Days Four and Five

Day four was a breakthrough. My bod still insited it was wildly pissed off for the rigors it's been going through, but at leas it was willing to cooperate. My legs never did give out, and never hurt until I stopped for my night. The problems now lie with my shoulders, which claim that carting a 40 pound pack up and down mountains is too hard. I disagree. Day four was also the first time I felt real camaraderie with other hikers. Most hike from Georgia to Maine, thus northbound. Starting in Pennsylvania and heading south makes me a soutbounder. There are very few of us, therefore I don't run into the same couple of people every day. But last night I stayed at the shelter at Taggs Run with Willy-Boy, Burples and Toots, and it was great.

If day four was a breakthrough, day five was the test. It was humid all morning-- painfully, New Orleansly humid. Luckily however, when the thundrstorms started, the humidity went away. I hiked seven miles through the pouring rain amdst thunder and lightening, becoming drenched and irritable. I sang to keep spirits up. Eventually I came to a hostel, where I imagine I will stay tonight. Sitting there now-- still not quite dry. The sun is out, I could make several more miles before sundown but... a shower sounds so wonderful and laundry is a necessity, since all my clothes are cotton and drenched.

Regardless, I plan on being in Baltimore by the eighth.

Duncannon

For the first days of my journey, things have gone, to say the least, poorly. After my flight from Chicago I arrived by bus in Harrisburg, Pa. Duncannon, Pa is a popular trail town about 15 miles north. I tried to hitch a ride along the highways and failed miserably, walking abou twelve miles into town and in the process pulling a muscle in my knee. Someone stopped for me just outside Duncannon. This compares little, though, to issues that commenced in town. I stayed the night at the Doyle Hotel, a delightful little place designed mainly for thr-hikers. I awoke early on Memorial Day morning, and spent a good hour reading on a bench outside a park. I needed to go to the grocer (about a half-mile uphill out of town) so, having seen no one around or in the park this early on a holiday, I ditched my pack in the bushes and went on to the store. Coming back 45 minutes later, the pack was gone. I spent most of the day looking around Duncannon for my pack, talking to the PA State Troopers, and being coddled consolingly by the folks at the Doyle. Finally, the signs I posted offering a reward were of use. My pack was returned without my Ipod, camera, flashlight, or pocket knife-- but with the more pivotal gear. I've recently obtained a new flashlight, the folks at the Doyle gave me a pocket knife, and I bought a new camera. Everything is looking up.

Doyle Hotel-- World's Best Chilli!

PS- Everyone on the trail goes by a 'trail name'. Mine is Jude.

On Cities

San Francisco disappoints me. The Castro is not like the Moulin Rouge, the Haight is not like Woodstock, the Golden Gate is just a bridge and everything is too goddamn expensive. But it's always worth the trip.

Las Vegas is horrifying. Hallucinogenic and strangely uniform, all about appearances and vacant and evil. But it's always worth the trip.

New York and New Orleans defy description-- they are wonderful.

Austin is handicapped by the fact that it is in Texas. In vain attempts to reject that fact it drives hard for hipness and overshoots the mark, landing in pretension village and rollicking about, convinced it is wonderful when really it is simply pseudo-delightful.

Portland is like Austin, without the handicaps, in a better location. It is delightful.

Atlanta and Los Angeles were desinged by children throwing darts tied to strings at maps of Southern California and Central Georgia. Burning them downa nd starting anew should be seriously considered.

Nashville and Tucson are small and filled with charms. Too suburban and civilized for great adventures, but places to level out and enjoy quiet reflection.

And Chicago. Chicago starts out with low expectation-- it is in the Mid-West, the American capital of dull. How wondrous could it possibly be? Oh, how it exceeds low expectations! It is livable and vibrant an alive. It is the kind of place where you hop off of a bus and within ten minutes a man tries to sell you acid on the street. Where you hop the subway and ride through urban landscapes that are beautiful and functional. It is a place where things work.

I heart Chicago.

Oklahoma City

I've spent the last week in Oklahoma City, in a psychological vaccuum of subtle preparation and complete physical inactivity. I've grown a beard. I've shaved my head. I've looked at maps and bus schedules and made decisions and renewed contacts and bonds. I am ready for the trail.
The land is flat, the weather is warm and there is nothing to see. Upon arrival I applied and was hired at a McDonalds, but time and space worked against it and it was not to be. Thus, I've done nothing, and it is wonderful.
I'm completely immersed in this middle section of a new-life purgatory, patiently waiting to emerge from this cocoon as a new beast with new goals and a new life. Eager. Excited. A little dread? No more than anyone feels when they unfurl brittle new butterfly wings and leap into the fire.

Tuesday finds me in the Windy City-- one of my favorite places. Tuesday week finds me in Pennsylvania, learning to fly and starting to walk.

Goodbye New Orleans

It was a little more than a week ago when I left New Orleans, city of my rebirth, and while I am gone it is not forgotten. No other place has affected me as has that city. That vibrant and tragic and sleepy and balmy and difficult and beautiful and wonderful city.

From walking down shaded Willow street on a humid afternoon, eating a snowball.
From ducking out of Ampersand on a Sunday morning, squinting and wondering where the hell all this sunlight came from.
From a coffee shop in the Marigny, where you're never quite Bohemian enough--
From a balcony in the Quarter on a lazy afternoon, watching tourists below with their beers and Hand Granades.
From being sheltered by a sudden summer storm on the porch of the Columns, sipping bourbon.
From riding down Lakeshore Drive, buried under the influence, staring at Pontchartrain in all it's black monstrosity.
From beneath the oaks of City Park--
From a club on Frenchman where the brass and the funk roll out into the street--
From a bar on Bourbon, wasted--
From a restaurant on Magazine, stuffed--
From a bumpy streetcar ride, to a stroll down Esplanade Avenue, through the wild-eyed, bustling majesty of Canal Street, and a sunset over the Mississippi--

If time allows, if I settle down again, how could it be anywhere else? There is no other place.

That city is part of my blood.

Home

It was a sad realization, but I don't go 'home' anymore. I go to my parent's house.

My 'home', the place I grew up, no longer exists except in lackluster photos and memories best left buried. Oh, the tragedy of growing up, growing apart, growing. To be the people you are now you can't be the people you were then, and thus those people are dead and gone. All of them, murdered by children and careers and college and boredom. New people rose from the ashes-- sometimes better, sometimes worse-- and the ashes scattered in the wind.

Sure, in West Tennessee the places are all still there-- the woods and the bridges and the houses and the roads. But the energy is gone. They don't hold mystery, grandeure, excitment anymore. And, when revisited, they're never quite like you remembered-- always smaller, more beige.

Nothing is as futile as buying into your rose-hued nostalgia, and that is a lesson one must learn through experience. Sure, I realized that in a hazy, intangible way years ago, but now-- cut loose and wandering-- it became absolutley clear.

It's too late to drag everything that was out into the light of what is. It's best left in trunks and satchels in closets to be pulled out occasionally and viewed through eyes tinted with the cynicism of the present. You can't go home again. Nothing natural has roots and wings.