The Three R's (Rest, Relaxation, Reflection)

Diligence is a good thing, but taking things easy is much more -- restful. - Mark Twain



There's something about being back in the Ohio Valley makes me comfortable and jittery all at the same time. I'm relatively comfortable here, know my way around. Although I don't quite remember all the back roads -- I haven't actually lived in the area since 2006 -- I can get around pretty well in Cincinnati, and if I wander back out towards Bethel, Mt. Orab, and Georgetown, I find that I know more roads intuitively than I can recall and describe very well.


Not that I do wander out there that much. Although I do have an affinity for small town life and for being as far off the map as possible, visiting my old hometown has never been something I've felt an overwhelming urge to do. And while I can no more deny my small town roots anymore than I can deny that my eyes are blue or that I'm left-handed, there's never been much of an urge in my to return. It's not that it's small. Or that there's nothing to do. It could be that Tate Township, where Bethel is located, was -- and still is, as far as I know -- dry.  

To be honest, I haven't checked. And to be further honest, even if I could walk down Plain Street (The street that runs through the center of town) wearing nothing but my oilcloth hat carrying an open jug of cheap blackberry wine -- from which I would take liberal chugs and offer to anyone I met on the street... being sure to tip my hat and smile, of course -- I probably would not be induced to visit unless I had a really good reason. Hiding from the law comes to mind; but then again, half the people I went to high school with would turn me in (They never liked me much anyway.) and the other half is in some stage of past, current, or future incarceration. (They were never all that fond of me, either.)

Cincinnati is a city I have a love-hate /hate-love relationship with. Downtown was the first place I ran to when I was able to indulge my itchy foot. I love the Cincinnati Bengals (in spite of and probably because they are steeped in an inferiority complex so deep that it rivals Greek Tragedy in it's epic scale) and I love The Cincinnati Reds. (INDUCT PETE ROSE INTO THE HALL OF FAME,  YOU GRUBBY BASTARDS. You let in that roid taking balloon head, Barry Bonds.) I have an affinity for Skyline Chili. I love walking around downtown and around Over-the Rhine -- in spite of the gentrified ruination being wrought upon it. I'm annoyed by the casino being built downtown, but only because I know it's Hamilton County Sheriff Simon Leis's retirement plan. I hate the corporate nature of the city, and that between the multitude of corporate headquarters and the pull of the ruling class in Indian Hills, the cold and hard corporate heart of the city will never change. This city's only saving grace is that it's soul is far more beautiful (Ah, Losantaville, here my song!) and it probably has something to do with the inherent kinetic nature of things here. The cold h heart bristles up against the beaming beautiful soul of the place and creates a space in which Art might happen. I love talking about this place. I love complaining about this place. Once upon a time I tried to lend to hand... in as much as I could, given my limited skill set... to improve the place.

But what all of that really means is this: I can (probably) never live here again.

My plan, in as much as I had one, was to come back here, get off the road for a bit (no more than a month), and plan my next leg -- which will take me back up into Northwest Illinois for a visit and to file for divorce; then back out to Colorado for another visit with Cousin Mary and to hopefully interview and record my 95 year old Uncle Dan; then back through Kentucky for a visit, and then down south, to Port Charlotte, where it will be warm, and the sun will shine, and there will be NO SNOW. After that, maybe bump over to New Orleans for Mardi Gras and to celebrate my 40th turn around the sun, and maybe even to Austin to visit friends there. 

Part of the the plan (such as it is) was to go back over my notes, transcribe poems, and start putting together the ideas for what turn out to be a much longer writing project... an outgrowth of traveling and this blog. Another part of the plan is to finish the EFL  (teaching English as a Foreign Language) certification as part of the preparation for THE EUROPEAN JAUNT.

But, after a few days in -- even though I am planning on staying in the area for at least a month -- I was itchy to get on the move again. It's a terrible thing sometimes, realizing that for all the comfort to be found in a comfortable place among people who care about you, that you'd rather be out, enduring whatever the road has to offer; and considering the fact that what is offered isn't always kind, or comfortable, or friendly, that's saying something. It's the sort of realization that stands on the border between profundity and absurdity.

