamed, looking at the stump that was once your left arm.

And then the one on top of you giggled, pulling her mask off to reveal the person you’d suspected all along. “Ohh. Don’t want to move around too much, Y/N. It might just be,” the machete descended again, stabbing into your stomach, and you screamed, “agony.” You started to flail, not caring about the blade sticking out of you. “Now, now, calm down. We want this to be quick and painless, right?”

Your eyes narrowed as you continued to flail, determined to make this bitch pay. But then your foot came into contact with bedside table, where you had placed a lit candle. When you kicked it, the candle had fallen onto your bed. And soon, the room was engulfed into fire.

Lydia sneered above you and twisted the machete, drawing out more screams from your body. “Now look what you’ve done. Fine. Die slowly.” Your attackers withdrew, but before leaving, Lydia directed a wicked grin at you, “I’ll take very good care of Wrench.” she blew you a kiss, “Don’t worry. You’ll be seeing him again soon. I promise.”

Your vision started to swim from the smoke, but you had enough sight to pull out the machete with a scream, throwing the blade to the side, and making a beeline towards the burning bed, pulling out the dufflebag from under it and limping towards the window with the fire escape. From there, you waited, struggled for breath until you blacked out with one name on your mind.

Wrench

~~~~~

In the silence, when there’s no one by your side

Would you call in the name of love?

~~~~~~~~~~

Thank you for reading! If you enjoyed my work, please consider buying me a Ko-fi!

#shian imagines #wrench #watch dogs 2 wrench #reader x wrench #wrench x reader #wrench imagine

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biofunmy · 5 years

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Greeting the New Year in Earth’s Northernmost Settlement

On the flight from Oslo to Svalbard, the sun gave way to night as we crossed the Arctic Circle; for one magical moment, the plane’s wing bisected light and dark perfectly. This would be the last natural light I would see for a week. For half the year, Svalbard, the northernmost inhabited place in the world, is lit by the midnight sun. The other half of the year, the Norwegian archipelago is plunged into the purple darkness of polar night.

Few people have heard of Svalbard and even fewer have seen it. The isolated group of islands is an old mining settlement turned glacial adventuring outpost located 1,200 miles north of mainland Norway, one of the closest landmasses to the North Pole, along with Greenland and Nunavut. The approximately 2,200 inhabitants dotting the desolate tundra are itinerant, a mix of climate scientists, miners and globe-trotting explorers mostly from Russia, Scandinavia and Canada. There are more polar bears than people.

Historically, this archipelago was the isolated purview of turn-of-the-century airship explorers obsessed with finding the Northwest Passage; more recently Svalbard served as the fantastical setting for Phillip Pullman’s “His Dark Materials” trilogy. Today, it is poised to be the next extreme vacation destination for tourists obsessed with climate change, wilderness and chasing the Northern Lights.

Svalbard is an Arctic desert. Its permafrost makes it the ideal home for the Global Seed Vault, an underground repository for the world’s most vital crops (and likely Svalbard’s most famous tourist attraction, though no tourists are allowed inside). But this permafrost also means nothing can take root, giving the place an eerily lunar landscape, with no trees and few animals.

The extreme isolation and hardness of the landscape is what drew me here, too. I took the trip with my partner Noah. Both of our marriages had recently ended, and in our 40s, we were suddenly rootless, dislocated in a way neither of us had expected. It was as though we’d sat on the shoreline, watching a glacier crumble into the ocean. We’d found each other, but our relationship was still new and untested. Perhaps we’d been drawn to the Arctic to see if anything permanent in the world still existed.

And so, at the end of December, after spending a few days in Oslo exploring Grünerløkka’s record shops and the Viking Museum’s ships, we took a direct morning flight to Svalbard. I imagined stepping off the plane into a sea of phosphorescent green aurora, but when we arrived, the sky was cloudy. Noah had seen the Northern lights many times, mostly in Iceland, but this would be my first experience. I loved the idea of the sun setting off a solar flare 92 million miles away, and having it appear here in all its eerie ectoplasmic beauty, like some ghostly atomic postcard.

A set of stairs was rolled up to the plane’s exit door and along with everyone else we wrapped our bodies in our serious coats and hats and mittens before stepping out into the icy air. At the bottom of the slippery staircase, a woman in a reflective flightsuit directed us toward the airport with hand-held lantern flares. A silver foil tiara spelled out Happy New Year on top of her white-blond bun. It was 10 in the morning on New Year’s Eve and pitch black.

Longyearbyen, Svalbard’s main settlement, is essentially two roads in a giant T. This once untouchable frontier has evolved into a study in contrasts, a balance of scarcity and opulence, some of the world’s roughest terrain inexplicably mixed with luxury. For a long time, Svalbard was reserved for the tourist elite because of the difficulty and cost of travel, not to mention the expense of outfitting yourself with the right boots, parka, layers and more to withstand the cold. Visitors tend to be either young adventurers working their way across the world or high-end travelers checking off their bucket lists, and most of the lodging and restaurant options fall into either the budget or splurge category. There is little middle ground.

We booked a room at Funken Lodge, a modern hotel with clean lines and Scandinavian efficiency, where we were welcomed with drinks by the fireplace at the hotel bar (rooms are currently about $150 to $180 a night, breakfast included). We’d made New Year’s Eve dinner reservations at Huset, the highest-end of the handful of restaurants in town, and that evening took a taxi to the unassuming building tucked dramatically at the foot of a towering glacier, where the row of snowmobiles parked out front made it look more ski-lodge than fine Nordic dining. The building has, at various times served as the island’s post office, church, school and airport terminal, as well as a miner’s boardinghouse. Today it is also the understated home to one of the largest wine cellars in Scandinavia with 15,000 bottles and a Two Wine Glass distinction from Wine Spectator magazine.

Huset’s staid interior was in stark contrast to the decadence of the plates. Our five-course meal (1,200 Norwegian krone each, or about $131 per person) started with an appetizer of woody chanterelles that had been foraged locally. Glistening cuts of Isfjord cod and roe were nestled atop beds of lichen and ptarmigan feathers. The main course showcased local reindeer two ways (tartare and made into hearty sausage), accompanied by strands of salty kelp harvested from the island’s shoreline and microgreens provided by the island’s sole greenhouse, a pink geodesic dome visible from the main road. The structure’s neon blink was the only colored light on the island, like a pair of neon Wayfarers in a sea of mirrored Aviators.

The waiter told us that the restaurant turned into a local’s nightclub after dinner, so we stayed in our corner, sipping from our many half-glasses of wine as the demure dining room changed over to flashing lights and techno. A few minutes before midnight, Noah and I pulled our coats and boots on and half-stumbled, half-skated to the edge of the parking lot between the restaurant and the high wall of the glacier. Some of the kitchen staff lit off fireworks, holding the cardboard containers as the flares launched into the air, refracting off the towering wall of glittering ice until everything was bathed in flame. They were not Northern Lights, but these man-made sparkles of color had their own kind of otherworldly beauty.

We woke to the first day of the new year and nursed our hangovers, grateful for the dark. Months earlier, we’d booked a Northern Light Safari with Dog Sled (2,780 krone for two). In the safe glow of a computer screen at home, this had sounded whimsical and romantic. Now, it was mildly terrifying.

Our guide picked us up in a cube van from the hotel, and as we drove farther out of town the streetlamps disappeared, replaced by polar bear warning signs. From a distance, Green Dog Svalbard looked more like a maximum-security prison than a dog-sledding outfit, but the guide explained the chain-link fence and floodlights were needed to keep the dogs safe from polar bears. This was comforting, until I realized the point of our trip was to take the dogs from camp out onto the glacier.

Before sledding, we hung up our fancy parkas and shouldered into bulky jumpsuits that smelled like dog and hooked oversized sheepskin mitts on a string around our necks. This reminded me sweetly of a child’s mittens, until the guide warned us that unguarded our hands would get frostbitten in less than five minutes.

From the hut we followed the guide into the open-air kennel. Names were painted onto each of the dozens of doghouses, and dogs whimpered and leapt with excitement, pulling on their chains staked to the frozen ground. Each sledge held two people and the dogs were organized into teams of six. The guide shouted some general directions over the deafening howling; I tried to listen while wrestling our dogs into formation, sweating profusely under my layers, goggles completely fogged. “Here is your anchor!” He held up a heavy ball of spiked metal attached to the sled. “Make sure you secure your anchor, or it will flop around dangerously and claw you in the leg!”

Noah and I got our bearings on the sledge, essentially a roughhewn Flexible Flyer with a high back, which I sat against and he stood behind. With no fanfare, the guide’s whistle pierced the night, and our six huskies were running, the lights and safety and noise of the kennel disappearing behind us.

Even with a hood, balaclava and goggles, the wind froze my breath in my chest. We were racing through the Bolterdalen Valley, but we could have been on the moon, and I felt like an astronaut floating in space. Our path was lit only by my headlamp, though the dogs clearly knew where to go, and although Noah held reins in his hands, we were just passengers. A few minutes in, we were so completely alone on the ridge of the glacier, so completely in the middle of nowhere, that I began to feel panicky. I concentrated on the dogs’ rhythmic breathing echoing into the icy silence and tried to calm down.

By the time we returned to camp more than an hour later, I could not feel my jaw or feet. Noah and I worked at unhooking our dogs and returning them to their doghouses, and suddenly I was a sweaty mess again, jaw and feet tingling back to life.

In the van on the way back to the hotel, Noah cracked a handwarmer to life and slipped it between our palms. “Did you see the Northern lights?” he asked, flushed. Apparently they’d appeared in the middle of the trip, but I’d been so focused on the dogs, and keeping my balance on the sledge, I’d completely missed them.

Going inside the glacier

The next few days blended into one long night. We ate elaborate meals of Arctic char and gravlax at our hotel restaurant and handmade chocolates from Fruene, the world’s northernmost chocolate shop. We slept late and took long walks through town, wary of bears. Everywhere we went, our snow pants made a shush-shush sound.

One night, we layered up for an evening glacier hike. Our guide Martin drove us to a cluster of miner’s cabins at the edge of town where he handed out headlamps and springy-teethed crampons for the bottoms of our boots.

Martin was tall and trim and he secured his rifle to his back with an embroidered strap of red and green and gold. He cautioned us to stay together — our group of six could only go as fast as the slowest hiker to stay safe from polar bears since he was the only one with a gun. His husky, Tequila, joined us on the two-hours of precarious ice trekking, until we arrived at an unassuming hole the size of a sewer grate on the top of the glacier. We took turns sliding down a tunnel into the dark.

The ice came alive under our headlamps, and the glossy gray ribcages of stalagmites and stalactites made me feel like Jonah inside his whale. The swirls of sediment made wavy marbled ribbons in the wall, and the clicking of our crampons echoed through the tunnels. It felt like walking on teeth and bone and glass.

Summer snowmelt created these caverns. We’d been hiking above a network of underground tunnels. Martin passed around cookies and cups of syrupy blackcurrant juice, leaving purple stains on a makeshift ice bar, and after an hour of wandering inside the tunnels, we crawled back out to Tequila and into a snowstorm. We trekked downhill in an ebullient line, giddy despite the icy crevices and drop-offs that lurked beyond the pale light of our headlamps under the cloudy night sky. There were no Northern Lights, but as we hiked back, a small triangle of light appeared between the glaciers. Town.

