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Eventually we gave up and paid our own jacked up fare to get to a decent guesthouse picked randomly out of the Lonely Planet. </p> +<p><break> +<amp-img alt="Granada Street" height="235" src="https://images.luxagraf.net//2008/granada1.jpg" width="159"></amp-img>Managua is a medium sized city, neither the best nor the worst I've been in, but there didn't seem to be much worth seeing, and we only had two weeks to spare so we hightailed it south to Granada at six the next morning. </break></p> +<p>The slow, or ordinario, bus proved to just fine and got us to Granada in an hour or so. We were way too early to check in anywhere, but we stopped by a guesthouse (The Bearded Monkey, rating: B-), reserved a room and stashed our bags before heading out to explore the city. </p> +<p>Granada is famed for its Colonial-era architecture and colorful buildings; it even has the UNESCO World Heritage site stamp of approval. We wandered the streets, taking in the riotous paint jobs and admiring the fantastically massive, ornately carved wooden doors. Behind most of these doorways are fantastic courtyards, lushly planted and beautifully landscaped (judging by the few that were open).</p> +<p><amp-img alt="Granada church" height="163" src="https://images.luxagraf.net//2008/granada2.jpg" width="290"></amp-img>We stopped by a Church that was holding services and Corrinne was hesitant to go in, but having marched right in to so many Buddhist temples (at the urging of the locals I might add) I decided to do the same with the Catholics, come hell or high water as it were.</p> +<p>It turned out to that no one seemed to care, or perhaps the tourist-saturated nature of their town has led to an acquiescence that masquerades as acceptance. A very friendly priest of some kind stopped us on our way out and insisted that we go up in the recently restored bell tower to have a look at the city from on high. </p> +<p>As it turned out, it was the best thing we did in Granada and, for whatever reason, no one seems to do it (or at least no one we talked to). Which isn't to slight Granada, it's definitely worth a day, but there isn't a whole lot to it. Unless you're really into horse drawn carriage tours. </p> +<p>We paid a nominal fee -- which ostensibly goes toward further restoration efforts since the church dates from the 1600s and could use a bit of work -- and then went up the narrowest, steepest, circular concrete staircase that I've ever encountered. It had a low railing and circled up four stories worth of precipitous dropoffs before you hit solid ground. Never mind the cracks in the stairs, this is earthquake country. It happens.</p> +<p><amp-img alt="Granada rooftops" height="311" src="https://images.luxagraf.net//2008/granada4.jpg" width="201"></amp-img>At the top you have a great 360 degree view of the city, which becomes an endless sea of mottled pink, orange and brown hues -- terra cotta roof tiles stretching from the shores of Lago Nicaragua all the way back toward the hills. Oh and there's some bells. Bells that quite clearly get rung from below, and, judging by the size, it would be best to not be around when someone yanks the rope. Thankfully no one did and we spent half and hour or more admiring the city and trying to decide if Ometepe, the towering volcano in the distance, half shrouded in the hazy of the lake, was really belching thin gray wisps of smoke. Inconclusive. It certainly <em>looked</em> like it was though.</p> +<p>After admiring the views for a while, the idea of lounging in one the aforementioned courtyards kept coming up. Eventually we gave in and headed back to the guesthouse to do the one thing I'm really good at at doing -- nothing. And by nothing I mean napping in hammocks, sipping Tona, reading, checking out the German guy's EeePC (pathetic: Wired technology writer sees first EeePC laptop in Nicaraguan guesthouse), talking about whether or not our house would work with a courtyard and otherwise dodging the heat of the day. </p> +<p>We went out for a late lunch and had another explore around the market area, down a few back alleys, past another very 17th century-looking church, through a game of baseball happening in the middle of the street and finally looped back to the church and climbed up the bell tower again to watch the sunset.</p> +<p>I'm not quite sure what the occasion was, other than a Sunday (could have been a wedding perhaps, this time I decided not to intrude), but the church was in full swing with some extremely morose, gothic-tinged music thundering out of the cathedral hall and punctuated by a man in front of the church launching volleys of giant fireworks, seemingly in time with the music. The effect was like being in a bad Francis Ford Coppola movie (like the Godfather), but the fireworks sounded more like mortar shells than percussion. </p> +<p><amp-img alt="Granada sunset" height="207" src="https://images.luxagraf.net//2008/granada3.jpg" width="308"></amp-img>Back up the scary stone staircase I sat down and closed my eyes for a minute and imagined what the same scene would have looked like twenty years ago when the explosions really would have been mortars. After all, that's what American's think of when they think of Nicaragua: war, death, suffering. Certainly all part of Nicaragua's past, but you'd never know it today. Today it's just fireworks and fugues.</p> +<p>After the sun set we wandered back over to Parque Colón, the central plaza that anchors the layout of the town and serves as its central hub. We sat down to the side of the park and watched the locals go about their business, enjoying the last few hours of the weekend. </p> +<p>Eventually we headed back the guesthouse to grab some dinner and a few beers. </p> +<p>The next morning we were the first bus headed south.</p> + </div> + </article> +</main> + +</body> +</html> diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2008/03/ring-bells.html b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2008/03/ring-bells.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..69758a6 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2008/03/ring-bells.html @@ -0,0 +1,344 @@ +<!DOCTYPE html> +<html +class="detail single" dir="ltr" lang="en-US"> + +<head> + <title>Ring The Bells - by Scott Gilbertson</title> + <meta charset="utf-8"> + <meta http-equiv="x-ua-compatible" content="ie=edge"> + <meta name="viewport" content="width=device-width, initial-scale=1"> + <meta name="description" + content="Wandering the streets of Granada, Nicaragua: colorful buildings, colonial-era architecture and, most importantly, hammocks. 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By Scott Gilbertson" +} +</script> + +</head> +<body > + <div class="wrapper" id="wrapper"> + <div class="header-wrapper"> + <header class="site-banner"> + <div id="logo"> + <a href="/" title="Home">Luxagraf</a> + <span class="sitesubtitle">Walk Slowly</span> + </div> + <nav> + <ul> + <li><a href="/jrnl/" title="Stories of life on the road.">Jrnl</a> & <a href="/field-notes/" title="Short stories, snapshots of daily life on the road.">Field Notes</a></li> + <li><a href="/guide/" title="Advice, Tools, Tips and Tricks for Full Time Van or RV Life.">Guides</a></li> + <li><a href="/newsletter/" title="The 'friends of a long year' newsletter">newsletter</a></li> + <li><a href="/about" title="About Scott">About</a></li> + </ul> + </nav> + </header> + </div> + <ol class="bl" id="breadcrumbs" itemscope itemtype="http://schema.org/BreadcrumbList"> + <li itemprop="itemListElement" itemscope itemtype="http://schema.org/ListItem"><a itemprop="item" href="/"><span itemprop="name">Home</span></a> → + <meta itemprop="position" content="1" /> + </li> + <li itemprop="itemListElement" itemscope itemtype="http://schema.org/ListItem"> + + <a href="/jrnl/" itemprop="item"><span itemprop="name">jrnl</span></a> + <meta itemprop="position" content="2" /> + <meta itemprop="position" content="2" /> + </li> + </ol> + + + <main> + <article class="h-entry hentry entry-content content" itemscope itemType="http://schema.org/BlogPosting"> + <header id="header" class="post-header "> + <h1 class="p-name entry-title post-title" itemprop="headline">Ring The Bells</h1> + + <div class="post-linewrapper"> + <div class="p-location h-adr adr post-location" itemprop="contentLocation" itemscope itemtype="http://schema.org/Place"> + <h3 class="h-adr" itemprop="address" itemscope itemtype="http://schema.org/PostalAddress"><span class="p-region" itemprop="addressRegion">Granada</span>, <a class="p-country-name country-name" href="/jrnl/nicaragua/" title="travel writing from Nicaragua"><span itemprop="addressCountry">Nicaragua</span></a></h3> + – <a href="" onclick="showMap(11.932062265861589, -85.95813630814854, { type:'point', lat:'11.932062265861589', lon:'-85.95813630814854'}); return false;" title="see a map">Map</a> + </div> + <time class="dt-published published dt-updated post-date" datetime="2008-03-30T23:37:40" itemprop="datePublished">March <span>30, 2008</span></time> + <span class="hide" itemprop="author" itemscope itemtype="http://schema.org/Person">by <a class="p-author h-card" href="/about"><span itemprop="name">Scott Gilbertson</span></a></span> + </div> + </header> + <div id="article" class="e-content entry-content post--body post--body--single" itemprop="articleBody"> + <p><span class="drop">W</span>e landed in Managua about eight in the evening, walked outside the airport and smoked a cigarette (I know, terrible, I started smoking again), surveying the taxi drivers all clamoring for jacked up fares from the new arrivals. Eventually we gave up and paid our own jacked up fare to get to a decent guesthouse picked randomly out of the Lonely Planet. </p> +<p><break> +<img alt="Granada Street" class="postpic" src="https://images.luxagraf.net//2008/granada1.jpg"/>Managua is a medium sized city, neither the best nor the worst I’ve been in, but there didn’t seem to be much worth seeing, and we only had two weeks to spare so we hightailed it south to Granada at six the next morning. </p> +<p>The slow, or ordinario, bus proved to just fine and got us to Granada in an hour or so. We were way too early to check in anywhere, but we stopped by a guesthouse (The Bearded Monkey, rating: B-), reserved a room and stashed our bags before heading out to explore the city. </p> +<p>Granada is famed for its Colonial-era architecture and colorful buildings; it even has the UNESCO World Heritage site stamp of approval. We wandered the streets, taking in the riotous paint jobs and admiring the fantastically massive, ornately carved wooden doors. Behind most of these doorways are fantastic courtyards, lushly planted and beautifully landscaped (judging by the few that were open).</p> +<p><img alt="Granada church" class="postpicright" src="https://images.luxagraf.net//2008/granada2.jpg"/>We stopped by a Church that was holding services and Corrinne was hesitant to go in, but having marched right in to so many Buddhist temples (at the urging of the locals I might add) I decided to do the same with the Catholics, come hell or high water as it were.</p> +<p>It turned out to that no one seemed to care, or perhaps the tourist-saturated nature of their town has led to an acquiescence that masquerades as acceptance. A very friendly priest of some kind stopped us on our way out and insisted that we go up in the recently restored bell tower to have a look at the city from on high. </p> +<p>As it turned out, it was the best thing we did in Granada and, for whatever reason, no one seems to do it (or at least no one we talked to). Which isn’t to slight Granada, it’s definitely worth a day, but there isn’t a whole lot to it. Unless you’re really into horse drawn carriage tours. </p> +<p>We paid a nominal fee — which ostensibly goes toward further restoration efforts since the church dates from the 1600s and could use a bit of work — and then went up the narrowest, steepest, circular concrete staircase that I’ve ever encountered. It had a low railing and circled up four stories worth of precipitous dropoffs before you hit solid ground. Never mind the cracks in the stairs, this is earthquake country. It happens.</p> +<p><img alt="Granada rooftops" class="postpic" src="https://images.luxagraf.net//2008/granada4.jpg"/>At the top you have a great 360 degree view of the city, which becomes an endless sea of mottled pink, orange and brown hues — terra cotta roof tiles stretching from the shores of Lago Nicaragua all the way back toward the hills. Oh and there’s some bells. Bells that quite clearly get rung from below, and, judging by the size, it would be best to not be around when someone yanks the rope. Thankfully no one did and we spent half and hour or more admiring the city and trying to decide if Ometepe, the towering volcano in the distance, half shrouded in the hazy of the lake, was really belching thin gray wisps of smoke. Inconclusive. It certainly <em>looked</em> like it was though.</p> +<p>After admiring the views for a while, the idea of lounging in one the aforementioned courtyards kept coming up. Eventually we gave in and headed back to the guesthouse to do the one thing I’m really good at at doing — nothing. And by nothing I mean napping in hammocks, sipping Tona, reading, checking out the German guy’s EeePC (pathetic: Wired technology writer sees first EeePC laptop in Nicaraguan guesthouse), talking about whether or not our house would work with a courtyard and otherwise dodging the heat of the day. </p> +<p>We went out for a late lunch and had another explore around the market area, down a few back alleys, past another very 17th century-looking church, through a game of baseball happening in the middle of the street and finally looped back to the church and climbed up the bell tower again to watch the sunset.</p> +<p>I’m not quite sure what the occasion was, other than a Sunday (could have been a wedding perhaps, this time I decided not to intrude), but the church was in full swing with some extremely morose, gothic-tinged music thundering out of the cathedral hall and punctuated by a man in front of the church launching volleys of giant fireworks, seemingly in time with the music. The effect was like being in a bad Francis Ford Coppola movie (like the Godfather), but the fireworks sounded more like mortar shells than percussion. </p> +<p><img alt="Granada sunset" class="postpicright" src="https://images.luxagraf.net//2008/granada3.jpg"/>Back up the scary stone staircase I sat down and closed my eyes for a minute and imagined what the same scene would have looked like twenty years ago when the explosions really would have been mortars. After all, that’s what American’s think of when they think of Nicaragua: war, death, suffering. Certainly all part of Nicaragua’s past, but you’d never know it today. Today it’s just fireworks and fugues.</p> +<p>After the sun set we wandered back over to Parque Colón, the central plaza that anchors the layout of the town and serves as its central hub. We sat down to the side of the park and watched the locals go about their business, enjoying the last few hours of the weekend. </p> +<p>Eventually we headed back the guesthouse to grab some dinner and a few beers. </p> +<p>The next morning we were the first bus headed south.</p> + </div> + + </article> + + + <div class="nav-wrapper"> + <nav id="page-navigation" class="page-border-top"> + <ul> + <li id="prev"><span class="bl">Previous:</span> + <a href="/jrnl/2007/11/fall" rel="prev" title=" Fall">Fall</a> + </li> + <li id="next"><span class="bl">Next:</span> + <a href="/jrnl/2008/04/return-sea" rel="next" title=" Return to the Sea">Return to the Sea</a> + </li> + </ul> + </nav> + </div> + + + + + + +<div class="comment--form--wrapper "> + +<div class="comment--form--header"> + <p class="hed">Thoughts?</p> + <p class="subhed">Please leave a reply:</p> +</div> +<form action="/comments/post/" method="post" class="comment--form"> + +<input type="hidden" name="rder" value="" /> + + + <input type="hidden" name="content_type" value="jrnl.entry" id="id_content_type"> + + + + <input type="hidden" name="object_pk" value="84" id="id_object_pk"> + + + + <input type="hidden" name="timestamp" value="1596833471" id="id_timestamp"> + + + + <input type="hidden" name="security_hash" value="5dcfc59d2ef605eb0ce9dbac557484ecbeaf3a3b" id="id_security_hash"> + + + + <fieldset > + <label for="id_name">Name:</label> + <input type="text" name="name" maxlength="50" required id="id_name"> + </fieldset> + + + + <fieldset > + <label for="id_email">Email address:</label> + <input type="email" name="email" required id="id_email"> + </fieldset> + + + + <fieldset > + <label for="id_url">URL:</label> + <input type="url" name="url" id="id_url"> + </fieldset> + + + + <fieldset > + <label for="id_comment">Comment:</label> + <div class="textarea-rounded"><textarea name="comment" cols="40" rows="10" maxlength="3000" required id="id_comment"> +</textarea></div> + </fieldset> + + + + <fieldset style="display:none;"> + <label for="id_honeypot">If you enter anything in this field your comment will be treated as spam:</label> + <input type="text" name="honeypot" id="id_honeypot"> + </fieldset> + + + <div class="submit"> + <input type="submit" name="post" class="submit-post btn" value="Post" /> + <input type="submit" name="preview" class="submit-preview btn" value="Preview" /> + </div> +</form> +<p style="font-size: 95%;"><strong>All comments are moderated</strong>, so you won’t see it right away. 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Eventually we gave up and paid our own jacked up fare to get to a decent guesthouse picked randomly out of the Lonely Planet.
+
+<break>
+<img src="[[base_url]]/2008/granada1.jpg" class="postpic" alt="Granada Street"/>Managua is a medium sized city, neither the best nor the worst I've been in, but there didn't seem to be much worth seeing, and we only had two weeks to spare so we hightailed it south to Granada at six the next morning.
+
+The slow, or ordinario, bus proved to just fine and got us to Granada in an hour or so. We were way too early to check in anywhere, but we stopped by a guesthouse (The Bearded Monkey, rating: B-), reserved a room and stashed our bags before heading out to explore the city.
+
+Granada is famed for its Colonial-era architecture and colorful buildings; it even has the UNESCO World Heritage site stamp of approval. We wandered the streets, taking in the riotous paint jobs and admiring the fantastically massive, ornately carved wooden doors. Behind most of these doorways are fantastic courtyards, lushly planted and beautifully landscaped (judging by the few that were open).
+
+<img src="[[base_url]]/2008/granada2.jpg" class="postpicright" alt="Granada church"/>We stopped by a Church that was holding services and Corrinne was hesitant to go in, but having marched right in to so many Buddhist temples (at the urging of the locals I might add) I decided to do the same with the Catholics, come hell or high water as it were.
+
+It turned out to that no one seemed to care, or perhaps the tourist-saturated nature of their town has led to an acquiescence that masquerades as acceptance. A very friendly priest of some kind stopped us on our way out and insisted that we go up in the recently restored bell tower to have a look at the city from on high.
+
+As it turned out, it was the best thing we did in Granada and, for whatever reason, no one seems to do it (or at least no one we talked to). Which isn't to slight Granada, it's definitely worth a day, but there isn't a whole lot to it. Unless you're really into horse drawn carriage tours.
+
+We paid a nominal fee -- which ostensibly goes toward further restoration efforts since the church dates from the 1600s and could use a bit of work -- and then went up the narrowest, steepest, circular concrete staircase that I've ever encountered. It had a low railing and circled up four stories worth of precipitous dropoffs before you hit solid ground. Never mind the cracks in the stairs, this is earthquake country. It happens.
+
+<img src="[[base_url]]/2008/granada4.jpg" class="postpic" alt="Granada rooftops"/>At the top you have a great 360 degree view of the city, which becomes an endless sea of mottled pink, orange and brown hues -- terra cotta roof tiles stretching from the shores of Lago Nicaragua all the way back toward the hills. Oh and there's some bells. Bells that quite clearly get rung from below, and, judging by the size, it would be best to not be around when someone yanks the rope. Thankfully no one did and we spent half and hour or more admiring the city and trying to decide if Ometepe, the towering volcano in the distance, half shrouded in the hazy of the lake, was really belching thin gray wisps of smoke. Inconclusive. It certainly *looked* like it was though.
+
+After admiring the views for a while, the idea of lounging in one the aforementioned courtyards kept coming up. Eventually we gave in and headed back to the guesthouse to do the one thing I'm really good at at doing -- nothing. And by nothing I mean napping in hammocks, sipping Tona, reading, checking out the German guy's EeePC (pathetic: Wired technology writer sees first EeePC laptop in Nicaraguan guesthouse), talking about whether or not our house would work with a courtyard and otherwise dodging the heat of the day.
+
+We went out for a late lunch and had another explore around the market area, down a few back alleys, past another very 17th century-looking church, through a game of baseball happening in the middle of the street and finally looped back to the church and climbed up the bell tower again to watch the sunset.
+
+I'm not quite sure what the occasion was, other than a Sunday (could have been a wedding perhaps, this time I decided not to intrude), but the church was in full swing with some extremely morose, gothic-tinged music thundering out of the cathedral hall and punctuated by a man in front of the church launching volleys of giant fireworks, seemingly in time with the music. The effect was like being in a bad Francis Ford Coppola movie (like the Godfather), but the fireworks sounded more like mortar shells than percussion.
+
+<img src="[[base_url]]/2008/granada3.jpg" class="postpicright" alt="Granada sunset"/>Back up the scary stone staircase I sat down and closed my eyes for a minute and imagined what the same scene would have looked like twenty years ago when the explosions really would have been mortars. After all, that's what American's think of when they think of Nicaragua: war, death, suffering. Certainly all part of Nicaragua's past, but you'd never know it today. Today it's just fireworks and fugues.
+
+After the sun set we wandered back over to Parque Colón, the central plaza that anchors the layout of the town and serves as its central hub. We sat down to the side of the park and watched the locals go about their business, enjoying the last few hours of the weekend.
+
+Eventually we headed back the guesthouse to grab some dinner and a few beers.
+
+The next morning we were the first bus headed south. diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2008/04/index.html b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2008/04/index.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..cc2303c --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2008/04/index.html @@ -0,0 +1,107 @@ +<!DOCTYPE html> +<html dir="ltr" lang="en-US"> + +<head> + <title>Luxagraf - Topografical Writings: Archive</title> + <meta charset="utf-8"> + <meta http-equiv="x-ua-compatible" content="ie=edge"> + <meta name="viewport" content="width=device-width, initial-scale=1"> + <meta name="description" + content="Luxagraf: recording journeys around the world and just next door."> + <meta name="author" content="Scott Gilbertson"> + <!--[if IE]> + <script src="/js/html5css3ie.min.js"></script> + <![endif]--> + <link rel="alternate" + type="application/rss+xml" + title="Luxagraf RSS feed" + href="https://luxagraf.net/rss/"> + <link rel="stylesheet" + href="/media/screenv8.css" + media="screen"> + <!--[if IE]> + <link rel="stylesheet" + href="/media/css/ie.css" + media="screen"> + <![endif]--> + <link rel="shortcut icon" href="favicon.ico" type="image/x-icon"> + <link rel="manifest" href="manifest.json"> + <meta property="fb:pages" content="900822029969349" /> + +</head> +<body id="archive"> + <div class="wrapper" id="wrapper"> + <div class="header-wrapper"> + <header role="banner"> + <h1><a id="logo" href="/" title="home">Luxagraf</a></h1> + <h2>Walk Slowly</h2> + </header> + <nav role="navigation" class="bl"> + <ul> + <li id="laverdad"><a href="/jrnl/" title="What we've been up to lately">Journal</a></li> + <!--<li id="nota"><a href="/field-notes/" title="Quick notes and images from the road">Notes</a></li> + <li id="fotos"><a href="/photos/" title="Photos from travels around the world">Photos</a></li>i--> + <li id="maps"><a href="/map" title="Maps">Map</a></li> + <li id="about"><a href="/about" title="About Luxagraf">About</a></li> + <li id="etc" class="last"><a href="/projects/" title="the less visible portions of the iceberg">More</a></li> + </ul> + </nav> + </div> + <ul class="bl" id="breadcrumbs" itemscope itemtype="http://data-vocabulary.org/Breadcrumb"> + <li><a href="/" title="luxagraf homepage" itemprop="url"><span itemprop="title">Home</span></a> → </li> + <li><a href="/jrnl/" title="See all Journal Entries" itemprop="url"><span itemprop="title">Journal</span></a> →</li> + <li><a href="/jrnl/2008/">2008</a> →</li> + <li>April</li> + </ul> + <main role="main" id="writing-archive" class="archive"> + <h1> Archive: April 2008</h1> + <ul class="date-archive"> + <li class="arc-item"><a href="/jrnl/2008/04/little-island-sun" title="Little Island in the Sun">Little Island in the Sun</a> + <time datetime="2008-04-05T23:31:15-04:00">Apr 05, 2008</time> + </li> + <li class="arc-item"><a href="/jrnl/2008/04/return-sea" title="Return to the Sea">Return to the Sea</a> + <time datetime="2008-04-02T20:22:29-04:00">Apr 02, 2008</time> + </li> + </ul> + + + + <footer role="contentinfo"> + <nav class="bl"> + <ul> + <li><a href="/blogroll" title="Sites that inspire us">Blogroll</a></li> + <li><a href="/jrnl/feed.xml" title="RSS feed">Subscribe</a></li> + <li><a href="/contact/" title="contact luxagraf">Contact</a></li> + <li><a href="https://twitter.com/luxagraf" rel="me" title="follow luxagraf on Twitter">Twitter</a></li> + <li><a href="https://www.flickr.com/photos/luxagraf" rel="me" title="luxagraf on Flickr">Flickr</a></li> + <li><a href="https://www.facebook.com/luxagraf" rel="me" title="luxagraf on Facebook">Facebook</a></li> + <li><a href="https://www.instagram.com/luxagraf/" rel="me" title="luxagraf on Instacrap">Instacrap</a></li> + </ul> + </nav> + <p id="license"> + © 2003-2018 + <span class="h-card"><a class="p-name u-url" href="https://luxagraf.net/">Scott Gilbertson</a><data class="p-nickname" value="luxagraf"></data><data class="p-locality" value="Athens"></data><data class="p-region" value="Georgia"></data><data class="p-country-name" value="United States"></data></span>, except photos, which are licensed under the Creative Commons (<a href="http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/" title="read the Attribution-Share Alike 3.0 deed">details</a>). + </p> + </footer> + </div> + +<!-- Piwik --> +<script type="text/javascript"> +var _paq = _paq || []; 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We stayed at Carlito's Sunrise Paradise and were about ten paces from the water. By Scott Gilbertson"/> + <meta name="twitter:title" content="Little Island in the Sun"/> + <meta name="twitter:site" content="@luxagraf"/> + <meta name="twitter:domain" content="luxagraf"/> + <meta name="twitter:image:src" content="https://images.luxagraf.net/post-images/2008/coconutsun.jpg"/> + <meta name="twitter:creator" content="@luxagraf"/> + <meta name="twitter:site:id" content="9469062"> + <meta name="twitter:creator:id" content="9469062"> + <meta name="twitter:description" content=""/> + + <meta name="geo.placename" content="Little Corn Island, Nicaragua"> + <meta name="geo.region" content="NI-None"> + <meta property="og:type" content="article" /> + <meta property="og:title" content="Little Island in the Sun" /> + <meta property="og:url" content="https://luxagraf.net/jrnl/2008/04/little-island-sun" /> + <meta property="og:description" content="Finding paradise on Little Corn Island, literally. 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Pretty much every form of transportation in Nicaragua in a single journey (there are no trains unfortunately). To get from the airport to San Juan Del Sur we spent $40 each. To do the same thing in reverse we paid $6 each. That's called figuring it out.</p> +<p><amp-img alt="Palm Tree, Little Corn Island, Nicaragua" height="376" src="https://images.luxagraf.net//2008/islelittlecorn1.jpg" width="212"></amp-img>Of that journey the only stressful part was the puddle-jumper flight from Managua to Big Corn on an airline that's apparently sketchy enough that U.S. diplomats aren't allowed to fly on it. However, we met up with Kenso and Melissa again a few days later and I asked Kenso about it and he waved his hand dismissively and said the planes were fine (he's flown some pretty sketchy stuff for the U.N. in Africa so I figured it was okay and I relaxed somewhat on the flight back).</p> +<p>We arrived on Little Corn Island around sundown and met a man I at first took to be a tout who showed us the way to the guesthouse we wanted to stay in. After settling in an getting a feel for the island I realized that Ali, the man, wasn't a tout, he was just a really nice guy who enjoyed doing favors for tourists. He would accept the occasional tip, but he wasn't in it for the money. </p> +<p><break></break></p> +<p>The truth is there's just very little to do on Little Corn Island, so helping tourists passes the time. The only people that work what you and I might call a full day are the guesthouse owners and the fishermen. Pretty much everyone else seemed to not have much to do (and we were there during the the three month off season for lobster fisherman so the island was pretty well laid back).</p> +<p><amp-img alt="Carlito's Guesthouse, Little Corn Island, Nicaragua" height="250" src="https://images.luxagraf.net//2008/islelittlecorn2.jpg" width="193"></amp-img>In short, Little Corn Island is basically paradise. We stayed at Carlito's Sunrise Paradise ($25 a night, A+, highly recommended) and were about ten paces from the water. One afternoon I took a short nap and I sat up in bed and noticed the view you see in the photo to the right.</p> +<p>Carlito's, like most of the guesthouses on the island, consisted of a few huts, some shaded tables by the water and central eating area. And of course the most important part -- the hammocks slug between pretty much any two appropriately spaced objects.</p> +<p>The interesting thing about the Corn Islands is that they're more or less a totally separate experience from mainland Nicaragua. English is the primary language and the native people are of African descent. Naturally there are a number of Misquitos as well as Spanish descendant people, but for the most part the Caribbean coast is a bit like transplanting say, Jamaica, to Nicaragua.</p> +<p>The Corn Islands are part of an autonomous zone in Nicaragua. I won't pretend to understand the nuances of the government setup here, but as I understand it, the Mosquito Indians pretty much control things and government of Nicaragua supports them (for the most part) but doesn't seem to interfere too much.</p> +<p>This region of the Caribbean has long been a hangout for pirates and smugglers -- especially these islands, which were a favorite for British pirates waiting to hit the Spanish Galleons coming across the Gulf of Mexico. </p> +<p><amp-img alt="Beach, Little Corn Island, Nicaragua" height="205" src="https://images.luxagraf.net//2008/islelittlecorn3.jpg" width="364"></amp-img>The pirating tradition continues to day with drug running boats. Drug-running boats en route from Colombia to Miami pass through this area. Though the boats no longer stop on the islands, every now and then someone loads a panga (local outboard boat) with gasoline and heads out into the sea (GPS to the rescue) to refuel a boat.</p> +<p>When the drug runners come under attack by U.S. Coast Guard boats they typically pitch their rather large bales of cocaine overboard and, owing to a curious combination of wind and currents, those bales (and sometimes barrels of money as well) tend to wash up here. It used to be that the Colombians would buy the drugs back, but from what I've read the Indians have decided to stop that tradition and now get rid of it them themselves. And apparently the Colombian drug runners won't mess with the Mosquito, who are heavily armed, well-organized and have been defending this area for going on six hundred years. In short, they are not people to fuck with -- as the Spanish, British, the Nicaraguan Army, the U.S. special forces and a number of other erstwhile challengers have discovered over the years.</p> +<p>Thus, while it certainly isn't common, the white lobster, as the bales of cocaine are known here, does turn up from time to time. As do barrels of money. For instance, according to local gossip, the woman who owns the guesthouse next to Carlito's discovered a barrel with $80,000 inside -- more than enough to open a profitable guesthouse.</p> +<p>As you might expect, this shady past has made for a bit unrest over the years. As little as six years ago, Little Corn was a very sketchy place. Local residents lined their houses with razor wire and the <a href="http://www.casaiguana.net/">Casa Iguana Guesthouse</a> had a bucket full a machetes available for any guests that were brave (or foolish) enough to even venture out at night. Luckily for those of us that probably wouldn't fare well in a machete fight, those days are largely over. </p> +<p><amp-img alt="Corrinne and I, Little Corn Island, Nicaragua" height="160" src="https://images.luxagraf.net//2008/islelittlecorn4.jpg" width="284"></amp-img>There are still "incidents" on the island, but it's the tamer, stealing-stuff-from-rooms that happens in any isolated, yet heavily visited area, rather than the more violent holdups.</p> +<p>For the record I never felt unsafe on Little Corn and we walked around at night quite a bit, alone even. Of course some of that has to do with the massively increased police presence that the government sent over for Semana Santa (Easter) who are still on the island.</p> +<p>But if you've heard the stories floating around the internet about trouble on Little Corn and you're hesitating to go, don't. It's perfectly safe and you'll love it.</p> + </div> + </article> +</main> + +</body> +</html> diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2008/04/little-island-sun.html b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2008/04/little-island-sun.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..4f0fffb --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2008/04/little-island-sun.html @@ -0,0 +1,344 @@ +<!DOCTYPE html> +<html +class="detail single" dir="ltr" lang="en-US"> + +<head> + <title>Little Island In The Sun - by Scott Gilbertson</title> + <meta charset="utf-8"> + <meta http-equiv="x-ua-compatible" content="ie=edge"> + <meta name="viewport" content="width=device-width, initial-scale=1"> + <meta name="description" + content="Finding paradise on Little Corn Island, literally. We stayed at Carlito's Sunrise Paradise and were about ten paces from the water. 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Pretty much every form of transportation in Nicaragua in a single journey (there are no trains unfortunately). To get from the airport to San Juan Del Sur we spent $40 each. To do the same thing in reverse we paid $6 each. That’s called figuring it out.</p> +<p><img alt="Palm Tree, Little Corn Island, Nicaragua" class="postpic" src="https://images.luxagraf.net//2008/islelittlecorn1.jpg"/>Of that journey the only stressful part was the puddle-jumper flight from Managua to Big Corn on an airline that’s apparently sketchy enough that U.S. diplomats aren’t allowed to fly on it. However, we met up with Kenso and Melissa again a few days later and I asked Kenso about it and he waved his hand dismissively and said the planes were fine (he’s flown some pretty sketchy stuff for the U.N. in Africa so I figured it was okay and I relaxed somewhat on the flight back).</p> +<p>We arrived on Little Corn Island around sundown and met a man I at first took to be a tout who showed us the way to the guesthouse we wanted to stay in. After settling in an getting a feel for the island I realized that Ali, the man, wasn’t a tout, he was just a really nice guy who enjoyed doing favors for tourists. He would accept the occasional tip, but he wasn’t in it for the money. </p> +<p><break></p> +<p>The truth is there’s just very little to do on Little Corn Island, so helping tourists passes the time. The only people that work what you and I might call a full day are the guesthouse owners and the fishermen. Pretty much everyone else seemed to not have much to do (and we were there during the the three month off season for lobster fisherman so the island was pretty well laid back).</p> +<p><img alt="Carlito's Guesthouse, Little Corn Island, Nicaragua" class="postpicright" src="https://images.luxagraf.net//2008/islelittlecorn2.jpg"/>In short, Little Corn Island is basically paradise. We stayed at Carlito’s Sunrise Paradise ($25 a night, A+, highly recommended) and were about ten paces from the water. One afternoon I took a short nap and I sat up in bed and noticed the view you see in the photo to the right.</p> +<p>Carlito’s, like most of the guesthouses on the island, consisted of a few huts, some shaded tables by the water and central eating area. And of course the most important part — the hammocks slug between pretty much any two appropriately spaced objects.</p> +<p>The interesting thing about the Corn Islands is that they’re more or less a totally separate experience from mainland Nicaragua. English is the primary language and the native people are of African descent. Naturally there are a number of Misquitos as well as Spanish descendant people, but for the most part the Caribbean coast is a bit like transplanting say, Jamaica, to Nicaragua.</p> +<p>The Corn Islands are part of an autonomous zone in Nicaragua. I won’t pretend to understand the nuances of the government setup here, but as I understand it, the Mosquito Indians pretty much control things and government of Nicaragua supports them (for the most part) but doesn’t seem to interfere too much.</p> +<p>This region of the Caribbean has long been a hangout for pirates and smugglers — especially these islands, which were a favorite for British pirates waiting to hit the Spanish Galleons coming across the Gulf of Mexico. </p> +<p><img alt="Beach, Little Corn Island, Nicaragua" class="postpic" src="https://images.luxagraf.net//2008/islelittlecorn3.jpg"/>The pirating tradition continues to day with drug running boats. Drug-running boats en route from Colombia to Miami pass through this area. Though the boats no longer stop on the islands, every now and then someone loads a panga (local outboard boat) with gasoline and heads out into the sea (GPS to the rescue) to refuel a boat.</p> +<p>When the drug runners come under attack by U.S. Coast Guard boats they typically pitch their rather large bales of cocaine overboard and, owing to a curious combination of wind and currents, those bales (and sometimes barrels of money as well) tend to wash up here. It used to be that the Colombians would buy the drugs back, but from what I’ve read the Indians have decided to stop that tradition and now get rid of it them themselves. And apparently the Colombian drug runners won’t mess with the Mosquito, who are heavily armed, well-organized and have been defending this area for going on six hundred years. In short, they are not people to fuck with — as the Spanish, British, the Nicaraguan Army, the U.S. special forces and a number of other erstwhile challengers have discovered over the years.</p> +<p>Thus, while it certainly isn’t common, the white lobster, as the bales of cocaine are known here, does turn up from time to time. As do barrels of money. For instance, according to local gossip, the woman who owns the guesthouse next to Carlito’s discovered a barrel with $80,000 inside — more than enough to open a profitable guesthouse.</p> +<p>As you might expect, this shady past has made for a bit unrest over the years. As little as six years ago, Little Corn was a very sketchy place. Local residents lined their houses with razor wire and the <a href="http://www.casaiguana.net/">Casa Iguana Guesthouse</a> had a bucket full a machetes available for any guests that were brave (or foolish) enough to even venture out at night. Luckily for those of us that probably wouldn’t fare well in a machete fight, those days are largely over. </p> +<p><img alt="Corrinne and I, Little Corn Island, Nicaragua" class="postpicright" src="https://images.luxagraf.net//2008/islelittlecorn4.jpg"/>There are still “incidents” on the island, but it’s the tamer, stealing-stuff-from-rooms that happens in any isolated, yet heavily visited area, rather than the more violent holdups.</p> +<p>For the record I never felt unsafe on Little Corn and we walked around at night quite a bit, alone even. Of course some of that has to do with the massively increased police presence that the government sent over for Semana Santa (Easter) who are still on the island.</p> +<p>But if you’ve heard the stories floating around the internet about trouble on Little Corn and you’re hesitating to go, don’t. It’s perfectly safe and you’ll love it.</p> + </div> + + </article> + + + <div class="nav-wrapper"> + <nav id="page-navigation" class="page-border-top"> + <ul> + <li id="prev"><span class="bl">Previous:</span> + <a href="/jrnl/2008/04/return-sea" rel="prev" title=" Return to the Sea">Return to the Sea</a> + </li> + <li id="next"><span class="bl">Next:</span> + <a href="/jrnl/2008/06/love-with-a-view-vagabonds-responsibilty-living-we" rel="next" title=" In Love With a View: Vagabonds, Responsibilty and Living Well">In Love With a View: Vagabonds, Responsibilty and Living Well</a> + </li> + </ul> + </nav> + </div> + + + + + + +<div class="comment--form--wrapper "> + +<div class="comment--form--header"> + <p class="hed">Thoughts?</p> + <p class="subhed">Please leave a reply:</p> +</div> +<form action="/comments/post/" method="post" class="comment--form"> + +<input type="hidden" name="rder" value="" /> + + + <input type="hidden" name="content_type" value="jrnl.entry" id="id_content_type"> + + + + <input type="hidden" name="object_pk" value="86" id="id_object_pk"> + + + + <input type="hidden" name="timestamp" value="1596833470" id="id_timestamp"> + + + + <input type="hidden" name="security_hash" value="a1d483afd3cedcb96ca1d5142058d06bf4d8a6ab" id="id_security_hash"> + + + + <fieldset > + <label for="id_name">Name:</label> + <input type="text" name="name" maxlength="50" required id="id_name"> + </fieldset> + + + + <fieldset > + <label for="id_email">Email address:</label> + <input type="email" name="email" required id="id_email"> + </fieldset> + + + + <fieldset > + <label for="id_url">URL:</label> + <input type="url" name="url" id="id_url"> + </fieldset> + + + + <fieldset > + <label for="id_comment">Comment:</label> + <div class="textarea-rounded"><textarea name="comment" cols="40" rows="10" maxlength="3000" required id="id_comment"> +</textarea></div> + </fieldset> + + + + <fieldset style="display:none;"> + <label for="id_honeypot">If you enter anything in this field your comment will be treated as spam:</label> + <input type="text" name="honeypot" id="id_honeypot"> + </fieldset> + + + <div class="submit"> + <input type="submit" name="post" class="submit-post btn" value="Post" /> + <input type="submit" name="preview" class="submit-preview btn" value="Preview" /> + </div> +</form> +<p style="font-size: 95%;"><strong>All comments are moderated</strong>, so you won’t see it right away. 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Pretty much every form of transportation in Nicaragua in a single journey (there are no trains unfortunately). To get from the airport to San Juan Del Sur we spent $40 each. To do the same thing in reverse we paid $6 each. That's called figuring it out.
