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Archive: July 2008

Rope Swings and River Floats - Jul 27, 2008 -
Our Days Are Becoming Nights - Jul 06, 2008 -
Tiny Cities Made of Ash - Jul 03, 2008 -

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Our Days Are Becoming Nights

- July 6, 2008 - - -

Everywhere I go I think, I should live here... 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. - -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.

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Our Days Are Becoming Nights

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León, Nicaragua

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- July 6, 2008 - -

Everywhere I go I think, I should live here… 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. - -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.

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1 Comment

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- Wil - July 10, 2008 at 3:01 p.m. -

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That is exactly how I feel, everywhere.

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Thoughts?

Please leave a reply:

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- - - - - - - diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2008/07/our-days-are-becoming-nights.txt b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2008/07/our-days-are-becoming-nights.txt deleted file mode 100644 index c7a2bce..0000000 --- a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2008/07/our-days-are-becoming-nights.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,12 +0,0 @@ -Our Days Are Becoming Nights -============================ - - by Scott Gilbertson - - Sunday, 06 July 2008 - -Everywhere I go I think, I should live here... 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. - -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 deleted file mode 100644 index 6dabf1c..0000000 --- a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2008/07/rope-swings-and-river-floats.amp +++ /dev/null @@ -1,218 +0,0 @@ - - - - - - -Rope Swings and River Floats - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

Rope Swings and River Floats

- July 27, 2008 - - -

Two weekends ago we went up to the mountains, just outside of Dahlonega GA, and floated the Chestatee River using inner tubes, various pool toys and one super-cool inflatable seahorse. 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).

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. - -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.

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.

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, but he wasn't immediately available).

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/rope-swings-and-river-floats.html b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2008/07/rope-swings-and-river-floats.html deleted file mode 100644 index 19c23ba..0000000 --- a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2008/07/rope-swings-and-river-floats.html +++ /dev/null @@ -1,371 +0,0 @@ - - - - - Rope Swings And River Floats - by Scott Gilbertson - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

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Home → - -
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Rope Swings and River Floats

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Mountain Cabin, Georgia, U.S.

- – Map -

- July 27, 2008 - -

Tubing on the Chestatee River 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. - - Tubing on the Chestatee River 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.

rope swing 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.

Which brings us to today.

rope swing 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, but he wasn’t immediately available).

The options were: walk upstream or float down. That really isn’t a hard decision if you spend much time thinking about it.

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.

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.

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Thoughts?

Please leave a reply:

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- - - - - - - diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2008/07/rope-swings-and-river-floats.txt b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2008/07/rope-swings-and-river-floats.txt deleted file mode 100644 index ea05c66..0000000 --- a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2008/07/rope-swings-and-river-floats.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,94 +0,0 @@ -Rope Swings and River Floats -============================ - - by Scott Gilbertson - - Sunday, 27 July 2008 - -Two weekends ago we went up to the mountains, just outside of Dahlonega GA, and floated the Chestatee River using inner tubes, various pool toys and one super-cool inflatable seahorse. 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). - - Tubing on the Chestatee River

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. - - Tubing on the Chestatee River

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. - -

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. - - rope swing

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 deleted file mode 100644 index 2ebac00..0000000 --- a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2008/07/tiny-cities-made-ash.amp +++ /dev/null @@ -1,199 +0,0 @@ - - - - - - -Tiny Cities Made of Ash - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

Tiny Cities Made of Ash

- July 3, 2008 - - -

The bells are a constant cacophony, not the rhythmic ringing out of the hours or tolling from mass that the human mind seems to find pleasant; no, this is constant banging, the sort of atonal banging that only appeals to the young and dumb. The firecrackers bursting back over behind the cathedral add an off rhythm that only makes the whole mess more jarring.

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. - -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.

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.

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.

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/2008/07/tiny-cities-made-ash.html b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2008/07/tiny-cities-made-ash.html deleted file mode 100644 index 9efa977..0000000 --- a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2008/07/tiny-cities-made-ash.html +++ /dev/null @@ -1,352 +0,0 @@ - - - - - Tiny Cities Made Of Ash - by Scott Gilbertson - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

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Tiny Cities Made of Ash

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León, Nicaragua

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- July 3, 2008 - -

Leon, lion statue 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. - -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.

Leon, church bells 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.

house, Leon 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.

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.

doorway, Leon 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….

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- - - - - - - diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2008/07/tiny-cities-made-ash.txt b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2008/07/tiny-cities-made-ash.txt deleted file mode 100644 index 97b29e6..0000000 --- a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2008/07/tiny-cities-made-ash.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,54 +0,0 @@ -Tiny Cities Made of Ash -======================= - - by Scott Gilbertson - - Thursday, 03 July 2008 - -The bells are a constant cacophony, not the rhythmic ringing out of the hours or tolling from mass that the human mind seems to find pleasant; no, this is constant banging, the sort of atonal banging that only appeals to the young and dumb. The firecrackers bursting back over behind the cathedral add an off rhythm that only makes the whole mess more jarring. - - Leon, lion statue

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. - -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. - - Leon, church bells

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. - - house, Leon

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. - - doorway, Leon

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.... -- cgit v1.2.3-70-g09d2