I spied the strange pink glow of the geodesic dome, the island’s unlikely greenhouse. As my crampons gripped the ice, I thought about the beds of tender green leaves that I imagined populated it. Why try to grow something in an Arctic desert, a place that by nature is uninhabitable to anything with roots? No one can be born in Svalbard — pregnant women are required to leave the island weeks before their due date — and you cannot be buried there because of the permafrost. And yet, this neon dome pulsed, a pink heart on an otherwise blank slate, offering the promise of new growth where none was expected, roots where otherwise there were none.

Hot dogs and the aurora

Noah’s birthday arrived on the final day of our trip, and I packed our hotel towels and slippers into a bag and told him I’d arranged for a surprise. I’d reserved space on an excursion called “Sauna Meal & Aurora Borealis,” and soon, after driving in a cube van to an isolated campsite on the tundra, we were helping our guide Misha stretch a canvas cover across the crisscrossed spines of a tent frame over a portable sauna. Misha made hot dogs over an open fire in a steel caldron on the ice while we waited for the sauna to heat up. This was the least glamorous meal we ate in Svalbard, and yet it managed to still feel extraordinary as we sat together around the fire, drinking tea and eating hot dogs in the Arctic.

After the barbecue, we stripped off layer after thermal layer, scuttling the 20-foot distance between tents in just a towel and slippers. Once the sauna tent’s flap was securely zipped, we sat in lawn chairs on the ice in the small dark space, listening to the hiss of the water on the rocks. We sweated, luxuriating in the heat, pawing snowballs from the floor and running them against our bare skin. This was the strangest but perhaps most fitting way for our time in the Arctic to end, I thought, huddled together with full bellies on the tundra, Misha patrolling the perimeter for polar bears.

After some time, I wiped the fog from the small slice of clear plastic in the side of the tent and realized the stars were ablaze in the sky, and as I scanned the edge of the glacier I saw something forming: like a cloud, but more ghostly. I grabbed Noah’s arm and we ran outside.

We stood, staring, in slippers and towels on the tundra, as the milky wash of the aurora sparkled across the sky. The lights weren’t green; they weren’t any color, really, but I’d never seen anything like it. My sweat felt like all the stars in the sky were wrapped around my body in a blanket, little spears of heat and ice, and when I turned to Noah his skin was bathed in silver, as if his body was part of the aurora itself.

52 PLACES AND MUCH, MUCH MORE Follow our 52 Places traveler, Sebastian Modak, on Instagram as he travels the world, and discover more Travel coverage by following us on Twitter and Facebook. And sign up for our Travel Dispatch newsletter: Each week you’ll receive tips on traveling smarter, stories on hot destinations and access to photos from all over the world.

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davidaolson · 5 years

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Pull out your pocketknife, open the blade, and run it across your burnished arm. If you draw blood, you are human. If you draw wet sand that dries quickly, then you will know you have become part of the desert. Not until then can you claim ownership. ~Terry Tempest Williams

Blood Letting

With the first reading of Terry’s bleeding sand quote in her lovely book, Red: Passion and Patience in the Desert, I have taken to testing myself every trip to red rock country. I need to know if I am an interloper in desert lands ghosting through or can claim desert kinship and the earth will accept my roots. My soul says, I am desert but my head needs physical proof, hard evidence, liquid testimony. Once maybe twice, my flowing blood appeared to contain minute traces of red sand. It was just as likely the blood loosed sand grains stuck in my pores trapped while scrapping my flesh over difficult scrambles up the Slickrock. I didn’t take proper precautions for a valid experiment and isolate the variables. This trip will be different. I’ve come prepared.

The knife purchased for the occasion is still a virgin, still inside the plastic liner, still inside the box, still manufacturer sealed, uncontaminated by dust, dirt, particulate. The blade is 2.4 inches long, 420HC bead blasted, stainless steel. It is assisted opening so I don’t need to fumble come the time to experiment and risk it falling onto Earth. I will use it for one testing then retire it with the others in safe storage.

When I get a house again, they will be all be mounted, blades extended, behind glass, a showcase with a Katana arched overhead. I love knives as did my father before me. I have a collection upward of 30 many made with my own hands. I purchased full tang blades then created the handles out of exotic woods, metals, and antler, getting a much better price on high-quality high carbon steel than if I purchased a complete knife. I had neither the tools nor the skills to forge the blades. If I did, they would all be multi-layer Damascus steel.

Also different this trip, the location. I’m hiking the Sedona Red Rocks, not my beloved Southern Utah Red Rocks. Though both are red rocked they speak to me with distinct voices. Are they kin, the red rocks? The same tribe separated by hundreds of miles or two distinct peoples. I won’t know until I become as intimate with the land in the Sedona backcountry as I am in Moab and can feel its soul seeping into my exposed flesh. I won’t know until I have spent enough time to draw in a breath and recognize the tang of the early morning breeze cascading down the monoliths, across the plains, and through the gnarled juniper extending arthritic arms heavenward. Even when I think I know, I probably won’t know for sure. Identical twins though similar have unique essences not discernable to the casual observer.

Seeking Intimacy

We flew from Chicago to Phoenix, lovely and warm Phoenix then drove the 120 miles mostly uphill gaining a few thousand feet, cruising through a forest of giant saguaro people many over 200 years old. I would have liked to spend time with those old people, bask in their slender shadow spirits, share their secrets of thriving desert life, of coping in challenging conditions. Maybe crawl inside a dead or nearly dead old one and extract a stout rib for a walking stick. But visiting the ancients was our plan for the return trip. For now, I was eager to set eyes upon red rock.

The Unplanned Airport Loop

Originally, we thought about kicking the trip off on Friday evening but that would mean driving up to Sedona at night then sleeping in, possibly late, the next morning. The early flight Saturday morning forced us out of bed early and gifted us an entire morning viewing alien, alien to Midwesterners, Arizona landscapes.

We arrived at our hotel, the Sky Ranch Lodge Resort, a boutique type hotel on lovely grounds, just after the noon hour. Too early to check in. What to do? Why hike of course. Our hotel was conveniently situated adjacent to a 0.6-mile hike terminating a the Sedona Trail View Point, a minor mound to climb for a better view of the valley below, the rock structures perched magnificently beyond. We changed into hiking gear, meaning switching our shoes, grabbed a liter of water, and headed out for a get your hiking feet wet, 1.2-mile round tripper.

The short walk was uneventful and delightful. The trail which had been muddy from the previous week’s snow was mostly dry. There were sporadic benches we sat on for a great view of rocks and city. Much of the trail was littered with baby heads, softball-sized round rocks notorious for dumping mountain bikers out of the saddle. Baby heads are perfect for ankle rolls. A few were loose exacerbating the challenge. We spent a good deal of time looking down at our feet instead of up and out at the vistas which is why I made use of every bench along the way. Thankfully, we were meandering through a shaded, juniper forest so reveled in the divine scent. We arrived at the Scenic Point and scaled the much steeper final ascent to the rock dome.

Our first mistake, one that would haunt us the entire trip, we unthinkingly booked to coincide with Spring Break. People were everywhere and parking would be a hassle the entire trip not to mention traffic jams whenever driving near the main drag of the town. Ugh!

We scurried off the top of the rock dome with the speed and dexterity of eight-legged spiders climbing down a wall to escape a circling bird. Our nemesis was the noise. We needed to escape the cacophony only to be frustrated the main viewing area had grown more crowded and increasingly noisy. So many people. Too many people. We also heard a word here that would percolate up in Sedona on a regular basis. The word, vortex.

A vortex is defined locally as an energy site that enhances meditation, healing, and creativity. It means some very different in the Midwest. For us, a vortex is a spell of freakishly cold, Winter weather with the power to sap one’s will to live.

A local guide with an air of bliss in her countenance was talking to a group about the spot we all were as a vortex and she was sensitive to the underpinning energies. I half expected her to drop into a hand trembling trance to emphasize her point summoning dreaming spirits from their reverie. It seemed every place we visited had a vortex completing diluting the term. It came across more like a gimmick to dazzle tourists.

I have been to many wild places in my life and have tapped into my share of earth energy emanating from those places. I tingled when we drove through the grove of giant saguaros. I’ve experienced similar feelings of awe at some houses of worship irrespective of faith. Those structures were built on top of a place oozing holy earth energy and leverage this in the wooing of believers. Unfortunately, those get tied to the likes of organized religion rather than attributing the sense of the spiritual to Earth herself and we wind up with competing religious sects often times spilling into violence. That is a slap in the face of Earth from which the energy emanates.

I sat still for a few moments, eyes closed, soul open, and felt nothing, absolutely nothing. Not a sense of awe. Not an inkling of the divine. Which is much unlike the strong sense of the sacred I experience in many places across Southeastern Utah. But Utah is my love while Sedona is an ‘any port in a storm’ mistress used to satisfy base needs. Perhaps that distinction explains my feelings…or…my inability to sense the supposed vortex. I may also have been the many people mulling about raping the silence. It is hard to sense divinity when assaulted by violent noise.

Another, what to do moment. And what did we do? Why hike, of course. The 3.2-mile Airport trail loop began and ended at this point. We had easily done a challenging 5 miler through Devil’s Garden at Arches National Park four years earlier on our wedding trip so a mere 3.2 jaunt? Ha. Ha. Ho. Ho. Hee. Hee. Away we go for a little hikee.

Trail Marker

History tells us, fifty or so yards into a trail shows a steep dropoff of people per square meter. Twenty yards into this trail the silence returned. We relished in the solitude and immediately felt bliss, were enchanted by the wide blue sky, the relative warmth, and seeing beings native to the area. We made the right choice.

Prickly pear bordered the trail in abundance with some beds punctuated by butter gold flowers with burnt orange hearts. Many see this particular cactus, possibly the most widely spread of all cacti, and think scrub or weeds or nuisance. I see resilience. I see perseverance. I see stark beauty. Sharp pointy stilettoes protecting themselves from evil intent on inflicting harm. Maybe, if I lived here, I would decay into the same mindset as I do with dandelions back home. Being a Midwesterner, Prickly Pear are a rare being with whom to interact.

I kissed the first red wall we saw. Catholics kiss the pope’s ring. I kiss red rock endemic to the American southwest. We each have our own perceptions of the Holy. My holy of holies happens to exist within a particular russet vertical gradation of Earth. It felt dirty. Not in a clay, dust, loam in my mouth way, in an, I’m cheating on my love way. I enjoyed it but couldn’t shake the lingering guilt of betraying an adored one so the joy was heavily attenuated. How do people have affairs and live with themselves?

Prickly Pear

Kissing Red Rocks

We passed a couple of other hiking groups. One was typically backcountry friendly letting us know we were halfway through the hike which came as a shock because we figured, measured by sweat and fatigue, we were close to completion. The other, an older, bearded gentleman wearing a Hawaiian shirt, sandals, being tugged along by a scraggly little dog attached to a long leash, said nothing to us. Didn’t even nod in acknowledgment which is unheard of in the backcountry. We gave each other a side eye, knowing glance that said, what the fuck is he doing on a trail? Was there a rescue helicopter sighting in our near future?