+
+[1]: http://luxagraf.net/2008/apr/02/return-sea/
+
+<img src="[[base_url]]/2008/islelittlecorn1.jpg" class="postpic" alt="Palm Tree, Little Corn Island, Nicaragua"/>Of that journey the only stressful part was the puddle-jumper flight from Managua to Big Corn on an airline that's apparently sketchy enough that U.S. diplomats aren't allowed to fly on it. However, we met up with Kenso and Melissa again a few days later and I asked Kenso about it and he waved his hand dismissively and said the planes were fine (he's flown some pretty sketchy stuff for the U.N. in Africa so I figured it was okay and I relaxed somewhat on the flight back).
+
+We arrived on Little Corn Island around sundown and met a man I at first took to be a tout who showed us the way to the guesthouse we wanted to stay in. After settling in an getting a feel for the island I realized that Ali, the man, wasn't a tout, he was just a really nice guy who enjoyed doing favors for tourists. He would accept the occasional tip, but he wasn't in it for the money.
+
+<break>
+
+The truth is there's just very little to do on Little Corn Island, so helping tourists passes the time. The only people that work what you and I might call a full day are the guesthouse owners and the fishermen. Pretty much everyone else seemed to not have much to do (and we were there during the the three month off season for lobster fisherman so the island was pretty well laid back).
+
+<img src="[[base_url]]/2008/islelittlecorn2.jpg" class="postpicright" alt="Carlito's Guesthouse, Little Corn Island, Nicaragua"/>In short, Little Corn Island is basically paradise. We stayed at Carlito's Sunrise Paradise ($25 a night, A+, highly recommended) and were about ten paces from the water. One afternoon I took a short nap and I sat up in bed and noticed the view you see in the photo to the right.
+
+Carlito's, like most of the guesthouses on the island, consisted of a few huts, some shaded tables by the water and central eating area. And of course the most important part -- the hammocks slug between pretty much any two appropriately spaced objects.
+
+The interesting thing about the Corn Islands is that they're more or less a totally separate experience from mainland Nicaragua. English is the primary language and the native people are of African descent. Naturally there are a number of Misquitos as well as Spanish descendant people, but for the most part the Caribbean coast is a bit like transplanting say, Jamaica, to Nicaragua.
+
+The Corn Islands are part of an autonomous zone in Nicaragua. I won't pretend to understand the nuances of the government setup here, but as I understand it, the Mosquito Indians pretty much control things and government of Nicaragua supports them (for the most part) but doesn't seem to interfere too much.
+
+This region of the Caribbean has long been a hangout for pirates and smugglers -- especially these islands, which were a favorite for British pirates waiting to hit the Spanish Galleons coming across the Gulf of Mexico.
+
+<img src="[[base_url]]/2008/islelittlecorn3.jpg" class="postpic" alt="Beach, Little Corn Island, Nicaragua"/>The pirating tradition continues to day with drug running boats. Drug-running boats en route from Colombia to Miami pass through this area. Though the boats no longer stop on the islands, every now and then someone loads a panga (local outboard boat) with gasoline and heads out into the sea (GPS to the rescue) to refuel a boat.
+
+When the drug runners come under attack by U.S. Coast Guard boats they typically pitch their rather large bales of cocaine overboard and, owing to a curious combination of wind and currents, those bales (and sometimes barrels of money as well) tend to wash up here. It used to be that the Colombians would buy the drugs back, but from what I've read the Indians have decided to stop that tradition and now get rid of it them themselves. And apparently the Colombian drug runners won't mess with the Mosquito, who are heavily armed, well-organized and have been defending this area for going on six hundred years. In short, they are not people to fuck with -- as the Spanish, British, the Nicaraguan Army, the U.S. special forces and a number of other erstwhile challengers have discovered over the years.
+
+Thus, while it certainly isn't common, the white lobster, as the bales of cocaine are known here, does turn up from time to time. As do barrels of money. For instance, according to local gossip, the woman who owns the guesthouse next to Carlito's discovered a barrel with $80,000 inside -- more than enough to open a profitable guesthouse.
+
+As you might expect, this shady past has made for a bit unrest over the years. As little as six years ago, Little Corn was a very sketchy place. Local residents lined their houses with razor wire and the [Casa Iguana Guesthouse][2] had a bucket full a machetes available for any guests that were brave (or foolish) enough to even venture out at night. Luckily for those of us that probably wouldn't fare well in a machete fight, those days are largely over.
+
+[2]: http://www.casaiguana.net/
+
+<img src="[[base_url]]/2008/islelittlecorn4.jpg" class="postpicright" alt="Corrinne and I, Little Corn Island, Nicaragua"/>There are still "incidents" on the island, but it's the tamer, stealing-stuff-from-rooms that happens in any isolated, yet heavily visited area, rather than the more violent holdups.
+
+For the record I never felt unsafe on Little Corn and we walked around at night quite a bit, alone even. Of course some of that has to do with the massively increased police presence that the government sent over for Semana Santa (Easter) who are still on the island.
+
+But if you've heard the stories floating around the internet about trouble on Little Corn and you're hesitating to go, don't. It's perfectly safe and you'll love it. diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2008/04/return-sea.amp b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2008/04/return-sea.amp new file mode 100644 index 0000000..2d45399 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2008/04/return-sea.amp @@ -0,0 +1,194 @@ + + +<!doctype html> +<html amp lang="en"> +<head> +<meta charset="utf-8"> +<title>Return to the Sea</title> +<link rel="canonical" href="https://luxagraf.net/jrnl/2008/04/return-sea"> + <meta name="viewport" content="width=device-width,initial-scale=1,minimum-scale=1"> + <meta name="twitter:card" content="summary_large_image"/> + <meta name="twitter:url" content="/jrnl/2008/04/return-sea"> + <meta name="twitter:description" content="San Juan Del Sur is a bit pricy due to the big expat surfer community, but still a nice stop along the Pacific coast of Nicaragua. 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Not being the sort of tourists that like to disappoint a determined tout, we ended up in one of those cabs, along with a couple of Nicaraguans, bound for the Pacific coast town of San Juan Del Sur.</p> +<p><break> +<amp-img alt="San Juan Del Sur +harborfront" height="185" src="https://images.luxagraf.net//2008/sanjuan3.jpg" width="329"></amp-img>From Granada we caught a chicken bus south, headed for Rivas. Southwestern Nicaragua is a very small strip of land with Lago Nicaragua to the east and the Pacific Ocean to the west. Rivas is smack dab in the middle of that strip, a kind of stopping off point rather than a destination, almost like a border town, despite the fact that the border is another hour south.</break></p> +<p>You essentially have two choices in Rivas: go east to the lake, visit Isle Ometepe and some of the other islands and small towns along the coast, or, go west to San Juan Del Sur and the other fishing villages along the Pacific (there's also the third option of continuing on to the Costa Rican border, but that wasn't in our plans).</p> +<p>Curiously enough, the morning we left for Nicaragua we stopped off for a cup of coffee at Jittery Joe's and ran into our friend Nelson, who we hadn't seen since we moved back to town. In one of those strange twists of fate that I've come to accept, it turned out that Nelson had just gotten back from Nicaragua the night before. We proceeded to do a quick five minute brain pick and came up with San Juan Del Sur, which is why we found ourselves trapped in a mid-90s Nissan sedan with the world's slowest cab driver. </p> +<p><amp-img alt="Playa Majagual" height="186" src="https://images.luxagraf.net//2008/sanjuan1.jpg" width="343"></amp-img>The Pacific coast of Nicaragua has long been famous in surfer circles for its near-perfect and seemingly endless breaks (it's featured in Endless Summer if you're into that sort of thing). The last time I went surfing Quicksilver was still run out of a garage and I have no real desire to take it up again, but I rarely say no to some time by ocean.</p> +<p>San Juan Del Sur proper is nestled around a well protected harbor with a mediocre strip of sand. For the good surf and nice beaches you have to head up or down the coast to one of the many small inlets. And that means you'll either have to catch a cab or take one of several 4x4 drive bus thingies (like troop carrying trucks essentially). </p> +<p>The problem is that if you stay in San Juan Del Sur, you'll end up spending a good chunk of money getting to the beach, and that has never made sense to me. We did take a cab two days, once to Playa Majagual and once to Playa Maderas, two beaches to the north of the harbor, but they were something of a letdown.</p> +<p>The beaches themselves were curiously deserted, literally. In two days on two different beaches we were totally alone -- save for our cab driver somewhere back over the dune sleeping in his car. Which is sort of where the letdown part comes in. I realize that we were paying him decent money, but I couldn't help feeling guilty that there was this poor guy waiting all afternoon in his car. I wouldn't want to do that, would you?</p> +<p><amp-img alt="Hammock, Hotel Colonial" height="184" src="https://images.luxagraf.net//2008/sanjuan2.jpg" width="327"></amp-img>The guilt, coupled with the gusts of wind that whipped the sand against your skin a bit like a low grade sandblaster (come to San Juan Del Sur, free exfoliating while you wait!) made the beaches, well, something of a letdown.</p> +<p>The third day we got it right, we didn't do anything or go anywhere. We lounged around in hammocks, had a stroll around the town, bought our own hammock and hit the harbor front restaurant/bar scene early. </p> +<p>We ended up taking an upscale room in San Juan Del Sur since the cheap stuff was pretty morbid (it's hard to pay $25 for a room that isn't half as nice as many of the $2 rooms you've had elsewhere). As it turned out a Canadian couple that we met briefly in Granada had exactly the same thought process and ended up in the room next to use at the Hotel Colonial ($46 a night, rating: A). Kenso and Melissa had perhaps a much better justification for splashing out in San Juan Del Sur since they had taken the "loft" at the Bearded Monkey Guesthouse. Corrinne and I were offered the loft when we arrived at the Bearded Monkey, but we elected to hold out for a private room (which we ended up getting, thank god).</p> +<p>Kenso and Melissa arrived after us and found that, since we had snatched the last private room, they were stuck with the loft, which was essentially a 4 x 8 sheet of plywood nailed midway up a high-ceiling hallway. Not only was there little in the way of privacy, you had to climb a rather precarious ladder to get in and out -- no small feat when you're in a country where beer is only a dollar.</p> +<p>Somehow they managed to survive and check in next to us at the Hotel Colonial in San Juan Del Sur (and they were nice enough to bear no outward grudge for stealing the last room in Granada).</p> +<p><amp-img alt="sunset San Juan Del Sur +harborfront" height="246" src="https://images.luxagraf.net//2008/sanjuan4.jpg" width="437"></amp-img>Kenso and Melissa were on basically the same trip we were, though after San Juan Del Sur they opted to head to Ometepe while we went straight over to the Corn Island. But we spent a couple nights in one of the many near anonymous restaurants that line the harbor front, talking with Melissa and Kenso and watching the sunset while we ate lobster, fried plantains and, of course, the ever-present gallo y pinto.</p> +<p>However after three days we felt like we had more or less exhausted San Juan Del Sur. The combination of high prices and a plethora of rather obnoxious American ex-pats that seemed to generally hail from Los Angeles or some equally dreadful American metropolis sort of turned us off. </p> +<p>San Juan Del Sur is worth a visit, just don't be surprised when you find a battered paperback novel selling for $40 at a coffee shop where no one speaks Spanish. Americans are a cancer, someone needs to stop us (as a friend recently pointed out, something, not someone, is going to stop us -- the Euro).</p> +<p>And really it isn't that bad. Though San Juan Del Sur may not be my favorite spot in Nicaragua, there is something to be said for watching the Pacific sunsets over a plate of lobster and a cold beer. Life could be a whole lot worse.</p> + </div> + </article> +</main> + +</body> +</html> diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2008/04/return-sea.html b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2008/04/return-sea.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..a33886e --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2008/04/return-sea.html @@ -0,0 +1,347 @@ +<!DOCTYPE html> +<html +class="detail single" dir="ltr" lang="en-US"> + +<head> + <title>Return To The Sea - by Scott Gilbertson</title> + <meta charset="utf-8"> + <meta http-equiv="x-ua-compatible" content="ie=edge"> + <meta name="viewport" content="width=device-width, initial-scale=1"> + <meta name="description" + content="San Juan Del Sur is a bit pricy due to the big expat surfer community, but still a nice stop along the Pacific coast of Nicaragua. 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Not being the sort of tourists that like to disappoint a determined tout, we ended up in one of those cabs, along with a couple of Nicaraguans, bound for the Pacific coast town of San Juan Del Sur.</p> +<p><break> +<img src="[[base_url]]/2008/sanjuan3.jpg" class="postpic" alt="San Juan Del Sur +harborfront"/>From Granada we caught a chicken bus south, headed for Rivas. Southwestern Nicaragua is a very small strip of land with Lago Nicaragua to the east and the Pacific Ocean to the west. Rivas is smack dab in the middle of that strip, a kind of stopping off point rather than a destination, almost like a border town, despite the fact that the border is another hour south.</p> +<p>You essentially have two choices in Rivas: go east to the lake, visit Isle Ometepe and some of the other islands and small towns along the coast, or, go west to San Juan Del Sur and the other fishing villages along the Pacific (there’s also the third option of continuing on to the Costa Rican border, but that wasn’t in our plans).</p> +<p>Curiously enough, the morning we left for Nicaragua we stopped off for a cup of coffee at Jittery Joe’s and ran into our friend Nelson, who we hadn’t seen since we moved back to town. In one of those strange twists of fate that I’ve come to accept, it turned out that Nelson had just gotten back from Nicaragua the night before. We proceeded to do a quick five minute brain pick and came up with San Juan Del Sur, which is why we found ourselves trapped in a mid-90s Nissan sedan with the world’s slowest cab driver. </p> +<p><img alt="Playa Majagual" class="postpicright" src="https://images.luxagraf.net//2008/sanjuan1.jpg"/>The Pacific coast of Nicaragua has long been famous in surfer circles for its near-perfect and seemingly endless breaks (it’s featured in Endless Summer if you’re into that sort of thing). The last time I went surfing Quicksilver was still run out of a garage and I have no real desire to take it up again, but I rarely say no to some time by ocean.</p> +<p>San Juan Del Sur proper surrounds a well protected harbor with a mediocre strip of sand. For the good surf and nice beaches you have to head up or down the coast to one of the many small inlets. And that means you’ll either have to catch a cab or take one of several 4x4 drive bus thingies (like troop carrying trucks essentially). </p> +<p>The problem is that if you stay in San Juan Del Sur, you’ll end up spending a good chunk of money getting to the beach, and that has never made sense to me. We did take a cab two days, once to Playa Majagual and once to Playa Maderas, two beaches to the north of the harbor, but they were something of a letdown.</p> +<p>The beaches themselves were curiously deserted, literally. In two days on two different beaches we were totally alone — save for our cab driver somewhere back over the dune sleeping in his car. Which is sort of where the letdown part comes in. I realize that we were paying him decent money, but I couldn’t help feeling guilty that there was this poor guy waiting all afternoon in his car. I wouldn’t want to do that, would you?</p> +<p><img alt="Hammock, Hotel Colonial" class="postpic" src="https://images.luxagraf.net//2008/sanjuan2.jpg"/>The guilt, coupled with the gusts of wind that whipped the sand against your skin a bit like a low grade sandblaster (come to San Juan Del Sur, free exfoliating while you wait!) made the beaches, well, something of a letdown.</p> +<p>The third day we got it right, we didn’t do anything or go anywhere. We lounged around in hammocks, had a stroll around the town, bought our own hammock and hit the harbor front restaurant/bar scene early. </p> +<p>We ended up taking an upscale room in San Juan Del Sur since the cheap stuff was pretty morbid (it’s hard to pay $25 for a room that isn’t half as nice as many of the $2 rooms you’ve had elsewhere). As it turned out a Canadian couple that we met briefly in Granada had exactly the same thought process and ended up in the room next to use at the Hotel Colonial ($46 a night, rating: A). Kenso and Melissa had perhaps a much better justification for splashing out in San Juan Del Sur since they had taken the “loft” at the Bearded Monkey Guesthouse. Corrinne and I were offered the loft when we arrived at the Bearded Monkey, but we elected to hold out for a private room (which we ended up getting, thank god).</p> +<p>Kenso and Melissa arrived after us and found that, since we had snatched the last private room, they were stuck with the loft, which was essentially a 4 x 8 sheet of plywood nailed midway up a high-ceiling hallway. Not only was there little in the way of privacy, you had to climb a rather precarious ladder to get in and out — no small feat when you’re in a country where beer is only a dollar.</p> +<p>Somehow they managed to survive and check in next to us at the Hotel Colonial in San Juan Del Sur (and they were nice enough to bear no outward grudge for stealing the last room in Granada).</p> +<p><img src="[[base_url]]/2008/sanjuan4.jpg" class="postpicright" alt="sunset San Juan Del Sur +harborfront"/>Kenso and Melissa were on basically the same trip we were, though after San Juan Del Sur they opted to head to Ometepe while we went straight over to the Corn Island. But we spent a couple nights in one of the many near anonymous restaurants that line the harbor front, talking with Melissa and Kenso and watching the sunset while we ate lobster, fried plantains and, of course, the ever-present gallo y pinto.</p> +<p>However after three days we felt like we had more or less exhausted San Juan Del Sur. The combination of high prices and a plethora of rather obnoxious American ex-pats that seemed to generally hail from Los Angeles or some equally dreadful American metropolis sort of turned us off. </p> +<p>San Juan Del Sur is worth a visit, just don’t be surprised when you find a battered paperback novel selling for $40 at a coffee shop where no one speaks Spanish. Americans are a cancer, someone needs to stop us (as a friend recently pointed out, something, not someone, is going to stop us — the Euro).</p> +<p>And really it isn’t that bad. Though San Juan Del Sur may not be my favorite spot in Nicaragua, there is something to be said for watching the Pacific sunsets over a plate of lobster and a cold beer. Life could be a whole lot worse.</p> + </div> + + </article> + + + <div class="nav-wrapper"> + <nav id="page-navigation" class="page-border-top"> + <ul> + <li id="prev"><span class="bl">Previous:</span> + <a href="/jrnl/2008/03/ring-bells" rel="prev" title=" Ring The Bells">Ring The Bells</a> + </li> + <li id="next"><span class="bl">Next:</span> + <a href="/jrnl/2008/04/little-island-sun" rel="next" title=" Little Island in the Sun">Little Island in the Sun</a> + </li> + </ul> + </nav> + </div> + + + + + + +<div class="comment--form--wrapper "> + +<div class="comment--form--header"> + <p class="hed">Thoughts?</p> + <p class="subhed">Please leave a reply:</p> +</div> +<form action="/comments/post/" method="post" class="comment--form"> + +<input type="hidden" name="rder" value="" /> + + + <input type="hidden" name="content_type" value="jrnl.entry" id="id_content_type"> + + + + <input type="hidden" name="object_pk" value="85" id="id_object_pk"> + + + + <input type="hidden" name="timestamp" value="1596833471" id="id_timestamp"> + + + + <input type="hidden" name="security_hash" value="0c84d71faac9e8ac2cd8faa4bd64b5e86bdaf9ba" id="id_security_hash"> + + + + <fieldset > + <label for="id_name">Name:</label> + <input type="text" name="name" maxlength="50" required id="id_name"> + </fieldset> + + + + <fieldset > + <label for="id_email">Email address:</label> + <input type="email" name="email" required id="id_email"> + </fieldset> + + + + <fieldset > + <label for="id_url">URL:</label> + <input type="url" name="url" id="id_url"> + </fieldset> + + + + <fieldset > + <label for="id_comment">Comment:</label> + <div class="textarea-rounded"><textarea name="comment" cols="40" rows="10" maxlength="3000" required id="id_comment"> +</textarea></div> + </fieldset> + + + + <fieldset style="display:none;"> + <label for="id_honeypot">If you enter anything in this field your comment will be treated as spam:</label> + <input type="text" name="honeypot" id="id_honeypot"> + </fieldset> + + + <div class="submit"> + <input type="submit" name="post" class="submit-post btn" value="Post" /> + <input type="submit" name="preview" class="submit-preview btn" value="Preview" /> + </div> +</form> +<p style="font-size: 95%;"><strong>All comments are moderated</strong>, so you won’t see it right away. 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Not being the sort of tourists that like to disappoint a determined tout, we ended up in one of those cabs, along with a couple of Nicaraguans, bound for the Pacific coast town of San Juan Del Sur.
+
+<break>
+<img src="[[base_url]]/2008/sanjuan3.jpg" class="postpic" alt="San Juan Del Sur
+harborfront"/>From Granada we caught a chicken bus south, headed for Rivas. Southwestern Nicaragua is a very small strip of land with Lago Nicaragua to the east and the Pacific Ocean to the west. Rivas is smack dab in the middle of that strip, a kind of stopping off point rather than a destination, almost like a border town, despite the fact that the border is another hour south.
+
+You essentially have two choices in Rivas: go east to the lake, visit Isle Ometepe and some of the other islands and small towns along the coast, or, go west to San Juan Del Sur and the other fishing villages along the Pacific (there's also the third option of continuing on to the Costa Rican border, but that wasn't in our plans).
+
+Curiously enough, the morning we left for Nicaragua we stopped off for a cup of coffee at Jittery Joe's and ran into our friend Nelson, who we hadn't seen since we moved back to town. In one of those strange twists of fate that I've come to accept, it turned out that Nelson had just gotten back from Nicaragua the night before. We proceeded to do a quick five minute brain pick and came up with San Juan Del Sur, which is why we found ourselves trapped in a mid-90s Nissan sedan with the world's slowest cab driver.
+
+<img src="[[base_url]]/2008/sanjuan1.jpg" class="postpicright" alt="Playa Majagual"/>The Pacific coast of Nicaragua has long been famous in surfer circles for its near-perfect and seemingly endless breaks (it's featured in Endless Summer if you're into that sort of thing). The last time I went surfing Quicksilver was still run out of a garage and I have no real desire to take it up again, but I rarely say no to some time by ocean.
+
+San Juan Del Sur proper surrounds a well protected harbor with a mediocre strip of sand. For the good surf and nice beaches you have to head up or down the coast to one of the many small inlets. And that means you'll either have to catch a cab or take one of several 4x4 drive bus thingies (like troop carrying trucks essentially).
+
+The problem is that if you stay in San Juan Del Sur, you'll end up spending a good chunk of money getting to the beach, and that has never made sense to me. We did take a cab two days, once to Playa Majagual and once to Playa Maderas, two beaches to the north of the harbor, but they were something of a letdown.
+
+The beaches themselves were curiously deserted, literally. In two days on two different beaches we were totally alone -- save for our cab driver somewhere back over the dune sleeping in his car. Which is sort of where the letdown part comes in. I realize that we were paying him decent money, but I couldn't help feeling guilty that there was this poor guy waiting all afternoon in his car. I wouldn't want to do that, would you?
+
+<img src="[[base_url]]/2008/sanjuan2.jpg" class="postpic" alt="Hammock, Hotel Colonial"/>The guilt, coupled with the gusts of wind that whipped the sand against your skin a bit like a low grade sandblaster (come to San Juan Del Sur, free exfoliating while you wait!) made the beaches, well, something of a letdown.
+
+The third day we got it right, we didn't do anything or go anywhere. We lounged around in hammocks, had a stroll around the town, bought our own hammock and hit the harbor front restaurant/bar scene early.
+
+We ended up taking an upscale room in San Juan Del Sur since the cheap stuff was pretty morbid (it's hard to pay $25 for a room that isn't half as nice as many of the $2 rooms you've had elsewhere). As it turned out a Canadian couple that we met briefly in Granada had exactly the same thought process and ended up in the room next to use at the Hotel Colonial ($46 a night, rating: A). Kenso and Melissa had perhaps a much better justification for splashing out in San Juan Del Sur since they had taken the "loft" at the Bearded Monkey Guesthouse. Corrinne and I were offered the loft when we arrived at the Bearded Monkey, but we elected to hold out for a private room (which we ended up getting, thank god).
+
+Kenso and Melissa arrived after us and found that, since we had snatched the last private room, they were stuck with the loft, which was essentially a 4 x 8 sheet of plywood nailed midway up a high-ceiling hallway. Not only was there little in the way of privacy, you had to climb a rather precarious ladder to get in and out -- no small feat when you're in a country where beer is only a dollar.
+
+Somehow they managed to survive and check in next to us at the Hotel Colonial in San Juan Del Sur (and they were nice enough to bear no outward grudge for stealing the last room in Granada).
+
+<img src="[[base_url]]/2008/sanjuan4.jpg" class="postpicright" alt="sunset San Juan Del Sur
+harborfront"/>Kenso and Melissa were on basically the same trip we were, though after San Juan Del Sur they opted to head to Ometepe while we went straight over to the Corn Island. But we spent a couple nights in one of the many near anonymous restaurants that line the harbor front, talking with Melissa and Kenso and watching the sunset while we ate lobster, fried plantains and, of course, the ever-present gallo y pinto.
+
+However after three days we felt like we had more or less exhausted San Juan Del Sur. The combination of high prices and a plethora of rather obnoxious American ex-pats that seemed to generally hail from Los Angeles or some equally dreadful American metropolis sort of turned us off.
+
+San Juan Del Sur is worth a visit, just don't be surprised when you find a battered paperback novel selling for $40 at a coffee shop where no one speaks Spanish. Americans are a cancer, someone needs to stop us (as a friend recently pointed out, something, not someone, is going to stop us -- the Euro).