 Thanks for reading! And remember, if you like what you just read:

1. PLEASE share the link
2. Consider a donation to the Travel Fund (Gawd Bless!)

Eastward-ish -- Leaving Minneapolis... Again (The Who-Dey Hoedown)

A man's work is doing hat he's supposed to do, and that's why he needs a catastrophe now and again to show him a bad turn isn't the end...." - William Least-Heat Moon, The Blue Highway

You're mad, bonkers, completely off your head. But I'll tell you a secret. All the best people are. -- Lewis Carroll, Through The Looking Glass

Harrison Street Station, Chicago

By the time I got to Chicago, I'd been on a bus more than 12 hours. And though I was a little tired, it was more out of anxiousness than exhaustion. Though I was able to get out of Minneapolis on my own steam, and was on my way back to the Ohio Valley more or less on the schedule established by the deadline on my long gone Discovery Pass, I was traveling with a greater sense of urgency than I had felt in a long while. Urgency mixed with no small amount of nervousness.

When Dave and Jamie dropped me off at bus station, it was about an hour and a half before my scheduled departure time. 11:30 at night and the temperature in downtown Minneapolis was a slightly less sweltering 93 degrees. The air didn't exactly feel like hot ash when it hit my lungs; but with the fire and brimstone summer I'd experienced so far, my standards for such qualifying remarks were, you might say, fairly high. 

Let's be honest. I escaped the monsoon season in Arizona, only to make it to Colorado, where the whole fucking world was on fire. It takes more than steam rising off the cement near midnight for me to start thinking that Earth's core opened up somewhere near Coalinga Junction (where, if there's a door to the fiery underworld, it surely exists) California and was burning  through the thin skin of the world bit by dusty bit. 

As per the information I gleaned from my post ragtime conversation with Shaniqua (or was it Shauntell?)  at the Customer Assistance line for Greyhound Bus Lines, I set up a password so the ticket agent would know that I am, in fact, myself. When I walked up to the counter and gave the very bored and not over-worked ticket agent purchase reference number, I expected him to ask for the password that I had chosen carefully to establish my right to ride the bus. But he didn't ask for it. All he did was print out the ticket, and have me sign a receipt.

I thought of my friend Dave, heading back with his wife Jamie to their apartment in Bloomington (a burb of Minneapolis). When I told him they would let me ride without a picture ID he shook his head, muttered something about Homeland Security and something that sounded like

"Well, what's one more terrorist..."

I didn't think he was talking about me. While it is true that I was mistaken for a Black man once and a Mexican twice, I didn't think my beard was sufficiently long enough to be racially profiled for a terror suspect. Maybe. Actually, with the way things are going in the Grand American Republic, that might be outside the realm of possibility. 

But let's put it off as long as we can, shall we?

18 hours from Minneapolis to Cincinnati... my long burn on a Greyhound, at least for a while. The urgency that was propelling me forward, and the fear that I would not be able to stay there and find the relaxation and respite I needed. 

The trip westward and back had been a good one, and I was looking forward to more. I wanted to spend some time on home ground, try and recollect the notes that had been lost when my journal and ID went missing. I wanted to wallow in some warmth and sweet solace; I wanted to plan my southern jaunt. I knew I would have to go back to Mount Carroll at some point, check the mail piling up in the post office, file for divorce, see friends there.  I wanted to be able to relax, too. And reflect on my experiences, enjoy those moments among family, friends, and loved ones. 

I had pretty good luck, as buses go... only getting an old bus from Indianapolis to Dayton Trotwood. Leaving Minneapolis, and from Chicago to Indy, I managed to get newer buses with electric outlets, WiFi, and air conditioning that mostly worked. From Minneapolis to Chicago, I was able to stretch out and sleep a little... though not much.  I was low on money, having to spend more than I would have liked on my bus ticket. It occurred to me that I would have to find other, even cheaper modes of transportation to fill the gaps... maybe even provide a longer term solution for traveling on the cheap. 

Thanks for reading. I'll be off the road... sort of... for a bit... but doing some visiting, and planning for my southern jaunt. Keep reading for details. And remember, if you like it, feel free to share the link. And if you're feeling REALLY partial, consider a donation to the travel fund. (Gawd Bless!)