The sun was high overhead now and our water was getting low. We continued to ration with both magnanimously deferring sips to the other meaning neither drank enough. Luckily, it wasn’t a much hotter day so the water wasn’t siphoned out of our pores leaving us dehydrated. The desert doesn’t suffer fools for long.

Soul Blood on a Prickly Pear

I slipped once on loose scree when not paying close enough attention to my footfalls and lightly brushed against a prickly pear. It was growing chest height atop a short wall. I felt needle pain deep in my chest but didn’t find any holes in my shirt or scratches on my skin nor any pinholes where blood escaped to the surface. The cactus, though, had a subtle shimmer as if a spider spun a gossamer web of opalescent silk over the pad. I snapped a few photos from varying angles including adding a polarizing filter trying to isolate the shimmer. The added filter removed enough glare to enhance the luster. It wasn’t until I uploaded the images to my computer and viewed in photo enhancing software with an infrared approximation that the shimmer was revealed fully. Blood. Soul blood was scraped from and oozed out of my body coating the cactus leaving the iridescent sheen.

The Northern section of the loop trail was populated by taller trees providing dappled shade from the sun, narrower views. It wasn’t hot, in the low 60s, but the effort at an altitude unfamiliar to our lungs added to our perception of the hike’s strenuousness. We were struggling physically and mentally with a desire to rest competing with a drive to finish. Our poor planning meant we hadn’t brought any trail snacks so besides being thirsty, we were getting hungry. At one point, we looked down upon a neighborhood and both voiced thoughts of scrambling to the road and calling an Uber. We didn’t.

Barefeet and a Katana

For most of the hike, I walked behind my wife. It seemed I was constantly on her heels which makes stepping more difficult because forward vision is blocked by another human being. When there is space between, the eyes look further out compensates when the further becomes nearer subconsciously adjusting footfalls so not to break an ankle. It’s a trick I learned mountain biking when speed requires forward vision not looking exactly the path the wheel takes. I had grown weary of looking down for two hours. I switched to be ahead of her and put a bit of distance between us ensuring she could use the compensation part of her brain. I didn’t get too far ahead that she couldn’t see me bopping along.

It was this point in our hike I encountered a lone woman on the trail walking toward me. She seemed to appear out of nowhere, was dressed in a style I can only approximate as bohemian hiker. She had neither pack nor water bottle. She carried long unkempt hair, sorta dreaded, piled high atop her head cascading over her left shoulder. She was absent of shoes either on her feet nor carried a pair for situations requiring tootsie protection. I was both intrigued at her closeness to cool Earth drawing energy through her soles and bewildered that someone would put the well being of their feet at risk on what was mostly a rock-strewn trail.

She was fairly tall but that could have been an illusion by her hair piled high. Her face was pinked. Exertion? Sun? Bliss? Her smile existed somewhere between rapture and complete vacuousness giving the impression she was deeply immersed in a cult and had lost all ability to reason from her own thoughts. She was staring off into the distance and when I said hi, which is universally expected when hikers cross paths, she said “Oh…hi” back as if was an entirely new experience. Or, she may have been a spirit being and was surprised because the spirit and physical worlds rarely cross-pollinate. Having bridged the gap more than once, I understand how it can flummox one’s perception of reality.

A few minutes later, my wife caught up to me.

“Did you him?” she asked. “See who?” “The guy with the big, curved knife. He popped up out of the bushes after the girl passed. He was barefoot and carried a big, curved, knife.” “Curved knife?” “A sword.” “You mean a katana?” I looked down the trail from whence she came. “Yes. He popped up next to me from nowhere then disappeared into the bushes again.” “He carried a katana?” “He scared me so I hurried to catch up to you.” “What color was the handle?” “The handle? There was a long blade. I didn’t notice the handle.”

When I think Katana, I think of the beautiful, white handled, dragonhead katana wielded by the immortal Duncan Mcleod of the clan Mcleod in his quest to survive The Game where there can be only one. I found myself wishing I had actually purchased the katana I saw on Amazon and brought it along on this trip. Ignoring the plight of getting a 40-inch blade on a commercial airline in a post 9/11, paranoid Trumpian world. I envisaged engaging the ruffian in a clanging sword fight protecting the love of my life from impending doom eventually taking the head of the barefoot stranger lurking in the woods saving future visitors from a gruesome gutting and the authorities swooping in to find dozens of corpses hidden in shallow hills on this side of the mesa. Barring that, I scanned the grounds for a thick stick to carry as a counter-terrorism weapon. If only I was carrying that stout saguaro rib I would be invincible.

For the next while of our hike, we made repeated glances over our shoulders. Not that it would make any difference. If he was able to emerge silently from the woodlands once he could easily do it again. We didn’t stop glancing until a set of three hikers we passed earlier, passed us a second time. We chatted them up a second time with a strange twist to the conversation.

The gentlemen of the threesome, jovial both times we met up, asked me, “Why the pink sunglasses?” The question felt accusatory. I sensed an implication a real man would not wear bright, pink anything.

I should have digressed into our visit to Whitesands the previous year where the intense color of the light pained my eyes even when wearing my prescription sunglasses. And how these, purchased in New Mexico, had warmer lenses providing needed relief from the eye strain. But I wanted away from him so just said I liked them. He then told me, with an even bigger smile, he had a pair of bright yellow before the group headed off.

There is a backwoods question asking, how fast do you need to run to outrun a bear? The answer is only faster than the slowest person in the group. This group was now nearer to katana man than we so we were able to relax and quit stealing glances over our shoulders.

Our last encounter on the trail was Hawaiian shirt dude with his rat dog. They passed us again and again without acknowledgment. This is the guy we side eyed wondering if he would survive a loop only to have him lap us in seemingly high energy while we were struggling to finish. We were embarrassed questioning our ability as hikers. Our conclusion, we were wimpy, wimpy, wimpy. Books and covers.

Trail’s End

The hike finished without further excitement. Although, we did hear and then catch a glimpse of a grey bird singing from the tippy top of a tallish juniper. It called out twice then disappeared. It was the only wildlife we encountered on the trail. There were no squirrels, no coyotes, no lizards, no rattlesnakes, not even any insects. Was it too early in the season?

The mile tally for the hike came in at a touch over 5. Not bad for the first day at elevation in red lands. Our plans to seize the next day included another 5 miler, the one and only hike I scouted before the trip. My hope was for it to be an all-day lingerer. Until then we would check into the Sky Ranch Lodge, eat dinner at a local Thai restaurant where we would also carpe vinum (seize the wine).

I found myself enjoying the Sedona red rock more than I expected. I wanted to like this vacation location but loving the land was out of the question. There is room for only one love in my heart. Yet, there is no denying I felt an ache in my heart seeking carnal knowledge. Was betrayal in the air? The heart wants what the heart wants.

Too be continued…

Twin Yellows

Love Desert Flowers

Adultery in Sedona, Part 1 Pull out your pocketknife, open the blade, and run it across your burnished arm. If you draw blood, you are human.

#Sedona

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coffey-to-go · 6 years

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Beijing 2016

Beijing With the Tresemers

Thursday 10 November 2016. Beijing

We landed in Beijing around 1130 with carry-on luggage only. This was our first flight without pump equipment and not having that stuff made a world of difference. We were able to move quickly to the airport express train that takes us to city center for 25 RMB. It is about a 20 minute ride. When we reached the city we bought metro passes for 20RMB and loaded them with 30RMB which was just enough money to get us around for 4 days. We jumped on line 5 and reached our stop, Chengwengwen which happens to be right near our hotel, the Novotel.

The Tresemer’s were staying pretty close to us and they were still waiting on their room to be ready. We got settled in and let the boy nap while I went in search for diapers and organic milk. Near our hotel are a few malls so I didn't have to go far to find both. I bought GB diapers at the World mall and found some Italian imported milk at a bakery just outside the mall. Beau and Jaci came over to our hotel around 1600.. It was good to catch up with old friends and they even brought us some Germany goodies such as chocolate, gummy bears, kinder eggs and my favorite, Lowen senf. After chatting for about an hour we decided to get a move on and head over to Tiananmen Square. The smog level was very high reading in the mid 200s for most of the day. When you step off the airplane the smog is the first thing you notice. It is a real shame because Beijing is a wonderful city.

We masked up and set out for the square. We stopped and took a few photos along the way and eventually made it to the busy Tiananmen Square area. Unfortunaly the square was already closed for the evening but we could still see it from the outside. We were able to pose for a few photos then decided to walk around a little until we found a restaurant. We just so happened to stumble upon a Cantonese restaurant so we thought we could introduce the Tresemer’s to a little taste of Canton. We ordered a ton of food including some jiaozi, baozi, and some fried spicy cauliflower which was great. The highlight was the pork with with wonton wraps served Mexican style. It was a lot like carnitas so we called them “ Chinitas.” After dinner we walked back towards the hotel and decided to call it an early night since we had an early morning the next day. It was time to get some much needed rest for all of us.

Friday 11 Novemeber 2016. The Great Wall

We woke at 0530 to get ready for our excursion to the Great Wall of China. Kira hired a driver that was referred to us by the Wynn family. Our destination was a two hour drive to Mutianyu which a section of the wall which has been restored and is usually not crowded. We at breakfast on the go which included some fruit that we bought they night before and some bread and pastries that the Tresemer's picked up as well. The driver had some water and bananas for us too. The plan was to arrive right when the ticket offices open at 0830. We did just that and stayed ahead of most of the tour groups. After we got our tickets we had to catch a bus that drove us about 10 minutes toward the base of the mountain where the wall is. We caught the first bus and were among the first to arrive at the starting point. There are two options for going up to the wall from the starting point. You can walk up a ton of well paved steps or for a little more money you can take a gondola. We chose to go on foot which cost 45RMB per person. It was a great opportunity to try out Nolan’s new Kelty backpack. I started off carrying him in the pack and as I write this on Monday the 14th my calves are still hurting. It was well worth the climb and the backpack was worth every cent.

We climbed and took in the fantastic views that the wall had to offer. We spent a lot time walking around and taking photos. It was easy to get photos without other people in the background which is a rare feat at a tourist attraction. We had a snack and gave Nolan a diaper change before back down. The tour buses were arriving so things were about to get crowded. Getting there early is highly recommended.

Around 1330 we returned back to our driver via the bus and let the Tresemer's do a little shopping around all the gift stands that are set up everywhere around the entrance. Kira bought an over-priced Chinese crepe which she was able to get a lower price because her Chinese was good according to the crepe lady. We peeked in one restaurant but they were all severely over-priced. We loaded up in the van and hit the road. About a half hour into the drive our driver pulled over at a small restaurant in the small village. We ordered some beef noodle soup dishes, jiaozi and Jaci got a chicken lo mein dish. Everything was good and cheap….40RMB for everything including a couple of beers. After lunch we returned to the hotel for a much needed recharge.