+
+And really it isn't that bad. Though San Juan Del Sur may not be my favorite spot in Nicaragua, there is something to be said for watching the Pacific sunsets over a plate of lobster and a cold beer. Life could be a whole lot worse. diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2008/06/index.html b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2008/06/index.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..ed8e030 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2008/06/index.html @@ -0,0 +1,110 @@ +<!DOCTYPE html> +<html dir="ltr" lang="en-US"> + +<head> + <title>Luxagraf - Topografical Writings: Archive</title> + <meta charset="utf-8"> + <meta http-equiv="x-ua-compatible" content="ie=edge"> + <meta name="viewport" content="width=device-width, initial-scale=1"> + <meta name="description" + content="Luxagraf: recording journeys around the world and just next door."> + <meta name="author" content="Scott Gilbertson"> + <!--[if IE]> + <script src="/js/html5css3ie.min.js"></script> + <![endif]--> + <link rel="alternate" + type="application/rss+xml" + title="Luxagraf RSS feed" + href="https://luxagraf.net/rss/"> + <link rel="stylesheet" + href="/media/screenv8.css" + media="screen"> + <!--[if IE]> + <link rel="stylesheet" + href="/media/css/ie.css" + media="screen"> + <![endif]--> + <link rel="shortcut icon" href="favicon.ico" type="image/x-icon"> + <link rel="manifest" href="manifest.json"> + <meta property="fb:pages" content="900822029969349" /> + +</head> +<body id="archive"> + <div class="wrapper" id="wrapper"> + <div class="header-wrapper"> + <header role="banner"> + <h1><a id="logo" href="/" title="home">Luxagraf</a></h1> + <h2>Walk Slowly</h2> + </header> + <nav role="navigation" class="bl"> + <ul> + <li id="laverdad"><a href="/jrnl/" title="What we've been up to lately">Journal</a></li> + <!--<li id="nota"><a href="/field-notes/" title="Quick notes and images from the road">Notes</a></li> + <li id="fotos"><a href="/photos/" title="Photos from travels around the world">Photos</a></li>i--> + <li id="maps"><a href="/map" title="Maps">Map</a></li> + <li id="about"><a href="/about" title="About Luxagraf">About</a></li> + <li id="etc" class="last"><a href="/projects/" title="the less visible portions of the iceberg">More</a></li> + </ul> + </nav> + </div> + <ul class="bl" id="breadcrumbs" itemscope itemtype="http://data-vocabulary.org/Breadcrumb"> + <li><a href="/" title="luxagraf homepage" itemprop="url"><span itemprop="title">Home</span></a> → </li> + <li><a href="/jrnl/" title="See all Journal Entries" itemprop="url"><span itemprop="title">Journal</span></a> →</li> + <li><a href="/jrnl/2008/">2008</a> →</li> + <li>June</li> + </ul> + <main role="main" id="writing-archive" class="archive"> + <h1> Archive: June 2008</h1> + <ul class="date-archive"> + <li class="arc-item"><a href="/jrnl/2008/06/you-cant-go-home-again" title="You Can't Go Home Again">You Can’t Go Home Again</a> + <time datetime="2008-06-30T17:49:43-04:00">Jun 30, 2008</time> + </li> + <li class="arc-item"><a href="/jrnl/2008/06/returning-again-back-little-corn-island" title="Returning Again &mdash; 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There are some good tips in the article, even for the seasoned travel vet.</p> +<p><a href="http://xkcd.com/386/"><amp-img alt="XKCD Comics: Some is Wrong on the Internet" height="214" src="https://images.luxagraf.net//2008/someoneiswrong.jpg" width="201"></amp-img></a>But what's far more fascinating is the response from commenters many of whom tore into Patterson, calling him everything from a "rich, privileged, arrogant hipster" to a "dirty hippie." +<break> +Here's a random sampling of some comments on Patterson's post:</break></p> +<blockquote> +<p>there are three possible answers for how he can do this and not have to worry about his obligations. 1). He's a jobless loser that contributes nothing to society... 2). He's a rich, privileged, arrogant hipster who, while preaching a lifestyle of no consumerism and organic foods, really travels around in a BMW, listening to his iPod, blogging on his Macbook Air, contributes nothing to society... 3). He's a 14 year old idealist who's parents were hippies, but now work for Haliburton.</p> +</blockquote> +<p>That's the sort of cynicism that just depresses me. Why are you so convinced that everyone else is a selfish privileged asshole? At long last, have you no sense of decency sir?</p> +<blockquote> +<p>Trusting people you don't know while you sleep in their house is a good way to end up half-naked, raped, dead and in a ditch.</p> +</blockquote> +<p>Mom? Is that you? </p> +<blockquote> +<p>In fact, the further you get from the cities, the more viciously backwards with respect to medicine, hygiene and hospitality the people get... and, eventually, you reach places where the word 'culture' is completely inapplicable, and your life is seriously in danger.</p> +</blockquote> +<p>My personal favorite though is the commenter who cites the words of a Pulp Fiction character as an example of how to live. Wonderful, murderous assassins are who you look up to? </p> +<h3>Why Vagabonds Make People Mad</h3> +<p><amp-img alt="" height="117" src="https://images.luxagraf.net//2008/vgb.jpg" width="179"></amp-img>So why all the vitriol about a seemingly innocuous concept -- that traveling doesn't have to cost a lot of money, isn't all that difficult and hey, you can even go right now. </p> +<p>Part of the negative reaction comes from the widely-held belief that travelers are a privileged lot -- privileged because, unlike you and I, they can just drop their lives and leave. People like us, who feel tied down by responsibility, find the suggestion that we actually aren't patronizing and yes, elitist -- how dare you tell me what I can and can't do?</p> +<p>But when I dig a bit deeper into this sort of thinking, I generally find that by elitist, most people really mean enviably rich. </p> +<p>It may be splitting hairs, but I find that, despite rhetoric to the contrary, Americans actually admire elitists. To paraphrase and twist John Stewart a bit, we want advice from elitists. We don't want advice from people that believe everyone's a murderer.</p> +<p>But we also don't want rich people who've never struggled telling us that it isn't hard to drop everything we're struggling with and head out into the world.</p> +<p>The irony of course is that, in this case, the hostile reaction comes in response to an article that has ten tips on traveling cheaply -- in other words, it's trying to show you that you don't need money to travel.</p> +<p>That said, you'll never find me denying that I am very, very lucky and have been handed an incredible amount of privilege in my life, especially relative to the rest of the world. </p> +<p>But 90 percent of America is in the same boat. Troops do not storm our houses, bombs do not fall on our cities, Malaria, Dengue Fever, <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Schistosoma">schistosoma</a> and other killer diseases are unknown here (though <a href="http://www.theregister.co.uk/2008/01/09/dengue_fever/">that may change</a>). </p> +<p>We are all privileged. For one American to call another privileged is a pot-kettle-black debate.</p> +<p>The privileged part is just a cover for a much deeper and more personal issue in our lives. </p> +<p>So why do we attack the author as an elitist? It's a psychological defense mechanism.</p> +<p>Stop and consider for a moment what Patterson is really saying: it's not hard to drop your life and travel.</p> +<h3>Living Well</h3> +<p>The debate that happens in the comments of his article cuts right to heart of some very personal ideas -- just how important is your "life"? The unspoken assumption in that statement that ticks people off is the implication that everything you're doing is trivial -- that the life you're leading is so meaningless that it can be abandoned without a second thought.</p> +<p>That's why the attacks on Patterson are so personal and so vehement, because Patterson is, consciously or not, attacking people's most cherished belief, that our lives mean something and are important.</p> +<p>Obviously no one wants to think otherwise. </p> +<p>But I've done it -- dropped everything and left -- and, for me, as much as I am loath to admit it, it was true. Everything I thought I needed to be doing turned out to be totally unnecessary and yes, meaningless. </p> +<p>In fact I spent the first month of my trip wrestling with that. I was caught between feeling like I was finally doing something that <em>did</em> matter and beating myself up about having been suckered into the previous life, now rendered meaningless.</p> +<p>In other words I understand why some people reacted to Patterson's piece the way they did.</p> +<p>The debate that happens in the comments of his article cuts right to heart of some very personal ideas -- just how important is your "life"?</p> +<p>American culture tries to convince us that if you do the right things, you life is very valuable. There are some long standing, deeply-ingrained, fundamental axioms that lead us to believe that relaxation, travel and not working are contemptible. Instead, we're told, you need to work hard to "get ahead."</p> +<p>The notion that the importance of your life is dependent on your ability to "make something of yourself" is pretty well ingrained. Advocating otherwise is going to bring you some hostile reactions (as Patterson recently discovered).</p> +<p>I'm not saying I'm immune. If you learn anything traveling, it's that you can never escape your own culture. That's why I spent most of a week in Goa, India feeling guilty. Guilty that I was enjoying my life rather than working for some future enjoyment. Guilty that I had apparently been wasting my life for some years prior to that moment. Guilty that I was able to finally escape that when so many people never do. Guilty for all sorts of contradictory things.</p> +<p>And scared. Scared that when I got back, jobless and penniless I would end up homeless and starving to death. Scared that I might not make it back (India's bus system will do that to you).</p> +<p>This is the part where I'm supposed to tell you about how I came to peace with it all. But the truth is that never exactly happened. In India I ended up meeting an Englishman who had a seemingly endless supply of excellent scotch and I quickly forgot about my guilt and fear. But it comes back.</p> +<p>I know, that's not the answer you were looking for. Bear with me.</p> +<h3>Making Something</h3> +<p><amp-img alt="balancing act, goa, India" height="300" src="https://images.luxagraf.net//2008/balancingactgoa.jpg" width="236"></amp-img>Let's go back to the notion of making something of yourself. I do believe in "making something of myself." And I am aware that that's a uniquely American idea, or at least western, since we seem to have somewhat successfully exported the idea to Europe as well. </p> +<p>What's interesting is how we define the key variable in that sentence -- what does it <em>mean</em> to make something of yourself?</p> +<p>In defending his co-writer, fellow Matador author Josh Kearns offers all sorts of ways that travel can <a href="http://www.bravenewtraveler.com/2008/06/04/the-tao-of-vagabond-travel/">lead to a more meaningful definition of who you are</a>. He cites Alan Watts, Lao Tzu and some other very wise men to point out that in fact traveling can be exactly what you need to "make something of yourself."</p> +<p>But in many ways that simply begs the question -- if you're open to Alan Watts and Lao Tzu, you probably didn't disagree with Patterson's original argument. If you think Alan Watts was a communist and Lao Tzu comes with Kung Pao chicken, Kearns' argument isn't going to say anything to you.</p> +<p>How you answer that question -- what does it mean to "make something of yourself" -- greatly affects how you view the world around you and will determine how you react to a stance like Patterson's.</p> +<p>It's pretty easy to see how the more vitriolic commenters answer the question, all you need to do is reverse engineer the thought process. For instance, it's not hard to imagine that the person quoted above, who says staying with strangers is dangerous, lacks a strong sense of faith in humanity. </p> +<p>I have no idea why, but I'll make a guess -- one way to make something of yourself is to make nothing of everyone else. </p> +<p>If you see everyone around you as a murderous bunch of rapists and psychopaths, you get to see yourself and your family and friends as shining examples of humanity. You've made something of yourself -- You're better than the murderous bastards out there -- without doing anything at all. You're most likely going to lead a miserable existence, but it is one way to answer the question.</p> +<p>For others the answer to the "make something of yourself" question is tied up in western technological superiority. Like the man who says that the further you go "the more viciously backwards with respect to medicine, hygiene and hospitality the people get." </p> +<p>In order to think that you need to believe that your society is superior to everyone else's because we have all the things <em>we</em> value and they have none of the things <em>we</em> value -- never mind what they value, that's irrelevant. So you can say you've made something of yourself because you're part of (by your own definition) a superior society.</p> +<p>But here's what I think Kearns and Patterson are trying to say -- these might not be the best ways to "make something of yourself." In fact you might need to get completely outside yourself in order to make something.</p> +<p>If your definition of living well is making something of yourself and your primary means of making something of yourself is making less of everyone else then it's not surprising that anyone who suggests temporarily abandoning your life and your society is going to make you confused, angry, fearful and perhaps guilty.</p> +<h3>The View From Here</h3> +<p><amp-img alt="view from a hammock, little corn island, nicaragua" height="169" src="https://images.luxagraf.net//2008/viewfromahammock.jpg" width="300"></amp-img>Which brings me back to my own experiences in Goa -- fear, guilt, anger and confusion.</p> +<p>No, I never have entirely come to terms with the guilt or the confusion, but the fear and anger did go away. I quickly realized that there was no point being angry with myself for failing to leave my life sooner, I took comfort in the fact that at least I left eventually.</p> +<p>The guilt is still there. Much as I enjoy <a href="http://luxagraf.net/2008/apr/05/little-island-sun/">sitting in hammock in Nicaragua</a> I spend a good bit of my time sitting there thinking about how I should be doing something with my life -- writing a novel, building a website, at the very least writing something about my travels. </p> +<p>You name it, I've felt guilty about not doing it. </p> +<p>But this last trip I started thinking about something else more troubling -- have I turned back into someone who thinks their life is important? Have I forgotten that feeling of total freedom that comes from abandoing your "life," that relief of realizing that all the things I agonize over in my "real" life, are actually quite meaningless?</p> +<p>See unlike the commenters who don't buy the vagabond argument, I suffer from a different American cliche.</p> +<p>For me, America ingrained its devil-may-care adventure motif far more than its make-something-of-yourself cliche. From Lewis and Clark to Jack Kerouac, there's a strong cultural legacy of lighting out for the territories.</p> +<p>Now I'm in an entirely different situation than I was when I left for my last trip. </p> +<p>I'll be married later this month. The common wisdom is that traveling with a family is somehow impossible, in America there's a myth that once you're married and have kids you have to settle down and that butts up against the myth I've been buying into all this time -- Kerouac and the rest.</p> +<p>I still don't know if it's my idea or just me replicating that devil-may-care cultural meme, but I reject the idea of settling down and I've met enough traveling families to know I won't be the first to reject it. </p> +<p>It may be more difficult to travel with a family, I'll have to get back to you on that, and fear not, I will get back to you because I will do it.</p> +<p>But the thing that strikes me is that, if I hadn't already set out, rejected my own life and gone through everything that I went through, adding a family to the equation might well make the whole idea seeming completely unfathomable. </p> +<p>And that's something I think many of these self-styled vagabond travel writers leave out of their "anyone can do it" travel pieces.</p> +<p>Anyone <em>can</em> do it, but it takes a hell of a lot more courage and effort for some than for others. I have no doubt that Patterson and Kearns are both aware of that and I understand that including the nuances just isn't something online journalism generally allows for, but it's a shame because it ends up alienating the people who could most benefit from some encouraging.</p> +<p>So while I agree with both authors, I think the "just do it" incantations are every bit as hollow as a Nike ad -- even when they're true.</p> +<p>And the glibness of most travel writing, particularly those of the so-called vagabond stripe ends up having the opposite effect that the proponents intend (<a href="http://www.rolfpotts.com/">Rolf Potts</a> is a notable exception). </p> +<p>I'm not going to tell you that it's easy to drop your life and take off to see the world. +However, I will say that it isn't as hard as you think. Your job isn't as valuable as you think, there's probably someone who'd love to rent your house and your kids will thank you when they're older (mom, dad, thanks).</p> +<p>I'm also not going to say that I don't buy the idea that you should strive to "make something of yourself," but the important thing about the "making" is that <em>you</em> define what that means. For some it might mean sticking to one job and providing for a family. For others it might mean dragging your family around the world on a grand adventure. Both answers are valid -- just make sure that it's you, not your culture, making the decision. And make sure that you realize both really are valid possibilities -- the only limitation to your life is your own imagination.</p> +<p>For me, making something of yourself is a never-ending process and one of the key elements is exploring all the different ways people around the world answer that fundamental question -- what does living well mean?</p> +<p>[VGB image from <a href="http://www.rolfpotts.com/">Rolf Potts</a>, cartoon from the ever hilarious <a href="http://xkcd.com/386/">xkcd</a>]</p> + </div> + </article> +</main> + +</body> +</html> diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2008/06/love-with-a-view-vagabonds-responsibilty-living-we.html b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2008/06/love-with-a-view-vagabonds-responsibilty-living-we.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..41a5db8 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2008/06/love-with-a-view-vagabonds-responsibilty-living-we.html @@ -0,0 +1,442 @@ +<!DOCTYPE html> +<html +class="detail single" dir="ltr" lang="en-US"> + +<head> + <title>In Love With A View: Vagabonds, Responsibilty And Living Well - by Scott Gilbertson</title> + <meta charset="utf-8"> + <meta http-equiv="x-ua-compatible" content="ie=edge"> + <meta name="viewport" content="width=device-width, initial-scale=1"> + <meta name="description" + content="Saying that anyone can just drop everything and travel the world is patronizing and elitist, but that doesn't mean it isn't true. 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He’s a jobless loser that contributes nothing to society… 2). He’s a rich, privileged, arrogant hipster who, while preaching a lifestyle of no consumerism and organic foods, really travels around in a BMW, listening to his iPod, blogging on his Macbook Air, contributes nothing to society… 3). He’s a 14 year old idealist who’s parents were hippies, but now work for Haliburton.</p> +</blockquote> +<p>The number of unexamined assumptions here is staggering — does having a job contribute to society? How? Is contributing to society a things you should do? Why? And so on — but it’s really the cynicism that depresses me. Why are we so quick to assume the worst in everyone? Oh right, the internet.</p> +<p>This one is probably my favorite:</p> +<blockquote> +<p>Trusting people you don’t know while you sleep in their house is a good way to end up half-naked, raped, dead and in a ditch.</p> +</blockquote> +<p>Mom? Is that you? Seriously though, this one is uniquely American. Only Americans live in fear of everyone. I’ve spent years trying to figure out where this belief comes from and I still don’t have an answer. My best guess is that the mediocrity of our lives is somehow more tolerable if we cling to the belief that everywhere and everyone else is much worse off.</p> +<p>Even good old fashioned western colonial pretentiousness finds its way into the comments, which Matador should really just turn off because there’s nay a voice of intelligence among its readership:</p> +<blockquote> +<p>In fact, the further you get from the cities, the more viciously backwards with respect to medicine, hygiene and hospitality the people get… And, eventually, you reach places where the word ‘culture’ is completely inapplicable, and your life is seriously in danger.</p> +</blockquote> +<p>My personal favorite though is the commenter who cites the words of a Pulp Fiction character as an example of how to live. Wonderful, murderous assassins are who you look up to? Oh right, ‘merica.</p> +<h3>Why Vagabonds Have Always Made People Mad</h3> +<p>So why all the vitriol about a seemingly innocuous concept — that traveling doesn’t have to cost a lot of money, isn’t all that difficult, and hey, you can even go right now?</p> +<p>The first negative reaction comes from the widely-held belief that travelers are a privileged lot — privileged because, unlike you and I, they can just drop their lives and leave. Americans love to make a great show of hating privilege<sup id="fnref:1"><a class="footnote-ref" href="#fn:1" rel="footnote">1</a></sup>, which explains the first comment I highlighted. The great irony is that this reaction is in response to an article that has ten tips on traveling cheaply. It’s trying to show you that you don’t need money to travel, but that gets to the second reason people hate vagabonds.</p> +<p>Consider for a moment what Patterson is really saying: your life isn’t so important. Actually it’s so <em>un</em>important that you can just chuck it and travel. </p> +<p>Americans especially tend to have a lot of their personal identity and sense of self-worth tightly intertwined with their jobs, the status symbols they’ve acquired and so on, in other words, their life. </p> +<p>If it’s actually quite simple to toss all that aside and do something else then that’s not so subtly saying that all that stuff, our lives, have no value. Tell people that and they’re going to hate you, no matter what their culture.</p> +<h3>Living Well</h3> +<p>The debate that happens in the comments of his article cuts right to heart of some very personal ideas — just how important is your “life”? </p> +<p>What if the life you’re leading is so meaningless that it can be abandoned without a second thought? That doesn’t make anyone feel good and that’s why the attacks on Patterson are so personal and so vehement, because Patterson is, consciously or not, attacking people’s most cherished belief: that our lives mean something and are important. No one wants to think otherwise. </p> +<p>But I’ve done it — dropped everything and left — and, for me, as much as I am loath to admit it, it was true.</p> +<p>Everything I thought I needed to be doing turned out to be totally unnecessary and yes, meaningless. I spent the first month of my first stint of long term travel wrestling with that. I was caught between feeling like I was finally doing something that <em>did</em> matter and beating myself up about having been suckered into the previous life, now rendered meaningless.</p> +<p>I understand why some people reacted to Patterson’s piece the way they did.</p> +<p>American culture tries to convince us that if you do the right things, you life is very valuable. There are some long standing, deeply-ingrained beliefs that lead us to believe that relaxation, travel and not working are contemptible. Instead, we’re told, you need to work hard to “get ahead.”</p> +<p>The notion that the importance of your life is dependent on your ability to “make something of yourself” is pretty well ingrained in us. </p> +<p>I’m not immune to this notion. If you learn anything traveling, it’s that you can never escape your own cultural assumptions, not even when you realize them for that they are — culturally-bound assumptions. That’s why I spent most of a week in India feeling guilty. Guilty that I was enjoying my life rather than working for some future enjoyment. Guilty that I had apparently been wasting my life for some years prior to that moment. Guilty that I was able to finally escape that when so many people never do. Guilty for all sorts of contradictory things.</p> +<p>And scared. Scared that when I got back, jobless and penniless I would end up homeless and starving to death. Scared that I might not make it back at all (India’s bus system will do that to you). </p> +<p>This is the part where I’m supposed to tell you about how I came to peace with it all. But the truth is that never exactly happened. Fear goes away, you learn the useful things it has to teach, you set aside the less useful parts. Or at least you learn to live with it. Or you don’t and you go home. That part is simple. </p> +<p>Finding meaning in your life to replace the meaning you lose when you step outside your culture and discover that “your” beliefs are not yours at all, just constructs you absorbed without thinking about is much harder because there is no transcendental culture. To replace the meaning you lose without your culture you can either stubbornly cling to your culture by belittling all the rest or you can enter the realms traditionally covered by religion, that is, the search for truth and meaning that transcend human culture.</p> +<p>I know, that’s not the answer you were looking for.</p> +<h3>Making Something</h3> +<p>The easiest thing to do is what the commenters above did — prop up your own culture by ridiculing other cultures. Like the man who says that the further you go “the more viciously backwards with respect to medicine, hygiene and hospitality the people get.” </p> +<p>In order to think that you need to believe that your society is superior to the rest because you have all the things you value and they have none of the things you value and never mind what they value, that’s irrelevant. </p> +<p>If you see everyone around you as a murderous bunch of backward rapists and psychopaths, you get to see yourself and your family and friends as shining examples of humanity. </p> +<p>To go back to that great Americanism, you’ve made something of yourself.</p> +<p>You’re better than the murderous bastards out there. Best of all you didn’t actually have to do anything. You’re most likely going to lead a miserable existence, but it is one way to answer the questions travel poses.</p> +<h3>The View From Here</h3> +<p>My last trip to Nicaragua got me wondering if I have turned back into someone who thinks their life is important. Have I forgotten that feeling of total freedom that comes from abandoning your “life,” that relief of realizing that all the things I agonize over in my “real” life, are actually quite meaningless?</p> +<p>See, unlike the commenters who don’t buy the vagabond argument, I suffer from a different American cliche.</p> +<p>For me, America ingrained its devil-may-care adventure motif far more than its make-something-of-yourself cliche. From Lewis and Clark to Huck Finn to Jack Kerouac, there’s a strong cultural legacy of lighting out for the territories at Twain put it.</p> +<p>Now I’m in an entirely different situation than I was when I left for my last trip. I’ll be married later this month, my wife and I would like to have a family. The common wisdom is that traveling with a family is somehow impossible, in America there’s a myth that once you’re married and have kids you have to settle down and that butts up against the myth I’ve been buying into all this time.</p> +<p>I still don’t know if it’s my idea or just me replicating that devil-may-care cultural meme, but I reject the idea of settling down and I’ve met enough traveling families to know I won’t be the first to reject it. It may be more difficult to travel with a family, I’ll have to get back to you on that, and fear not, I will get back to you because I will do it.</p> +<p>But the thing that strikes me is that, if I hadn’t already set out, rejected my own life and gone through everything that I went through, adding a family to the equation might well make the whole idea seeming completely unfathomable. </p> +<p>And that’s something I think many of these self-styled vagabond travel writers leave out of their “anyone can do it” travel pieces.</p> +<p>Anyone <em>can</em> do it, but it takes a hell of a lot more courage and effort for some than for others. I have no doubt that most writers are both aware of that and I understand that including the nuances just isn’t something online journalism generally allows for, but it’s a shame because it ends up alienating the people who could most benefit from some encouraging rather than banal “I did it you can too” articles. While I agree with the notion that any American can travel, I think the “just do it” incantations are every bit as hollow as a Nike ad — even when they’re true.</p> +<p>I’m not going to tell you that it’s easy to drop your life and take off to see the world. However, I will say that it isn’t as hard as you think. Your job isn’t as valuable as you think, there’s probably someone who’d love to rent your house and your kids will thank you when they’re older.</p> +<p>I’m also not going to say that I don’t buy the idea that you should strive to “make something of yourself,” but the important thing about the “making” is that <em>you</em> define what that means. </p> +<p>For some it might mean sticking to one job and providing for a family. For others it might mean dragging your family around the world on a grand adventure. Both answers are valid — just make sure that it’s you, not your culture, making the decision. And make sure that you realize both really are valid possibilities — the only limitation to your life is your own imagination.</p> +<p>For me, making something of yourself is a never-ending process and one of the key elements is exploring all the different ways people around the world answer that fundamental question — what does living well mean?</p> +<div class="footnote"> +<hr> +<ol> +<li id="fn:1"> +<p>That said, you’ll never find me denying that I am very, very lucky and have been handed an incredible amount of privilege in my life, especially relative to the rest of the world. But 90 percent of America is in the same boat. Troops do not storm our houses, bombs do not fall on our cities, Malaria, Dengue Fever, schistosoma and other killer diseases are unknown here. We are all privileged. For one American to call another privileged is a pot-kettle-black debate. <a class="footnote-backref" href="#fnref:1" rev="footnote" title="Jump back to footnote 1 in the text">↩</a></p> +</li> +</ol> +</div> + </div> + <div class="entry-footer"> + <aside id="wildlife"> + <h3>Fauna and Flora</h3> + + <ul> + + <li class="grouper">Birds<ul> + + <li>American Robin </li> + + <li>Blue Jay </li> + + <li>Brown-headed Cowbird </li> + + <li><a href="/dialogues/brown-thrasher">Brown Thrasher</a> </li> + + <li>Canada Goose </li> + + <li>Carolina Chickadee </li> + + <li>Chipping Sparrow </li> + + <li>Downy Woodpecker </li> + + <li>Eastern Bluebird </li> + + <li>Eastern Towhee </li> + + <li>Gray Catbird </li> + + <li>Great Blue Heron </li> + + <li>Hooded Warbler </li> + + <li><a href="/dialogues/northern-cardinal">Northern Cardinal</a> </li> + + <li><a href="/dialogues/northern-mockingbird">Northern Mockingbird</a> </li> + + <li>Red-bellied Woodpecker </li> + + <li><a href="/dialogues/summer-tanager">Summer Tanager</a> </li> + + <li>Tufted Titmouse </li> + + <li>Wood Duck </li> + + <li>Yellow-rumped Warbler </li> + </ul> + </ul> + </aside> + + + </div> + </article> + + + <div class="nav-wrapper"> + <nav id="page-navigation" > + <ul> + <li id="prev"><span class="bl">Previous:</span> + <a href="/jrnl/2008/04/little-island-sun" rel="prev" title=" Little Island in the Sun">Little Island in the Sun</a> + </li> + <li id="next"><span class="bl">Next:</span> + <a href="/jrnl/2008/06/returning-again-back-little-corn-island" rel="next" title=" Returning Again &mdash; Back on Little Corn Island">Returning Again — Back on Little Corn Island</a> + </li> + </ul> + </nav> + </div> + + + + + + +<div class="comment--form--wrapper "> + +<div class="comment--form--header"> + <p class="hed">Thoughts?</p> + <p class="subhed">Please leave a reply:</p> +</div> +<form action="/comments/post/" method="post" class="comment--form"> + +<input type="hidden" name="rder" value="" /> + + + <input type="hidden" name="content_type" value="jrnl.entry" id="id_content_type"> + + + + <input type="hidden" name="object_pk" value="88" id="id_object_pk"> + + + + <input type="hidden" name="timestamp" value="1596833470" id="id_timestamp"> + + + + <input type="hidden" name="security_hash" value="0fc1f07a478bdbe6754cc40e3ac817d7420a88b0" id="id_security_hash"> + + + + <fieldset > + <label for="id_name">Name:</label> + <input type="text" name="name" maxlength="50" required id="id_name"> + </fieldset> + + + + <fieldset > + <label for="id_email">Email address:</label> + <input type="email" name="email" required id="id_email"> + </fieldset> + + + + <fieldset > + <label for="id_url">URL:</label> + <input type="url" name="url" id="id_url"> + </fieldset> + + + + <fieldset > + <label for="id_comment">Comment:</label> + <div class="textarea-rounded"><textarea name="comment" cols="40" rows="10" maxlength="3000" required id="id_comment"> +</textarea></div> + </fieldset> + + + + <fieldset style="display:none;"> + <label for="id_honeypot">If you enter anything in this field your comment will be treated as spam:</label> + <input type="text" name="honeypot" id="id_honeypot"> + </fieldset> + + + <div class="submit"> + <input type="submit" name="post" class="submit-post btn" value="Post" /> + <input type="submit" name="preview" class="submit-preview btn" value="Preview" /> + </div> +</form> +<p style="font-size: 95%;"><strong>All comments are moderated</strong>, so you won’t see it right away. 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+
+What's far more fascinating than the functional tips though is the response from commenters many of whom tore into Patterson, calling him nearly every name across the spectrum from "rich, privileged, arrogant hipster" to "dirty hippie." Make up your mind people.
+
+Here's a random sampling of some comments on Patterson's post:
+
+>there are three possible answers for how he can do this and not have to worry about his obligations. 1). He's a jobless loser that contributes nothing to society... 2). He's a rich, privileged, arrogant hipster who, while preaching a lifestyle of no consumerism and organic foods, really travels around in a BMW, listening to his iPod, blogging on his Macbook Air, contributes nothing to society... 3). He's a 14 year old idealist who's parents were hippies, but now work for Haliburton.
+
+The number of unexamined assumptions here is staggering -- does having a job contribute to society? How? Is contributing to society a things you should do? Why? And so on -- but it's really the cynicism that depresses me. Why are we so quick to assume the worst in everyone? Oh right, the internet.
+
+This one is probably my favorite:
+
+>Trusting people you don't know while you sleep in their house is a good way to end up half-naked, raped, dead and in a ditch.
+
+Mom? Is that you? Seriously though, this one is uniquely American. Only Americans live in fear of everyone. I've spent years trying to figure out where this belief comes from and I still don't have an answer. My best guess is that the mediocrity of our lives is somehow more tolerable if we cling to the belief that everywhere and everyone else is much worse off.
+
+Even good old fashioned western colonial pretentiousness finds its way into the comments, which Matador should really just turn off because there's nay a voice of intelligence among its readership:
+
+>In fact, the further you get from the cities, the more viciously backwards with respect to medicine, hygiene and hospitality the people get... And, eventually, you reach places where the word 'culture' is completely inapplicable, and your life is seriously in danger.
+
+My personal favorite though is the commenter who cites the words of a Pulp Fiction character as an example of how to live. Wonderful, murderous assassins are who you look up to? Oh right, 'merica.
+
+###Why Vagabonds Have Always Made People Mad
+
+So why all the vitriol about a seemingly innocuous concept -- that traveling doesn't have to cost a lot of money, isn't all that difficult, and hey, you can even go right now?
+
+The first negative reaction comes from the widely-held belief that travelers are a privileged lot -- privileged because, unlike you and I, they can just drop their lives and leave. Americans love to make a great show of hating privilege[^1], which explains the first comment I highlighted. The great irony is that this reaction is in response to an article that has ten tips on traveling cheaply. It's trying to show you that you don't need money to travel, but that gets to the second reason people hate vagabonds.
+
+Consider for a moment what Patterson is really saying: your life isn't so important. Actually it's so *un*important that you can just chuck it and travel.
+
+Americans especially tend to have a lot of their personal identity and sense of self-worth tightly intertwined with their jobs, the status symbols they've acquired and so on, in other words, their life.
+
+If it's actually quite simple to toss all that aside and do something else then that's not so subtly saying that all that stuff, our lives, have no value. Tell people that and they're going to hate you, no matter what their culture.
+
+###Living Well
+
+The debate that happens in the comments of his article cuts right to heart of some very personal ideas -- just how important is your "life"?
+
+What if the life you're leading is so meaningless that it can be abandoned without a second thought? That doesn't make anyone feel good and that's why the attacks on Patterson are so personal and so vehement, because Patterson is, consciously or not, attacking people's most cherished belief: that our lives mean something and are important. No one wants to think otherwise.
+
+But I've done it -- dropped everything and left -- and, for me, as much as I am loath to admit it, it was true.
+
+Everything I thought I needed to be doing turned out to be totally unnecessary and yes, meaningless. I spent the first month of my first stint of long term travel wrestling with that. I was caught between feeling like I was finally doing something that _did_ matter and beating myself up about having been suckered into the previous life, now rendered meaningless.
+
+I understand why some people reacted to Patterson's piece the way they did.
+
+American culture tries to convince us that if you do the right things, you life is very valuable. There are some long standing, deeply-ingrained beliefs that lead us to believe that relaxation, travel and not working are contemptible. Instead, we're told, you need to work hard to "get ahead."
+
+The notion that the importance of your life is dependent on your ability to "make something of yourself" is pretty well ingrained in us.
+
+I'm not immune to this notion. If you learn anything traveling, it's that you can never escape your own cultural assumptions, not even when you realize them for that they are -- culturally-bound assumptions. That's why I spent most of a week in India feeling guilty. Guilty that I was enjoying my life rather than working for some future enjoyment. Guilty that I had apparently been wasting my life for some years prior to that moment. Guilty that I was able to finally escape that when so many people never do. Guilty for all sorts of contradictory things.
+
+And scared. Scared that when I got back, jobless and penniless I would end up homeless and starving to death. Scared that I might not make it back at all (India's bus system will do that to you).
+
+This is the part where I'm supposed to tell you about how I came to peace with it all. But the truth is that never exactly happened. Fear goes away, you learn the useful things it has to teach, you set aside the less useful parts. Or at least you learn to live with it. Or you don't and you go home. That part is simple.
+
+Finding meaning in your life to replace the meaning you lose when you step outside your culture and discover that "your" beliefs are not yours at all, just constructs you absorbed without thinking about is much harder because there is no transcendental culture. To replace the meaning you lose without your culture you can either stubbornly cling to your culture by belittling all the rest or you can enter the realms traditionally covered by religion, that is, the search for truth and meaning that transcend human culture.
+
+I know, that's not the answer you were looking for.
+
+###Making Something
+
+The easiest thing to do is what the commenters above did -- prop up your own culture by ridiculing other cultures. Like the man who says that the further you go "the more viciously backwards with respect to medicine, hygiene and hospitality the people get."
+
+In order to think that you need to believe that your society is superior to the rest because you have all the things you value and they have none of the things you value and never mind what they value, that's irrelevant.
+
+If you see everyone around you as a murderous bunch of backward rapists and psychopaths, you get to see yourself and your family and friends as shining examples of humanity.
+
+To go back to that great Americanism, you've made something of yourself.
+
+You're better than the murderous bastards out there. Best of all you didn't actually have to do anything. You're most likely going to lead a miserable existence, but it is one way to answer the questions travel poses.
+
+###The View From Here
+
+My last trip to Nicaragua got me wondering if I have turned back into someone who thinks their life is important. Have I forgotten that feeling of total freedom that comes from abandoning your "life," that relief of realizing that all the things I agonize over in my "real" life, are actually quite meaningless?
+
+See, unlike the commenters who don't buy the vagabond argument, I suffer from a different American cliche.
+
+For me, America ingrained its devil-may-care adventure motif far more than its make-something-of-yourself cliche. From Lewis and Clark to Huck Finn to Jack Kerouac, there's a strong cultural legacy of lighting out for the territories at Twain put it.
+
+Now I'm in an entirely different situation than I was when I left for my last trip. I'll be married later this month, my wife and I would like to have a family. The common wisdom is that traveling with a family is somehow impossible, in America there's a myth that once you're married and have kids you have to settle down and that butts up against the myth I've been buying into all this time.
+
+I still don't know if it's my idea or just me replicating that devil-may-care cultural meme, but I reject the idea of settling down and I've met enough traveling families to know I won't be the first to reject it. It may be more difficult to travel with a family, I'll have to get back to you on that, and fear not, I will get back to you because I will do it.
+
+But the thing that strikes me is that, if I hadn't already set out, rejected my own life and gone through everything that I went through, adding a family to the equation might well make the whole idea seeming completely unfathomable.
+
+And that's something I think many of these self-styled vagabond travel writers leave out of their "anyone can do it" travel pieces.
+
+Anyone _can_ do it, but it takes a hell of a lot more courage and effort for some than for others. I have no doubt that most writers are both aware of that and I understand that including the nuances just isn't something online journalism generally allows for, but it's a shame because it ends up alienating the people who could most benefit from some encouraging rather than banal "I did it you can too" articles. While I agree with the notion that any American can travel, I think the "just do it" incantations are every bit as hollow as a Nike ad -- even when they're true.
+
+I'm not going to tell you that it's easy to drop your life and take off to see the world. However, I will say that it isn't as hard as you think. Your job isn't as valuable as you think, there's probably someone who'd love to rent your house and your kids will thank you when they're older.
+
+I'm also not going to say that I don't buy the idea that you should strive to "make something of yourself," but the important thing about the "making" is that _you_ define what that means.
