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!)

Eastward-ish: (Another) Whim of the Great Magnet

If you don't know where you're going, any road will get you there. -- Lewis Carroll


Sometimes it's necessary to go a long distance out of the way in order to come back a short distance correctly. -- Edward Albee

As you might recall, I walked into the Little Six Casino Mick Parsons and walked out divested of him. Nice enough guy, I suppose; but on the upside, I figure his identity is being used by some undocumented worker to stay in the country. On about the same level of an upside, part of my psyche hopes that some poor stupid bastard is, at this very moment, trying to acquire a hefty bank loan for an extravagant house, car, boat, or some other overpriced tinker toy, based on my credit history.

The peels of laughter from the loan department will be audible in a five state area. Really.

Beyond losing my ID, I lost my journal and my mode of travel. The loss of my notes and the bits of poetry hurt. The loss of my mode of travel -- the Discovery Pass that allowed me to travel from Ashland, Kentucky all the way to San Francisco, California, and had enough time on it to get to Cincinnati, Ohio before it expires on July 5th -- was more that problematic. Not only was I worried that I might be stuck, indefinitely, in Minneapolis, but I was pondering what that meant for the end of this particular jaunt. If it meant anything at all.

I was trying to figure out a way to get moving again, worried that I would overstay my welcome with my dear friends here, worried that future traveling might be complicated by my new minted non-person status, and worried that I would have to depend on my friends in a way I did not want to. I depend on them enough for a soft landing shelter, and food, and a ride to and from the bus station; they seem willing enough to help in these regards, seem to enjoy my company, and most of them even want me to visit again. In no way did I want to mess any of that up.


But it turns out, I stressed out all last week for nothing. I finally called Greyhound's Customer Assistance line to see if there was anything I could do short of waiting for a new picture ID to come in the mail or hitchhike.

DO NOT CALL THIS NUMBER UNLESS YOU WANT TO LISTEN TO SCOTT JOPLIN.  I LIKE SCOTT JOPLIN AND EVEN I THOUGHT I MIGHT GO INSANE WAITING TO TALK TO A REAL PERSON ABOUT MY REAL PROBLEM.

I found out that all I needed to do was set up a password when I purchase my ticket online. When I pick it up at the ticket counter, that password will work as an ID.


Perfect. Absolutely perfect.


Add to that a kind donation or two to the travel fund, and I was able to purchase a ticket. I'm headed out of Minneapolis at 1 AM July 5th and arriving in Cincinnati at 8:40 PM that same day. All in all, just shy of a 19 hour burn to get from here to there.


And I have enough money for a bottle of water and even (gasp!) a cup of coffee.

Gawd Bless America. And Gawd bless those of you who contributed. May your children grow up smart and good-looking and not at all resembling the mail carrier.

The universe smiles on me yet again. A little crack of a smile, to be sure. But a smile nonetheless. And I'm grateful for it. As last minute changes in plans, go, it could have gone a lot worse. For example, I could've had the experience of the Roving Northern Englander and been mugged In Omaha, Nebraska.

I'm still unclear as to how that happened. I'm not blaming the victim, but I do suspect, based on talking to him for several hours, that he said something to someone and got unwelcome attention. Maybe he was talking loudly about how thieves should have their hands cut off, and how Americans don't know how to spell color. (He prefers "colour" even though I pointed out it was a French influence after the Norman Invasion. I thought he was going to spit at me. Talk about a grudge.)

There have been more than a few last minute changes. For example, the shift in Louisville that led me to St. Louis, then to Hannibal, Missouri and inevitably to Minneapolis on my way west... and though South Dakota, Wyoming, and Montana, some of the most beautiful and heartbreaking landscapes I have ever seen.

Truthfully, I could have done without the bedridden wildlife in Billings. But otherwise

I was planning a quick stop through San Fran and onto Oroville; but lingered in on the wharf a day longer and saw a wonderful city that I very much want to spend more time in.

Then there was the ill-fated trip to Salt Lake City, which led me to Colorado, meeting Cousin Mary and my Uncle Dan for the first time, and getting a glimpse into a side of the family that know next to nothing about. And I am planning on going back in October, Dear Readers, to learn more. I also got to see Cripple Creek, drive through Victor, and see the beginning of the Waldo Canyon Fire.

At every turn where I turned control over to the universe, I was not led astray. The trip became more interesting, took on additional dimensions.

A significant part of traveling -- of truly traveling -- is being prepared to adjust, being open to new roads, new possibilities. To be prepared for the unexpected. This most recent bit of the unexpected has not only freed me in some very important ways, but it reminded me that instead of moping and going into panic mode, that I need to follow my own advice. It showed me that instead of trying to re-establish control over event I may not have any control over to begin with, I need to breathe.

Simply breathe. And let the universe do the work. It may not always turn out so neatly. But a wise man -- which is what I hope to be one of these days many, many, many years from now -- will be steady,  live in the present, keep on walking, and be consistent whether his fortunes are good or bad.

I have so much to learn.

But I'm working on it.

Thanks for reading. Remember, if you like what you just read, please feel free to


Share the link, and / or
Donate to the travel fund. (Gawd Bless!)