Around 1700 we meet back up and headed out to find a quality place for a foot rub. I scouted out a place not far from the hotel but it was way too expensive. The area we stayed at is where a lot of tourist stay so naturally prices are inflated for everything, for example, I went to buy a gallon of water from a girl in a small shop and she quoted 50RMB for a bottle that I can get for 5 to 10RMB anywhere else. Kira had heard of place that wasn't far from the restaurant we intended to eat at so we hopped on the metro and made our way. The place is called Liangzi and the service and massages are phenomenal. We all had a room together and you could order drinks and snacks during the session. Nolan had a great time crawling around during the whole process. When we return to Beijing we will definitely go back.

After the amazing foot massages we walked over to Da Dong to feast on some Peking duck. Da Dong is one of the top restaurants in Beijing and there service and food is second to none. We order a lot of food for 5 very hungry people. We started with some fresh salmon sashimi and it was very fresh and buttery. We also had some deep fried pork which was a hit but the roast duck is the star of the show. We ordered one and half ducks to make sure we all got our feel and it was the right amount. The ducks are all roasted at the giant oven roasting pit in the middle of the restaurant for all to see. They are then brought table side then skillfully cut into pieces then reassembled carefully on a serving dish then served. The duck is moist and full of flavor. The fat on the bird melts in your mouth. I think for anyone visiting Beijing a trip to Da Dong is a must. It is pricey but worth it.

12 November 2016 Forbidden Palace

The next morning we all skipped breakfast and just kind of snacked a bit as we made our way to the Forbidden Palace. We have heard that you can spend all day at the huge compound so we decided to get there right when doors opened at 0830 and hopefully stay ahead of the huge crowds. With it being a Saturday though, crowds were hard to avoid. The good thing about the size of the palace is that it can easily accommodate very large crowds so it’s not too overwhelming. It was 80RMB per person for a ticket and you can choose a free audio-guide that we all thought was worthless. It was supposed to use GPS to track where you were and it would automatically start talking about something but it hardly ever worked. If you really want to know more about the palace we highly recommend hiring a personal guide.

After about two hours of exploring the compound we made our way to a famous kite store that Jaci had read about. They wanted to buy a kites for there nephew and we decided to buy the biggest baddest one they had for Nolan. It was 200RMB and we later found the same kit at a market for 150RMB before negotiating. Oh well. For lunch we found a Xinjiang restaurant serving up some incredible lamb skewers, veggies and bread. We ate a ton and it was all fantastic. After lunch we made short walk over to Great Leap Brewery which was recommended to us by a mutual friend. They brew their own American style beers and they all were pretty good. You can order a flight of five picks for 50RMB. After a few beers we returned to the hotel to get some rest.

In the evening we didn't really have dinner plans so we went to a little indoor market that I found the day before. It wasn't anything fancy but it had just about anything and everything. We bought some jiaozi, noodles and stuffed buns and chowed down in the dinning area. After that we bought some fruit then and I took everyone over to the tea section of the market. We sat down for some gong fu cha. Beau really fell in love with the tea culture so he and Jaci loaded up on a variety of teas to take home.

13 November 2016 Temple of Heaven

On our last full day in Beijing we decided to just check out the city and later do some shopping. We first visited the Temple of Heaven. When we arrived at the Temple of Heaven park there were tons of older people who all seemed to be advertising something. Apparently they were all playing match-maker trying to find suitors for the sons and daughters. Everyone with a daughter had their eyes on Nolan. After getting a few phone numbers we made our way to the Temple of Heaven. It cost 28RMB for a ticket but it is worth it. Seeing the Temple of Heaven wasn't high up on my list but I am glad we went. It is a really cool structure to see and you don't need that much time there. The whispering courtyard was cool to see too. Kira could stand on one end and whisper into the wall and I could hear her…pretty neat.

After an hour or so there we hopped on the metro and maid our way to Olympic Park which was all built for the 2008 summer Olympics. The giant “bird’s nest” is quite a site to see. We made our way to it and grabbed a hamburger from the McDonalds inside of it. We could also see the athletes village and the water cube where Michael Phelps crushed everyone. It was pretty cool just to stroll around there for a bit. After that we made our way to Hongqiao pearl market which is a giant indoor market where you can buy cashmere and pearls along with just about anything else. On the first floor there are a ton of food stalls so we all grabbed something different. Kira and I went with some hand drawled noodles which were awesome. After lunch it was time for four hours of shopping. There was only one person selling tea so I haggled for a good price on some to give to a friend. Kira and Jaci were doing battle with the cashmere ladies. One lady got a little hot with Kira accusing her of swaying Jaci to go to another vendor. When we made it to the jewelry section Beau and decided it was time for beers. After four hours and and a few hundred Yuan later we decided to head back to the hotel to freshen up before tea and dinner.

Kira had heard of tea house that wasn't too far away so we went there before dinner. XXXXX is nice but a little pricey. We enjoyed a few pots as I served the tea out gong fu style. After that we made our way to Hai Di Lao hot pot restaurant. It is in the New World mall which is not to far from our hotels. We had to wait a long time and just as we were throwing in the towel to find a different place they opened up their private dining room for us. It was a nice meal complemented by a lot of beer. We had different broths for dipping a ma-la (numbing spicy) and a non-spicy. Nobody but me could handle the ma-la so it was all mine. It definitely had my nose running and it was tasty. After dinner we said our see ya laters to the Tresemer’s as we all had early flights the next morning. Beau and Jaci were headed to Guilin and we were going to make our way back home in GZ. The plan was to meet back up with them when they get close to us in either Macau or Hong Kong.

14 November Home

Early the next morning we caught the airport express to the airport and made it back to GZ just before noon without any issues.

Take-aways.

We really liked Beijing as it has a ton to offer. There is a lot of culture and history to the city and a lot to do for sure. The only negatives are the poor air quality and the millions of tourist that flock to this gym of a city.

When we return we have a list of places to check out from our friends Ralph and Coco.

Jin Ding Xuan: A 24 hour restaurant near Di Tan Park.

29 Chunxiu Road Branch: The location of a Sichuan noodle shop that specializes in youpo mian.

Duck de Chine: Great place for Peking duck on Gongti Bei Lu. They also have amazing jiaozi.

Maliandao Tea Market: Awesome tea market on 12 Maliandao Lu.

Yuexi Xianglin: A tea house that is near the Lama Temple.

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goldfishpainter-blog · 6 years

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Yesterday in therapy I told the story of the last days with Sophie and my first days of incapacitating mental illness, just before I was officially diagnosed. I was surprised at how upset I became in therapy, and by the clarity of my often faulty memory. Timeline was:

I started to feel like I was becoming invisible in October, right after I started dating Sophie, right when I turned 19.

My depression increased. I started to disappear.

By Christmas, I knew something was wrong with me, but I didn’t know what. I remember saying “Something is really wrong with me,” to my mom when I came home for Christmas break. When my folks drove me to Austin at the New Year to put me on a plane back to Ohio, my dad gave me a giant teddy bear in the parking lot, and I hugged him and cried very hard. My mom took a picture of us that I have here in my house. Our eyes are red, even though we’re smiling. His arm is around my shoulder, and we both look like we’re holding our breath.

January was something called “Winter Term,” which exists because it’s basically too cold to live in Ohio in January. The campus empties out. Everyone did an individual project during Winter Term, appropriately called a “Winter Term Project,” and you could complete your project anywhere in the world. Oberlin is mostly wealthy, so students would do their projects in Hawaii or Barbados or Portugal. Wherever they wanted, basically. A tiny minority of students would stay on campus, so the ice-laden, snow-covered campus stayed partially open. The libraries had some limited operating hours, and one of the cafeterias was kept functioning. I chose a listening/research project on mezzo-sopranos of the last century. My roommate, Laura, went away somewhere for the month, so Sophie and I had a giant room to ourselves. We hid inside, only leaving to find food or go to the conservatory to research. Baldwin had a large, round practice room on the first floor with a piano in it, directly below my own round room, so we didn’t even need to go to the conservatory to practice. There were two places near us that delivered food: a Chinese place on Main Street and a Dominos about 30 miles away. With temperatures severely below zero, it was worth the money and the wait to not have to leave the house. We binge-watched TV and movies on her laptop, ate takeout, and existed naked with the radiators cranked. The sky was only ever grey or black.

I started to think that I would marry this girl, and soon after I had that thought, I started feeling stressed and trapped. I didn’t think I’d ever be strong enough to leave her. There were things I didn’t like, but I felt so stuck. I was madly in love, and marriage seemed like an inevitability, but I had the sense that I was too young and hadn’t been with enough people yet, seen enough of my life, or learned enough about myself to be happy making that lifelong commitment. Then I started to get sick.

It started with stomach pain that turned into nausea and vomiting. I went to the doctor, got lots of tests done (including a CAT scan and a vaginal ultrasound), and wound up with a diagnosis of an ulcer, polycystic ovarian syndrome, and interstitial cystitis. I did have cysts on my ovaries, but one correct diagnosis out of three is a pretty low success rate. The gyno who did my pelvic exam said I had a bladder condition, prescribed legal speed, and sent me on my way.

The first day on that stimulant was the night I became furious with myself in a conservatory practice room, blacked out (also known as having a dissociative fugue) and walked several miles out of town. When I came to, I called campus Safety and Security officers to drive out and pick me up. I got back to the dorm, popped two hydrocodone (my first attempt at self-medication), and stood outside of my room looking at the doorknob, feeling like there was a pane of glass between my outstretched hand and the door that I couldn’t possibly penetrate.

At some point, I found out my stomach pain, combined with my psychological symptoms, could be bipolar disorder. I made an appointment with a psychiatrist, went in to be assessed, told him about my perfectly practical and achievable plan to hang myself in an abandoned barn I’d found with a ladder and an electrical cord, and he sent me to a psychiatric unit for violent offenders in Lorain, Ohio. I stayed for 4 days and then came home with a Neurontin prescription and no diagnosis.

At 2:30 AM one night, Sophie got really sick and needed to go to the hospital overnight. The prescription speed and a missed night’s sleep started the true psychotic break, which you’ve heard all about. When I came to a moment of functionality around 4 pm the next day, I called my mom and said (again) “I’m not okay.” She told me to find someone to drive me to the airport at 5, that she would book a flight immediately, and to give her Sophie’s phone number.

On the drive to the airport, the blue sky was heavily dotted with bright white clouds that had the same texture as my mom’s fluffy scrambled eggs. I could hear them singing to each other. By that point in the day, my psychosis had completely enveloped me, to the point of adjustment. It wasn’t at all frightening; the heavens were singing to me. I am not a religious person, but my psychosis has frequently taken on a literalist interpretation of angels, Satan, spirits, hell, and heaven (so far).

On the plane a few hours later, I was watching the Johnny Cash in-flight movie from the aisle seat. Next to me sat a man in his 40s with glasses, a button-down shirt, and khakis with a phone holster attached. Total white-guy dad. He was bouncing his 2-year-old son on his knee to distract and comfort the baby boy from popping ears and irritating confinement and boredom.