+
+For some it might mean sticking to one job and providing for a family. For others it might mean dragging your family around the world on a grand adventure. Both answers are valid -- just make sure that it's you, not your culture, making the decision. And make sure that you realize both really are valid possibilities -- the only limitation to your life is your own imagination.
+
+For me, making something of yourself is a never-ending process and one of the key elements is exploring all the different ways people around the world answer that fundamental question -- what does living well mean?
+
+[^1]: That said, you'll never find me denying that I am very, very lucky and have been handed an incredible amount of privilege in my life, especially relative to the rest of the world. But 90 percent of America is in the same boat. Troops do not storm our houses, bombs do not fall on our cities, Malaria, Dengue Fever, schistosoma and other killer diseases are unknown here. We are all privileged. For one American to call another privileged is a pot-kettle-black debate. diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2008/06/returning-again-back-little-corn-island.amp b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2008/06/returning-again-back-little-corn-island.amp new file mode 100644 index 0000000..5bf9d88 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2008/06/returning-again-back-little-corn-island.amp @@ -0,0 +1,194 @@ + + +<!doctype html> +<html amp lang="en"> +<head> +<meta charset="utf-8"> +<title>Returning Again &mdash; Back on Little Corn Island</title> +<link rel="canonical" href="https://luxagraf.net/jrnl/2008/06/returning-again-back-little-corn-island"> + <meta name="viewport" content="width=device-width,initial-scale=1,minimum-scale=1"> + <meta name="twitter:card" content="summary_large_image"/> + <meta name="twitter:url" content="/jrnl/2008/06/returning-again-back-little-corn-island"> + <meta name="twitter:description" content="The world is vast, so vast you rarely return somewhere twice, but Little Corn Island demands an exception."/> + <meta name="twitter:title" content="Returning Again — Back on Little Corn Island"/> + <meta name="twitter:site" content="@luxagraf"/> + <meta name="twitter:domain" content="luxagraf"/> + <meta name="twitter:image:src" content="https://images.luxagraf.net/post-images/2008/littlecornagain.jpg"/> + <meta name="twitter:creator" content="@luxagraf"/> + <meta name="twitter:site:id" content="9469062"> + <meta name="twitter:creator:id" content="9469062"> + <meta name="twitter:description" content=""/> + + <meta name="geo.placename" content="Little Corn Island, Nicaragua"> + <meta name="geo.region" content="NI-None"> + <meta property="og:type" content="article" /> + <meta property="og:title" content="Returning Again — Back on Little Corn Island" /> + <meta property="og:url" content="https://luxagraf.net/jrnl/2008/06/returning-again-back-little-corn-island" /> + <meta property="og:description" content="The world is vast, so vast you rarely return somewhere twice, but Little Corn Island demands an exception." /> + <meta property="article:published_time" content="2008-06-26T13:21:17" /> + <meta property="article:author" content="Luxagraf" /> + <meta property="og:site_name" content="Luxagraf" /> + <meta property="og:image" content="https://images.luxagraf.net/post-images/2008/littlecornagain.jpg" /> + <meta property="og:image" content="https://images.luxagraf.net//2008/bigcorn2-1.jpg" /> + <meta property="og:image" content="https://images.luxagraf.net//2008/bigcorn2-3.jpg" /> + <meta property="og:image" content="https://images.luxagraf.net//2008/bigcorn2-2.jpg" /> + <meta property="og:locale" content="en_US" /> + + +<script type="application/ld+json"> +{ + "@context": "http://schema.org", + "@type": "BlogPosting", + "headline": "Returning Again — Back on Little Corn Island", + "description": "The world is vast, so vast you rarely return somewhere twice, but Little Corn Island demands an exception.", + "datePublished": "2008-06-26T13:21:17", + "author": { + "@type": "Person", + "name": "Scott Gilbertson" + }, + "publisher": { + "@type": "Person", + "name": "Scott Gilbertson" + "logo": { + "@type": "ImageObject", + "url": "", + "width": 240, + "height": 53 + } + } +} +</script> +<style amp-custom> +body { + font-size: 1rem; 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Generally speaking, the world seems so huge and so full of amazing destinations that repeating one never struck me as a judicious use of my short allotment of time. However, given a rather small window of time for our honeymoon, Corrinne and I decided that the vaguely familiar would be more fun than something totally unpredictable and new.</p> +<p><amp-img alt="Big corn Island Harbor" height="224" src="https://images.luxagraf.net//2008/bigcorn2-1.jpg" width="340"></amp-img>Of course, the universe being what it is, our second trip to Little Corn Island has been unpredictable and entirely new. Other than the Best Western, still stolidly sitting directly across from the Managua airport, coming back to Nicaragua has presented a host of new and interesting experiences.</p> +<p>For instance we weren't counting on the fact that the increased gas prices have severely pinched the average lobster fisherman and to protest the fact that lobster prices remain at their pre-expensive gas levels, the fisherman converged on the airstrip on Big Corn Island and proceeded to blockade the runway with trucks and their own bodies, effectively cutting off the island from the mainland for four days. +<break> +All inbound flights were forced to stop in Bluefields, leaving stranded travelers milling around a town with very little to offer. Those looking to go the other way, back to Managua, were in even worse shape -- no incoming planes meant no outgoing ones either. </break></p> +<p>Those desperate to make connecting flights onward from Managua were forced to charter fishing boats for up to $1200 and suffer through what had to be a very punishing ride across rough seas all the way back to Bluefields where they might be able to catch a (now very crowded) flight back to Managua.</p> +<p>Fortunately the same sort of blind luck that has gotten me this far prevailed and the fishermen gave up the strike the morning we were set to leave. </p> +<h2>Stranded on Big Corn</h2> +<p><amp-img alt="Stranded travelers waiting for the panga" height="191" src="https://images.luxagraf.net//2008/bigcorn2-3.jpg" width="340"></amp-img>Unfortunately, the drivers of the panga boat that runs between Big Corn and Little Corn didn't feel like there was enough business to bother with the evening trip the day we arrived. So Corrinne and I, along with a dozen or so fellow travelers, were stranded on Big Corn that night. </p> +<p>Being stranded on an island in the Gulf of Mexico probably doesn't sound all that bad, but if the island happens to be Big Corn, well there just isn't much worth seeing or doing on Big Corn. And everything nice on Big Corn is at the south end, but our ferry was set to leave the next morning from the north end, so heading out for an explore seemed like a good way to miss the morning boat and possibly spend yet another day waiting.</p> +<p>We holed up in a guesthouse just off the public shipping dock and spent the the afternoon and evening drinking and talking to the other people stuck in the same situation. Most of the local restaurants were closed, though we did manage to find a decent plate of shrimp and of course, plenty of Victoria to go around.</p> +<p>And I made a hilarious discovery that proved a revelation to even the two dive masters who lived on Little Corn -- topless lighters. The store across the street from the Big Corn ferry sells the sort of cigarette lighters that have built-in flashlights, but rather than a simple LED flashlight, the manufacturer decided to go to the next logical level and packed in an image that looks to have been pirated from 1970s-era Playboy pinups. The result is a spotlight of a half naked Playmate, which provided no end of amusement to our stranded group. </p> +<p>In fact, Big Corn would have been pretty much okay were it not for the dog somewhere in the vicinity of our guesthouse that sounded like it was being skinned alive. It wasn't, though the next morning several guests volunteered to do so, but it barked, yelped, cried and otherwise howled from around the time we went to bed until just before dawn. I actually didn't hear it much since I can sleep through just about anything, but no one else got much sleep that night.</p> +<h2>The Wet Season</h2> +<p><amp-img alt="Corrinne and I waiting on the boat in Big Corn Island" height="191" src="https://images.luxagraf.net//2008/bigcorn2-2.jpg" width="340"></amp-img>The first day on Little Corn we managed to find a bit of sun in the afternoon and somehow were already under shelter every time the rains came. Shelter is an interesting thing in the rain though, finding a roof isn't enough because the rain is almost completely horizontal thanks to a steady onshore wind, which has been increasing in force ever since we arrived.</p> +<p>The first night we ate dinner at Casa Iguana with the owner's brother, who is currently involved in a sun-dried fruit project that might, if all goes well, one day be on the shelves of your local Whole Foods or Trader Joe's market. We sat a while afterward drinking mojitos with Camilla, an English girl we met the day before when we were all stranded on Big Corn.</p> +<p>Still tired from a lack of sleep during the five-day party that was our wedding and the dog from the night before, we turned in early, this time with earplugs firmly in place. </p> +<p>However, we somehow ended up in the cabin with no window blinds and around midnight a pretty massive storm blew in with winds that howled and horizontal rain driving straight under our porch awning and lashing against the window. But that wasn't what woke me up, it was the lightening flashes that turned night into day and somehow managed to burn through my closed eyelids that woke me up. </p> +<p>Lightening doesn't especially bother me, I do after all live in Georgia where it's a near daily occurrence in the summer. But as I lay there in bed watching the torrential rains and flaying palm trees in the eery white glow of distant flashes, it suddenly occurred to me that we were sleeping in metal-roofed hut pretty near the highest point on the island -- basically a lightening rod with walls.</p> +<p>So I lay awake thinking that being killed by lightening on your honeymoon was exactly the sort of horribly cheesy and predictable plot line that life seems to love -- up there with the super athlete contracts cancer, the day trader who suffers a heart attack on the first day of retirement and all the other things that Alanis Morrisette would say are ironic, but of course aren't. They're just strange coincidences. And I fear strange coincidences.</p> +<p>I lay awake for an hour or more considering safer places to be in the storm and didn't really come up with anything since just about every building on the island has a metal roof. In the end I decided that being struck by lightening in my sleep would be somewhat better than the same while you're awake so I drifted off again and woke up to windy, but sunny skies.</p> + </div> + </article> +</main> + +</body> +</html> diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2008/06/returning-again-back-little-corn-island.html b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2008/06/returning-again-back-little-corn-island.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..89820a4 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2008/06/returning-again-back-little-corn-island.html @@ -0,0 +1,366 @@ +<!DOCTYPE html> +<html +class="detail single" dir="ltr" lang="en-US"> + +<head> + <title>Returning Again &Mdash; Back On Little Corn Island - by Scott Gilbertson</title> + <meta charset="utf-8"> + <meta http-equiv="x-ua-compatible" content="ie=edge"> + <meta name="viewport" content="width=device-width, initial-scale=1"> + <meta name="description" + content="The world is vast, so vast you rarely return somewhere twice, but Little Corn Island demands an exception."> + <meta name="author" content="Scott Gilbertson"> + <link rel="alternate" + type="application/rss+xml" + title="Luxagraf RSS feed" + href="https://luxagraf.net/rss/"> + <link rel="stylesheet" + href="/media/screenv9.css" + media="screen"> + <link rel="stylesheet" href="/media/print.css" media="print" title="print" /> + <link rel="shortcut icon" href="/favicon.ico" type="image/x-icon"> + <link rel="manifest" href="/manifest.json" /> + <link rel="dns-prefetch" href="https://stats.luxagraf.net"> + + <link rel="canonical" href="https://luxagraf.net/jrnl/2008/06/returning-again-back-little-corn-island" /> + <meta name="ICBM" content="12.29069474524539, -82.9713249091044" /> + <meta name="geo.position" content="12.29069474524539; 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return false;" title="see a map">Map</a> + </div> + <time class="dt-published published dt-updated post-date" datetime="2008-06-26T13:21:17" itemprop="datePublished">June <span>26, 2008</span></time> + <span class="hide" itemprop="author" itemscope itemtype="http://schema.org/Person">by <a class="p-author h-card" href="/about"><span itemprop="name">Scott Gilbertson</span></a></span> + </div> + </header> + <div id="article" class="e-content entry-content post--body post--body--single" itemprop="articleBody"> + <p>This is a first — going back to somewhere I’ve already been. Generally speaking, the world seems so huge and so full of amazing destinations that repeating one never struck me as a judicious use of my short allotment of time. However, given a rather small window of time for our honeymoon, Corrinne and I decided that the vaguely familiar would be more fun than something totally unpredictable and new.</p> +<div class="picwide"> + <a itemscope itemtype="http://schema.org/ImageObject" href="https://images.luxagraf.net/original/2018/cornislands2--25Jun08-001.jpg " title="view larger image"> + <img class="u-photo" itemprop="contentUrl" sizes="(max-width: 1439px) 100vw, (min-width: 1440px) 1440px" srcset="https://images.luxagraf.net/2018/cornislands2--25Jun08-001_picwide-sm.jpg 720w, https://images.luxagraf.net/2018/cornislands2--25Jun08-001_picwide-med.jpg 1170w, https://images.luxagraf.net/2018/cornislands2--25Jun08-001_picwide.jpg 2880w" src="https://images.luxagraf.net/2018/cornislands2--25Jun08-001_picwide-med.jpg" alt="boats, big corn island photographed by luxagraf" data-jslghtbx="https://images.luxagraf.net/original/2018/cornislands2--25Jun08-001.jpg" data-jslghtbx-group="group" > + </a> +</div> + +<p>Of course, the universe being what it is, our second trip to Little Corn Island has been unpredictable and entirely new. Other than the Best Western, still stolidly sitting directly across from the Managua airport, coming back to Nicaragua has presented a host of new and interesting experiences.</p> +<p>For instance we weren’t counting on the fact that the increased gas prices have severely pinched the average lobster fisherman and to protest the fact that lobster prices remain at their pre-expensive gas levels, the fisherman converged on the airstrip on Big Corn Island and proceeded to blockade the runway with trucks and their own bodies, effectively cutting off the island from the mainland for four days. +<break> +All inbound flights were forced to stop in Bluefields, leaving stranded travelers milling around a town with very little to offer. Those looking to go the other way, back to Managua, were in even worse shape — no incoming planes meant no outgoing ones either. </p> +<p>Those desperate to make connecting flights onward from Managua were forced to charter fishing boats for up to $1200 and suffer through what had to be a very punishing ride across rough seas all the way back to Bluefields where they might be able to catch a (now very crowded) flight back to Managua.</p> +<p>Fortunately the same sort of blind luck that has gotten me this far prevailed and the fishermen gave up the strike the morning we were set to leave. </p> +<h3>Stranded on Big Corn</h3> +<p>Unfortunately, the drivers of the panga boat that runs between Big Corn and Little Corn didn’t feel like there was enough business to bother with the evening trip the day we arrived. So Corrinne and I, along with a dozen or so fellow travelers, were stranded on Big Corn that night. </p> +<div class="picwide"> + <a itemscope itemtype="http://schema.org/ImageObject" href="https://images.luxagraf.net/original/2018/cornislands2--25Jun08-003.jpg " title="view larger image"> + <img class="u-photo" itemprop="contentUrl" sizes="(max-width: 1439px) 100vw, (min-width: 1440px) 1440px" srcset="https://images.luxagraf.net/2018/cornislands2--25Jun08-003_picwide-sm.jpg 720w, https://images.luxagraf.net/2018/cornislands2--25Jun08-003_picwide-med.jpg 1170w, https://images.luxagraf.net/2018/cornislands2--25Jun08-003_picwide.jpg 2880w" src="https://images.luxagraf.net/2018/cornislands2--25Jun08-003_picwide-med.jpg" alt="harbor, big corn island photographed by luxagraf" data-jslghtbx="https://images.luxagraf.net/original/2018/cornislands2--25Jun08-003.jpg" data-jslghtbx-group="group" > + </a> +</div> + +<p>Being stranded on an island in the Gulf of Mexico probably doesn’t sound all that bad, but if the island happens to be Big Corn, well there just isn’t much worth seeing or doing on Big Corn. And everything nice on Big Corn is at the south end, but our ferry was set to leave the next morning from the north end, so heading out for an explore seemed like a good way to miss the morning boat and possibly spend yet another day waiting.</p> +<p>We holed up in a guesthouse just off the public shipping dock and spent the the afternoon and evening drinking and talking to the other people stuck in the same situation. Most of the local restaurants were closed, though we did manage to find a decent plate of shrimp and of course, plenty of Victoria to go around.</p> +<p>And I made a hilarious discovery that proved a revelation to even the two dive masters who lived on Little Corn — topless lighters. The store across the street from the Big Corn ferry sells the sort of cigarette lighters that have built-in flashlights, but rather than a simple LED flashlight, the manufacturer decided to go to the next logical level and packed in an image that looks to have been pirated from 1970s-era Playboy pinups. The result is a spotlight of a half naked Playmate, which provided no end of amusement to our stranded group. </p> +<p>In fact, Big Corn would have been pretty much okay were it not for the dog somewhere in the vicinity of our guesthouse that sounded like it was being skinned alive. It wasn’t, though the next morning several guests volunteered to do so, but it barked, yelped, cried and otherwise howled from around the time we went to bed until just before dawn. I actually didn’t hear it much since I can sleep through just about anything, but no one else got much sleep that night.</p> +<h3>The Wet Season</h3> +<p>The first day on Little Corn we managed to find a bit of sun in the afternoon and somehow were already under shelter every time the rains came. Shelter is an interesting thing in the rain though, finding a roof isn’t enough because the rain is almost completely horizontal thanks to a steady onshore wind, which has been increasing in force ever since we arrived.</p> +<div class="picwide"> + <a itemscope itemtype="http://schema.org/ImageObject" href="https://images.luxagraf.net/original/2018/cornislands2--25Jun08-005.jpg " title="view larger image"> + <img class="u-photo" itemprop="contentUrl" sizes="(max-width: 1439px) 100vw, (min-width: 1440px) 1440px" srcset="https://images.luxagraf.net/2018/cornislands2--25Jun08-005_picwide-sm.jpg 720w, https://images.luxagraf.net/2018/cornislands2--25Jun08-005_picwide-med.jpg 1170w, https://images.luxagraf.net/2018/cornislands2--25Jun08-005_picwide.jpg 2880w" src="https://images.luxagraf.net/2018/cornislands2--25Jun08-005_picwide-med.jpg" alt="little corn island photographed by luxagraf" data-jslghtbx="https://images.luxagraf.net/original/2018/cornislands2--25Jun08-005.jpg" data-jslghtbx-group="group" > + </a> +</div> + +<p>The first night we ate dinner at Casa Iguana with the owner’s brother, who is currently involved in a sun-dried fruit project that might, if all goes well, one day be on the shelves of your local Whole Foods or Trader Joe’s market. We sat a while afterward drinking mojitos with Camilla, an English girl we met the day before when we were all stranded on Big Corn.</p> +<p>Still tired from a lack of sleep during the five-day party that was our wedding and the dog from the night before, we turned in early, this time with earplugs firmly in place. </p> +<p>However, we somehow ended up in the cabin with no window blinds and around midnight a pretty massive storm blew in with winds that howled and horizontal rain driving straight under our porch awning and lashing against the window. But that wasn’t what woke me up, it was the lightening flashes that turned night into day and somehow managed to burn through my closed eyelids that woke me up. </p> +<p>Lightening doesn’t especially bother me, I do after all live in Georgia where it’s a near daily occurrence in the summer. But as I lay there in bed watching the torrential rains and flaying palm trees in the eery white glow of distant flashes, it suddenly occurred to me that we were sleeping in metal-roofed hut pretty near the highest point on the island — basically a lightening rod with walls.</p> +<p>So I lay awake thinking that being killed by lightening on your honeymoon was exactly the sort of horribly cheesy and predictable plot line that life seems to love — up there with the super athlete contracts cancer, the day trader who suffers a heart attack on the first day of retirement and all the other things that Alanis Morrisette would say are ironic, but of course aren’t. They’re just strange coincidences. And I fear strange coincidences.</p> +<p>I lay awake for an hour or more considering safer places to be in the storm and didn’t really come up with anything since just about every building on the island has a metal roof. In the end I decided that being struck by lightening in my sleep would be somewhat better than the same while you’re awake so I drifted off again and woke up to windy, but sunny skies.</p> + </div> + + </article> + + + <div class="nav-wrapper"> + <nav id="page-navigation" class="page-border-top"> + <ul> + <li id="prev"><span class="bl">Previous:</span> + <a href="/jrnl/2008/06/love-with-a-view-vagabonds-responsibilty-living-we" rel="prev" title=" In Love With a View: Vagabonds, Responsibilty and Living Well">In Love With a View: Vagabonds, Responsibilty and Living Well</a> + </li> + <li id="next"><span class="bl">Next:</span> + <a href="/jrnl/2008/06/you-cant-go-home-again" rel="next" title=" You Can't Go Home Again">You Can't Go Home Again</a> + </li> + </ul> + </nav> + </div> + + + + + + +<div class="comment--form--wrapper "> + +<div class="comment--form--header"> + <p class="hed">Thoughts?</p> + <p class="subhed">Please leave a reply:</p> +</div> +<form action="/comments/post/" method="post" class="comment--form"> + +<input type="hidden" name="rder" value="" /> + + + <input type="hidden" name="content_type" value="jrnl.entry" id="id_content_type"> + + + + <input type="hidden" name="object_pk" value="89" id="id_object_pk"> + + + + <input type="hidden" name="timestamp" value="1596833470" id="id_timestamp"> + + + + <input type="hidden" name="security_hash" value="6b6a5c93e37cf294d0ce4e70cc28e74115767a05" id="id_security_hash"> + + + + <fieldset > + <label for="id_name">Name:</label> + <input type="text" name="name" maxlength="50" required id="id_name"> + </fieldset> + + + + <fieldset > + <label for="id_email">Email address:</label> + <input type="email" name="email" required id="id_email"> + </fieldset> + + + + <fieldset > + <label for="id_url">URL:</label> + <input type="url" name="url" id="id_url"> + </fieldset> + + + + <fieldset > + <label for="id_comment">Comment:</label> + <div class="textarea-rounded"><textarea name="comment" cols="40" rows="10" maxlength="3000" required id="id_comment"> +</textarea></div> + </fieldset> + + + + <fieldset style="display:none;"> + <label for="id_honeypot">If you enter anything in this field your comment will be treated as spam:</label> + <input type="text" name="honeypot" id="id_honeypot"> + </fieldset> + + + <div class="submit"> + <input type="submit" name="post" class="submit-post btn" value="Post" /> + <input type="submit" name="preview" class="submit-preview btn" value="Preview" /> + </div> +</form> +<p style="font-size: 95%;"><strong>All comments are moderated</strong>, so you won’t see it right away. 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Generally speaking, the world seems so huge and so full of amazing destinations that repeating one never struck me as a judicious use of my short allotment of time. However, given a rather small window of time for our honeymoon, Corrinne and I decided that the vaguely familiar would be more fun than something totally unpredictable and new.
+
+<img src="images/2018/cornislands2--25Jun08-001.jpg" id="image-1698" class="picwide" />
+
+Of course, the universe being what it is, our second trip to Little Corn Island has been unpredictable and entirely new. Other than the Best Western, still stolidly sitting directly across from the Managua airport, coming back to Nicaragua has presented a host of new and interesting experiences.
+
+For instance we weren't counting on the fact that the increased gas prices have severely pinched the average lobster fisherman and to protest the fact that lobster prices remain at their pre-expensive gas levels, the fisherman converged on the airstrip on Big Corn Island and proceeded to blockade the runway with trucks and their own bodies, effectively cutting off the island from the mainland for four days.
+<break>
+All inbound flights were forced to stop in Bluefields, leaving stranded travelers milling around a town with very little to offer. Those looking to go the other way, back to Managua, were in even worse shape -- no incoming planes meant no outgoing ones either.
+
+Those desperate to make connecting flights onward from Managua were forced to charter fishing boats for up to $1200 and suffer through what had to be a very punishing ride across rough seas all the way back to Bluefields where they might be able to catch a (now very crowded) flight back to Managua.
+
+Fortunately the same sort of blind luck that has gotten me this far prevailed and the fishermen gave up the strike the morning we were set to leave.
+
+###Stranded on Big Corn
+
+Unfortunately, the drivers of the panga boat that runs between Big Corn and Little Corn didn't feel like there was enough business to bother with the evening trip the day we arrived. So Corrinne and I, along with a dozen or so fellow travelers, were stranded on Big Corn that night.
+
+<img src="images/2018/cornislands2--25Jun08-003.jpg" id="image-1699" class="picwide" />
+
+Being stranded on an island in the Gulf of Mexico probably doesn't sound all that bad, but if the island happens to be Big Corn, well there just isn't much worth seeing or doing on Big Corn. And everything nice on Big Corn is at the south end, but our ferry was set to leave the next morning from the north end, so heading out for an explore seemed like a good way to miss the morning boat and possibly spend yet another day waiting.
+
+We holed up in a guesthouse just off the public shipping dock and spent the the afternoon and evening drinking and talking to the other people stuck in the same situation. Most of the local restaurants were closed, though we did manage to find a decent plate of shrimp and of course, plenty of Victoria to go around.
+
+And I made a hilarious discovery that proved a revelation to even the two dive masters who lived on Little Corn -- topless lighters. The store across the street from the Big Corn ferry sells the sort of cigarette lighters that have built-in flashlights, but rather than a simple LED flashlight, the manufacturer decided to go to the next logical level and packed in an image that looks to have been pirated from 1970s-era Playboy pinups. The result is a spotlight of a half naked Playmate, which provided no end of amusement to our stranded group.
+
+In fact, Big Corn would have been pretty much okay were it not for the dog somewhere in the vicinity of our guesthouse that sounded like it was being skinned alive. It wasn't, though the next morning several guests volunteered to do so, but it barked, yelped, cried and otherwise howled from around the time we went to bed until just before dawn. I actually didn't hear it much since I can sleep through just about anything, but no one else got much sleep that night.
+
+###The Wet Season
+
+The first day on Little Corn we managed to find a bit of sun in the afternoon and somehow were already under shelter every time the rains came. Shelter is an interesting thing in the rain though, finding a roof isn't enough because the rain is almost completely horizontal thanks to a steady onshore wind, which has been increasing in force ever since we arrived.
+
+<img src="images/2018/cornislands2--25Jun08-005.jpg" id="image-1700" class="picwide" />
+
+The first night we ate dinner at Casa Iguana with the owner's brother, who is currently involved in a sun-dried fruit project that might, if all goes well, one day be on the shelves of your local Whole Foods or Trader Joe's market. We sat a while afterward drinking mojitos with Camilla, an English girl we met the day before when we were all stranded on Big Corn.
+
+Still tired from a lack of sleep during the five-day party that was our wedding and the dog from the night before, we turned in early, this time with earplugs firmly in place.
+
+However, we somehow ended up in the cabin with no window blinds and around midnight a pretty massive storm blew in with winds that howled and horizontal rain driving straight under our porch awning and lashing against the window. But that wasn't what woke me up, it was the lightening flashes that turned night into day and somehow managed to burn through my closed eyelids that woke me up.
+
+Lightening doesn't especially bother me, I do after all live in Georgia where it's a near daily occurrence in the summer. But as I lay there in bed watching the torrential rains and flaying palm trees in the eery white glow of distant flashes, it suddenly occurred to me that we were sleeping in metal-roofed hut pretty near the highest point on the island -- basically a lightening rod with walls.
+
+So I lay awake thinking that being killed by lightening on your honeymoon was exactly the sort of horribly cheesy and predictable plot line that life seems to love -- up there with the super athlete contracts cancer, the day trader who suffers a heart attack on the first day of retirement and all the other things that Alanis Morrisette would say are ironic, but of course aren't. They're just strange coincidences. And I fear strange coincidences.
+
+I lay awake for an hour or more considering safer places to be in the storm and didn't really come up with anything since just about every building on the island has a metal roof. In the end I decided that being struck by lightening in my sleep would be somewhat better than the same while you're awake so I drifted off again and woke up to windy, but sunny skies. diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2008/06/you-cant-go-home-again.amp b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2008/06/you-cant-go-home-again.amp new file mode 100644 index 0000000..baa76ac --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2008/06/you-cant-go-home-again.amp @@ -0,0 +1,202 @@ + + +<!doctype html> +<html amp lang="en"> +<head> +<meta charset="utf-8"> +<title>You Can't Go Home Again</title> +<link rel="canonical" href="https://luxagraf.net/jrnl/2008/06/you-cant-go-home-again"> + <meta name="viewport" content="width=device-width,initial-scale=1,minimum-scale=1"> + <meta name="twitter:card" content="summary_large_image"/> + <meta name="twitter:url" content="/jrnl/2008/06/you-cant-go-home-again"> + <meta name="twitter:description" content="Little Corn Island in the wet season -- horizontal rains and wind that makes even the beach temporarily retreat back out to sea. 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At first you just notice the clattering palm leaves and of course the near deafening roar of the the rain on the tin roofs. Both mingle with the background of surf breaking just below the bluff where our cabin sits, facing east -- to Cuba and the oncoming clouds. +<break> +But on the second day I started to hear other sounds -- the low steady groan of a turbine, like the sound you make when blowing on the top of an empty bottle. Then there are creaking screws and rusted hooks that hold up the hammocks on my porch. And of course the hammocks themselves, finely woven Nicaragua cotton battered about in the wind.</break></p> +<p>When the rain comes it's horizontal, making awnings and porches a useless defense. The only way to stay dry is either inside or pressed against the leeward side of a building. </p> +<p>The first time we came to Little Corn Island it was April, the tail end of the dry season. It rained once or twice, but never for more than five minutes and always followed by more sunshine.</p> +<p>This time it's the end of June, just well into the wet season, and the island is an entirely different place.</p> +<p>Naturally I wasn't really expecting it to be the same. I knew the weather would have changed, I knew the people we had met would be gone, save a few and I knew that it would be a different experience.</p> +<p>But I wasn't entirely prepared for <em>how</em> different it would be.</p> +<p>When I first returned from Southeast Asia, I wrote that it was impossible to go back. That travel was singular and unrepeatable.</p> +<p>My actual words were "You will want to hang on to things when they are perfect. You will want to stay in Vang Veing, a floating village, on an island lost at sea. You will want to return even after you have left. You will want things to be the same when you return. But they will not be the same."</p> +<p>For all the overly-dramatic certitude, that was just a theory. Being the son of a scientist I hate to spout untested hypotheses, but now we've tested it and I can definitively say that I was right -- there is no going back. </p> +<p>Going back must mean going again, otherwise it would imply that you, the place and everyone in it are static, fixed, immutable, and of course that simply isn't the world we live in. </p> +<p>The danger in going again is that we will compare the present to the past and for some reason the present rarely fares well in that comparison.</p> +<p>So yes, you can go back, physically, but be prepared for something entirely different -- for instance, here on Little Corn not only are the people different, but the very island has morphed and changed -- the rain comes daily and the beaches are almost non-existent.</p> +<p><amp-img alt="ali, corrinne, little corn island, nicaragua" height="330" src="https://images.luxagraf.net//2008/littlecorn2-3.jpg" width="320"></amp-img>Ali, Little Corn's self-appointed medicine man, tells me that the shifting tides pull much of the sand back out toward the reef and the considerably bigger waves breaking on the far side of the reef would seem to prove his point. Eventually, come December, the tides will shift again, bring the sand back in. </p> +<p>But in the mean time the island has literally shrunk. The beach where we spent most of our previous trip is now under two feet of water at high tide.</p> +<p>I was sitting up at the Casa Iguana restaurant area yesterday thinking about how much even places can change, not in a matter of years, but months, even days. The remarkable thing about traveling is that it's not simply a matter of moving through space, it's time as well.</p> +<p>In fact it might be one of life's more undisguised illustrations of the intrinsic link between space and time.</p> +<p>Arriving somewhere is somewhat like a game of pool slowed down. </p> +<p>When one pool balls strikes another there is that infinitesimal period of time where the balls actually compress, changing shape as they transfer energy. </p> +<p>If you were to slow time and and magnify space sufficiently, you would see the balls compress as they touched -- that minute moment of contracting and expanding, the transfer of force, the temporary mingling of color and atoms, the kaleidoscope of impact -- somewhat akin to what it's like to spend a week in one particular place.</p> +<p>You travel somewhere for a week, a month; you exist in that compressed space, impossible to observe from the outside, but very tangible and obvious within the kaleidoscope of the moment. Everything slows to near stop in relation to the outside world.</p> +<p><amp-img alt="sunnier days, little corn island, nicaragua" height="203" src="https://images.luxagraf.net//2008/littlecorn2-2.jpg" width="360"></amp-img>To an outside observer there is merely the impact, some photos on Flickr and the balls are already headed in opposite directions, vast expanses of blue-green felt suddenly between them.</p> +<p>From the outside it looks like mere mechanics -- people and places collide and some record of time is produced -- but from the inside the experience is very different.</p> +<p>As the one-time champion of the Denver pool halls, Ramstead Gordon (who was later dethroned by no less than Neal Cassady), once said "This is not a game of physics, it's a game of magic."</p> +<p>No two shots will ever be the same, no two or three or ten balls will ever cluster exactly the same way twice, no matter how similar they might seem from the outside. </p> +<p>Duplication is almost certainly impossible, why else would our culture be so obsessed with the things we <em>can</em> duplicate if not as some defense against the things we cannot?</p> +<p>So yes, as in pool, the places and experiences of travel are finite and you can never go back. But you can go again and bask in the changes because that's part of what makes it so interesting -- just don't try to fight it.</p> + </div> + </article> +</main> + +</body> +</html> diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2008/06/you-cant-go-home-again.html b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2008/06/you-cant-go-home-again.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..1bee378 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2008/06/you-cant-go-home-again.html @@ -0,0 +1,383 @@ +<!DOCTYPE html> +<html +class="detail single" dir="ltr" lang="en-US"> + +<head> + <title>You Can’t Go Home Again - by Scott Gilbertson</title> + <meta charset="utf-8"> + <meta http-equiv="x-ua-compatible" content="ie=edge"> + <meta name="viewport" content="width=device-width, initial-scale=1"> + <meta name="description" + content="Little Corn Island in the wet season -- horizontal rains and wind that makes even the beach temporarily retreat back out to sea. 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At first you just notice the clattering palm leaves and of course the near deafening roar of the the rain on the tin roofs. Both mingle with the background of surf breaking just below the bluff where our cabin sits, facing east — to Cuba and the oncoming clouds. +<break> +But on the second day I started to hear other sounds — the low steady groan of a turbine, like the sound you make when blowing on the top of an empty bottle. Then there are creaking screws and rusted hooks that hold up the hammocks on my porch. And of course the hammocks themselves, finely woven Nicaragua cotton battered about in the wind.</p> +<p>When the rain comes it’s horizontal, making awnings and porches a useless defense. The only way to stay dry is either inside or pressed against the leeward side of a building. </p> +<p>The first time we came to Little Corn Island it was April, the tail end of the dry season. It rained once or twice, but never for more than five minutes and always followed by more sunshine.</p> +<p>This time it’s the end of June, just well into the wet season, and the island is an entirely different place.</p> +<p>Naturally I wasn’t really expecting it to be the same. I knew the weather would have changed, I knew the people we had met would be gone, save a few and I knew that it would be a different experience.</p> +<p>But I wasn’t entirely prepared for <em>how</em> different it would be.</p> +<p>When I first returned from Southeast Asia, I wrote that it was impossible to go back. That travel was singular and unrepeatable. My actual words were </p> +<blockquote> +<p>You will want to hang on to things when they are perfect. You will want to stay in Vang Veing, a floating village, on an island lost at sea. You will want to return even after you have left. You will want things to be the same when you return. But they will not be the same.</p> +</blockquote> +<p>For all the overly-dramatic certitude, that was just a theory. Being the son of a scientist I hate to spout untested hypotheses, but now we’ve tested it and I can definitively say that I was right — there is no going back. Going back must mean going again, otherwise it would imply that you, the place and everyone in it are static, fixed, immutable, and of course that simply isn’t the world we live in. </p> +<p>The danger in going again is that we will compare the present to the past and for some reason the present rarely fares well in that comparison.</p> +<p>So yes, you can go back, physically, but be prepared for something entirely different — for instance, here on Little Corn not only are the people different, but the very island has morphed and changed — the rain comes daily and the beaches are almost non-existent.</p> +<div class="cluster"> +<span class="row-2"> + + <a href="https://images.luxagraf.net/original/2018/cornislands2--30Jun08-010.jpg" title="view larger image "> + <img class="pic66 " src="https://images.luxagraf.net/2018/cornislands2--30Jun08-010_pic66.jpg" alt="little corn island, nicaragua photographed by luxagraf" data-jslghtbx="https://images.luxagraf.net/original/2018/cornislands2--30Jun08-010.jpg" data-jslghtbx-group="group" ></a> + + + + + <a href="https://images.luxagraf.net/original/2018/cornislands2--25Jun08-003-1.jpg" title="view larger image "> + <img class="pic66 " src="https://images.luxagraf.net/2018/cornislands2--25Jun08-003-1_pic66.jpg" alt="view from a hammock, little corn island photographed by luxagraf" data-jslghtbx="https://images.luxagraf.net/original/2018/cornislands2--25Jun08-003-1.jpg" data-jslghtbx-group="group" ></a> + + +</span> +</div> + +<p>Ali, Little Corn’s self-appointed medicine man, tells me that the shifting tides pull much of the sand back out toward the reef and the considerably bigger waves breaking on the far side of the reef would seem to prove his point. Eventually, come December, the tides will shift again, bring the sand back in. </p> +<p>But in the mean time the island has literally shrunk. The beach where we spent most of our previous trip is now under two feet of water at high tide.</p> +<p>I was sitting up at the Casa Iguana restaurant area yesterday thinking about how much even places can change, not in a matter of years, but months, even days. The remarkable thing about traveling is that it’s not simply a matter of moving through space, it’s time as well.</p> +<p>In fact it might be one of life’s more undisguised illustrations of the intrinsic link between space and time.</p> +<p>Arriving somewhere is somewhat like a game of pool slowed down. </p> +<p>When one pool balls strikes another there is that infinitesimal period of time where the balls actually compress, changing shape as they transfer energy. </p> +<p>If you were to slow time and and magnify space sufficiently, you would see the balls compress as they touched — that minute moment of contracting and expanding, the transfer of force, the temporary mingling of color and atoms, the kaleidoscope of impact — somewhat akin to what it’s like to spend a week in one particular place.</p> +<p>You travel somewhere for a week, a month; you exist in that compressed space, impossible to observe from the outside, but very tangible and obvious within the kaleidoscope of the moment. Everything slows to near stop in relation to the outside world.</p> +<div class="picwide"> + <a itemscope itemtype="http://schema.org/ImageObject" href="https://images.luxagraf.net/original/2018/cornislands2--25Jun08-001-1.jpg " title="view larger image"> + <img class="u-photo" itemprop="contentUrl" sizes="(max-width: 1439px) 100vw, (min-width: 1440px) 1440px" srcset="https://images.luxagraf.net/2018/cornislands2--25Jun08-001-1_picwide-sm.jpg 720w, https://images.luxagraf.net/2018/cornislands2--25Jun08-001-1_picwide-med.jpg 1170w, https://images.luxagraf.net/2018/cornislands2--25Jun08-001-1_picwide.jpg 2880w" src="https://images.luxagraf.net/2018/cornislands2--25Jun08-001-1_picwide-med.jpg" alt="little corn island photographed by luxagraf" data-jslghtbx="https://images.luxagraf.net/original/2018/cornislands2--25Jun08-001-1.jpg" data-jslghtbx-group="group" > + </a> +</div> + +<p>To an outside observer there is merely the impact, some photos on Flickr and the balls are already headed in opposite directions, vast expanses of blue-green felt suddenly between them. From the outside it looks like mere mechanics — people and places collide and some record of time is produced — but from the inside the experience is very different.</p> +<p>As the one-time champion of the Denver pool halls, Ramstead Gordon (who was later dethroned by no less than Neal Cassady), once said “This is not a game of physics, it’s a game of magic.” No two shots will ever be the same, no two or three or ten balls will ever cluster exactly the same way twice, no matter how similar they might seem from the outside. </p> +<p>Duplication is almost certainly impossible, why else would our culture be so obsessed with the things we <em>can</em> duplicate if not as some defense against the things we cannot?</p> +<p>So yes, as in pool, the places and experiences of travel are finite and you can never go back. But you can go again and bask in the changes because that’s part of what makes it so interesting — just don’t try to fight it.</p> + </div> + + </article> + + + <div class="nav-wrapper"> + <nav id="page-navigation" class="page-border-top"> + <ul> + <li id="prev"><span class="bl">Previous:</span> + <a href="/jrnl/2008/06/returning-again-back-little-corn-island" rel="prev" title=" Returning Again &mdash; Back on Little Corn Island">Returning Again — Back on Little Corn Island</a> + </li> + <li id="next"><span class="bl">Next:</span> + <a href="/jrnl/2008/07/tiny-cities-made-ash" rel="next" title=" Tiny Cities Made of Ash">Tiny Cities Made of Ash</a> + </li> + </ul> + </nav> + </div> + + + + + + +<div class="comment--form--wrapper "> + +<div class="comment--form--header"> + <p class="hed">Thoughts?</p> + <p class="subhed">Please leave a reply:</p> +</div> +<form action="/comments/post/" method="post" class="comment--form"> + +<input type="hidden" name="rder" value="" /> + + + <input type="hidden" name="content_type" value="jrnl.entry" id="id_content_type"> + + + + <input type="hidden" name="object_pk" value="90" id="id_object_pk"> + + + + <input type="hidden" name="timestamp" value="1596833469" id="id_timestamp"> + + + + <input type="hidden" name="security_hash" value="b25f65d16c45d8e1e11102ef3e5e272b9c062342" id="id_security_hash"> + + + + <fieldset > + <label for="id_name">Name:</label> + <input type="text" name="name" maxlength="50" required id="id_name"> + </fieldset> + + + + <fieldset > + <label for="id_email">Email address:</label> + <input type="email" name="email" required id="id_email"> + </fieldset> + + + + <fieldset > + <label for="id_url">URL:</label> + <input type="url" name="url" id="id_url"> + </fieldset> + + + + <fieldset > + <label for="id_comment">Comment:</label> + <div class="textarea-rounded"><textarea name="comment" cols="40" rows="10" maxlength="3000" required id="id_comment"> +</textarea></div> + </fieldset> + + + + <fieldset style="display:none;"> + <label for="id_honeypot">If you enter anything in this field your comment will be treated as spam:</label> + <input type="text" name="honeypot" id="id_honeypot"> + </fieldset> + + + <div class="submit"> + <input type="submit" name="post" class="submit-post btn" value="Post" /> + <input type="submit" name="preview" class="submit-preview btn" value="Preview" /> + </div> +</form> +<p style="font-size: 95%;"><strong>All comments are moderated</strong>, so you won’t see it right away. 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+
+<img src="images/2018/cornislands2--30Jun08-009.jpg" id="image-1701" class="picwide" />
+
+Once the wind became constant, silence retreated back to wherever silence goes in a world where squalls rule. At first you just notice the clattering palm leaves and of course the near deafening roar of the the rain on the tin roofs. Both mingle with the background of surf breaking just below the bluff where our cabin sits, facing east -- to Cuba and the oncoming clouds.
+<break>
+But on the second day I started to hear other sounds -- the low steady groan of a turbine, like the sound you make when blowing on the top of an empty bottle. Then there are creaking screws and rusted hooks that hold up the hammocks on my porch. And of course the hammocks themselves, finely woven Nicaragua cotton battered about in the wind.
+
+When the rain comes it's horizontal, making awnings and porches a useless defense. The only way to stay dry is either inside or pressed against the leeward side of a building.
+
+The first time we came to Little Corn Island it was April, the tail end of the dry season. It rained once or twice, but never for more than five minutes and always followed by more sunshine.
+
+This time it's the end of June, just well into the wet season, and the island is an entirely different place.
+
+Naturally I wasn't really expecting it to be the same. I knew the weather would have changed, I knew the people we had met would be gone, save a few and I knew that it would be a different experience.
+
+But I wasn't entirely prepared for *how* different it would be.
+
+When I first returned from Southeast Asia, I wrote that it was impossible to go back. That travel was singular and unrepeatable. My actual words were
+
+>You will want to hang on to things when they are perfect. You will want to stay in Vang Veing, a floating village, on an island lost at sea. You will want to return even after you have left. You will want things to be the same when you return. But they will not be the same.
+
+For all the overly-dramatic certitude, that was just a theory. Being the son of a scientist I hate to spout untested hypotheses, but now we've tested it and I can definitively say that I was right -- there is no going back. Going back must mean going again, otherwise it would imply that you, the place and everyone in it are static, fixed, immutable, and of course that simply isn't the world we live in.
+
+The danger in going again is that we will compare the present to the past and for some reason the present rarely fares well in that comparison.
+
+So yes, you can go back, physically, but be prepared for something entirely different -- for instance, here on Little Corn not only are the people different, but the very island has morphed and changed -- the rain comes daily and the beaches are almost non-existent.
+
+<div class="cluster">
+<span class="row-2">
+<img src="images/2018/cornislands2--30Jun08-010.jpg" id="image-1704" class="cluster pic66" />
+<img src="images/2018/cornislands2--25Jun08-003-1.jpg" id="image-1703" class="cluster pic66" />
+</span>
+</div>
+
+Ali, Little Corn's self-appointed medicine man, tells me that the shifting tides pull much of the sand back out toward the reef and the considerably bigger waves breaking on the far side of the reef would seem to prove his point. Eventually, come December, the tides will shift again, bring the sand back in.
+
+But in the mean time the island has literally shrunk. The beach where we spent most of our previous trip is now under two feet of water at high tide.
+
+I was sitting up at the Casa Iguana restaurant area yesterday thinking about how much even places can change, not in a matter of years, but months, even days. The remarkable thing about traveling is that it's not simply a matter of moving through space, it's time as well.
+
+In fact it might be one of life's more undisguised illustrations of the intrinsic link between space and time.
+
+Arriving somewhere is somewhat like a game of pool slowed down.
+
+When one pool balls strikes another there is that infinitesimal period of time where the balls actually compress, changing shape as they transfer energy.
+
+If you were to slow time and and magnify space sufficiently, you would see the balls compress as they touched -- that minute moment of contracting and expanding, the transfer of force, the temporary mingling of color and atoms, the kaleidoscope of impact -- somewhat akin to what it's like to spend a week in one particular place.
+
+You travel somewhere for a week, a month; you exist in that compressed space, impossible to observe from the outside, but very tangible and obvious within the kaleidoscope of the moment. Everything slows to near stop in relation to the outside world.
+
+<img src="images/2018/cornislands2--25Jun08-001-1.jpg" id="image-1702" class="picwide" />
+
+To an outside observer there is merely the impact, some photos on Flickr and the balls are already headed in opposite directions, vast expanses of blue-green felt suddenly between them. From the outside it looks like mere mechanics -- people and places collide and some record of time is produced -- but from the inside the experience is very different.
+
+As the one-time champion of the Denver pool halls, Ramstead Gordon (who was later dethroned by no less than Neal Cassady), once said "This is not a game of physics, it's a game of magic." No two shots will ever be the same, no two or three or ten balls will ever cluster exactly the same way twice, no matter how similar they might seem from the outside.
+
+Duplication is almost certainly impossible, why else would our culture be so obsessed with the things we _can_ duplicate if not as some defense against the things we cannot?
+
+So yes, as in pool, the places and experiences of travel are finite and you can never go back. But you can go again and bask in the changes because that's part of what makes it so interesting -- just don't try to fight it. diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2008/07/index.html b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2008/07/index.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..1dc9295 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2008/07/index.html @@ -0,0 +1,110 @@ +<!DOCTYPE html> +<html dir="ltr" lang="en-US"> + +<head> + <title>Luxagraf - Topografical Writings: Archive</title> + <meta charset="utf-8"> + <meta http-equiv="x-ua-compatible" content="ie=edge"> + <meta name="viewport" content="width=device-width, initial-scale=1"> + <meta name="description" + content="Luxagraf: recording journeys around the world and just next door."> + <meta name="author" content="Scott Gilbertson"> + <!--[if IE]> + <script src="/js/html5css3ie.min.js"></script> + <![endif]--> + <link rel="alternate" + type="application/rss+xml" + title="Luxagraf RSS feed" + href="https://luxagraf.net/rss/"> + <link rel="stylesheet" + href="/media/screenv8.css" + media="screen"> + <!--[if IE]> + <link rel="stylesheet" + href="/media/css/ie.css" + media="screen"> + <![endif]--> + <link rel="shortcut icon" href="favicon.ico" type="image/x-icon"> + <link rel="manifest" href="manifest.json"> + <meta property="fb:pages" content="900822029969349" /> + +</head> +<body id="archive"> + <div class="wrapper" id="wrapper"> + <div class="header-wrapper"> + <header role="banner"> + <h1><a id="logo" href="/" title="home">Luxagraf</a></h1> + <h2>Walk Slowly</h2> + </header> + <nav role="navigation" class="bl"> + <ul> + <li id="laverdad"><a href="/jrnl/" title="What we've been up to lately">Journal</a></li> + <!--<li id="nota"><a href="/field-notes/" title="Quick notes and images from the road">Notes</a></li> + <li id="fotos"><a href="/photos/" title="Photos from travels around the world">Photos</a></li>i--> + <li id="maps"><a href="/map" title="Maps">Map</a></li> + <li id="about"><a href="/about" title="About Luxagraf">About</a></li> + <li id="etc" class="last"><a href="/projects/" title="the less visible portions of the iceberg">More</a></li> + </ul> + </nav> + </div> + <ul class="bl" id="breadcrumbs" itemscope itemtype="http://data-vocabulary.org/Breadcrumb"> + <li><a href="/" title="luxagraf homepage" itemprop="url"><span itemprop="title">Home</span></a> → </li> + <li><a href="/jrnl/" title="See all Journal Entries" itemprop="url"><span itemprop="title">Journal</span></a> →</li> + <li><a href="/jrnl/2008/">2008</a> →</li> + <li>July</li> + </ul> + <main role="main" id="writing-archive" class="archive"> + <h1> Archive: July 2008</h1> + <ul class="date-archive"> + <li class="arc-item"><a href="/jrnl/2008/07/rope-swings-and-river-floats" title="Rope Swings and River Floats">Rope Swings and River Floats</a> + <time datetime="2008-07-27T20:14:49-04:00">Jul 27, 2008</time> + </li> + <li class="arc-item"><a href="/jrnl/2008/07/our-days-are-becoming-nights" title="Our Days Are Becoming Nights">Our Days Are Becoming Nights</a> + <time datetime="2008-07-06T23:30:25-04:00">Jul 06, 2008</time> + </li> + <li class="arc-item"><a href="/jrnl/2008/07/tiny-cities-made-ash" title="Tiny Cities Made of Ash">Tiny Cities Made of Ash</a> + <time datetime="2008-07-03T23:21:22-04:00">Jul 03, 2008</time> + </li> + </ul> + + + + <footer role="contentinfo"> + <nav class="bl"> + <ul> + <li><a href="/blogroll" title="Sites that inspire us">Blogroll</a></li> + <li><a href="/jrnl/feed.xml" title="RSS feed">Subscribe</a></li> + <li><a href="/contact/" title="contact luxagraf">Contact</a></li> + <li><a href="https://twitter.com/luxagraf" rel="me" title="follow luxagraf on Twitter">Twitter</a></li> + <li><a href="https://www.flickr.com/photos/luxagraf" rel="me" title="luxagraf on Flickr">Flickr</a></li> + <li><a href="https://www.facebook.com/luxagraf" rel="me" title="luxagraf on Facebook">Facebook</a></li> + <li><a href="https://www.instagram.com/luxagraf/" rel="me" title="luxagraf on Instacrap">Instacrap</a></li> + </ul> + </nav> + <p id="license"> + © 2003-2018 + <span class="h-card"><a class="p-name u-url" href="https://luxagraf.net/">Scott Gilbertson</a><data class="p-nickname" value="luxagraf"></data><data class="p-locality" value="Athens"></data><data class="p-region" value="Georgia"></data><data class="p-country-name" value="United States"></data></span>, except photos, which are licensed under the Creative Commons (<a href="http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/" title="read the Attribution-Share Alike 3.0 deed">details</a>). + </p> + </footer> + </div> + +<!-- Piwik --> +<script type="text/javascript"> +var _paq = _paq || []; 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And in this life I will do very few of these things. </break></p> +<p>Sometimes I think that's very sad.</p> + </div> + </article> +</main> + +</body> +</html> diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2008/07/our-days-are-becoming-nights.html b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2008/07/our-days-are-becoming-nights.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..99b035b --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2008/07/our-days-are-becoming-nights.html @@ -0,0 +1,370 @@ +<!DOCTYPE html> +<html +class="detail single" dir="ltr" lang="en-US"> + +<head> + <title>Our Days Are Becoming Nights - by Scott Gilbertson</title> + <meta charset="utf-8"> + <meta http-equiv="x-ua-compatible" content="ie=edge"> + <meta name="viewport" content="width=device-width, initial-scale=1"> + <meta name="description" + content="Everywhere I go I think, I should live here... and indeed I should, but it just doesn't work like that does it? 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I should be able to not just visit places, but in habit them. +<break> +There is, so far as I know, only one short life. And in this life I will do very few of these things. </p> +<p>Sometimes I think that’s very sad.</p> + </div> + + </article> + + + <div class="nav-wrapper"> + <nav id="page-navigation" class="page-border-top"> + <ul> + <li id="prev"><span class="bl">Previous:</span> + <a href="/jrnl/2008/07/tiny-cities-made-ash" rel="prev" title=" Tiny Cities Made of Ash">Tiny Cities Made of Ash</a> + </li> + <li id="next"><span class="bl">Next:</span> + <a href="/jrnl/2008/07/rope-swings-and-river-floats" rel="next" title=" Rope Swings and River Floats">Rope Swings and River Floats</a> + </li> + </ul> + </nav> + </div> + + + + + + +<p class="comments--header">1 Comment</p> + + + + + + + <div class="comments--wrapper"> + + <div id="comment-1" class="comment"> + <noscript class="datahashloader" data-hash="a92a8b4c7a195e2caaf9f5c5424e08ee"> + <img class="gravatar" src="https://images.luxagraf.net/gravcache/a92a8b4c7a195e2caaf9f5c5424e08ee.jpg" alt="gravatar icon for Wil" /> + </noscript> + <div class="comment--head"> + <span class="who"><b><a href="http://inhab.it/" rel="nofollow" target="_blank">Wil</a></b></span> + <span class="when">July 10, 2008 at 3:01 p.m.</span> + </div> + + <div class="comment--body"> + + <p>That is exactly how I feel, everywhere.</p> + + </div> + </div> + + </div> + + +<div class="comment--form--wrapper comment-form-border"> + +<div class="comment--form--header"> + <p class="hed">Thoughts?</p> + <p class="subhed">Please leave a reply:</p> +</div> +<form action="/comments/post/" method="post" class="comment--form"> + +<input type="hidden" name="rder" value="" /> + + + <input type="hidden" name="content_type" value="jrnl.entry" id="id_content_type"> + + + + <input type="hidden" name="object_pk" value="92" id="id_object_pk"> + + + + <input type="hidden" name="timestamp" value="1596833469" id="id_timestamp"> + + + + <input type="hidden" name="security_hash" value="1d9ac2754a62b1e562a815f46bc79c88dab755b4" id="id_security_hash"> + + + + <fieldset > + <label for="id_name">Name:</label> + <input type="text" name="name" maxlength="50" required id="id_name"> + </fieldset> + + + + <fieldset > + <label for="id_email">Email address:</label> + <input type="email" name="email" required id="id_email"> + </fieldset> + + + + <fieldset > + <label for="id_url">URL:</label> + <input type="url" name="url" id="id_url"> + </fieldset> + + + + <fieldset > + <label for="id_comment">Comment:</label> + <div class="textarea-rounded"><textarea name="comment" cols="40" rows="10" maxlength="3000" required id="id_comment"> +</textarea></div> + </fieldset> + + + + <fieldset style="display:none;"> + <label for="id_honeypot">If you enter anything in this field your comment will be treated as spam:</label> + <input type="text" name="honeypot" id="id_honeypot"> + </fieldset> + + + <div class="submit"> + <input type="submit" name="post" class="submit-post btn" value="Post" /> + <input type="submit" name="preview" class="submit-preview btn" value="Preview" /> + </div> +</form> +<p style="font-size: 95%;"><strong>All comments are moderated</strong>, so you won’t see it right away. 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I should know what it's like to work in a cigar factory in Leon, fish in the Mekong, living in a floating house on Tonle Sap, sell hot dogs at Fenway Park, trade stocks in New York, wander the Thar Desert by camel, navigate the Danube, see the way Denali looks at sunset, the smell the Sonora Desert after a rain, taste the dust of a Juarez street, know how to make tortillas, what Mate tastes like, feel autumn in Paris, spend a winter in Moscow, a summer in Death Valley. I should be able to not just visit places, but in habit them.
+<break>
+There is, so far as I know, only one short life. And in this life I will do very few of these things.
+
+Sometimes I think that's very sad. diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2008/07/rope-swings-and-river-floats.amp b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2008/07/rope-swings-and-river-floats.amp new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6dabf1c --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2008/07/rope-swings-and-river-floats.amp @@ -0,0 +1,218 @@ + + +<!doctype html> +<html amp lang="en"> +<head> +<meta charset="utf-8"> +<title>Rope Swings and River Floats</title> +<link rel="canonical" href="https://luxagraf.net/jrnl/2008/07/rope-swings-and-river-floats"> + <meta name="viewport" content="width=device-width,initial-scale=1,minimum-scale=1"> + <meta name="twitter:card" content="summary_large_image"/> + <meta name="twitter:url" content="/jrnl/2008/07/rope-swings-and-river-floats"> + <meta name="twitter:description" content="Inner tubing down the Chestatee River, just outside of Dahlonega, GA. Fun, but possibly a little dangerous as well. 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We even rigged up an inner tube to carry a cooler of beer and dragged an extra inflatable boat to pick up trash (as well as hold our own).</p> +<p><amp-img alt="Tubing on the Chestatee River" height="205" src="https://images.luxagraf.net//2008/chestatee_river_1.jpg" width="364"></amp-img>It was great fun. We found a rope swing where you could climb up about six feet on the bank and swing out over the river and drop into a nice pool that was plenty deep for the landing. </p> +<p>What made the whole thing possible is that my wife's parents own a cabin in the area, which they are kind enough to let us use. </p> +<p>Since this weekend was my father-in-law's birthday, we decided to head up and do another river run. +<break> +<amp-img alt="Tubing on the Chestatee River" height="200" src="https://images.luxagraf.net//2008/chestatee_river_2.jpg" width="390"></amp-img>After parking the car at the end and trucking the tubes down to the launch point, we put into the river. Just beyond the launch point there's a couple sizable drops that we walked around last time, but this time, after scouting things out, I figured out how to go down. </break></p> +<p>I made it through unscathed and I sat in the lower pool waiting for the others.</p> +<p>In short, things started well. </p> +<p>About a minute later a drowning bumble bee somehow climbed out of the river, onto my tube and then stung my right arm. </p> +<p>For most people that's a moment of discomfort and no big deal. But I'm lucky, I'm allergic to bees so for me it means a moment of discomfort followed by several days of swelling and aching -- as I type this my forearm is about one and half times its normal size. Of course it could be worse, I could be "I have to carry an epi-pen" allergic, which, thankfully, I'm not.</p> +<p>Everyone asked if I was okay or if we should turn around. In hindsight, I should have said no, I wasn't okay and yes we should turn around -- not because of me, just because I know what happened next -- but I didn't, so we continued on. [This would have been a great time for the crazy old man of the river to come out of the woods, point a crooked finger in our direction and prophetically croak, "you're all doomed." But as far as I know the Chestatee lacks any such character.]</p> +<p>For about an hour it was the same peaceful float we did two weeks ago, a few rapids, long calm stretches where the river is too deep to touch bottom, just lying back in your tube watching the hardwood's overhanging branches threading across the gray-blue sky. Or the snarled banks choked with laurel and the occasional honeysuckle, roots protruding out like fingers rubbed raw by the passing water.</p> +<p>It's one of the finest stretches of river I've ever been down.</p> +<p>And then we came to the rope swing. </p> +<p>Everything that follows is essentially my fault. </p> +<p><amp-img alt="rope swing" height="320" src="https://images.luxagraf.net//2008/chestatee_river_3.jpg" width="240"></amp-img>See, I love to jump off of things. Swinging off of things is even better. And if you can dive... If there's somewhere to jump, swing or dive, I'm probably going to find it. </p> +<p>Of course it's not the safest thing in the world to do, nor am I the sharpest tool in the shed, but you already knew that much.</p> +<p>When we went down two weeks ago I spied a rope hanging down from a tree. Naturally, I immediately started paddling for the shore. Now I seriously wish I hadn't, but I did. </p> +<p>I climbed out of my tube and grabbed the rope and walked up the bank. I quickly discovered that I couldn't reach the handle someone had kindly attached. However there was a bit of rope extending down from the handle, which some other shorter person had no doubt added. </p> +<p>Normally I would have climbed back down the bank and checked to see how far off the ground the little extension of rope would have put me. But for whatever reason I didn't, I just grabbed it and jumped. </p> +<p>Just below the embankment where you launched from there were some stratified rocks sticking out of the water -- fairly sharp, ridged rocks, the sort of rocks that look to have jutted up straight out of the Mesozoic era.</p> +<p>And I hit them. About a millisecond after I jumped I knew I was doomed and I pulled my legs up to my chest as tight as could and tried to control the crash. I hit the rocks hard, but with my feet (the Choco sandals I bought for my trip around the world are still the best purchase I've ever made and they allow me to do things like bounce off rocks without a scratch).</p> +<p>As soon as my feet hit the rocks I twisted my body and pushed off out into the deeper water and managed to avoid more serious injury. However, it wasn't so much my skills or planning that saved me, really it was just dumb luck.</p> +<p>Undeterred (or stupidly if that syntax works better for you) I climbed back up and was joined by a couple of other people from our river party who wanted to give it a try. </p> +<p>Long story short: it turned out that if you were about six feet tall you could reach the handle, if you were five ten like me and someone else put their weight on the rope to stretch it, you could also reach the handle. </p> +<p>If you were five five like one girl who did it, you could be picked up and then grab the rope handle. The problem is that the person picking you up is on a muddy incline and bit off balance themselves.</p> +<p>Which brings us to today.</p> +<p><amp-img alt="rope swing" height="320" src="https://images.luxagraf.net//2008/chestatee_river_4.jpg" width="300"></amp-img>My wife's brother Jeremy and I stopped at the swing and his girlfriend, Tova, wanted to give it a try. I held the rope and Jeremy held her up until she could grab the handle. It worked and she swung out over the river and let go. We all had a turn and then another. </p> +<p>We went up for a third try.</p> +<p>Same routine, I pulled the rope as taut as it would go and Jeremy held her up to grab the handle. We both thought she had it, but as Jeremy was starting to let go she said, "no, wait." </p> +<p>But it was already too late, he couldn't have held her if he wanted to. Even if he had been able to they both would have fallen and landed on the roots and rocks below.</p> +<p>Instead, Tova swung out about five feet and then her grip slipped and she fell, hard, face first onto the same rocks I had hit with my feet. </p> +<p>When she first came up out of the water I could already see a blue bruise and blood on her leg. I thought for a moment that it was a broken bone sticking up, ready to break through the skin. I went down to help, but there wasn't much I could do. I figured having a broken bone sticking up <em>and</em> having someone throw up on you was probably worse than just the bone. </p> +<p>I looked around trying to figure out a way off the river and out of the valley. But there wasn't one. Even if we had a cellphone, there was no way you could fly a helicopter into the riverbed, it was too narrow and overgrown (I bet <a href="http://luxagraf.net/2008/apr/02/return-sea/">Kenso could have done it</a>, but he wasn't immediately available). </p> +<p>The options were: walk upstream or float down. That really isn't a hard decision if you spend much time thinking about it.</p> +<p>Thankfully the majority of her fall was broken by the innertubes we had stacked below to try and cover the rocks in case of something like what happened. Unfortunately we missed a spot, the center of tubes, and that's where her knee hit.</p> +<p>Luckily it turned out out that bloody blue bruise I saw wasn't a broken bone threatening to poke through the skin. Of course that fact that the bruised, bloody contusion was her kneecap didn't really make things much better.</p> +<p>After a few minutes of evaluating our options, Tova said she felt okay enough to continue down. We took ice from the cooler and put it on her leg and Jeremy walked the rest of way, guiding Tova in the small inflatable boat, with her leg elevated and the ice-pack resting on her knee.</p> +<p>Eventually we got back to the car and got Tova to a hospital where X-Rays determined that she had fractured her patella (kneecap). </p> +<p>Which means Tova floated for over half hour down a river with no painkillers other than ice, with a fractured kneecap. </p> +<p>You wouldn't be able to do that. I wouldn't be able to do that. But Tova is considerably tougher than the rest of us and she did it.</p> +<p>I don't know what will happen with her knee in the long run, hopefully surgery won't be necessary. I once did something similar skiing and I know how much joint injuries suck. Her leg is currently in one of those super annoying anti-mobility casts that extends from your mid hip to your ankle, which means you can't drive or really do much of anything. </p> +<p>If you'd like to send a care package or something of that nature, e-mail me and I'll give you an address. In the mean time hopefully the pain isn't too bad. </p> +<p>And I have to say, Tova, I think you're pretty badass for floating the rest of way down the river with a shattered kneecap and a smile. I would have cried the whole way.</p> + </div> + </article> +</main> + +</body> +</html> diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2008/07/rope-swings-and-river-floats.html b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2008/07/rope-swings-and-river-floats.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..19c23ba --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2008/07/rope-swings-and-river-floats.html @@ -0,0 +1,371 @@ +<!DOCTYPE html> +<html +class="detail single" dir="ltr" lang="en-US"> + +<head> + <title>Rope Swings And River Floats - by Scott Gilbertson</title> + <meta charset="utf-8"> + <meta http-equiv="x-ua-compatible" content="ie=edge"> + <meta name="viewport" content="width=device-width, initial-scale=1"> + <meta name="description" + content="Inner tubing down the Chestatee River, just outside of Dahlonega, GA. Fun, but possibly a little dangerous as well. 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We even rigged up an inner tube to carry a cooler of beer and dragged an extra inflatable boat to pick up trash (as well as hold our own).</p> +<p><img alt="Tubing on the Chestatee River" class="postpic" src="https://images.luxagraf.net//2008/chestatee_river_1.jpg"/>It was great fun. We found a rope swing where you could climb up about six feet on the bank and swing out over the river and drop into a nice pool that was plenty deep for the landing. </p> +<p>What made the whole thing possible is that my wife’s parents own a cabin in the area, which they are kind enough to let us use. </p> +<p>Since this weekend was my father-in-law’s birthday, we decided to head up and do another river run. +<break> +<img alt="Tubing on the Chestatee River" class="postpicright" src="https://images.luxagraf.net//2008/chestatee_river_2.jpg"/>After parking the car at the end and trucking the tubes down to the launch point, we put into the river. Just beyond the launch point there’s a couple sizable drops that we walked around last time, but this time, after scouting things out, I figured out how to go down. </p> +<p>I made it through unscathed and I sat in the lower pool waiting for the others.</p> +<p>In short, things started well. </p> +<p>About a minute later a drowning bumble bee somehow climbed out of the river, onto my tube and then stung my right arm. </p> +<p>For most people that’s a moment of discomfort and no big deal. But I’m lucky, I’m allergic to bees so for me it means a moment of discomfort followed by several days of swelling and aching — as I type this my forearm is about one and half times its normal size. Of course it could be worse, I could be “I have to carry an epi-pen” allergic, which, thankfully, I’m not.</p> +<p>Everyone asked if I was okay or if we should turn around. In hindsight, I should have said no, I wasn’t okay and yes we should turn around — not because of me, just because I know what happened next — but I didn’t, so we continued on. [This would have been a great time for the crazy old man of the river to come out of the woods, point a crooked finger in our direction and prophetically croak, “you’re all doomed.” But as far as I know the Chestatee lacks any such character.]</p> +<p>For about an hour it was the same peaceful float we did two weeks ago, a few rapids, long calm stretches where the river is too deep to touch bottom, just lying back in your tube watching the hardwood’s overhanging branches threading across the gray-blue sky. Or the snarled banks choked with laurel and the occasional honeysuckle, roots protruding out like fingers rubbed raw by the passing water.</p> +<p>It’s one of the finest stretches of river I’ve ever been down.</p> +<p>And then we came to the rope swing. </p> +<p>Everything that follows is essentially my fault. </p> +<p><img alt="rope swing" class="postpic" src="https://images.luxagraf.net//2008/chestatee_river_3.jpg"/>See, I love to jump off of things. Swinging off of things is even better. And if you can dive… If there’s somewhere to jump, swing or dive, I’m probably going to find it. </p> +<p>Of course it’s not the safest thing in the world to do, nor am I the sharpest tool in the shed, but you already knew that much.</p> +<p>When we went down two weeks ago I spied a rope hanging down from a tree. Naturally, I immediately started paddling for the shore. Now I seriously wish I hadn’t, but I did. </p> +<p>I climbed out of my tube and grabbed the rope and walked up the bank. I quickly discovered that I couldn’t reach the handle someone had kindly attached. However there was a bit of rope extending down from the handle, which some other shorter person had no doubt added. </p> +<p>Normally I would have climbed back down the bank and checked to see how far off the ground the little extension of rope would have put me. But for whatever reason I didn’t, I just grabbed it and jumped. </p> +<p>Just below the embankment where you launched from there were some stratified rocks sticking out of the water — fairly sharp, ridged rocks, the sort of rocks that look to have jutted up straight out of the Mesozoic era.</p> +<p>And I hit them. About a millisecond after I jumped I knew I was doomed and I pulled my legs up to my chest as tight as could and tried to control the crash. I hit the rocks hard, but with my feet (the Choco sandals I bought for my trip around the world are still the best purchase I’ve ever made and they allow me to do things like bounce off rocks without a scratch).</p> +<p>As soon as my feet hit the rocks I twisted my body and pushed off out into the deeper water and managed to avoid more serious injury. However, it wasn’t so much my skills or planning that saved me, really it was just dumb luck.</p> +<p>Undeterred (or stupidly if that syntax works better for you) I climbed back up and was joined by a couple of other people from our river party who wanted to give it a try. </p> +<p>Long story short: it turned out that if you were about six feet tall you could reach the handle, if you were five ten like me and someone else put their weight on the rope to stretch it, you could also reach the handle. </p> +<p>If you were five five like one girl who did it, you could be picked up and then grab the rope handle. The problem is that the person picking you up is on a muddy incline and bit off balance themselves.</p> +<p>Which brings us to today.</p> +<p><img alt="rope swing" class="postpicright" src="https://images.luxagraf.net//2008/chestatee_river_4.jpg"/>My wife’s brother Jeremy and I stopped at the swing and his girlfriend, Tova, wanted to give it a try. I held the rope and Jeremy held her up until she could grab the handle. It worked and she swung out over the river and let go. We all had a turn and then another. </p> +<p>We went up for a third try.</p> +<p>Same routine, I pulled the rope as taut as it would go and Jeremy held her up to grab the handle. We both thought she had it, but as Jeremy was starting to let go she said, “no, wait.” </p> +<p>But it was already too late, he couldn’t have held her if he wanted to. Even if he had been able to they both would have fallen and landed on the roots and rocks below.</p> +<p>Instead, Tova swung out about five feet and then her grip slipped and she fell, hard, face first onto the same rocks I had hit with my feet. </p> +<p>When she first came up out of the water I could already see a blue bruise and blood on her leg. I thought for a moment that it was a broken bone sticking up, ready to break through the skin. I went down to help, but there wasn’t much I could do. I figured having a broken bone sticking up <em>and</em> having someone throw up on you was probably worse than just the bone. </p> +<p>I looked around trying to figure out a way off the river and out of the valley. But there wasn’t one. Even if we had a cellphone, there was no way you could fly a helicopter into the riverbed, it was too narrow and overgrown (I bet <a href="http://luxagraf.net/2008/apr/02/return-sea/">Kenso could have done it</a>, but he wasn’t immediately available). </p> +<p>The options were: walk upstream or float down. That really isn’t a hard decision if you spend much time thinking about it.</p> +<p>Thankfully the majority of her fall was broken by the innertubes we had stacked below to try and cover the rocks in case of something like what happened. Unfortunately we missed a spot, the center of tubes, and that’s where her knee hit.</p> +<p>Luckily it turned out out that bloody blue bruise I saw wasn’t a broken bone threatening to poke through the skin. Of course that fact that the bruised, bloody contusion was her kneecap didn’t really make things much better.</p> +<p>After a few minutes of evaluating our options, Tova said she felt okay enough to continue down. We took ice from the cooler and put it on her leg and Jeremy walked the rest of way, guiding Tova in the small inflatable boat, with her leg elevated and the ice-pack resting on her knee.</p> +<p>Eventually we got back to the car and got Tova to a hospital where X-Rays determined that she had fractured her patella (kneecap). </p> +<p>Which means Tova floated for over half hour down a river with no painkillers other than ice, with a fractured kneecap. </p> +<p>You wouldn’t be able to do that. I wouldn’t be able to do that. But Tova is considerably tougher than the rest of us and she did it.</p> +<p>I don’t know what will happen with her knee in the long run, hopefully surgery won’t be necessary. I once did something similar skiing and I know how much joint injuries suck. Her leg is currently in one of those super annoying anti-mobility casts that extends from your mid hip to your ankle, which means you can’t drive or really do much of anything. </p> +<p>If you’d like to send a care package or something of that nature, e-mail me and I’ll give you an address. In the mean time hopefully the pain isn’t too bad. </p> +<p>And I have to say, Tova, I think you’re pretty badass for floating the rest of way down the river with a shattered kneecap and a smile. I would have cried the whole way.</p> + </div> + + </article> + + + <div class="nav-wrapper"> + <nav id="page-navigation" class="page-border-top"> + <ul> + <li id="prev"><span class="bl">Previous:</span> + <a href="/jrnl/2008/07/our-days-are-becoming-nights" rel="prev" title=" Our Days Are Becoming Nights">Our Days Are Becoming Nights</a> + </li> + <li id="next"><span class="bl">Next:</span> + <a href="/jrnl/2008/10/elkmont-and-great-smoky-mountains" rel="next" title=" Elkmont and the Great Smoky Mountains">Elkmont and the Great Smoky Mountains</a> + </li> + </ul> + </nav> + </div> + + + + + + +<div class="comment--form--wrapper "> + +<div class="comment--form--header"> + <p class="hed">Thoughts?</p> + <p class="subhed">Please leave a reply:</p> +</div> +<form action="/comments/post/" method="post" class="comment--form"> + +<input type="hidden" name="rder" value="" /> + + + <input type="hidden" name="content_type" value="jrnl.entry" id="id_content_type"> + + + + <input type="hidden" name="object_pk" value="93" id="id_object_pk"> + + + + <input type="hidden" name="timestamp" value="1596833468" id="id_timestamp"> + + + + <input type="hidden" name="security_hash" value="b6b250504b1d4b7c8533951283d4b77e377ea7ea" id="id_security_hash"> + + + + <fieldset > + <label for="id_name">Name:</label> + <input type="text" name="name" maxlength="50" required id="id_name"> + </fieldset> + + + + <fieldset > + <label for="id_email">Email address:</label> + <input type="email" name="email" required id="id_email"> + </fieldset> + + + + <fieldset > + <label for="id_url">URL:</label> + <input type="url" name="url" id="id_url"> + </fieldset> + + + + <fieldset > + <label for="id_comment">Comment:</label> + <div class="textarea-rounded"><textarea name="comment" cols="40" rows="10" maxlength="3000" required id="id_comment"> +</textarea></div> + </fieldset> + + + + <fieldset style="display:none;"> + <label for="id_honeypot">If you enter anything in this field your comment will be treated as spam:</label> + <input type="text" name="honeypot" id="id_honeypot"> + </fieldset> + + + <div class="submit"> + <input type="submit" name="post" class="submit-post btn" value="Post" /> + <input type="submit" name="preview" class="submit-preview btn" value="Preview" /> + </div> +</form> +<p style="font-size: 95%;"><strong>All comments are moderated</strong>, so you won’t see it right away. 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We even rigged up an inner tube to carry a cooler of beer and dragged an extra inflatable boat to pick up trash (as well as hold our own).