About halfway through the movie, I started to see a red glow in my peripheral vision where the man was seated. I turned to look at him and his eyes glowed red. I could see red light surrounding him, and his hands grew long claws from the fingertips. He was still bouncing the baby boy on his knee, holding onto him tightly with those terrifying claws. I knew in my bones that I was sitting next to Satan. I didn’t know what to do. I called the flight attendant but was afraid to speak when she came to me. He was going to hurt that little boy, he was going to drag me to hell with him, and I thought about screaming for help, but couldn’t see how anyone else on the plane could possibly save me from Satan, himself. As I looked around in a panic, I felt the floor beneath my feet drop away, and when I looked down between my feet, I saw 30,000 feet of empty space between me and the carpet of blackness and lights that make up a city from above at nighttime. My feet were swinging freely. My seatbelt seemed a laughable precaution. No one else noticed, so I stared straight ahead with tears raging down my face. I thought it best just to try to act the same as everyone around me. Surely the judgment of the many was currently better than my own.

I came home confused and in pain, still wanting to kill myself. My mom called every psychiatrist in town, and the nearest appointment was 6 months out. She convinced me that the fastest way to get help was to go to DePaul, the local psychiatric hospital. I seized a moment of doubt in my plan to off myself, and I told her to take me, quickly, before I changed my mind. We got in the car two minutes later. I didn’t even pack.

I already had one horrifying hospital experience under my belt that included living with real-life murderers and armed guards stationed at locked doors holding rifles with two hands. The threat this new hospital posed was made more significant in my mind through projection. By about one hour in, I was a wreck. I went into my very first mixed-state episode. It was hell. Literal hell. Eternal, unyielding suffering. I had no idea that episodes pass. I’d never had one before. I thought this was life now, that I was finally just broken, and that I no longer had a choice to live. I was in hell.

Suicide would make it stop. I knew that much. It was the only move I had left.

I double wrapped my phone charger around my neck and wrapped the other end around the top hinge on the bathroom door. I kicked a chair out from under me, but the jerk didn’t break my neck, so instead, I started to suffocate. My vision started to go white when I saw a shadow and heard someone screaming “help!” Someone grabbed me around the middle and lifted me up to take the pressure off of my neck. I felt cold scissors against my throat and hear a snapping sound of then cutting my charger’s cord. I took one deep breath in and started screaming.

I screamed. I wailed. I remember being partially removed, as if I was standing across the room, observing. I remember thinking that I sounded like a wounded wolf. I was screaming because they had cheated me. I had the answer. I even had the courage to commit to the answer. And they stole it. How could they do that to me? It seemed like the cruelest thing they could have possibly done.

I lost Sophie a few days later when I got out of one-to-one observation. She broke up with me over the phone. When I called her and admitted to my attempt, she was rightfully terrified and overwhelmed. Mental illnesses had doomed and then ended the relationship, which is no one’s fault. I lost my mind and my first adult relationship at approximately the same time. This order of events is not unavoidable, but it’s also not uncommon. Many others who live with mental illness have experienced this themselves.

Lately, I’m not doing so great. I’m having more severe symptoms than I’ve had in years and some of the things that are happening take me back to these memories. All of this happened over a decade ago. The 13th anniversary of my first suicide attempt is in 2 months.

While the symptoms are becoming severe, the coping skills I have are now strong enough to provide some solace and structure. Still, even with great tools to use, it often hurts like hell, and I’m terrified of going back to the place I was in 13 years ago. I don’t want to have a full psychotic break, be hospitalized, attempt suicide, or lose my relationship.

I have skills now. I have a support system. I have medical care. I have a partner in life. I have 13 years of experience in keeping myself alive. I have amassed a wealth of helpful components to cope with my illnesses.

I have to fact-check. There are worse things than having a psychotic break. There are worse things than going to the hospital. There is no evidence that I will attempt suicide. There is no evidence that I will lose my relationship.

Cope. Fact-check. Ask for help. Go to the doctor.

I know what to do. I’ve done this before.

Memories That Almost Break Me Yesterday in therapy I told the story of the last days with Sophie and my first days of incapacitating mental illness, just before I was officially diagnosed.

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troytlepower · 6 years

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Our trip to Seattle

We had a great mini-vacation up to Seattle last week, during which I did a terrible job of keeping track of what we did. I’m still feeling pretty exhausted, so rather than try to write poetically about our trip, I’m just going to list out as much as I can remember… In the words of Mario, “Here we go!”

Wednesday

Woke up stupid early, drove seven-ish hours through Portland and up to Seattle.

Listened to a bunch of Daniel K’s Let’s Plays while my wife read in the passenger seat.

Drew up a silly design about a speed limit in Bend while my wife drove.

Started listening to Nick Offerman’s “Paddle Your Own Canoe”, really loved chapter 2.

Got to our AirBnB too early (we didn’t realize when check-in was), and scared the landlord who was there cleaning.

Chatted with the landlord, then set around reading (started Animorphs 38) while we waited for our friends to arrive.

Friends got there, set out to walk around the Freemont neighborhood and find lunch/dinner.

Ate a Gyro from Sinband Express. Super good food, but we got swarmed by bees and had to run inside.

Walked up the Fremont Troll, because you’ve just gotta, right?

Stopped at a grocery store for some food/coffee stuff, and also at a boardgame shop where we bought Yahtzee, a bunch of tiny dice, and a dice game called “Qwikk” which we’d never heard of.

Went back to the house, played a few rounds of “Qwikk”, which is super fun, easy to learn, and just strategic enough to hold my interest, then learned to play Liar’s Dice, and went to bed.

Thursday

Set out fairly early towards Seattle Center, parked in a garage, and walked over to the Space Needle.

Admired the Space Needle for being super tall, then decided it’d cost too much to go up and moved on.

Wandered over to the Chihuly museum/garden, which also seemed expensive, but admired the pieces that were on display outside and in the gift shop.

Caught the currently free Waterfront Shuttle and rode it over to Pike Place Market.

Did a quick run through of Pike Place, including visiting the Gum Wall, a magic shop, and Golden Age Collectibles (an excellent comic book shop).

Looked at the Starbucks in Pike Place, decided the line was way too long, went about 30 feet up the street to another cafe and recharged on caffine with coffee/energy drinks.

Caught the shuttle back up to Seattle Center, then walked over to Dick’s Drive-in. Burgers and fries were both pretty good, but they offer zero customization on your orders, which was a bummer for my wife (she was actually going to eat meat but wanted to order the burger without something else, and they shut her down, so she just had fries.

Walked back through Seattle Center towards the Museum of Popular Culture, MoPOP.

Stopped on the way at a giant play structure which my wife climbed up so she could go down a massive slide.

Started MoPOP by going through their “Marvel: Universe of Superheroes” exhibit, which was fantastic! It covered the history of Marvel as a company, the origin of major characters, artists and writers who bring comics to life, and featured both statues of characters and props and costumes from the MCU.

Also went through the Nirvana and Fantasy exhibits, which were both fine, but not terribly exciting.

Begrudgingly went through the horror exhibit. I do not like horror movies at all, but my wife really does. The very first thing you have to do in that exhibit is walk through a curtain made of hanging bodies wrapped in body bags. I avoided that, and basically kept my head down through the whole thing.

Next was a sci-fi exhibit that was really pretty cool, with props and costumes from pretty much any sci-fi property you could name.

Finally left MoPOP to get my wife a grilled cheese sandwich from Seattle Grind, a cafe across the street.

Drove back to the house, chilled for a bit, then walked over to Kwanjai Thai Cusine and had some of the best Chicken Pad Thai of my life.

Dropped friends off at Key Arena for the show they were in town to see, then went back to the house to chill and read (finished Animorphs 38).

Friday

Got up early to drop friends off at the airport, then drove out to the suburbs where we’d stay the rest of the weekend.

Went to Uwajimaya, an Asian grocery store, and bought a bunch of awesome snacks and treats.

Headed back to Pike Place for a more leisurally stroll through. Becky was super intrigued by a vendor selling massage stones, but decided to hold off.

Had lunch at Kastoori Grill, an Indian and Tibetan place, which was amazing! Apparently something was wrong with my order (thought I still don’t know what), so the waiter packaged up our two meals to go, gave me another version of my meal to go as well, and knocked both entrees off of our bill!

Went back so Becky could pick up her massage stone, but the vendor was closed.

Drove up to the U-district to wander through a few thrift shops, found some fun stuff.

Watched two homeless dudes get in a fight. And by “watch”, I mean “walked away from the situation real fast”.

Got white coffee from a coffee shop I remember going to about 8 years ago… it was just as tasty as I remembered.

Drove back to Pike Place to take another shot at the massage stones, but still no sign of the vendor.

Drove back out to the house we were staying at, dropped off some stuff, then drove out to a park to read (started Animorphs 39).

When it started to rain, we went and picked up dinner from Zeek’s Pizza, and took it back to the house (pretty darn good!), ate it while watching the first episode of Disenchanted (pretty darn mediocre!).

Read a bit before going to bed (finished Animorphs 39).

Saturday

Had leftover pizza for breakfast, started reading Animorphs 40, then drove over to Nintendo of America’s Redmond headquarters to take a picture in front of their sign.

Drove to Pike Place again, and Becky got her massage stone!

Headed up to the Woodland Park Zoo, where we saw red pandas, gorillas, otters, eagles, spiders, butterflies, penguins, wolves, and tons of other stuff. We also had churros and ice cream and lunch at the park, which was all pretty darn good.

Parked downtown again to go to The Seattle Store, where Becky got a Grey’s Anatomy hoodie, then met up with some friends at Cyclops Cafe & Lounge for dinner, then got coffee at Starbucks, and strolled over to the Olympic Sculpture Park, which closed before we could actually go in.

Stopped at a Wal-Mart on the way home to pick up some snackables for the drive, along with a cooler for our leftovers, then read a bit before bed (finished Animorphs 40).

Sunday

Got up, started writing this blog, got packed up, and hit the road.

Read Alternamorphs #2 out loud to my wife as she drove. This made for a very weird introduction to the Animorphs for her, and she died and was eaten several times.

Listened to more of Nick Offerman’s book. Really liked the chapter on productive hobbies.

Stopped in Redmond at The Pig and Pound for lunch (I had a burger, she had fish and chips, both were great).

Finally made it home!

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hiro-melodie7228 · 6 years

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Just reposting this

It was a cold and dreary night in the world of Lumen, the pitter-patter of rain falling on the armored helmets of two guards could be heard. The gates to heaven, or Tenebris as they call it, a large wall with millions of brick towers attached with a large steel gate in between, was what these two brutes dared to guard the world from. In the darkness, I was careful to keep the splashing of my feet wading through the flooded water of the black top road to a minimum. They mustn’t hear me. The two began to converse, one turning to the other, muttering, “hey, have you heard of the druid boy?”

“Everyone on this side of the earth has heard of Bong-Ju, why?” the other guard replied, waving one of his camouflaged, buff arm, the other occupied by a gun. “I could use that” I thought to myself, hiding behind a bush, shivering, anticipating the moment I would take those guards down.

“I heard that he’s trying to escape to Tenebris. You know, the place where the scum live?”

“Scum like him? I doubt it. Why would he want to go there if that place just has a bunch of monsters.”