+
+<img src="[[base_url]]/2008/chestatee_river_1.jpg" alt="Tubing on the Chestatee River" class="postpic" />It was great fun. We found a rope swing where you could climb up about six feet on the bank and swing out over the river and drop into a nice pool that was plenty deep for the landing.
+
+What made the whole thing possible is that my wife's parents own a cabin in the area, which they are kind enough to let us use.
+
+Since this weekend was my father-in-law's birthday, we decided to head up and do another river run.
+<break>
+<img src="[[base_url]]/2008/chestatee_river_2.jpg" alt="Tubing on the Chestatee River" class="postpicright" />After parking the car at the end and trucking the tubes down to the launch point, we put into the river. Just beyond the launch point there's a couple sizable drops that we walked around last time, but this time, after scouting things out, I figured out how to go down.
+
+I made it through unscathed and I sat in the lower pool waiting for the others.
+
+In short, things started well.
+
+About a minute later a drowning bumble bee somehow climbed out of the river, onto my tube and then stung my right arm.
+
+For most people that's a moment of discomfort and no big deal. But I'm lucky, I'm allergic to bees so for me it means a moment of discomfort followed by several days of swelling and aching -- as I type this my forearm is about one and half times its normal size. Of course it could be worse, I could be "I have to carry an epi-pen" allergic, which, thankfully, I'm not.
+
+Everyone asked if I was okay or if we should turn around. In hindsight, I should have said no, I wasn't okay and yes we should turn around -- not because of me, just because I know what happened next -- but I didn't, so we continued on. [This would have been a great time for the crazy old man of the river to come out of the woods, point a crooked finger in our direction and prophetically croak, "you're all doomed." But as far as I know the Chestatee lacks any such character.]
+
+For about an hour it was the same peaceful float we did two weeks ago, a few rapids, long calm stretches where the river is too deep to touch bottom, just lying back in your tube watching the hardwood's overhanging branches threading across the gray-blue sky. Or the snarled banks choked with laurel and the occasional honeysuckle, roots protruding out like fingers rubbed raw by the passing water.
+
+It's one of the finest stretches of river I've ever been down.
+
+And then we came to the rope swing.
+
+Everything that follows is essentially my fault.
+
+<img src="[[base_url]]/2008/chestatee_river_3.jpg" alt="rope swing" class="postpic" />See, I love to jump off of things. Swinging off of things is even better. And if you can dive... If there's somewhere to jump, swing or dive, I'm probably going to find it.
+
+Of course it's not the safest thing in the world to do, nor am I the sharpest tool in the shed, but you already knew that much.
+
+When we went down two weeks ago I spied a rope hanging down from a tree. Naturally, I immediately started paddling for the shore. Now I seriously wish I hadn't, but I did.
+
+I climbed out of my tube and grabbed the rope and walked up the bank. I quickly discovered that I couldn't reach the handle someone had kindly attached. However there was a bit of rope extending down from the handle, which some other shorter person had no doubt added.
+
+Normally I would have climbed back down the bank and checked to see how far off the ground the little extension of rope would have put me. But for whatever reason I didn't, I just grabbed it and jumped.
+
+Just below the embankment where you launched from there were some stratified rocks sticking out of the water -- fairly sharp, ridged rocks, the sort of rocks that look to have jutted up straight out of the Mesozoic era.
+
+And I hit them. About a millisecond after I jumped I knew I was doomed and I pulled my legs up to my chest as tight as could and tried to control the crash. I hit the rocks hard, but with my feet (the Choco sandals I bought for my trip around the world are still the best purchase I've ever made and they allow me to do things like bounce off rocks without a scratch).
+
+As soon as my feet hit the rocks I twisted my body and pushed off out into the deeper water and managed to avoid more serious injury. However, it wasn't so much my skills or planning that saved me, really it was just dumb luck.
+
+Undeterred (or stupidly if that syntax works better for you) I climbed back up and was joined by a couple of other people from our river party who wanted to give it a try.
+
+Long story short: it turned out that if you were about six feet tall you could reach the handle, if you were five ten like me and someone else put their weight on the rope to stretch it, you could also reach the handle.
+
+If you were five five like one girl who did it, you could be picked up and then grab the rope handle. The problem is that the person picking you up is on a muddy incline and bit off balance themselves.
+
+Which brings us to today.
+
+<img src="[[base_url]]/2008/chestatee_river_4.jpg" alt="rope swing" class="postpicright" />My wife's brother Jeremy and I stopped at the swing and his girlfriend, Tova, wanted to give it a try. I held the rope and Jeremy held her up until she could grab the handle. It worked and she swung out over the river and let go. We all had a turn and then another.
+
+We went up for a third try.
+
+Same routine, I pulled the rope as taut as it would go and Jeremy held her up to grab the handle. We both thought she had it, but as Jeremy was starting to let go she said, "no, wait."
+
+But it was already too late, he couldn't have held her if he wanted to. Even if he had been able to they both would have fallen and landed on the roots and rocks below.
+
+Instead, Tova swung out about five feet and then her grip slipped and she fell, hard, face first onto the same rocks I had hit with my feet.
+
+When she first came up out of the water I could already see a blue bruise and blood on her leg. I thought for a moment that it was a broken bone sticking up, ready to break through the skin. I went down to help, but there wasn't much I could do. I figured having a broken bone sticking up _and_ having someone throw up on you was probably worse than just the bone.
+
+I looked around trying to figure out a way off the river and out of the valley. But there wasn't one. Even if we had a cellphone, there was no way you could fly a helicopter into the riverbed, it was too narrow and overgrown (I bet [Kenso could have done it][1], but he wasn't immediately available).
+
+[1]: http://luxagraf.net/2008/apr/02/return-sea/
+
+The options were: walk upstream or float down. That really isn't a hard decision if you spend much time thinking about it.
+
+Thankfully the majority of her fall was broken by the innertubes we had stacked below to try and cover the rocks in case of something like what happened. Unfortunately we missed a spot, the center of tubes, and that's where her knee hit.
+
+Luckily it turned out out that bloody blue bruise I saw wasn't a broken bone threatening to poke through the skin. Of course that fact that the bruised, bloody contusion was her kneecap didn't really make things much better.
+
+After a few minutes of evaluating our options, Tova said she felt okay enough to continue down. We took ice from the cooler and put it on her leg and Jeremy walked the rest of way, guiding Tova in the small inflatable boat, with her leg elevated and the ice-pack resting on her knee.
+
+Eventually we got back to the car and got Tova to a hospital where X-Rays determined that she had fractured her patella (kneecap).
+
+Which means Tova floated for over half hour down a river with no painkillers other than ice, with a fractured kneecap.
+
+You wouldn't be able to do that. I wouldn't be able to do that. But Tova is considerably tougher than the rest of us and she did it.
+
+I don't know what will happen with her knee in the long run, hopefully surgery won't be necessary. I once did something similar skiing and I know how much joint injuries suck. Her leg is currently in one of those super annoying anti-mobility casts that extends from your mid hip to your ankle, which means you can't drive or really do much of anything.
+
+If you'd like to send a care package or something of that nature, e-mail me and I'll give you an address. In the mean time hopefully the pain isn't too bad.
+
+And I have to say, Tova, I think you're pretty badass for floating the rest of way down the river with a shattered kneecap and a smile. I would have cried the whole way. diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2008/07/tiny-cities-made-ash.amp b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2008/07/tiny-cities-made-ash.amp new file mode 100644 index 0000000..2ebac00 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2008/07/tiny-cities-made-ash.amp @@ -0,0 +1,199 @@ + + +<!doctype html> +<html amp lang="en"> +<head> +<meta charset="utf-8"> +<title>Tiny Cities Made of Ash</title> +<link rel="canonical" href="https://luxagraf.net/jrnl/2008/07/tiny-cities-made-ash"> + <meta name="viewport" content="width=device-width,initial-scale=1,minimum-scale=1"> + <meta name="twitter:card" content="summary_large_image"/> + <meta name="twitter:url" content="/jrnl/2008/07/tiny-cities-made-ash"> + <meta name="twitter:description" content="Drinking ice cold beer in the afternoon heat of Leon, thinking about what I've learned in Nicaragua: the world needs more hammocks. 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The firecrackers bursting back over behind the cathedral add an off rhythm that only makes the whole mess more jarring.</p> +<p><amp-img alt="Leon, lion statue" height="268" src="https://images.luxagraf.net//2008/leon1.jpg" width="180"></amp-img>But Francisco seems entirely unperturbed and only once even glances over at toward the other side of the park, the source of all the noise and confusion. He's too fascinated with the tattoo on Corrinne's shoulder to bother with what slowly just becomes yet another sound echoing through León.</p> +<p>Francisco is a shoe shiner, but since we're both wearing sandals he's out of luck and has reverted to what seems to be the secondary universal appeal of westerners -- a chance to practice English. +<break> +We're sipping Victorias in a cafe just off the main park in León, Nicaragua. It's our fourth day here -- with an extra day spent at the nearby Pacific beaches -- in what is, so far, my favorite city in Nicaragua.</break></p> +<p>Architecturally León is a bit like Granada, but since it lacks the UNESCO stamp it's somewhat less touristy and a bit more Nicaraguan, whatever that means. </p> +<p><amp-img alt="Leon, church bells" height="141" src="https://images.luxagraf.net//2008/leon2.jpg" width="250"></amp-img>It's a city of poets and painters, philosophers and political revolutionaries. In fact, Nicaragua as a whole is full of poets and artists, all the newspapers still carry at least one poem everyday (U.S. newspapers used to do that too), but León is perhaps the pinnacle of Nicaraguan writing and painting, if for no other reason than it's a college town -- the constant influx of youth always brings with it vitality and art.</p> +<p>There are three separate Nicaragua universities in León and even though none of them are in session right now, as with Athens, GA the fomenting imprint of students lingers even when they are gone -- political graffiti dots the cafes, bars are open later, people seem more active, the bells clang, the fireworks explode on an otherwise ordinary Sunday evening. </p> +<p>In short, León has something that most of the rest of Nicaragua (and the U.S. for that matter) lacks -- a vibrant sense of community. </p> +<p>Of course in relation to the States nearly everywhere seems to have a much stronger sense of community and togetherness. </p> +<p>The irony though is that just writing those words together fills me with dread and loathing, a sure sign of my own inherent Americanism. </p> +<p>But the truth is community doesn't have to mean over-priced "organic" markets, war protests round the maypole and whatever other useless crap passes itself off as community in Athens and elsewhere in America.</p> +<p>Every time I go abroad, not just Nicaragua, but Asia, Europe, the Caribbean, just about anywhere, the communities are somehow more vibrant, more alive, more sensual -- full of bright colors, playing children, people walking to work, to the market, to the gym, to wherever. There is life in the streets.</p> +<p>In Athens there's mainly just cars in the streets. Big, fast cars.</p> +<p><amp-img alt="house, Leon" height="186" src="https://images.luxagraf.net//2008/leon3.jpg" width="330"></amp-img>For instance, in León the houses are not the stolid tans, boring greys and muted greens you find in Athens, but brightly colored -- reds, blues, yellows, crimson, indigo, chartreuse even -- the doors are not shuttered and double-bolted, there are no lawns, no barriers between the life of the home and life of the street, everything co-mingles, a great soup of public and private with each overlapping the other. </p> +<p>The clatter of the Red Sox game drifts out the window, along with the smell of fresh roasted chicken that mingles with the dust of the street, the kids gathering in the park, the declining light of the day, the first streetlights, the evening news, the women in curlers walking in the shadows just behind the half-open wooden doors....</p> +<p>And it makes the streets more fun to walk down, there's something to experience, things to see and hear and smell and taste.</p> +<p>Which isn't to say that León is Paris or New York, but in its own way it sort of is. Certainly it's better than my own neighborhood where I know exactly what color the houses will be before I even step out the door -- and not because I know the neighborhood, but because I know what colors comprise the set of acceptable options in the States -- where the children are staked in the front yard on leashes (invisible for the most part, but it won't surprise me when the leashes can be seen), neighbors wave, but rarely stop to talk and certainly no one walks anywhere unless it's for exercise.</p> +<p><amp-img alt="doorway, Leon" height="340" src="https://images.luxagraf.net//2008/leon4.jpg" width="191"></amp-img>Why are American neighborhoods so dull? Why no happy colors? Why make things more lifeless than they already are, given that our neighborhoods are set up in such away that we abandon them all day and return only at night to sleep?</p> +<p>Dunno, but I can tell you this, León, Paris, Phnom Phen, Prague, Vientiane and just about everywhere else is far more exciting to walk around than the average American town. And it isn't just the exotic appeal of the foreign; it's about architecture, design and the sharp division of public and private those two create to make our neighborhoods into the rigid anti-fun caricature that the rest of the world sees.</p> +<p>Do I sound like a transcendentalist-inspired, anti-american crank? Sorry about that. I like America, really I do. And I hold out hope. One day my house will be vermillion -- my own small step.</p> +<p>Plus, that's a big part of what I enjoy about traveling -- seeing how other people construct their house, their neighborhoods, their cities, their way of life... see not just how it differs from our own, but perhaps see some ways you could improve our lives. </p> +<p>Like hammocks. We desperately need more hammocks. Lots of hammocks.</p> +<p>But León isn't perfect. In fact it fails on several levels -- take that butt ugly radio/microwave/cell tower on the horizon -- why the hell would you put that in the middle of otherwise majestic 18th century Spanish colonial city?</p> +<p>León, I'll miss you, you're just about perfect as far as Central America goes, maybe just see about moving that radio tower....</p> + </div> + </article> +</main> + +</body> +</html> diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2008/07/tiny-cities-made-ash.html b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2008/07/tiny-cities-made-ash.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..9efa977 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2008/07/tiny-cities-made-ash.html @@ -0,0 +1,352 @@ +<!DOCTYPE html> +<html +class="detail single" dir="ltr" lang="en-US"> + +<head> + <title>Tiny Cities Made Of Ash - by Scott Gilbertson</title> + <meta charset="utf-8"> + <meta http-equiv="x-ua-compatible" content="ie=edge"> + <meta name="viewport" content="width=device-width, initial-scale=1"> + <meta name="description" + content="Drinking ice cold beer in the afternoon heat of Leon, thinking about what I've learned in Nicaragua: the world needs more hammocks. 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The firecrackers bursting back over behind the cathedral add an off rhythm that only makes the whole mess more jarring.</p> +<p><img alt="Leon, lion statue" class="postpic" src="https://images.luxagraf.net//2008/leon1.jpg"/>But Francisco seems entirely unperturbed and only once even glances over at toward the other side of the park, the source of all the noise and confusion. He’s too fascinated with the tattoo on Corrinne’s shoulder to bother with what slowly just becomes yet another sound echoing through León.</p> +<p>Francisco is a shoe shiner, but since we’re both wearing sandals he’s out of luck and has reverted to what seems to be the secondary universal appeal of westerners — a chance to practice English. +<break> +We’re sipping Victorias in a cafe just off the main park in León, Nicaragua. It’s our fourth day here — with an extra day spent at the nearby Pacific beaches — in what is, so far, my favorite city in Nicaragua.</p> +<p>Architecturally León is a bit like Granada, but since it lacks the UNESCO stamp it’s somewhat less touristy and a bit more Nicaraguan, whatever that means. </p> +<p><img alt="Leon, church bells" class="postpicright" src="https://images.luxagraf.net//2008/leon2.jpg"/>It’s a city of poets and painters, philosophers and political revolutionaries. In fact, Nicaragua as a whole is full of poets and artists, all the newspapers still carry at least one poem everyday (U.S. newspapers used to do that too), but León is perhaps the pinnacle of Nicaraguan writing and painting, if for no other reason than it’s a college town — the constant influx of youth always brings with it vitality and art.</p> +<p>There are three separate Nicaragua universities in León and even though none of them are in session right now, as with Athens, GA the fomenting imprint of students lingers even when they are gone — political graffiti dots the cafes, bars are open later, people seem more active, the bells clang, the fireworks explode on an otherwise ordinary Sunday evening. </p> +<p>In short, León has something that most of the rest of Nicaragua (and the U.S. for that matter) lacks — a vibrant sense of community. </p> +<p>Of course in relation to the States nearly everywhere seems to have a much stronger sense of community and togetherness. </p> +<p>The irony though is that just writing those words together fills me with dread and loathing, a sure sign of my own inherent Americanism. </p> +<p>But the truth is community doesn’t have to mean over-priced “organic” markets, war protests round the maypole and whatever other useless crap passes itself off as community in Athens and elsewhere in America.</p> +<p>Every time I go abroad, not just Nicaragua, but Asia, Europe, the Caribbean, just about anywhere, the communities are somehow more vibrant, more alive, more sensual — full of bright colors, playing children, people walking to work, to the market, to the gym, to wherever. There is life in the streets.</p> +<p>In Athens there’s mainly just cars in the streets. Big, fast cars.</p> +<p><img alt="house, Leon" class="postpic" src="https://images.luxagraf.net//2008/leon3.jpg"/>For instance, in León the houses are not the stolid tans, boring greys and muted greens you find in Athens, but brightly colored — reds, blues, yellows, crimson, indigo, chartreuse even — the doors are not shuttered and double-bolted, there are no lawns, no barriers between the life of the home and life of the street, everything co-mingles, a great soup of public and private with each overlapping the other. </p> +<p>The clatter of the Red Sox game drifts out the window, along with the smell of fresh roasted chicken that mingles with the dust of the street, the kids gathering in the park, the declining light of the day, the first streetlights, the evening news, the women in curlers walking in the shadows just behind the half-open wooden doors….</p> +<p>And it makes the streets more fun to walk down, there’s something to experience, things to see and hear and smell and taste.</p> +<p>Which isn’t to say that León is Paris or New York, but in its own way it sort of is. Certainly it’s better than my own neighborhood where I know exactly what color the houses will be before I even step out the door — and not because I know the neighborhood, but because I know what colors comprise the set of acceptable options in the States — where the children are staked in the front yard on leashes (invisible for the most part, but it won’t surprise me when the leashes can be seen), neighbors wave, but rarely stop to talk and certainly no one walks anywhere unless it’s for exercise.</p> +<p><img alt="doorway, Leon" class="postpicright" src="https://images.luxagraf.net//2008/leon4.jpg"/>Why are American neighborhoods so dull? Why no happy colors? Why make things more lifeless than they already are, given that our neighborhoods are set up in such away that we abandon them all day and return only at night to sleep?</p> +<p>Dunno, but I can tell you this, León, Paris, Phnom Phen, Prague, Vientiane and just about everywhere else is far more exciting to walk around than the average American town. And it isn’t just the exotic appeal of the foreign; it’s about architecture, design and the sharp division of public and private those two create to make our neighborhoods into the rigid anti-fun caricature that the rest of the world sees.</p> +<p>Do I sound like a transcendentalist-inspired, anti-american crank? Sorry about that. I like America, really I do. And I hold out hope. One day my house will be vermillion — my own small step.</p> +<p>Plus, that’s a big part of what I enjoy about traveling — seeing how other people construct their house, their neighborhoods, their cities, their way of life… see not just how it differs from our own, but perhaps see some ways you could improve our lives. </p> +<p>Like hammocks. We desperately need more hammocks. Lots of hammocks.</p> +<p>But León isn’t perfect. In fact it fails on several levels — take that butt ugly radio/microwave/cell tower on the horizon — why the hell would you put that in the middle of otherwise majestic 18th century Spanish colonial city?</p> +<p>León, I’ll miss you, you’re just about perfect as far as Central America goes, maybe just see about moving that radio tower….</p> + </div> + + </article> + + + <div class="nav-wrapper"> + <nav id="page-navigation" class="page-border-top"> + <ul> + <li id="prev"><span class="bl">Previous:</span> + <a href="/jrnl/2008/06/you-cant-go-home-again" rel="prev" title=" You Can't Go Home Again">You Can't Go Home Again</a> + </li> + <li id="next"><span class="bl">Next:</span> + <a href="/jrnl/2008/07/our-days-are-becoming-nights" rel="next" title=" Our Days Are Becoming Nights">Our Days Are Becoming Nights</a> + </li> + </ul> + </nav> + </div> + + + + + + +<div class="comment--form--wrapper "> + +<div class="comment--form--header"> + <p class="hed">Thoughts?</p> + <p class="subhed">Please leave a reply:</p> +</div> +<form action="/comments/post/" method="post" class="comment--form"> + +<input type="hidden" name="rder" value="" /> + + + <input type="hidden" name="content_type" value="jrnl.entry" id="id_content_type"> + + + + <input type="hidden" name="object_pk" value="91" id="id_object_pk"> + + + + <input type="hidden" name="timestamp" value="1596833469" id="id_timestamp"> + + + + <input type="hidden" name="security_hash" value="8176136c181b76e8c66bf9679d9bc8639a818123" id="id_security_hash"> + + + + <fieldset > + <label for="id_name">Name:</label> + <input type="text" name="name" maxlength="50" required id="id_name"> + </fieldset> + + + + <fieldset > + <label for="id_email">Email address:</label> + <input type="email" name="email" required id="id_email"> + </fieldset> + + + + <fieldset > + <label for="id_url">URL:</label> + <input type="url" name="url" id="id_url"> + </fieldset> + + + + <fieldset > + <label for="id_comment">Comment:</label> + <div class="textarea-rounded"><textarea name="comment" cols="40" rows="10" maxlength="3000" required id="id_comment"> +</textarea></div> + </fieldset> + + + + <fieldset style="display:none;"> + <label for="id_honeypot">If you enter anything in this field your comment will be treated as spam:</label> + <input type="text" name="honeypot" id="id_honeypot"> + </fieldset> + + + <div class="submit"> + <input type="submit" name="post" class="submit-post btn" value="Post" /> + <input type="submit" name="preview" class="submit-preview btn" value="Preview" /> + </div> +</form> +<p style="font-size: 95%;"><strong>All comments are moderated</strong>, so you won’t see it right away. 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The firecrackers bursting back over behind the cathedral add an off rhythm that only makes the whole mess more jarring.
+
+<img src="[[base_url]]/2008/leon1.jpg" alt="Leon, lion statue" class="postpic" />But Francisco seems entirely unperturbed and only once even glances over at toward the other side of the park, the source of all the noise and confusion. He's too fascinated with the tattoo on Corrinne's shoulder to bother with what slowly just becomes yet another sound echoing through León.
+
+Francisco is a shoe shiner, but since we're both wearing sandals he's out of luck and has reverted to what seems to be the secondary universal appeal of westerners -- a chance to practice English.
+<break>
+We're sipping Victorias in a cafe just off the main park in León, Nicaragua. It's our fourth day here -- with an extra day spent at the nearby Pacific beaches -- in what is, so far, my favorite city in Nicaragua.
+
+Architecturally León is a bit like Granada, but since it lacks the UNESCO stamp it's somewhat less touristy and a bit more Nicaraguan, whatever that means.
+
+<img src="[[base_url]]/2008/leon2.jpg" alt="Leon, church bells" class="postpicright" />It's a city of poets and painters, philosophers and political revolutionaries. In fact, Nicaragua as a whole is full of poets and artists, all the newspapers still carry at least one poem everyday (U.S. newspapers used to do that too), but León is perhaps the pinnacle of Nicaraguan writing and painting, if for no other reason than it's a college town -- the constant influx of youth always brings with it vitality and art.
+
+There are three separate Nicaragua universities in León and even though none of them are in session right now, as with Athens, GA the fomenting imprint of students lingers even when they are gone -- political graffiti dots the cafes, bars are open later, people seem more active, the bells clang, the fireworks explode on an otherwise ordinary Sunday evening.
+
+In short, León has something that most of the rest of Nicaragua (and the U.S. for that matter) lacks -- a vibrant sense of community.
+
+Of course in relation to the States nearly everywhere seems to have a much stronger sense of community and togetherness.
+
+The irony though is that just writing those words together fills me with dread and loathing, a sure sign of my own inherent Americanism.
+
+But the truth is community doesn't have to mean over-priced "organic" markets, war protests round the maypole and whatever other useless crap passes itself off as community in Athens and elsewhere in America.
+
+Every time I go abroad, not just Nicaragua, but Asia, Europe, the Caribbean, just about anywhere, the communities are somehow more vibrant, more alive, more sensual -- full of bright colors, playing children, people walking to work, to the market, to the gym, to wherever. There is life in the streets.
+
+In Athens there's mainly just cars in the streets. Big, fast cars.
+
+<img src="[[base_url]]/2008/leon3.jpg" alt="house, Leon" class="postpic" />For instance, in León the houses are not the stolid tans, boring greys and muted greens you find in Athens, but brightly colored -- reds, blues, yellows, crimson, indigo, chartreuse even -- the doors are not shuttered and double-bolted, there are no lawns, no barriers between the life of the home and life of the street, everything co-mingles, a great soup of public and private with each overlapping the other.
+
+The clatter of the Red Sox game drifts out the window, along with the smell of fresh roasted chicken that mingles with the dust of the street, the kids gathering in the park, the declining light of the day, the first streetlights, the evening news, the women in curlers walking in the shadows just behind the half-open wooden doors....
+
+And it makes the streets more fun to walk down, there's something to experience, things to see and hear and smell and taste.
+
+Which isn't to say that León is Paris or New York, but in its own way it sort of is. Certainly it's better than my own neighborhood where I know exactly what color the houses will be before I even step out the door -- and not because I know the neighborhood, but because I know what colors comprise the set of acceptable options in the States -- where the children are staked in the front yard on leashes (invisible for the most part, but it won't surprise me when the leashes can be seen), neighbors wave, but rarely stop to talk and certainly no one walks anywhere unless it's for exercise.
+
+<img src="[[base_url]]/2008/leon4.jpg" alt="doorway, Leon" class="postpicright" />Why are American neighborhoods so dull? Why no happy colors? Why make things more lifeless than they already are, given that our neighborhoods are set up in such away that we abandon them all day and return only at night to sleep?
+
+Dunno, but I can tell you this, León, Paris, Phnom Phen, Prague, Vientiane and just about everywhere else is far more exciting to walk around than the average American town. And it isn't just the exotic appeal of the foreign; it's about architecture, design and the sharp division of public and private those two create to make our neighborhoods into the rigid anti-fun caricature that the rest of the world sees.
+
+Do I sound like a transcendentalist-inspired, anti-american crank? Sorry about that. I like America, really I do. And I hold out hope. One day my house will be vermillion -- my own small step.
+
+Plus, that's a big part of what I enjoy about traveling -- seeing how other people construct their house, their neighborhoods, their cities, their way of life... see not just how it differs from our own, but perhaps see some ways you could improve our lives.
+
+Like hammocks. We desperately need more hammocks. Lots of hammocks.
+
+But León isn't perfect. In fact it fails on several levels -- take that butt ugly radio/microwave/cell tower on the horizon -- why the hell would you put that in the middle of otherwise majestic 18th century Spanish colonial city?