“Well, if he is coming, we should be ready.” The two soldiers were unaware of my presence as I plan a smoke grenade right under their noses. The egg shaped grenade rolled out of my hand, floating directly in between the two soldiers. Four seconds… Three seconds… Two seconds… one second… Boom! The grenade bursted, the two soldiers squealing like the pigs they are. I tugged the gun out of the left man’s hands, a glowing inferno exploding out of my hand, destroying the gate before I ran to my freedom in Tenebris. I am The Druid Boy of Lumen, a scoorage amongst the angels.

-------The Dullahan of Tenebris POV-------------------------------------------------------------------------

I tousle my cotton-candy pink hair in anticipation as I walk out of the plane and through a corridor leading to the inside of the airport, the normals, they stare upwards to see my always severed head in my hands. Their eyes widened and they began to shake as a great burst of flame came from where they thought my head should be. They pointed at me, screaming as if they were in excruciating pain and my very existence pained them to the point where they had the nerve to call me out. “Stop it with the screaming!” I yelled at the group, the inferno growing larger and larger until I felt a hand on my shoulder. This hand was soft, yet it was firm and that of sheer discipline. It felt so familiar…

“Xannie, leave them be, they just immigrated from Lumen, so they wouldn’t know what we’re like,” a woman, with my same wavy cotton candy hair, turned me around so I would face her. She was about a foot shorter than I was and had beautiful sun kissed skin. She was my mother. The only person I had in my life. Mom escorted me toward the baggage pickup area, demi-humans on every corner. I saw vampires, yokai, ghosts, sirens, cyclopes, giants, even a few centaurs. However, one centaur stook out to me, she eagerly clippity-clopped as her luggage finally arrived to her arms. The bag was HUGE, large enough to fit a horse! It was a wonder that some normal construction worker built the conveyor belt for something that big. Her luminous chestnut brown hair waved along with her movements as she seemed to gracefully lift the large baggage, a fellow centaur, seemingly her mother shown by her perfect posture and old shoulder padded dress from the 70’s said, “Hana, are you sure you can handle this? Your father and I can help.” ‘Hana’s’ supposed mother folded her hands as if she was about to pray.

“No thanks mom, I can handle this on my own,” Hana replied as she eagerly lugged her bags along, eventually spotting me. I turned my attention to my baggage, a large midnight black bag with wheels and an extendable handle. It floated above me, seemingly on it’s own accord, but, as if on instinct, I turned to the centaur girl, who held her hands toward the bag, clenching her teeth as if she was lifting it via telekinesis. The bag fell with a slam onto the floor in front of my size 14 feet, the handle facing the smoke resonating from my neck. “Hey!” I heard Hana’s voice say as her heavy panting got closer and closer to me.

“.....” I said nothing, staring up to see her smiling… at me? I fiddled with the itchy collar of my white button-up shirt, sweating and tapping my foot against the white tiled flooring. My glasses slipped off of my face, her hand gently clasping them in her shapely hand and handed them to me.

“You could’ve been in big trouble if these fell. My name is Hana, what’s your name mister?” her sparkling grey eyes glimmered with wonder and curiosity as her pointed ears twitched like that of a cat waiting for the right moment to pounce on a laser pointer.

“I-I Uhh… My name is Xanthus, b-but please call me Xannie.” I stuttered, my right hand taking the glasses, my muscular arm extending toward her. I quickly put my glasses on and lifted my head up to face her.

“Ooo!” she giggled harmoniously, my tanned face turning a slight shade of pink. “You’re quite tall if you can surpass a centaur, even though your head isn’t on your neck.” I clenched my fist, my eyes widening in disgust. Was this girl like the rest of them? “Oh dear, I hit a nerve, my apologies, Xannie was it?” she exclaimed, waving her hands in front of her, her expression frantic.

“Don’t worry, just don’t mention it to me again..” I replied. A shadow creeped up behind her, a cloak draped over their face. I could make out a face, in the darkness of the hood, it’s cheeks marked in red. It had markings? Yes, but these markings weren’t any ordinary face paint. The sideways crimson crescents glowed ominously in the shadow… These markings were those of a druid. It seemed to notice my staring, quickly fleeing out the automatic doors of the airport.

“What’re you looking at?” Hana asked, trying to look where I was look, which was towards the exit, advertisements for fast food and the airport itself on the doors.

“Druid…” I whispered, before rolling my bags’ wheels on the dingey star-patterned carpets towards the door, hana following soon after, gasping out in fear.

“You don’t mean The Druid of Lumen?” I froze. The Druid of Lumen was some silly urban legend about a young druid who lurked the streets of Lumen, trying to avoid execution and to escape. He did everything he possibly could, stealing from merchants, even killing when he was desperate. He was considered a symbol of freedom for the people suffering in Lumen, for the ones who could think for themselves, and for the demi-humans.

“Why would he be here?” I asked myself, wondering what would bring him to Orlando, Florida. “He got all the way here from Lumen?” I strutted out the doors, turning my head around to maximize my vision of the area. The Druid was gone… there was only a parking lot buzzing with the honks of cars and the yelling of raging drivers. Once again, I felt that same hand on my shoulder, my head turning to face my mother.

“Xannie, lets just go home now, it’s time…” My mother sighed, escorting me away to her rental toyota. I waved Hana goodbye as we temporarily parted ways.

------------The Druid Of Lumen POV------------------------------------------------------------------------------

I jumped into a taxi the second I found one, the driver saying, “where are you going?”. The car was suffocatingly hot, and a incredibly dingey. Did this guy even bother to take care of his car? I plugged my nose, trying to ignore all the nonsense just this once.

“Take me to the nearest hotel or homeless shelter,” I replied, my face grimacing in disgust, pinching my nose to avoid the smell of rotten eggs and pizza crust. The man simply nodded at my request and began to drive. A cold sweat dripped down the back of his thick neck, his short, partially shaved, curly blond hair drenched from the heat, as I tap my nimble fingers against my lap, patiently anticipating potential betrayal. Back in Lumen, you couldn’t trust anyone, unless they were rebelling alongside you, but here, who knows if I could trust anyone. We passed through the security of the airport to leave the place, the driver reached out his sweaty and bruised arm (Why would this man be so scarred?), placing a card into the slot and pulling it out soon after.

“So, you’re The Druid of Lumen?” the driver asked, as he turned the greyish steering wheel to the left out of the parking lot.

“If I said I was, what would you do about it, mister?” I grimaced, my face and body radiating with heat as I waited for an answer.

“I would say that I’m sorry for the smell, I was reassigned this car for work and well, the last person who drove this didn’t take good care of it.”

“So you wouldn’t take me back to Lumen?” I squinted at him, still suspicious of this mysterious driver until I noticed the bull horns protruding from his skull. That’s when I realized, this wasn’t a normal this was a Demi-Human, a Minotaur to be specific.

“No way! You’re a hero here, a sign of freedom!” The driver’s olive toned, tan face became visible to me in the mirror hanging from the car ceiling. His pretty green eyes glimmered with hope and inspiration, like he idolized me.

“I don’t want you to freak out, but I am The Druid of Lumen.” He gasped, a grin stretching across his face. He radiated no malice, only genuine happiness and excitement.

“Yessir! I won’t fr-freak out! B-By the way, I’m Nuona!” The man, now I know is Nuona, drove by several lights, looking like stars in a line. Stars. I want to reach the stars. I pressed my face against the car window as we passed three other cars, each different in their own ways. Whether it be color, structure, or license plate, they weren’t the same. We eventually drove up to a large building with a sign by it saying “hotel” by it in fancy bold lettering. “Here is where we stop sir. Here’s my number, call me whenever you need my services again!” Nuona says as he handed me a piece of paper with a bunch of numbers and dashes. I felt confused, looking up at him with my glowing eyes wrinkling at the edges from a grin stretching across my face. Maybe I needed to input this number into a phone? I didn’t know. I opened the door with a creak, waving the young minotaur a goodbye before strutting towards the hotel. “He was kinda cute” I thought to myself, shaking it off as I opened the door to the hotel.

--------------Dullahan of Tenebris POV-----------------------------------------------------------------------------

I walked into the kitchen of our new and empty house. The counter-tops of white marble looked as if they were to fall off the wooden bases. Crumbling. Like porcelain. The white and blue checkered flooring gave a sense of home. “Our home in crete had the same colors as these,” I thought to myself. My grip on my head loosened. I must look. Look at home.

“Xanthus!” My mother yelled, my grip becoming firm once more, “Isn’t this place great? It’s smaller but at least you won’t have to work so hard to support me..” She put a hand on my shoulder, leading me to a large window. The window lead to our backyard which was full of roses, carnations, lotus’s,- in short, it was like a garden of eden. “Look here, this is the beauty of a new life.”

“It’s a fresh start, mom. I’m glad I can live this new life with you,” I say, in awe of the beauty of our backyard. I pressed my face against the window. The colors. They were so much. A rainbow of flowers and plants of all kinds. The sun shined upon me, everything feeling so fresh, making me want to live here. I felt ready for whatever was going to be thrown at me.

Boy was I wrong.

#repost #oc canon

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luxaptupkirbyhous-blog · 6 years

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Discover the Best Luxury Apartments Upper Kirby Houston

Searching for the very best luxury houses in Upper Kirby? Are you having problem discovering the perfect one for you and your household? Like you, there are other young professionals, newly wed couples and retirees, and even students who are also searching for luxury apartment or condos which Upper Kirby has to offer.

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Becks Prime

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Carrabba's Restaurant

This Sicilian-themed restaurant is on Kirby Drive, where it takes pleasure in a virtually best rating on TripAdvisor for its choice of steak Marsala as well as sautéed shrimp dishes.

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The West Ave Development

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fadingfartconnoisseur · 7 years

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In Kiev, a Stylish and Surprising City

Dear cities of the world: I warn you, it’s dangerous for me to visit you immediately after a city I love. You may not be judged fairly.

So many cities have suffered this fate. Tulum couldn’t hold a candle to Caye Caulker. I would have loved Charleston more if it hadn’t come immediately after my beloved Savannah. And I’ll always regret not giving Luang Prabang the attention it deserved, but how could I when all I could think about was turning around and getting back to Vang Vieng?

I was due to arrive in Kiev after three idyllic days in Odessa. Odessa blew me away — I was expecting to enjoy it, but I had no idea I would fall for it quite so hard.

So if this were an ordinary visit, I would have tolerated Kiev and wished I was back in Odessa. To my surprise, that wasn’t the case at all! I enjoyed Kiev quite a bit. I didn’t fall in love with it the way I did with Odessa, but it turns out that much of what I loved about Odessa was actually what I loved about Ukraine. Like the dirt-cheap prices. Ukraine is cheaper than anywhere else I’ve been in Europe, often on par with Southeast Asia.

Kiev is also huge, which pleased this city-loving girl. Population-wise, Kiev is the seventh largest city in Europe. I find comfort in large cities — they let me move around anonymously with minimal attention, and one of my greatest joys is to treat a new city like I’m a longtime resident.