+
+León, I'll miss you, you're just about perfect as far as Central America goes, maybe just see about moving that radio tower.... diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2008/10/elkmont-and-great-smoky-mountains.amp b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2008/10/elkmont-and-great-smoky-mountains.amp new file mode 100644 index 0000000..ec7d7b9 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2008/10/elkmont-and-great-smoky-mountains.amp @@ -0,0 +1,212 @@ + + +<!doctype html> +<html amp lang="en"> +<head> +<meta charset="utf-8"> +<title>Elkmont and the Great Smoky Mountains</title> +<link rel="canonical" href="https://luxagraf.net/jrnl/2008/10/elkmont-and-great-smoky-mountains"> + <meta name="viewport" content="width=device-width,initial-scale=1,minimum-scale=1"> + <meta name="twitter:card" content="summary_large_image"/> + <meta name="twitter:url" content="/jrnl/2008/10/elkmont-and-great-smoky-mountains"> + <meta name="twitter:description" content="Tracking down the lost summer camp of Elkmost amidst the Fall folliage of Smoky Mountain NP. 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Divets between tiny the rolling hilltops form eerie microclimes of misty white clouds hugging the valleys and road like the fingers of some wispy white mountain ghosts snaking down from the peaks. </p> +<p><amp-img alt="headlights on the road" height="216" src="https://images.luxagraf.net//2008/road_night_sm.jpg" width="330"></amp-img>With the windows cracked it's not hard to tell that the pockets of fog gather in the cold crevasses where the temperature drops noticeably along with the highway. From the top of every small hill, the headlights move like shiny ribbons though the knuckles of mountains. As the beams dive back down, the view from behind the windshield becomes a bath of smoky white light -- a film noir scene brought to life. And then the car rushes up out of the chilly depths and into the clear night, atop another ridge where the remnants of wood plank fences line the road.</p> +<p>From a particularly high ridge the land is lit up by the rising moon and succession of foggy pockets and lumpy ridges between spreads out like cigarette smoke settling in the creases of some red vinyl cushions, tucked in the corner of an all night diner, straight out of the 1950s.</p> +<p>The Smoky Mountains are, as it turns out, well named. </p> +<p><break></break></p> +<p>Were it light, the landscape and buildings in the area would indeed look much like the 50s. Not a lot appears to have changed on the slopes of the Smokies in quite some time. The new developments -- strip malls, cookie cutter suburbs and giant megastores -- are further up ahead, around the bend in Knoxville, Maryville.</p> +<p>But out here in the boundary land of mountain and plain it's just the headlights stabbing through the fog. </p> +<p>I keep half expecting to see some ghostly figure off in the shadowy outline of trees at the edge of the small arc of headlamps, to catch some otherworldly creature slouching through the foggy forest, off to haunt the crumbling farm houses set back from the road, enveloped in night.</p> +<p>Occasionally I pass through a town -- sudden, brilliant, florescent -- gas stations, neon beer signs in a window, telephone wires, stoplights, downshifting and then fading in the rearview mirror, returning to the murky hills.</p> +<p>It continues like that with a brief break through Maryville where Starbucks and shopping malls remind me that I am indeed still part of the 21st century. But then that fades as we move into the mountains again, higher, this time in pure blackness, even the fog is gone.</p> +<p><amp-img alt="fog, hillside" height="330" src="https://images.luxagraf.net//2008/fog.jpg" width="216"></amp-img>After a while the zigzags stop and the road follows the river upstream headed to Pigeon Forge, which, when you reach it in darkness, can't help but look like an amusement park at the gates of hell, a last ditch effort of all failed American cultural ideas shored up together -- Elvis impersonators, mini golf, Dollyworld, all-you-can-eat restaurants serving every food imaginable as long as your imagination is limited to steak and pizza, which apparently, for many, it is.</p> +<p>Pigeon Forge is everything that's wrong with America. </p> +<p>Pigeon Forge is Myrtle Beach in the mountains, it lacks any basis in reality and, like Myrtle Beach, <a href="/2007/jun/17/being-there/">it doesn't really exist</a>. It's all just redneck weddings cascading straight out of the chapel and into the mini golf reception area.</p> +<p>I used to think the demise of such places would be gradual, almost imperceptible, until one day they were just vacant and ghostly, joining Bowie CA, Bisbee, St Elmo and other places that simply slipped our collective minds. However, in the case of Pigeon Forge it may well be much faster. The people who come here are the same ones now mailing their house keys to the mortgage companies -- the unreality of it all only lasts for so long. Of course I could be wrong.</p> +<p>And we aren't here for Pigeon Forge, it just happens to have a free condo we're staying in. We're here for the mountains. Smoky Mountain National Park is just a few miles up the road.</p> +<p><span class="break"> </span></p> +<p>The next morning I'm sitting on the patio, bundled up against the unseasonable cold, reading Cormac McCarthy's <cite>The Orchard Keeper</cite> which is largely set here in these same mountains, but back in the early 1920s. <cite>The Orchard Keeper</cite> is fiction, but McCarthy spent a fair share of his life in Sevier County and knew these mountains well -- you can feel them living and breathing right there in the turning of the page.</p> +<blockquote> +<p>He came out on a high bald knoll that looked over the valley and he stopped here and studied it as a man might cresting a hill and seeing a strange landscape for the first time. Pine and cedars in a dark swath of green piled down the mountain to the left and ceased again where the road cut through. Beyond that a field and a log hogpin, the shakes spilling down the broken roof, looking like some diminutive settler's cabin in ruins. Through the leaves of the hardwoods he could see the zinc-colored roof of the church faintly coruscant and patched of boarded siding weathered the paper-gray of a waspnest. And in the distance the long purple welts of the Great Smokies.</p> +</blockquote> +<p><amp-img alt="ridges of the smokies" height="168" src="https://images.luxagraf.net//2008/purplemountains.jpg" width="300"></amp-img>Although with a bit of driving, and some selective horizon framing, you can find crumbling buildings with collapsing siding that does indeed resemble the "paper-gray of a waspnest," or the ridgelines like bruised knuckles interrupting the sunrise, for the most part McCarthy's vision of the Smokies is just a memory, a half crumbled placemarker at a neglected turnout in the road, a few yellowed, slightly retouched photos in a visitor center, a coffee table book of history purchased for friends back home.</p> +<p>I would love to know what McCarthy thinks of Sevier and environs now. It would be nice to drink a pint with him and hear about a time when men and women were sane, cautious and respectful. Of course, if you've ever read a McCarthy book you know what happens to those characters, they are, in one way or another displaced by the less savory, the more ambitious, more full of hot air and power-hungry dreams.</p> +<p>In McCarthy's world the meek very rarely inherit anything save dust and silence, but they do retain their dignity, something painfully lacking in Pigeon Forge.</p> +<p><span class="break"> </span></p> +<p><amp-img alt="river, trees" height="320" src="https://images.luxagraf.net//2008/reflectedtrees.jpg" width="198"></amp-img>The mountains are still beautiful, dying perhaps, choking on smoke from Chattanooga and Atlanta, mostly Atlanta, but in the mean time the leaves on the trees run the spectrum from ochre to vermillion with all the middle hues as well.</p> +<p>We spend a few days, driving mainly, but occasionally walking, through the mountains, the trees, along the rivers and streams, the windswept peaks with fog breaking over them like waves of mist and smoke.</p> +<p>There are also the crumbling remains of old grist mills and early towns now abandoned; remnants of a time, near the end of the 19th century when hiking and exploring the outdoors was all the rage -- John Muir helped the trend along, but for a time people genuinely liked to get up into the mountains, out in the desert and see America's unparalleled natural wonderland. </p> +<p>One the byproducts of that era is the ghost town of Elkmont, nestled up against the steep ridges of the Smokies at the end of railway line that used to stretch back to down to Maryville. Elkmont began like as a rough and tumble logging town, and while I couldn't find mention of it in <cite>The Orchard Keeper</cite>, it dates from 1908 which puts it in roughly the same time frame. </p> +<p>Over time Elkmont ran out of trees to easily harvest and the town gradually evolved into a haven for the socially prominent and wealthy members of Knoxville, Maryville, and Chattanooga -- summer cottages were built, a central hunting lodge was added and members built a number of trails that lead off into the Smokies.</p> +<p>At the zenith of its popularity the Little River Railroad, which ran from Knoxville to Elkmont, offered a Sunday "Elkmont Special" -- non-stop train service to the mountains. That proved popular enough that the Sunday special became a regular, several days a week route.</p> +<p>Then that passed or was diluted somehow, getting out to see the land was condensed down to the somewhat easier, more profitable habit of just buying fleece jackets at the mega-mall and playing a bit of putt-putt golf in Pigeon Forge.</p> +<p>Oh well.</p> +<p><span class="break"> </span></p> +<p>One piece of advice, should you head to Smoky Mountain National Park, don't dig too deep, if you do any more than scratch the surface you might discover some unpleasant things -- like the signs along the river that read: Do Not Drink, Swim, Bathe or Touch the Water; River contains fecal matter.</p> +<p>Yes, the rivers are full of shit. Shouldn't be surprising then that Pigeon Forge is full of shit. Everything trickles downhill as they say.</p> +<p>And we are all more or less full of shit.</p> +<p>Don't drink the water.</p> +<p>And so it goes.</p> + </div> + </article> +</main> + +</body> +</html> diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2008/10/elkmont-and-great-smoky-mountains.html b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2008/10/elkmont-and-great-smoky-mountains.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..38a4a8e --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2008/10/elkmont-and-great-smoky-mountains.html @@ -0,0 +1,423 @@ +<!DOCTYPE html> +<html +class="detail single" dir="ltr" lang="en-US"> + +<head> + <title>Elkmont And The Great Smoky Mountains - by Scott Gilbertson</title> + <meta charset="utf-8"> + <meta http-equiv="x-ua-compatible" content="ie=edge"> + <meta name="viewport" content="width=device-width, initial-scale=1"> + <meta name="description" + content="Tracking down the lost summer camp of Elkmost amidst the Fall folliage of Smoky Mountain NP. Avoid Pigeon Forge and you'll survive. 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Divets between tiny the rolling hilltops form eerie microclimes of misty white clouds hugging the valleys and road like the fingers of some wispy white mountain ghosts snaking down from the peaks. </p> +<p><img alt="headlights on the road" class="postpic" src="https://images.luxagraf.net//2008/road_night_sm.jpg"/>With the windows cracked it’s not hard to tell that the pockets of fog gather in the cold crevasses where the temperature drops noticeably along with the highway. From the top of every small hill, the headlights move like shiny ribbons though the knuckles of mountains. As the beams dive back down, the view from behind the windshield becomes a bath of smoky white light — a film noir scene brought to life. And then the car rushes up out of the chilly depths and into the clear night, atop another ridge where the remnants of wood plank fences line the road.</p> +<p>From a particularly high ridge the land is lit up by the rising moon and succession of foggy pockets and lumpy ridges between spreads out like cigarette smoke settling in the creases of some red vinyl cushions, tucked in the corner of an all night diner, straight out of the 1950s.</p> +<p>The Smoky Mountains are, as it turns out, well named. </p> +<p><break></p> +<p>Were it light, the landscape and buildings in the area would indeed look much like the 50s. Not a lot appears to have changed on the slopes of the Smokies in quite some time. The new developments — strip malls, cookie cutter suburbs and giant megastores — are further up ahead, around the bend in Knoxville, Maryville.</p> +<p>But out here in the boundary land of mountain and plain it’s just the headlights stabbing through the fog. </p> +<p>I keep half expecting to see some ghostly figure off in the shadowy outline of trees at the edge of the small arc of headlamps, to catch some otherworldly creature slouching through the foggy forest, off to haunt the crumbling farm houses set back from the road, enveloped in night.</p> +<p>Occasionally I pass through a town — sudden, brilliant, florescent — gas stations, neon beer signs in a window, telephone wires, stoplights, downshifting and then fading in the rearview mirror, returning to the murky hills.</p> +<p>It continues like that with a brief break through Maryville where Starbucks and shopping malls remind me that I am indeed still part of the 21st century. But then that fades as we move into the mountains again, higher, this time in pure blackness, even the fog is gone.</p> +<p><img alt="fog, hillside" class="postpicright" src="https://images.luxagraf.net//2008/fog.jpg"/>After a while the zigzags stop and the road follows the river upstream headed to Pigeon Forge, which, when you reach it in darkness, can’t help but look like an amusement park at the gates of hell, a last ditch effort of all failed American cultural ideas shored up together — Elvis impersonators, mini golf, Dollyworld, all-you-can-eat restaurants serving every food imaginable as long as your imagination is limited to steak and pizza, which apparently, for many, it is.</p> +<p>Pigeon Forge is everything that’s wrong with America. </p> +<p>Pigeon Forge is Myrtle Beach in the mountains, it lacks any basis in reality and, like Myrtle Beach, <a href="/2007/jun/17/being-there/">it doesn’t really exist</a>. It’s all just redneck weddings cascading straight out of the chapel and into the mini golf reception area.</p> +<p>I used to think the demise of such places would be gradual, almost imperceptible, until one day they were just vacant and ghostly, joining Bowie CA, Bisbee, St Elmo and other places that simply slipped our collective minds. However, in the case of Pigeon Forge it may well be much faster. The people who come here are the same ones now mailing their house keys to the mortgage companies — the unreality of it all only lasts for so long. Of course I could be wrong.</p> +<p>And we aren’t here for Pigeon Forge, it just happens to have a free condo we’re staying in. We’re here for the mountains. Smoky Mountain National Park is just a few miles up the road.</p> +<p><span class="break"> </span></p> +<p>The next morning I’m sitting on the patio, bundled up against the unseasonable cold, reading Cormac McCarthy’s <cite>The Orchard Keeper</cite> which is largely set here in these same mountains, but back in the early 1920s. <cite>The Orchard Keeper</cite> is fiction, but McCarthy spent a fair share of his life in Sevier County and knew these mountains well — you can feel them living and breathing right there in the turning of the page.</p> +<blockquote> +<p>He came out on a high bald knoll that looked over the valley and he stopped here and studied it as a man might cresting a hill and seeing a strange landscape for the first time. Pine and cedars in a dark swath of green piled down the mountain to the left and ceased again where the road cut through. Beyond that a field and a log hogpin, the shakes spilling down the broken roof, looking like some diminutive settler’s cabin in ruins. Through the leaves of the hardwoods he could see the zinc-colored roof of the church faintly coruscant and patched of boarded siding weathered the paper-gray of a waspnest. And in the distance the long purple welts of the Great Smokies.</p> +</blockquote> +<p><img alt="ridges of the smokies" class="postpic" src="https://images.luxagraf.net//2008/purplemountains.jpg"/>Although with a bit of driving, and some selective horizon framing, you can find crumbling buildings with collapsing siding that does indeed resemble the “paper-gray of a waspnest,” or the ridgelines like bruised knuckles interrupting the sunrise, for the most part McCarthy’s vision of the Smokies is just a memory, a half crumbled placemarker at a neglected turnout in the road, a few yellowed, slightly retouched photos in a visitor center, a coffee table book of history purchased for friends back home.</p> +<p>I would love to know what McCarthy thinks of Sevier and environs now. It would be nice to drink a pint with him and hear about a time when men and women were sane, cautious and respectful. Of course, if you’ve ever read a McCarthy book you know what happens to those characters, they are, in one way or another displaced by the less savory, the more ambitious, more full of hot air and power-hungry dreams.</p> +<p>In McCarthy’s world the meek very rarely inherit anything save dust and silence, but they do retain their dignity, something painfully lacking in Pigeon Forge.</p> +<p><span class="break"> </span></p> +<p><img alt="river, trees" class="postpicright" src="https://images.luxagraf.net//2008/reflectedtrees.jpg"/>The mountains are still beautiful, dying perhaps, choking on smoke from Chattanooga and Atlanta, mostly Atlanta, but in the mean time the leaves on the trees run the spectrum from ochre to vermillion with all the middle hues as well.</p> +<p>We spend a few days, driving mainly, but occasionally walking, through the mountains, the trees, along the rivers and streams, the windswept peaks with fog breaking over them like waves of mist and smoke.</p> +<p>There are also the crumbling remains of old grist mills and early towns now abandoned; remnants of a time, near the end of the 19th century when hiking and exploring the outdoors was all the rage — John Muir helped the trend along, but for a time people genuinely liked to get up into the mountains, out in the desert and see America’s unparalleled natural wonderland. </p> +<p>One the byproducts of that era is the ghost town of Elkmont, lying under the steep ridges of the Smokies at the end of railway line that used to stretch back to down to Maryville. Elkmont began like as a rough and tumble logging town, and while I couldn’t find mention of it in <cite>The Orchard Keeper</cite>, it dates from 1908 which puts it in roughly the same time frame. </p> +<p>Over time Elkmont ran out of trees to easily harvest and the town gradually evolved into a haven for the socially prominent and wealthy members of Knoxville, Maryville, and Chattanooga — summer cottages were built, a central hunting lodge was added and members built a number of trails that lead off into the Smokies.</p> +<p>At the zenith of its popularity the Little River Railroad, which ran from Knoxville to Elkmont, offered a Sunday “Elkmont Special” — non-stop train service to the mountains. That proved popular enough that the Sunday special became a regular, several days a week route.</p> +<p>Then that passed or was diluted somehow, getting out to see the land was condensed down to the somewhat easier, more profitable habit of just buying fleece jackets at the mega-mall and playing a bit of putt-putt golf in Pigeon Forge.</p> +<p>Oh well.</p> +<p><span class="break"> </span></p> +<p>One piece of advice, should you head to Smoky Mountain National Park, don’t dig too deep, if you do any more than scratch the surface you might discover some unpleasant things — like the signs along the river that read: Do Not Drink, Swim, Bathe or Touch the Water; River contains fecal matter.</p> +<p>Yes, the rivers are full of shit. Shouldn’t be surprising then that Pigeon Forge is full of shit. Everything trickles downhill as they say.</p> +<p>And we are all more or less full of shit.</p> +<p>Don’t drink the water.</p> +<p>And so it goes.</p> + </div> + + </article> + + + <div class="nav-wrapper"> + <nav id="page-navigation" class="page-border-top"> + <ul> + <li id="prev"><span class="bl">Previous:</span> + <a href="/jrnl/2008/07/rope-swings-and-river-floats" rel="prev" title=" Rope Swings and River Floats">Rope Swings and River Floats</a> + </li> + <li id="next"><span class="bl">Next:</span> + <a href="/jrnl/2008/12/leonardo-da-vinci-and-codex-bunnies" rel="next" title=" Leonardo Da Vinci and the Codex on Bunnies">Leonardo Da Vinci and the Codex on Bunnies</a> + </li> + </ul> + </nav> + </div> + + + + + + +<p class="comments--header">2 Comments</p> + + + + + + + <div class="comments--wrapper"> + + <div id="comment-4" class="comment"> + <noscript class="datahashloader" data-hash="default"> + <img class="gravatar" src="https://images.luxagraf.net/gravcache/default.jpg" alt="gravatar icon for Kenyon Patterson" /> + </noscript> + <div class="comment--head"> + <span class="who"><b>Kenyon Patterson</b></span> + <span class="when">February 07, 2009 at 7:44 p.m.</span> + </div> + + <div class="comment--body"> + + <p>As a young boy in the 1950’s I explored all around the tracks and old station for the Smoky Mtn Railroad. Although I was too young to ever have ridden that train, I knew several people that did ride. They all told me it was originally set up as a logging train from Elkmont to Knoxville. There was also a dam on the creek there at the bottom of the hill on Cumberland Ave close to the train station. We played on the rusting and decayed engines and walked around in the old station building. It was pretty well grown over when we found this site in about 1957-58. My best friends grandfather was former UT President James D Hoskins and they lived at 834 Temple Ave just up the street from me at 944 Temple. My friend was Billy Hoskins. His Grandmother, Mrs Wright had a cabin at Elkmont, just up the road leading out of the parking lot from the Wonderland Club Hotel along with many other cabins. I spent many weeks in that cabin in the summers of the 1950’s and early 1960’s. I loved the Wonderland Club Hotel with its big porch and rocking chairs and the nice restaurant. It seems odd that the gov’t saw fit to let all this history revert back to wilderness without so much of as a trace and to see how now the Smokies are represented to the world by Pigeon Forge and Gatlinburg.</p> +<p>I do miss the Elkmont of old. It truly was a beautiful and wonderful place to be as a kid. I still drive up there to see the place but the Wonderland Hotel has completely fallen in and most of the cabins are gone as well.</p> +<p>Oh well, that’s progress I guess !</p> + + </div> + </div> + + <div id="comment-5" class="comment"> + <noscript class="datahashloader" data-hash="d64f4854965b2b1c3ecafee4b2a66fac"> + <img class="gravatar" src="https://images.luxagraf.net/gravcache/d64f4854965b2b1c3ecafee4b2a66fac.jpg" alt="gravatar icon for luxagraf" /> + </noscript> + <div class="comment--head"> + <span class="who"><b><a href="https://luxagraf.net/" rel="nofollow" target="_blank">luxagraf</a></b></span> + <span class="when">February 17, 2009 at 7:46 p.m.</span> + </div> + + <div class="comment--body"> + + <p>@Kenyon-</p> +<p>Yeah Elkmont is stuck in a catch-22, the park service wants it gone and the land returned to its wild origins, but the historic preservation society wants it restored as a kind of museum/monument sort of thing. Strange spot to be in. Personally, while I enjoyed seeing it, and hearing stories like yours, I say let it go. Even if it’s restored, it won’t be the same. Sometimes it’s better to just let things be what they were and not try to hold them past their time.</p> + + </div> + </div> + + </div> + + +<div class="comment--form--wrapper comment-form-border"> + +<div class="comment--form--header"> + <p class="hed">Thoughts?</p> + <p class="subhed">Please leave a reply:</p> +</div> +<form action="/comments/post/" method="post" class="comment--form"> + +<input type="hidden" name="rder" value="" /> + + + <input type="hidden" name="content_type" value="jrnl.entry" id="id_content_type"> + + + + <input type="hidden" name="object_pk" value="94" id="id_object_pk"> + + + + <input type="hidden" name="timestamp" value="1596833468" id="id_timestamp"> + + + + <input type="hidden" name="security_hash" value="0fab091682dcc8b4b8317abe76721b7b94c656a6" id="id_security_hash"> + + + + <fieldset > + <label for="id_name">Name:</label> + <input type="text" name="name" maxlength="50" required id="id_name"> + </fieldset> + + + + <fieldset > + <label for="id_email">Email address:</label> + <input type="email" name="email" required id="id_email"> + </fieldset> + + + + <fieldset > + <label for="id_url">URL:</label> + <input type="url" name="url" id="id_url"> + </fieldset> + + + + <fieldset > + <label for="id_comment">Comment:</label> + <div class="textarea-rounded"><textarea name="comment" cols="40" rows="10" maxlength="3000" required id="id_comment"> +</textarea></div> + </fieldset> + + + + <fieldset style="display:none;"> + <label for="id_honeypot">If you enter anything in this field your comment will be treated as spam:</label> + <input type="text" name="honeypot" id="id_honeypot"> + </fieldset> + + + <div class="submit"> + <input type="submit" name="post" class="submit-post btn" value="Post" /> + <input type="submit" name="preview" class="submit-preview btn" value="Preview" /> + </div> +</form> +<p style="font-size: 95%;"><strong>All comments are moderated</strong>, so you won’t see it right away. 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Divets between tiny the rolling hilltops form eerie microclimes of misty white clouds hugging the valleys and road like the fingers of some wispy white mountain ghosts snaking down from the peaks.
+
+<img src="[[base_url]]/2008/road_night_sm.jpg" alt="headlights on the road" class="postpic" />With the windows cracked it's not hard to tell that the pockets of fog gather in the cold crevasses where the temperature drops noticeably along with the highway. From the top of every small hill, the headlights move like shiny ribbons though the knuckles of mountains. As the beams dive back down, the view from behind the windshield becomes a bath of smoky white light -- a film noir scene brought to life. And then the car rushes up out of the chilly depths and into the clear night, atop another ridge where the remnants of wood plank fences line the road.
+
+From a particularly high ridge the land is lit up by the rising moon and succession of foggy pockets and lumpy ridges between spreads out like cigarette smoke settling in the creases of some red vinyl cushions, tucked in the corner of an all night diner, straight out of the 1950s.
+
+The Smoky Mountains are, as it turns out, well named.
+
+<break>
+
+Were it light, the landscape and buildings in the area would indeed look much like the 50s. Not a lot appears to have changed on the slopes of the Smokies in quite some time. The new developments -- strip malls, cookie cutter suburbs and giant megastores -- are further up ahead, around the bend in Knoxville, Maryville.
+
+But out here in the boundary land of mountain and plain it's just the headlights stabbing through the fog.
+
+I keep half expecting to see some ghostly figure off in the shadowy outline of trees at the edge of the small arc of headlamps, to catch some otherworldly creature slouching through the foggy forest, off to haunt the crumbling farm houses set back from the road, enveloped in night.
+
+Occasionally I pass through a town -- sudden, brilliant, florescent -- gas stations, neon beer signs in a window, telephone wires, stoplights, downshifting and then fading in the rearview mirror, returning to the murky hills.
+
+It continues like that with a brief break through Maryville where Starbucks and shopping malls remind me that I am indeed still part of the 21st century. But then that fades as we move into the mountains again, higher, this time in pure blackness, even the fog is gone.
+
+<img src="[[base_url]]/2008/fog.jpg" alt="fog, hillside" class="postpicright" />After a while the zigzags stop and the road follows the river upstream headed to Pigeon Forge, which, when you reach it in darkness, can't help but look like an amusement park at the gates of hell, a last ditch effort of all failed American cultural ideas shored up together -- Elvis impersonators, mini golf, Dollyworld, all-you-can-eat restaurants serving every food imaginable as long as your imagination is limited to steak and pizza, which apparently, for many, it is.
+
+Pigeon Forge is everything that's wrong with America.
+
+Pigeon Forge is Myrtle Beach in the mountains, it lacks any basis in reality and, like Myrtle Beach, <a href="/2007/jun/17/being-there/">it doesn't really exist</a>. It's all just redneck weddings cascading straight out of the chapel and into the mini golf reception area.
+
+I used to think the demise of such places would be gradual, almost imperceptible, until one day they were just vacant and ghostly, joining Bowie CA, Bisbee, St Elmo and other places that simply slipped our collective minds. However, in the case of Pigeon Forge it may well be much faster. The people who come here are the same ones now mailing their house keys to the mortgage companies -- the unreality of it all only lasts for so long. Of course I could be wrong.
+
+And we aren't here for Pigeon Forge, it just happens to have a free condo we're staying in. We're here for the mountains. Smoky Mountain National Park is just a few miles up the road.
+
+<span class="break"> </span>
+
+The next morning I'm sitting on the patio, bundled up against the unseasonable cold, reading Cormac McCarthy's <cite>The Orchard Keeper</cite> which is largely set here in these same mountains, but back in the early 1920s. <cite>The Orchard Keeper</cite> is fiction, but McCarthy spent a fair share of his life in Sevier County and knew these mountains well -- you can feel them living and breathing right there in the turning of the page.
+
+>He came out on a high bald knoll that looked over the valley and he stopped here and studied it as a man might cresting a hill and seeing a strange landscape for the first time. Pine and cedars in a dark swath of green piled down the mountain to the left and ceased again where the road cut through. Beyond that a field and a log hogpin, the shakes spilling down the broken roof, looking like some diminutive settler's cabin in ruins. Through the leaves of the hardwoods he could see the zinc-colored roof of the church faintly coruscant and patched of boarded siding weathered the paper-gray of a waspnest. And in the distance the long purple welts of the Great Smokies.
+
+<img src="[[base_url]]/2008/purplemountains.jpg" alt="ridges of the smokies" class="postpic" />Although with a bit of driving, and some selective horizon framing, you can find crumbling buildings with collapsing siding that does indeed resemble the "paper-gray of a waspnest," or the ridgelines like bruised knuckles interrupting the sunrise, for the most part McCarthy's vision of the Smokies is just a memory, a half crumbled placemarker at a neglected turnout in the road, a few yellowed, slightly retouched photos in a visitor center, a coffee table book of history purchased for friends back home.
+
+I would love to know what McCarthy thinks of Sevier and environs now. It would be nice to drink a pint with him and hear about a time when men and women were sane, cautious and respectful. Of course, if you've ever read a McCarthy book you know what happens to those characters, they are, in one way or another displaced by the less savory, the more ambitious, more full of hot air and power-hungry dreams.
+
+In McCarthy's world the meek very rarely inherit anything save dust and silence, but they do retain their dignity, something painfully lacking in Pigeon Forge.
+
+<span class="break"> </span>
+
+<img src="[[base_url]]/2008/reflectedtrees.jpg" alt="river, trees" class="postpicright" />The mountains are still beautiful, dying perhaps, choking on smoke from Chattanooga and Atlanta, mostly Atlanta, but in the mean time the leaves on the trees run the spectrum from ochre to vermillion with all the middle hues as well.
+
+We spend a few days, driving mainly, but occasionally walking, through the mountains, the trees, along the rivers and streams, the windswept peaks with fog breaking over them like waves of mist and smoke.
+
+There are also the crumbling remains of old grist mills and early towns now abandoned; remnants of a time, near the end of the 19th century when hiking and exploring the outdoors was all the rage -- John Muir helped the trend along, but for a time people genuinely liked to get up into the mountains, out in the desert and see America's unparalleled natural wonderland.
+
+One the byproducts of that era is the ghost town of Elkmont, lying under the steep ridges of the Smokies at the end of railway line that used to stretch back to down to Maryville. Elkmont began like as a rough and tumble logging town, and while I couldn't find mention of it in <cite>The Orchard Keeper</cite>, it dates from 1908 which puts it in roughly the same time frame.
+
+Over time Elkmont ran out of trees to easily harvest and the town gradually evolved into a haven for the socially prominent and wealthy members of Knoxville, Maryville, and Chattanooga -- summer cottages were built, a central hunting lodge was added and members built a number of trails that lead off into the Smokies.
+
+At the zenith of its popularity the Little River Railroad, which ran from Knoxville to Elkmont, offered a Sunday "Elkmont Special" -- non-stop train service to the mountains. That proved popular enough that the Sunday special became a regular, several days a week route.
+
+Then that passed or was diluted somehow, getting out to see the land was condensed down to the somewhat easier, more profitable habit of just buying fleece jackets at the mega-mall and playing a bit of putt-putt golf in Pigeon Forge.
+
+Oh well.
+
+<span class="break"> </span>
+
+One piece of advice, should you head to Smoky Mountain National Park, don't dig too deep, if you do any more than scratch the surface you might discover some unpleasant things -- like the signs along the river that read: Do Not Drink, Swim, Bathe or Touch the Water; River contains fecal matter.
+
+Yes, the rivers are full of shit. Shouldn't be surprising then that Pigeon Forge is full of shit. Everything trickles downhill as they say.
+
+And we are all more or less full of shit.
+
+Don't drink the water.