I was hosted by JayWay Travel on this trip (see the Essential Info box for more information) and they arranged for me to have a wonderful tour guide named Olga, who showed me the best of the city in a few hours. Yes, my guide in Odessa was also named Olga; no, they were not the same person. Meeting multiple Olgas in Ukraine made me smile, though!

One last thing I’ll say is that I did not luck out with the light on this trip, which made photography difficult. Sometimes, I’ve been unbelievably lucky (Kraków’s light was so good, I nearly wept) but Kiev was bright, and doing most of my exploring in the middle of the day did not help. That’s okay. I think I did the best with what I had.

Here’s the best of Kiev! I hope you enjoy it.

The first thing that struck me about Kiev was its many gold-topped churches. As we drove in from the airport, I gasped whenever we passed a gilded cathedral! This one is St. Michael’s Church.

St. Andrew’s, a green onion-tipped church, is another stunner. I had to take a picture of this one and send it to my friend with a new baby named Andrew!

There’s a surprising amount of green space in the city. I love this overlook by St. Andrew’s.

The opera house is one of the grandest structures in town. I wish I had had time to see an opera.

This sculpture outside Golden Gate is an homage to Pantyusha, one of Ukraine’s most famous cats. He lived in one of the nearby restaurants and was a neighborhood favorite with the locals. Sadly, Pantyusha died in a fire in 1997 and the neighbors raised enough money to have this sculpture built. Rub his ears for good luck.

One of my favorite things about Ukraine was the omnipresent coffee carts. They were on wheels, in tiny kiosks, or outfitted into the back of cars. Wherever you were, there would be one within eyesight, and they made espresso-based drinks to order for less than a dollar!

My favorite was definitely Coffee Mafia.

Some of the architecture echoed the beauty I had seen in Odessa.

I loved the playful use of color throughout the city.

But Kiev is also home to ugly communist architecture, especially in Maidan Nezalezhnosti, one of the centers of the city. Here giant concrete buildings dwarf the delicate churches.

I hated these buildings — but some of my Chernobyl buddies loved them. It’s all about what you’re into.

“FREEDOM IS OUR RELIGION!” blared from the other side of the square.

This is how you say Kiev (a.k.a. Kyiv) in Cyrillic!

I had to try the city’s most famous dish, Chicken Kiev! I tried it at O’Panas, a highly recommended traditional restaurant located in Taras Shevchenko Park. It’s basically the Ukrainian Tavern on the Green, despite its Irish Pub-sounding name.

To be truthful, I wasn’t a big fan of the dish. I found it to be dry. Give me borscht and vareniki any day.

This sign doesn’t lie. I ate borscht at least once per day, every day!

One cool thing to do in Kiev is to head underground. Like many former communist cities, Kiev has a network of underground malls and passageways that are worth exploring. I love this capture of this thoughtful woman.

The subway is DEEP underground — it takes forever on the escalator!

Awww. I wonder who got the flowers from this guy. I wonder how happy she (or he) was.

There are lots of tiny coffeeshops underground. Olga brought me to one and insisted it was one of her favorites, and far cheaper than above ground. I think we paid around 40 cents for a nice latte and got some candies to go with it as well!

If you’ve been following my blog for any amount of time, you know how my afternoon cafe break is essential. I found several cool cafes in Kiev, but my favorite was The Blue Cup. It was right around the corner from my hotel.

Look at that luscious whoopie pie! And that beautiful latte, I remember clearly, cost about 95 cents. In a gorgeous, stylish cafe. Ukraine is insane.

I also like to seek out independent bookstores wherever I go, but I didn’t find any with English language books. It gives me comfort just to be around the smell of books, though.

In Odessa, I was surprised that the women didn’t look like my image of Ukrainians — they tended to be short, curvy, and dark. In Kiev, though, the women fulfilled the stereotype of tall and blonde in tight dresses and pants.

Just look at the height of those heels!

But even the women who broke the Ukrainian mold looked stylish. I loved how well this woman matched the wall.

Kiev was bright. Kiev was playful. Kiev was fun.

Where I Stayed: Theatre Apart Hotel

I spent three nights at the Theatre Apart Hotel in the A5 Suite. These are a collection of apartment-style suites located in buildings surrounding a courtyard in central Kiev, not far from the opera house.

The location was fantastic — I was in walking distance from so many central attractions and there were several terrific restaurants and cafes within a five-minute walk. And the room gave me everything I needed — a comfortable bed, a table with chairs for working, a full kitchen, and a bathroom complete with a jacuzzi tub big enough for four people.

It wasn’t perfect, though. It’s in an old building with an ancient-looking elevator. There wasn’t a stand for the shower nozzle, which might be annoying to Americans who are used to having both hands free while showering.

But between its central location and $39 per night price tag, I thought it was fantastic value. I’d totally stay there again.

The Takeaway

I really enjoyed my time in Kiev. In fact, I’d go so far as to put it on my favorite list of European capitals, alongside Paris, Berlin, Ljubljana, Amsterdam, Helsinki, London, and Tirana! (Strange list, I know.)

Between the beauty of the city and how unbelievably cheap Ukraine is, I highly recommend making a visit to Kiev in the future. I bet you’ll love it as much as I did.

Essential Info: In Ukraine I was a guest of JayWay Travel, a boutique Central and Eastern European travel company, for a custom itinerary they built for me with hotels, transfers, and tours. They do custom trips so whatever you’re looking for, reach out to them. It was so nice to not have to worry about transfers, and my guides were wonderful. Contact them directly for tours or other bookings.

I stayed at the Theatre Apart Hotel, which I enjoyed and would recommend. My suite, A5, starts at $39 USD per night.

Some restaurants I recommend are O’Panas for a traditional experience in the park, The Blue Cup for coffee and pastries, Druzi for international lunch fare, and Cafe Borsch for cheap Ukrainian food. Most do not have websites.

While the subway system in Kiev is cheap and extensive, I mostly got around by Uber. It’s so remarkably cheap that most trips cost me around $2, and having a SIM card meant that it was always easy to call one when I needed one.

There is a significant language barrier in Ukraine, but it wasn’t nearly as bad as I feared. In Kiev lots of people in restaurants and hotels speak a bit of English. I do recommend learning Cyrillic, which is pretty easy to do. It will make your life so much easier when you can read what’s in front of you, as many words are similar to English.

I visited Ukraine in May, which was perfect. The weather was pleasant in Kiev, it made for an easy trip to Chernobyl, and Odessa was beautiful without all the crazy party crowds that arrive in summer.

Don’t visit Kiev without travel insurance. Whether you get appendicitis and need to be hospitalized, or your phone gets stolen, or an injury means you need to cancel all or part of your trip, travel insurance will help you out. I use and recommend World Nomads as travel insurance for trips to Ukraine.

Many thanks to JayWay Travel for hosting me throughout Ukraine. They paid for my hotels, airport transfers, and tours; I paid for flights, meals, and everything else. All opinions, as always, are my own.

Have you been to Kiev? Does it look like your kind of city?

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#IFTTT #Travel Blogs

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bernardschweizer1 · 7 years

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Zhangjiajie (1)

I resisted Liang’s suggestion to visit Zhangjiajie for almost two years. Of course, I love to travel, and Zhangjiajie is a major attraction. But the very fame of the place was also the reason why I was reluctant to go there. Ever since my visit to Jiuzhaigou in 2015, I had vowed to avoid places that were likely to attract massive crowds, especially during peak season. For my taste, the experience can feel a bit too close to a cattle round-up.

But as it turned out, I was glad I let myself be talked around. Going out to see Zhangjiajie proved to be a great decision. The nice thing about this area is that you get two attractions for the price of one, so to speak. There is Zhangjiajie National Forest Park, with its outlandish pilar mountain formations, something with more than a touch of science-fiction movie set about it. There’s a good reason they call them the “Avatar mountains.” The second visitor attraction within a short ride from the Avatar Mountains is Tianmen Shan, a tall mountain that can be reached by cable car or via a winding mountain road, both of which are marvels of modern engineering. The two areas have a very distinct character, and I will describe them in turn.

We arrived at noon at the Zhangjiajie airport, and even just looking out of the window while taxiing in the airplane whetted my appetite for further exploration.

Although there was public transportation to the Wulingyuan national park entrance from the airport in Zhangjiajie, we hopped in a taxi to save time. The general recommendation is to spend at least three days in Zhangjiajie Park, and we had exactly half that time. So, we decided not to dawdle away any time at bus stations, pit stops etc. This meant riding a taxi for 1 1/2 hours. But in China such extended taxi rides are still economic enough... if you can put up with malfunctioning air-conditioning and the fact that the driver had to close the driver side window by pulling it up with one hand while driving. Still, for about 20 dollars, we arrived speedily and safely at our hotel in Wulingyuan. After checking into our room, we headed straight for the park entrance, expecting a bustling, crowded scene at the ticket booths. But instead, we walked straight up to the counter, purchased our tickets without any ado and then simply crossed the barrier to enter the park.

Our surprise further increased when we again did not have to wait to step into a gondola to take us up to the top of Tianzi Mountain, and we were the only two people inside the gondola. I’ve never been happier to have been proven wrong about something.

The ride up to Tianzi was spectacular. We floated over the smaller rock spires and passed right in between some of the larger limestone pillars, which were rising sheer from a carpet of lush greenery.

Once on top, we headed for the viewing platforms on the rim of the canyon. And there, we had our first—and it turned out only—real Chinese peak-season crowd experience. Suddenly the place was swarming, and there was a great press of people left and right, while we had to jockey for position to look down into the most marvelous and other-worldly scenery imaginable. A pretty rowdy group insisted on occupying the platform as one body, making us wait until they had taken what seemed to be an obscene number of grolfies (group-selfies).

The view was spectacular, though, with passing clouds casting a changing pattern of shadow and light within the vast bowl filled with the upright spires that rose like giant needles before us.

After sampling a number of other viewing platforms in this area, we hopped on a free shuttle bus and were whisked to the other end of the road that runs along the rim of this canyon. Whisked is the right expression here because the driver seemed bent on breaking the pre-existing speed record for this stretch of road. The road was extremely winding, and he drove into the turns hardly slowing down, making us grip the seat in front of us for stability. I wondered what urgent deadline he was trying to meet, but apparently it was just a case of showing off his daredevil driving skills.

We exited somewhat shaken but determined to get on with sightseeing, at our own pace. This site offered visitors a long loop of some 2 miles along the rim of the canyon, with numerous great viewing spots. The sun was gradually declining, as the mid-day haze began to make way for the gentler evening light. This brought out the yellowish hues of the rocks and created nice defining shadows as well.

Every way you turned, every corner you rounded provided a different angle on this spectacular, other-worldly landscape.

At one point, we crossed a natural bridge, but we only saw from a different angle that the whole mountain had been hollowed out, with a gaping drop of hundreds of meters underneath it.

Soon afterward, the “Halleluja Avatar Mountain” loomed into view. This is just one of many enormous, vertical, pine tree encrusted towers, but it stands near the walking path, so it can be observed closely from different angles. The official name is not randomly chosen: these mountains served as actual models for the floating islands featured on the movie set of Avatar.