+
+And so it goes. diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2008/10/index.html b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2008/10/index.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..a68d56d --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2008/10/index.html @@ -0,0 +1,104 @@ +<!DOCTYPE html> +<html dir="ltr" lang="en-US"> + +<head> + <title>Luxagraf - Topografical Writings: Archive</title> + <meta charset="utf-8"> + <meta http-equiv="x-ua-compatible" content="ie=edge"> + <meta name="viewport" content="width=device-width, initial-scale=1"> + <meta name="description" + content="Luxagraf: recording journeys around the world and just next door."> + <meta name="author" content="Scott Gilbertson"> + <!--[if IE]> + <script src="/js/html5css3ie.min.js"></script> + <![endif]--> + <link rel="alternate" + type="application/rss+xml" + title="Luxagraf RSS feed" + href="https://luxagraf.net/rss/"> + <link rel="stylesheet" + href="/media/screenv8.css" + media="screen"> + <!--[if IE]> + <link rel="stylesheet" + href="/media/css/ie.css" + media="screen"> + <![endif]--> + <link rel="shortcut icon" href="favicon.ico" type="image/x-icon"> + <link rel="manifest" href="manifest.json"> + <meta property="fb:pages" content="900822029969349" /> + +</head> +<body id="archive"> + <div class="wrapper" id="wrapper"> + <div class="header-wrapper"> + <header role="banner"> + <h1><a id="logo" href="/" title="home">Luxagraf</a></h1> + <h2>Walk Slowly</h2> + </header> + <nav role="navigation" class="bl"> + <ul> + <li id="laverdad"><a href="/jrnl/" title="What we've been up to lately">Journal</a></li> + <!--<li id="nota"><a href="/field-notes/" title="Quick notes and images from the road">Notes</a></li> + <li id="fotos"><a href="/photos/" title="Photos from travels around the world">Photos</a></li>i--> + <li id="maps"><a href="/map" title="Maps">Map</a></li> + <li id="about"><a href="/about" title="About Luxagraf">About</a></li> + <li id="etc" class="last"><a href="/projects/" title="the less visible portions of the iceberg">More</a></li> + </ul> + </nav> + </div> + <ul class="bl" id="breadcrumbs" itemscope itemtype="http://data-vocabulary.org/Breadcrumb"> + <li><a href="/" title="luxagraf homepage" itemprop="url"><span itemprop="title">Home</span></a> → </li> + <li><a href="/jrnl/" title="See all Journal Entries" itemprop="url"><span itemprop="title">Journal</span></a> →</li> + <li><a href="/jrnl/2008/">2008</a> →</li> + <li>October</li> + </ul> + <main role="main" id="writing-archive" class="archive"> + <h1> Archive: October 2008</h1> + <ul class="date-archive"> + <li class="arc-item"><a href="/jrnl/2008/10/elkmont-and-great-smoky-mountains" title="Elkmont and the Great Smoky Mountains">Elkmont and the Great Smoky Mountains</a> + <time datetime="2008-10-31T15:16:13-04:00">Oct 31, 2008</time> + </li> + </ul> + + + + <footer role="contentinfo"> + <nav class="bl"> + <ul> + <li><a href="/blogroll" title="Sites that inspire us">Blogroll</a></li> + <li><a href="/jrnl/feed.xml" title="RSS feed">Subscribe</a></li> + <li><a href="/contact/" title="contact luxagraf">Contact</a></li> + <li><a href="https://twitter.com/luxagraf" rel="me" title="follow luxagraf on Twitter">Twitter</a></li> + <li><a href="https://www.flickr.com/photos/luxagraf" rel="me" title="luxagraf on Flickr">Flickr</a></li> + <li><a href="https://www.facebook.com/luxagraf" rel="me" title="luxagraf on Facebook">Facebook</a></li> + <li><a href="https://www.instagram.com/luxagraf/" rel="me" title="luxagraf on Instacrap">Instacrap</a></li> + </ul> + </nav> + <p id="license"> + © 2003-2018 + <span class="h-card"><a class="p-name u-url" href="https://luxagraf.net/">Scott Gilbertson</a><data class="p-nickname" value="luxagraf"></data><data class="p-locality" value="Athens"></data><data class="p-region" value="Georgia"></data><data class="p-country-name" value="United States"></data></span>, except photos, which are licensed under the Creative Commons (<a href="http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/" title="read the Attribution-Share Alike 3.0 deed">details</a>). + </p> + </footer> + </div> + +<!-- Piwik --> +<script type="text/javascript"> +var _paq = _paq || []; 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There's a far too bitter wind for October in the South; it cuts around the brick edifices and concrete parking garages.</p> +<p><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/22509254@N05/3046206224/"><amp-img alt="Alabama Power by filam61, flickr" height="209" src="https://images.luxagraf.net//2008/dtbrimingham.jpg" width="320"></amp-img></a>I've come to Birmingham for Da Vinci. He of the Mona Lisa, the Sistine Chapel and the Codex of Birds. </p> +<p>You wouldn't expect Da Vinci in Birmingham Alabama, it of the civil rights struggle, much more readily conjured as a synecdoche of mediocre backwaters everywhere.</p> +<p>Yet here he is. </p> +<p>Or his notebooks anyway. +<break> +I should say that I did not so much <em>want</em> to see <cite>Drawings From the Biblioteca Reale in Turin</cite>, rather I felt that I should, which I freely admit is a very poor reason for going. But in truth there is more to it than that. I didn't feel I should go because it was somehow necessary to see, an educational exercise or anything like that.</break></p> +<p>Rather, something in my head kept saying, for no reason I could deduce, <em>go to that exhibit</em>. In hindsight I now know that I needed to go for the bunnies.</p> +<p>But let's start at the beginning, the warm, red-lipped smile from the middle age woman who collects my ticket, the very nice white-haired gentleman who hands me a brochure on Da Vinci and his notebooks, the other elderly gentleman in a blue docent's vest who directs me to the back of the line.</p> +<p>Oh yes, the line. </p> +<p>Over two hours worth of people backed up, snaking through the main foyer, up the staircase to the second floor, around the landing and then inside some hidden room where, under glass and guarded by more museum security than I've ever encountered anywhere else combined (Da Vinci may have come to Alabama but clearly no one trusts Alabamians to react well to his arrival), the drawings await us.</p> +<p><a href="http://www.suite101.com/view_image.cfm/512821"> <amp-img alt="Leonardo Da Vinci, Codex on Flight of Birds" height="221" src="https://images.luxagraf.net//2008/codexofbirds.jpg" width="320"></amp-img></a>Imagine for a moment if, some 500 hundred years from now, a few pages torn from your notebook could draw thousands of people from around the world.</p> +<p>Be a bit strange wouldn't it? But never mind that.</p> +<p>I suspect that, had Da Vinci's codex of birds arrived in Birmingham Alabama say ten years ago, I would likely be standing alone right now. But then there was that damnable Da Vinci Code book. </p> +<p>Yes. I've read it. It was once the only English language book on Ko Muk where I was once trapped for while. It was just me, an Australian who told me with a straight face that he was an ex-lifeguard, a grumpy collection of Thai guesthouse staff, three naked Swedish girls and that damn book. I read it in three hours. </p> +<p>But I digress.</p> +<p>We need to get to the beginning. Further back than just the museum, further back than the curator who set up the show, further back than Italy from whence it came, probably all the way back to Da Vinci himself, who once made some doodles in a notebook, drawing people, drawing birds, drawing horses.</p> +<p>To keep things short we'll setting for the moment I first encountered the bunnies.</p> +<p>The week before I left to travel the world, months before I would read The Da Vinci code, years before I would go to Birmingham, Alabama, I went up to San Francisco to visit Mike and Hilary. Bill drove, fun was had as I recall. For me the thing that sticks out though are the bunnies on the wall (well, that and the wolf coughing in the living room, but that's another story).</p> +<p><a href="http://www.kozyndan.com/new_portfolio/GR28.html" title="Uprisings, by kozyndan"><amp-img alt="Uprisings by Kozyndan" height="216" src="https://images.luxagraf.net//2008/uprisings_by_kozyndan.jpg" width="199"></amp-img></a>The bunnies were on the wall. Two dimensional bunnies. There were posters of bunnies. Specifically Kozyndan's poster of various famous Japanese paintings recast with bunnies. Where there should be sea foam <a href="http://www.kozyndan.com/new_portfolio/GR28.html">there were bunnies</a>. Where there should have been leaves, <a href="http://www.kozyndan.com/assets/the_bunnies_fall.jpg">there were bunnies</a>. Where there should have been cherry blossoms, <a href="http://www.kozyndan.com/bunny_blossom.html">there were bunnies</a>. </p> +<p>There were bunnies everywhere damnit.</p> +<p>Prior to seeing those images I'm not sure I ever gave bunnies much thought (several months later in Austria I would eat a bunny and be somewhat unimpressed), but there, hanging on the wall of a San Francisco apartment, were posters of bunnies, hundreds of bunnies, thousands perhaps and I, for the first time, I was forced to think about bunnies. Bunnies in places you would not expect bunnies.</p> +<p>You can see where, if, shortly after seeing such a thing you suddenly had roughly an entire year's worth of free time in part of world where beer is about 25 cents a pint, you might develop something of an obsession with the bunnies in places where there should not be bunnies (what if, instead of rats running around this hostel, there were bunnies? And so on).</p> +<p>I did a bit of googling and discovered that the artist(s) have something of a bunny fetish, <a href="http://www.kozyndan.com/pacific.html">bunny fish</a>, <a href="http://www.kozyndan.com/assets/winter_bunnies_800.jpg">bunnies in winter</a>, bunnies in a crowd and so on. When I got back one of the first things I did after I had a roof over my head was order my own copies of the bunny posters.</p> +<p>Of course none of that prepared me for the Ur Bunny in Birmingham.</p> +<p>Eventually the long line to see the Da Vinci exhibit made its way up the stairs and around the second story, through a smallish exhibit of Asian art. Finally, I thought, at least there is something to do while I wait, some art to examine.</p> +<p>As the line wound around the room, there were a number of interesting pieces, but in the corner I spied something that looked like a traditional Japanese or perhaps Chinese landscape paintings -- a tree in fall, some mountains in the background and some, wait a minute, are those bunnies? Holy crap, they are bunnies and they have <em>glowing red eyes</em>.</p> +<p>There, fortunately restrained under protective museum glass, was a Chinese landscape populated by red-eyed bunnies, lurking under trees, trying, but failing, to look innocent.</p> +<p><amp-img alt="red eyed bunnies" height="169" src="https://images.luxagraf.net//2008/redeyedbunnies.jpg" width="241"></amp-img>I had plenty of time to confront the bunnies, to study them in the their natural watercolor state and it didn't take long to feel there was a noticeably evil glint in their eyes, as if wary of being caught in the act of colluding on some nefarious project, almost certainly some sort of world takeover scheme -- not unlike what the conspiracy theorists attribute to Da Vinci, but so much sneakier because no one expects the bunnies.</p> +<p>Bunnies are cute. Bunnies do not generally attack. Of course there was that incident in The Holy Grail and, as we all know, humor has a way of cutting much closer to the truth, but still, bunnies are harmless right? Cute, fluffy little things... but what's with the red eyes? The artist clearly did not have cute fluffy little things in mind when he painted these bunnies.</p> +<p>Red-eyed things are zombies, re-animated nightmares, conspiratorial evil plotting against us. Now I understand the kozyndan posters, they're a warning, a vision of future where bunnies have taken over the sea, the mountains, become like water, like snow, like wind to meld themselves irreversibly into the fabric of our existence.</p> +<p><amp-img alt="red eyed bunnies, full image" height="340" src="https://images.luxagraf.net//2008/urbunnies.jpg" width="198"></amp-img>Think about, with the birthrate of bunnies it wouldn't take but a couple of years for properly conditioned bunnies to replace nearly every atom of our existence with themselves.</p> +<p>Here's what I know: the Ur bunnies have glowing red eyes and while Da Vinci did not, so far as we know, produce a Codex of Bunnies, given his secret society connections, he surely must have known of the Ur bunnies. Known enough to hide the codex and hide it well.</p> +<p>As for the stuff he didn't hide quite as well, well, it was interesting, perhaps even illuminating, but somehow it seemed suddenly unimportant in the face of the inevitable bunny onslaught. Remember, you read it here first.</p> + </div> + </article> +</main> + +</body> +</html> diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2008/12/leonardo-da-vinci-and-codex-bunnies.html b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2008/12/leonardo-da-vinci-and-codex-bunnies.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..9a43b52 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2008/12/leonardo-da-vinci-and-codex-bunnies.html @@ -0,0 +1,361 @@ +<!DOCTYPE html> +<html +class="detail single" dir="ltr" lang="en-US"> + +<head> + <title>Leonardo Da Vinci And The Codex On Bunnies - by Scott Gilbertson</title> + <meta charset="utf-8"> + <meta http-equiv="x-ua-compatible" content="ie=edge"> + <meta name="viewport" content="width=device-width, initial-scale=1"> + <meta name="description" + content="Leonardo Da Vinci's Codex of Birds visits Birmingham, AL; but the real story is the Ur Bunny of Birmingham. Beware, strangeness ahead. 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There’s a far too bitter wind for October in the South; it cuts around the brick edifices and concrete parking garages.</p> +<p><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/22509254@N05/3046206224/"><img alt="Alabama Power by filam61, flickr" class="postpic" src="https://images.luxagraf.net//2008/dtbrimingham.jpg"/></a>I’ve come to Birmingham for Da Vinci. He of the Mona Lisa, the Sistine Chapel and the Codex of Birds. </p> +<p>You wouldn’t expect Da Vinci in Birmingham Alabama, it of the civil rights struggle, much more readily conjured as a synecdoche of mediocre backwaters everywhere.</p> +<p>Yet here he is. </p> +<p>Or his notebooks anyway. +<break> +I should say that I did not so much <em>want</em> to see <cite>Drawings From the Biblioteca Reale in Turin</cite>, rather I felt that I should, which I freely admit is a very poor reason for going. But in truth there is more to it than that. I didn’t feel I should go because it was somehow necessary to see, an educational exercise or anything like that.</p> +<p>Rather, something in my head kept saying, for no reason I could deduce, <em>go to that exhibit</em>. In hindsight I now know that I needed to go for the bunnies.</p> +<p>But let’s start at the beginning, the warm, red-lipped smile from the middle age woman who collects my ticket, the very nice white-haired gentleman who hands me a brochure on Da Vinci and his notebooks, the other elderly gentleman in a blue docent’s vest who directs me to the back of the line.</p> +<p>Oh yes, the line. </p> +<p>Over two hours worth of people backed up, snaking through the main foyer, up the staircase to the second floor, around the landing and then inside some hidden room where, under glass and guarded by more museum security than I’ve ever encountered anywhere else combined (Da Vinci may have come to Alabama but clearly no one trusts Alabamians to react well to his arrival), the drawings await us.</p> +<p><a href="http://www.suite101.com/view_image.cfm/512821"> <img alt="Leonardo Da Vinci, Codex on Flight of Birds" class="postpicright" src="https://images.luxagraf.net//2008/codexofbirds.jpg"/></a>Imagine for a moment if, some 500 hundred years from now, a few pages torn from your notebook could draw thousands of people from around the world.</p> +<p>Be a bit strange wouldn’t it? But never mind that.</p> +<p>I suspect that, had Da Vinci’s codex of birds arrived in Birmingham Alabama say ten years ago, I would likely be standing alone right now. But then there was that damnable Da Vinci Code book. </p> +<p>Yes. I’ve read it. It was once the only English language book on Ko Muk where I was once trapped for while. It was just me, an Australian who told me with a straight face that he was an ex-lifeguard, a grumpy collection of Thai guesthouse staff, three naked Swedish girls and that damn book. I read it in three hours. </p> +<p>But I digress.</p> +<p>We need to get to the beginning. Further back than just the museum, further back than the curator who set up the show, further back than Italy from whence it came, probably all the way back to Da Vinci himself, who once made some doodles in a notebook, drawing people, drawing birds, drawing horses.</p> +<p>To keep things short we’ll setting for the moment I first encountered the bunnies.</p> +<p>The week before I left to travel the world, months before I would read The Da Vinci code, years before I would go to Birmingham, Alabama, I went up to San Francisco to visit Mike and Hilary. Bill drove, fun was had as I recall. For me the thing that sticks out though are the bunnies on the wall (well, that and the wolf coughing in the living room, but that’s another story).</p> +<p><a href="http://www.kozyndan.com/new_portfolio/GR28.html" title="Uprisings, by kozyndan"><img alt="Uprisings by Kozyndan" class="postpic" src="https://images.luxagraf.net//2008/uprisings_by_kozyndan.jpg"/></a>The bunnies were on the wall. Two dimensional bunnies. There were posters of bunnies. Specifically Kozyndan’s poster of various famous Japanese paintings recast with bunnies. Where there should be sea foam <a href="http://www.kozyndan.com/new_portfolio/GR28.html">there were bunnies</a>. Where there should have been leaves, <a href="http://www.kozyndan.com/assets/the_bunnies_fall.jpg">there were bunnies</a>. Where there should have been cherry blossoms, <a href="http://www.kozyndan.com/bunny_blossom.html">there were bunnies</a>. </p> +<p>There were bunnies everywhere damnit.</p> +<p>Prior to seeing those images I’m not sure I ever gave bunnies much thought (several months later in Austria I would eat a bunny and be somewhat unimpressed), but there, hanging on the wall of a San Francisco apartment, were posters of bunnies, hundreds of bunnies, thousands perhaps and I, for the first time, I was forced to think about bunnies. Bunnies in places you would not expect bunnies.</p> +<p>You can see where, if, shortly after seeing such a thing you suddenly had roughly an entire year’s worth of free time in part of world where beer is about 25 cents a pint, you might develop something of an obsession with the bunnies in places where there should not be bunnies (what if, instead of rats running around this hostel, there were bunnies? And so on).</p> +<p>I did a bit of googling and discovered that the artist(s) have something of a bunny fetish, <a href="http://www.kozyndan.com/pacific.html">bunny fish</a>, <a href="http://www.kozyndan.com/assets/winter_bunnies_800.jpg">bunnies in winter</a>, bunnies in a crowd and so on. When I got back one of the first things I did after I had a roof over my head was order my own copies of the bunny posters.</p> +<p>Of course none of that prepared me for the Ur Bunny in Birmingham.</p> +<p>Eventually the long line to see the Da Vinci exhibit made its way up the stairs and around the second story, through a smallish exhibit of Asian art. Finally, I thought, at least there is something to do while I wait, some art to examine.</p> +<p>As the line wound around the room, there were a number of interesting pieces, but in the corner I spied something that looked like a traditional Japanese or perhaps Chinese landscape paintings — a tree in fall, some mountains in the background and some, wait a minute, are those bunnies? Holy crap, they are bunnies and they have <em>glowing red eyes</em>.</p> +<p>There, fortunately restrained under protective museum glass, was a Chinese landscape populated by red-eyed bunnies, lurking under trees, trying, but failing, to look innocent.</p> +<p><img alt="red eyed bunnies" class="postpicright" src="https://images.luxagraf.net//2008/redeyedbunnies.jpg"/>I had plenty of time to confront the bunnies, to study them in the their natural watercolor state and it didn’t take long to feel there was a noticeably evil glint in their eyes, as if wary of being caught in the act of colluding on some nefarious project, almost certainly some sort of world takeover scheme — not unlike what the conspiracy theorists attribute to Da Vinci, but so much sneakier because no one expects the bunnies.</p> +<p>Bunnies are cute. Bunnies do not generally attack. Of course there was that incident in The Holy Grail and, as we all know, humor has a way of cutting much closer to the truth, but still, bunnies are harmless right? Cute, fluffy little things… but what’s with the red eyes? The artist clearly did not have cute fluffy little things in mind when he painted these bunnies.</p> +<p>Red-eyed things are zombies, re-animated nightmares, conspiratorial evil plotting against us. Now I understand the kozyndan posters, they’re a warning, a vision of future where bunnies have taken over the sea, the mountains, become like water, like snow, like wind to meld themselves irreversibly into the fabric of our existence.</p> +<p><img alt="red eyed bunnies, full image" class="postpic" src="https://images.luxagraf.net//2008/urbunnies.jpg"/>Think about, with the birthrate of bunnies it wouldn’t take but a couple of years for properly conditioned bunnies to replace nearly every atom of our existence with themselves.</p> +<p>Here’s what I know: the Ur bunnies have glowing red eyes and while Da Vinci did not, so far as we know, produce a Codex of Bunnies, given his secret society connections, he surely must have known of the Ur bunnies. Known enough to hide the codex and hide it well.</p> +<p>As for the stuff he didn’t hide quite as well, well, it was interesting, perhaps even illuminating, but somehow it seemed suddenly unimportant in the face of the inevitable bunny onslaught. Remember, you read it here first.</p> + </div> + + </article> + + + <div class="nav-wrapper"> + <nav id="page-navigation" class="page-border-top"> + <ul> + <li id="prev"><span class="bl">Previous:</span> + <a href="/jrnl/2008/10/elkmont-and-great-smoky-mountains" rel="prev" title=" Elkmont and the Great Smoky Mountains">Elkmont and the Great Smoky Mountains</a> + </li> + <li id="next"><span class="bl">Next:</span> + <a href="/jrnl/2009/04/strangers-on-a-train" rel="next" title=" No Strangers on a Train">No Strangers on a Train</a> + </li> + </ul> + </nav> + </div> + + + + + + +<div class="comment--form--wrapper "> + +<div class="comment--form--header"> + <p class="hed">Thoughts?</p> + <p class="subhed">Please leave a reply:</p> +</div> +<form action="/comments/post/" method="post" class="comment--form"> + +<input type="hidden" name="rder" value="" /> + + + <input type="hidden" name="content_type" value="jrnl.entry" id="id_content_type"> + + + + <input type="hidden" name="object_pk" value="95" id="id_object_pk"> + + + + <input type="hidden" name="timestamp" value="1596833467" id="id_timestamp"> + + + + <input type="hidden" name="security_hash" value="1c84d69e63f55388734539ba84b590b2e7ba2a84" id="id_security_hash"> + + + + <fieldset > + <label for="id_name">Name:</label> + <input type="text" name="name" maxlength="50" required id="id_name"> + </fieldset> + + + + <fieldset > + <label for="id_email">Email address:</label> + <input type="email" name="email" required id="id_email"> + </fieldset> + + + + <fieldset > + <label for="id_url">URL:</label> + <input type="url" name="url" id="id_url"> + </fieldset> + + + + <fieldset > + <label for="id_comment">Comment:</label> + <div class="textarea-rounded"><textarea name="comment" cols="40" rows="10" maxlength="3000" required id="id_comment"> +</textarea></div> + </fieldset> + + + + <fieldset style="display:none;"> + <label for="id_honeypot">If you enter anything in this field your comment will be treated as spam:</label> + <input type="text" name="honeypot" id="id_honeypot"> + </fieldset> + + + <div class="submit"> + <input type="submit" name="post" class="submit-post btn" value="Post" /> + <input type="submit" name="preview" class="submit-preview btn" value="Preview" /> + </div> +</form> +<p style="font-size: 95%;"><strong>All comments are moderated</strong>, so you won’t see it right away. 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There's a far too bitter wind for October in the South; it cuts around the brick edifices and concrete parking garages.
+
+<a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/22509254@N05/3046206224/"><img src="[[base_url]]/2008/dtbrimingham.jpg" alt="Alabama Power by filam61, flickr" class="postpic" /></a>I've come to Birmingham for Da Vinci. He of the Mona Lisa, the Sistine Chapel and the Codex of Birds.
+
+You wouldn't expect Da Vinci in Birmingham Alabama, it of the civil rights struggle, much more readily conjured as a synecdoche of mediocre backwaters everywhere.
+
+Yet here he is.
+
+Or his notebooks anyway.
+<break>
+I should say that I did not so much _want_ to see <cite>Drawings From the Biblioteca Reale in Turin</cite>, rather I felt that I should, which I freely admit is a very poor reason for going. But in truth there is more to it than that. I didn't feel I should go because it was somehow necessary to see, an educational exercise or anything like that.
+
+Rather, something in my head kept saying, for no reason I could deduce, _go to that exhibit_. In hindsight I now know that I needed to go for the bunnies.
+
+But let's start at the beginning, the warm, red-lipped smile from the middle age woman who collects my ticket, the very nice white-haired gentleman who hands me a brochure on Da Vinci and his notebooks, the other elderly gentleman in a blue docent's vest who directs me to the back of the line.
+
+Oh yes, the line.
+
+Over two hours worth of people backed up, snaking through the main foyer, up the staircase to the second floor, around the landing and then inside some hidden room where, under glass and guarded by more museum security than I've ever encountered anywhere else combined (Da Vinci may have come to Alabama but clearly no one trusts Alabamians to react well to his arrival), the drawings await us.
+
+<a href="http://www.suite101.com/view_image.cfm/512821"> <img src="[[base_url]]/2008/codexofbirds.jpg" alt="Leonardo Da Vinci, Codex on Flight of Birds" class="postpicright" /></a>Imagine for a moment if, some 500 hundred years from now, a few pages torn from your notebook could draw thousands of people from around the world.
+
+Be a bit strange wouldn't it? But never mind that.
+
+I suspect that, had Da Vinci's codex of birds arrived in Birmingham Alabama say ten years ago, I would likely be standing alone right now. But then there was that damnable Da Vinci Code book.
+
+Yes. I've read it. It was once the only English language book on Ko Muk where I was once trapped for while. It was just me, an Australian who told me with a straight face that he was an ex-lifeguard, a grumpy collection of Thai guesthouse staff, three naked Swedish girls and that damn book. I read it in three hours.
+
+But I digress.
+
+We need to get to the beginning. Further back than just the museum, further back than the curator who set up the show, further back than Italy from whence it came, probably all the way back to Da Vinci himself, who once made some doodles in a notebook, drawing people, drawing birds, drawing horses.
+
+To keep things short we'll setting for the moment I first encountered the bunnies.
+
+The week before I left to travel the world, months before I would read The Da Vinci code, years before I would go to Birmingham, Alabama, I went up to San Francisco to visit Mike and Hilary. Bill drove, fun was had as I recall. For me the thing that sticks out though are the bunnies on the wall (well, that and the wolf coughing in the living room, but that's another story).
+
+<a href="http://www.kozyndan.com/new_portfolio/GR28.html" title="Uprisings, by kozyndan"><img src="[[base_url]]/2008/uprisings_by_kozyndan.jpg" alt="Uprisings by Kozyndan" class="postpic" /></a>The bunnies were on the wall. Two dimensional bunnies. There were posters of bunnies. Specifically Kozyndan's poster of various famous Japanese paintings recast with bunnies. Where there should be sea foam [there were bunnies][1]. Where there should have been leaves, [there were bunnies][2]. Where there should have been cherry blossoms, [there were bunnies][4].
+
+There were bunnies everywhere damnit.
+
+Prior to seeing those images I'm not sure I ever gave bunnies much thought (several months later in Austria I would eat a bunny and be somewhat unimpressed), but there, hanging on the wall of a San Francisco apartment, were posters of bunnies, hundreds of bunnies, thousands perhaps and I, for the first time, I was forced to think about bunnies. Bunnies in places you would not expect bunnies.
+
+You can see where, if, shortly after seeing such a thing you suddenly had roughly an entire year's worth of free time in part of world where beer is about 25 cents a pint, you might develop something of an obsession with the bunnies in places where there should not be bunnies (what if, instead of rats running around this hostel, there were bunnies? And so on).
+
+I did a bit of googling and discovered that the artist(s) have something of a bunny fetish, [bunny fish][5], [bunnies in winter][3], bunnies in a crowd and so on. When I got back one of the first things I did after I had a roof over my head was order my own copies of the bunny posters.
+
+Of course none of that prepared me for the Ur Bunny in Birmingham.
+
+Eventually the long line to see the Da Vinci exhibit made its way up the stairs and around the second story, through a smallish exhibit of Asian art. Finally, I thought, at least there is something to do while I wait, some art to examine.
+
+As the line wound around the room, there were a number of interesting pieces, but in the corner I spied something that looked like a traditional Japanese or perhaps Chinese landscape paintings -- a tree in fall, some mountains in the background and some, wait a minute, are those bunnies? Holy crap, they are bunnies and they have _glowing red eyes_.
+
+There, fortunately restrained under protective museum glass, was a Chinese landscape populated by red-eyed bunnies, lurking under trees, trying, but failing, to look innocent.
+
+<img src="[[base_url]]/2008/redeyedbunnies.jpg" alt="red eyed bunnies" class="postpicright" />I had plenty of time to confront the bunnies, to study them in the their natural watercolor state and it didn't take long to feel there was a noticeably evil glint in their eyes, as if wary of being caught in the act of colluding on some nefarious project, almost certainly some sort of world takeover scheme -- not unlike what the conspiracy theorists attribute to Da Vinci, but so much sneakier because no one expects the bunnies.
+
+Bunnies are cute. Bunnies do not generally attack. Of course there was that incident in The Holy Grail and, as we all know, humor has a way of cutting much closer to the truth, but still, bunnies are harmless right? Cute, fluffy little things... but what's with the red eyes? The artist clearly did not have cute fluffy little things in mind when he painted these bunnies.
+
+Red-eyed things are zombies, re-animated nightmares, conspiratorial evil plotting against us. Now I understand the kozyndan posters, they're a warning, a vision of future where bunnies have taken over the sea, the mountains, become like water, like snow, like wind to meld themselves irreversibly into the fabric of our existence.
+
+<img src="[[base_url]]/2008/urbunnies.jpg" alt="red eyed bunnies, full image" class="postpic" />Think about, with the birthrate of bunnies it wouldn't take but a couple of years for properly conditioned bunnies to replace nearly every atom of our existence with themselves.
+
+Here's what I know: the Ur bunnies have glowing red eyes and while Da Vinci did not, so far as we know, produce a Codex of Bunnies, given his secret society connections, he surely must have known of the Ur bunnies. Known enough to hide the codex and hide it well.
+
+As for the stuff he didn't hide quite as well, well, it was interesting, perhaps even illuminating, but somehow it seemed suddenly unimportant in the face of the inevitable bunny onslaught. Remember, you read it here first.
+
+
+
+[1]: http://www.kozyndan.com/new_portfolio/GR28.html
+[2]: http://www.kozyndan.com/assets/the_bunnies_fall.jpg
+[3]: http://www.kozyndan.com/assets/winter_bunnies_800.jpg
+[4]: http://www.kozyndan.com/bunny_blossom.html
+[5]: http://www.kozyndan.com/pacific.html
+[6]: http://blog.al.com/mhuebner/2008/09/birmingham_museum_of_art_sets.html diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2008/index.html b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2008/index.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6bfc637 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2008/index.html @@ -0,0 +1,168 @@ +<!DOCTYPE html> +<html dir="ltr" lang="en-US"> + +<head> + <title>Luxagraf - Topografical Writings: Archive</title> + <meta charset="utf-8"> + <meta http-equiv="x-ua-compatible" content="ie=edge"> + <meta name="viewport" content="width=device-width, initial-scale=1"> + <meta name="description" + content="Luxagraf: recording journeys around the world and just next door."> + <meta name="author" content="Scott Gilbertson"> + <!--[if IE]> + <script src="/js/html5css3ie.min.js"></script> + <![endif]--> + <link rel="alternate" + type="application/rss+xml" + title="Luxagraf RSS feed" + href="https://luxagraf.net/rss/"> + <link rel="stylesheet" + href="/media/screenv8.css" + media="screen"> + <!--[if IE]> + <link rel="stylesheet" + href="/media/css/ie.css" + media="screen"> + <![endif]--> + <link rel="shortcut icon" href="favicon.ico" type="image/x-icon"> + <link rel="manifest" href="manifest.json"> + <meta property="fb:pages" content="900822029969349" /> + +</head> +<body id="archive"> + <div class="wrapper" id="wrapper"> + <div class="header-wrapper"> + <header role="banner"> + <h1><a id="logo" href="/" title="home">Luxagraf</a></h1> + <h2>Walk Slowly</h2> + </header> + <nav role="navigation" class="bl"> + <ul> + <li id="laverdad"><a href="/jrnl/" title="What we've been up to lately">Journal</a></li> + <!--<li id="nota"><a href="/field-notes/" title="Quick notes and images from the road">Notes</a></li> + <li id="fotos"><a href="/photos/" title="Photos from travels around the world">Photos</a></li>i--> + <li id="maps"><a href="/map" title="Maps">Map</a></li> + <li id="about"><a href="/about" title="About Luxagraf">About</a></li> + <li id="etc" class="last"><a href="/projects/" title="the less visible portions of the iceberg">More</a></li> + </ul> + </nav> + </div> + <ul class="bl" id="breadcrumbs" itemscope itemtype="http://data-vocabulary.org/Breadcrumb"> + <li><a href="/" title="luxagraf homepage" itemprop="url"><span itemprop="title">Home</span></a> → </li> + <li><a href="/jrnl/" title="See all Journal Entries" itemprop="url"><span itemprop="title">Journal</span></a> →</li> + <li>2008</li> + + </ul> + <main role="main" id="writing-archive" class="archive"> + <h1>2008, on luxagraf</h1> + <ul class="date-archive"> + <li class="dater"><span>March 2008</span> + <ul> + <li class="arc-item"> + <a href="/jrnl/2008/03/ring-bells" title="Ring The Bells">Ring The Bells</a> + <time datetime="2008-03-30T23:37:40-04:00">Mar 30, 2008</time> + </li> + </ul> + </li> + <li class="dater"><span>April 2008</span> + <ul> + <li class="arc-item"> + <a href="/jrnl/2008/04/little-island-sun" title="Little Island in the Sun">Little Island in the Sun</a> + <time datetime="2008-04-05T23:31:15-04:00">Apr 05, 2008</time> + </li> + <li class="arc-item"> + <a href="/jrnl/2008/04/return-sea" title="Return to the Sea">Return to the Sea</a> + <time datetime="2008-04-02T20:22:29-04:00">Apr 02, 2008</time> + </li> + </ul> + </li> + <li class="dater"><span>June 2008</span> + <ul> + <li class="arc-item"> + <a href="/jrnl/2008/06/you-cant-go-home-again" title="You Can't Go Home Again">You Can’t Go Home Again</a> + <time datetime="2008-06-30T17:49:43-04:00">Jun 30, 2008</time> + </li> + <li class="arc-item"> + <a href="/jrnl/2008/06/returning-again-back-little-corn-island" title="Returning Again &mdash; Back on Little Corn Island">Returning Again — Back on Little Corn Island</a> + <time datetime="2008-06-26T13:21:17-04:00">Jun 26, 2008</time> + </li> + <li class="arc-item"> + <a href="/jrnl/2008/06/love-with-a-view-vagabonds-responsibilty-living-we" title="In Love With a View: Vagabonds, Responsibilty and Living Well">In Love With a View: Vagabonds, Responsibilty and Living Well</a> + <time datetime="2008-06-07T14:45:29-04:00">Jun 07, 2008</time> + </li> + </ul> + </li> + <li class="dater"><span>July 2008</span> + <ul> + <li class="arc-item"> + <a href="/jrnl/2008/07/rope-swings-and-river-floats" title="Rope Swings and River Floats">Rope Swings and River Floats</a> + <time datetime="2008-07-27T20:14:49-04:00">Jul 27, 2008</time> + </li> + <li class="arc-item"> + <a href="/jrnl/2008/07/our-days-are-becoming-nights" title="Our Days Are Becoming Nights">Our Days Are Becoming Nights</a> + <time datetime="2008-07-06T23:30:25-04:00">Jul 06, 2008</time> + </li> + <li class="arc-item"> + <a href="/jrnl/2008/07/tiny-cities-made-ash" title="Tiny Cities Made of Ash">Tiny Cities Made of Ash</a> + <time datetime="2008-07-03T23:21:22-04:00">Jul 03, 2008</time> + </li> + </ul> + </li> + <li class="dater"><span>October 2008</span> + <ul> + <li class="arc-item"> + <a href="/jrnl/2008/10/elkmont-and-great-smoky-mountains" title="Elkmont and the Great Smoky Mountains">Elkmont and the Great Smoky Mountains</a> + <time datetime="2008-10-31T15:16:13-04:00">Oct 31, 2008</time> + </li> + </ul> + </li> + <li class="dater"><span>December 2008</span> + <ul> + <li class="arc-item"> + <a href="/jrnl/2008/12/leonardo-da-vinci-and-codex-bunnies" title="Leonardo Da Vinci and the Codex on Bunnies">Leonardo Da Vinci and the Codex on Bunnies</a> + <time datetime="2008-12-09T18:18:33-05:00">Dec 09, 2008</time> + </li> + </ul> + </li> + </ul> + + + <footer role="contentinfo"> + <nav class="bl"> + <ul> + <li><a href="/blogroll" title="Sites that inspire us">Blogroll</a></li> + <li><a href="/jrnl/feed.xml" title="RSS feed">Subscribe</a></li> + <li><a href="/contact/" title="contact luxagraf">Contact</a></li> + <li><a href="https://twitter.com/luxagraf" rel="me" title="follow luxagraf on Twitter">Twitter</a></li> + <li><a href="https://www.flickr.com/photos/luxagraf" rel="me" title="luxagraf on Flickr">Flickr</a></li> + <li><a href="https://www.facebook.com/luxagraf" rel="me" title="luxagraf on Facebook">Facebook</a></li> + <li><a href="https://www.instagram.com/luxagraf/" rel="me" title="luxagraf on Instacrap">Instacrap</a></li> + </ul> + </nav> + <p id="license"> + © 2003-2018 + <span class="h-card"><a class="p-name u-url" href="https://luxagraf.net/">Scott Gilbertson</a><data class="p-nickname" value="luxagraf"></data><data class="p-locality" value="Athens"></data><data class="p-region" value="Georgia"></data><data class="p-country-name" value="United States"></data></span>, except photos, which are licensed under the Creative Commons (<a href="http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/" title="read the Attribution-Share Alike 3.0 deed">details</a>). + </p> + </footer> + </div> + +<!-- Piwik --> +<script type="text/javascript"> +var _paq = _paq || []; 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