Below is a still from the movie. The resemblance is obvious:

Toward the end of our walk, we noticed that everybody was streaming toward the shuttle bus stop. As evening was approached, folks wanted to catch a shuttle bus to get to one of the endpoints of the canyon rim, where they could descend to the valley via cable car or elevator. Our traveling instincts are contrarian, so the minute we noticed that a mass movement was taking place in one direction, we promptly set out in the opposite direction. Soon afterward, we were walking on deserted pathways, finding a degree of peace and quiet that further enhance the mesmerizing quality of this fairy-tale landscape.

The “cost” of us going in the opposite direction of everybody else was that we cut ourselves off from using a shuttle bus and thus had to walk several kilometers to reach the endpoint of the road, while one chock-full shuttle bus after another passed us by. We arrived at Bailong elevator, the endpoint of the road, at around 6 pm.

This elevator is a marvel of technology amidst awe-inspiring scenery. With a height of 1,100 feet, it holds the Guiness Book record for tallest outdoor elevator. To make it more fun, the elevator cabins are encased in glass, so that riders get to enjoy the scenery as they drop dizzyingly down to the valley. It operates with three cabins, each having two stories, and if all three of them are working, the elevator has the capacity of pumping a staggering 4000 people up (or down) the mountain per hour. But the structure is prone to mechanical break-downs, and people sometimes have to cue up a long time before they can access the elevator if one or more cabins are out of commission. I read quite a few frustrated reviews about it on Tripadvisor. We were lucky, as two out of three cabins were working fine, and we “only” had to wait for half an hour.

We were back in town just in time for dinner, which we enjoyed at a local restaurant serving differently flavored batches of home-made rice wine, which paired well with the traditional thick-cut smoked bacon.

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biofunmy · 5 years

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An Adirondack Wilderness All Your Own

Moments after parking our car and loading into a compact, one-propeller bush plane, my three friends and I were looking down at a lush boreal landscape, newly green after the long winter. The view of soft, wooded peaks interspersed with creeks and lakes extended as far as we could see, evoking the northern territories of Canada or Alaska.

But what lay below us was closer to home: the heart of the Adirondack Mountains in upstate New York, its vast wooded expanse concealing the isolated campsite where we would ensconce ourselves.

Fifteen minutes into our loud, choppy flight, the pilot banked and touched down on the surface of a still mountain lake, then ferried us to a rustic plot at the far end. He would be the last person we saw until we flew out again three days later.

Within the roughly six million acres that comprise the Adirondack state park are some 2.6 million acres of forest preserve, broad stretches of which are open to public recreation. Disappearing into the wild, far-flung corners of New York state has been a tradition that began in my childhood, when my parents learned about the boat-access-only grounds at Saranac Lake that offer visitors the splendid isolation of their own island.

Some years later, we became aware of a new, more enticing approach. Away from Lake Placid, Lake George and other more crowded regional hubs, are several smaller hamlets that provide access to a handful of exceptionally remote lakeside campgrounds reachable only by pontooned floatplanes. With round-trip charters typically priced at $150 or less per person, some of the most secluded frontiers of the Adirondack Park are accessible even to travelers on a limited budget. Over the years, this little-utilized route into sequestered backwoods sites has become a prized secret among my close friends and family, and since my maiden trip with my father six years ago, I have been back every year with a rotating cast of companions.

Car, plane, wilderness

On this trip, our group assembled in New York City, driving up from Washington D.C., adding people and collecting gear along the way. From there, we drove our rental car north, following the Hudson River before breaking off onto smaller roads that twisted and turned more and more sharply as we approached the foothills of the Adirondacks. After passing through several small burgs, each imprinted with the distinctive Adirondack architecture style, we arrived in Long Lake, N.Y., where a small shack on the side of the road serves as an airport, and a stretch of the skinny, 14-mile lake is the runway.

We planned our trip with Helms Aero Service, which has been doing business out of Long Lake since 1947. Payne’s Air Service, about 30 miles away, in nearby Inlet, N.Y., also takes travelers to another subset of lakes in the vicinity. Both are multigenerational family businesses, operating a few aging planes that take off and land from sandbox-size docks. The two are among the last charter companies in the Adirondacks that are licensed to transport campers, hunters and anglers to lakes in the park.

The campsites they service cannot be formally reserved and are available for free on a first-come-first-served basis, but the pilots keep a diligent calendar of which ones are open. In years past, many of the pilots have even helped the state steward the campsites, flying in supplies and occasionally helping stock certain varieties of hatchery-raised fish ahead of the fishing season. They also supply paddles and life jackets for those who want to use the canoes that are stashed in the various camping areas.

That the four of us could drive from our scattered homes and have an entire lake to ourselves is a testament to the remarkable success of New York state’s preservation movement. Ironically, though, the efforts that have made this singular experience possible have also taken a toll on the floatplane pilots who enable people like us to disconnect from the world.

Before 1972, commercial floatplanes were allowed to land on 57 bodies of water across the region, offering a wealth of options for visitors looking for solitude. Since then, the state has reclassified broad tracts in the park as “wilderness,” a designation that prohibits the presence of motorized vehicles. Today, floatplanes are permitted on just 15 lakes and ponds in sections of the preserve designated as “wild forest,” and only six fall in the immediate vicinity of Long Lake.

Now, with fewer flight-accessible lakes, and just two companies taking visitors to them, the experience faces an uncertain future. If the remaining bush pilots who have delivered outsiders to these sites for decades retire without others filling their roles, there may one day be no realistic way of reaching many of them.

A place of our own

Our first decision every year is which lake or pond to go to. All the lakes that are open to floatplane camping in the area are comparable in size, but each setting has its own subtle character and attributes. Some offer access to prominent hiking trails, such as Tirrell Pond, which lies along a particularly scenic stretch of the roughly 130-mile Northville-Placid Trail. Others, like Upper Sargent Pond, have islets that can be explored and even camped on, using the canoes on hand. Still others are known for good fishing, with plentiful brook trout, panfish and smallmouth bass, or geographic quirks like miniature peninsulas and beaches ideal for bird-watching and landscape photography.

Days before our flight, our pilot pointed us toward Pine Lake, a small, forked pool in a newly incorporated section of the park that the state acquired in 2013. The parcel of land that encompasses Pine Lake was previously owned by the paper company Finch, Pruyn, once the largest private landowner in New York state. But today, gaps and logging roads where timber was harvested years ago have mostly filled in, leaving seamless stands of old, soaring trees, resplendently reflected in the water.

Our campsite fell just east of Raquette Lake, around which the titans of the Gilded Age once built sprawling summer estates at the turn of the century. Camp Uncas, once owned by J.P. Morgan, and Great Camp Sagamore, the former stamping grounds of Alfred Gwynne Vanderbilt and his relatives, are both situated on their own small lakes some 20 miles away, nearly indistinguishable from the lake we set up camp on.

Our much humbler site was also alongside the Cedar River, which we could hear flowing through gentle, nearby rapids before the river bends east and empties into the Hudson four miles downstream.

The same natural tranquillity that drew some of the wealthiest American families to parts nearby is on display everywhere. But the forests we ranged through are far more than a playground of the rich and powerful. Their history goes back thousands of years as the hunting grounds of Iroquoian and Algonquian people who occupied neighboring river valleys, and many of these people resettled in Adirondack mountain towns after being displaced by European colonizers.

Even in the centuries since, these lands have persisted as a rugged sanctum for outdoorsmen. With our tent set up and gear stowed, we paired off in canoes and paddled to a shore across the lake, where a trail leads to an old dirt road. That road continues several miles to a ramshackle farmhouse — the only remaining outpost of the Gooley Club, a hunting lodge that traces its origins to a sporting club founded in 1867 and operated until 2018 when the state removed its main complex on another lake close by.

When timbering and paper companies owned much of the land in the region, they often leased usage rights to sportsman’s clubs, allowing members to hunt there during the long stretches of time between harvesting trees. But as part of the “forever wild” provision in New York’s constitution, newly acquired lands added to the preserve are to be protected for posterity as “wild forest lands,” requiring the demolition of most existing structures like the Gooley complex in order to return the land to a wilderness state.

Today, besides the road itself, there is nothing to signal the previous presence of people. Yet somehow the image of earlier generations trekking along the same path, taking fish and game from the surrounding lands, was never far from our minds.

We settled in at our site exactly three weeks before the summer solstice, but temperatures still swung into the 40s after dark. During daylight hours, we faced near-constant attack by swarms of black flies assailing our heads and necks, leaving annoying, shallow bites. And though the black flies typically subside before July, there are always mosquitoes to swat away.

But these momentary nuisances are offset by the divine things, like the calls of loons and hoot owls we heard at nightfall, and the perfect clarity of the night sky, unspoiled by artificial light pollution. These conditions only improve deeper into the summer and autumn, as the water warms up enough to swim and the northern foliage takes on early fall hues.

Small natural mysteries are always a source of intrigue as well. Besides the birds, each evening after dark we heard a sequence of heavy splashes from the water that resonated like giants’ steps or small boulders falling from above, often coming too close for comfort. It wasn’t until we arrived back in town and talked to locals that we discovered the origin of the sounds: slaps of a beaver’s tail.

Excess and simplicity

Not only does the floatplane open up isolated sites that often don’t connect to established hiking trails, but it also makes the experience feasible for almost any traveler. Other than the tediousness of getting out of the plane, which sometimes involves wading to shore, it is a straightforward journey doable for most people of any age. And while the environs are primitive, the usual restraints campers face with regard to the weight and size of their gear don’t apply when flying in.

On my first trip by floatplane six summers ago, my father brought a cooler stocked with butter and pancake makings, intent on recreating a boyhood memory of watching a more fortunate family indulge in flapjacks and maple syrup in the Allagash wilderness in Maine. Over the years, my experiences with cooking have grown more ambitious. This year, my friends and I armed ourselves with a variety of heavy equipment such as a steel fire-top grill and a cast iron pan, things that minimalists might consider extravagant, but that open all sorts of culinary possibilities. But even with the freedom to attempt wilder feats of campfire gastronomy, we opted for a vegetarian menu of egg and potato scrambles, grilled cheese sandwiches, three-bean chili, and roasted vegetables, followed by beers and spirits after dinner.

Coming to these campgrounds sight unseen requires a degree of adaptability, as some are more rudimentary than others. As most sites in the area are set up with little more than a rock fire ring and canoes, we were pleasantly surprised to find our site by Pine Lake outfitted with a dock where our pilot could moor, as well as a picnic table — small luxuries by backcountry standards. With a proper dinner table at which to eat our meals, we moved our camping chairs out to our private pier, spending hours fishing and watching clouds merge and fray and roll over the mountain terrain.

When the fire died down, the four of us retired to our sturdy, family-size tent — not the kind we would have brought had we backpacked in from town like most campers in the park.

Over-engineered as our shelter seemed for most of our stay, it proved its worth on our final night, when a violent thunderstorm burst over us around bedtime, disturbing our days of calm. Captivated by the energy of the storm, we flipped up the tent’s vestibule, making a roof to sit under and observe. Briefly forgetting the flight and the long drive ahead of us, we sat silently for a time, enjoying the rhythmic patterns of the rain and watching the flashes beyond the treetops.

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