Update: Washington, D.C.

One wouldn't believe the issue that I have had in finding internet connections here in the nation's capital. One would assume, this being the center of the civilized world, that it would be easy. No. That is not the case. It's been what, more than three weeks, and I'm just posting a measly update? Fear not, I should be getting the posts I've written in my journals up on Thursday or Friday, along with pictures dating all the way back through Duncannon and the AT.
I've been in DC almost three weeks, but I'll probably be leaving shortly after the Fourth-- despite the abundance of national treasures, it's very dull here. I'm working at the DC Eagle, a leather bar, and was staying for a while at a motel in Crystal City, a VA suburb adjacent to Regen International... more on this in particular later.
After leaving here, depending on the weather, I'm either hiking the Shenandoah Nat'l Park, or heading south to Johnson City, Tennessee. If I hike the park, I'll go to Johnson City afterwards.
More posts soon. Promise.

Selections from the National Gallery of Art

Earlier I spoke of holy places-- staying on topic, my favorite spot in all of Washington is, without doubt, the National Gallery of Art.  Although it comically and thoroughly inadvertently proves there was no relevant American artists prior to the 20th century, wandering the labyrinthine corridors is an almost religious experience.  My personal favorites from the vast collection:

Vermeer: Girl with a Red Hat (detail)

Picasso: The Tragedy (detail)

fountain from the palace at Versailles

Andy Warhol: 208 Campbell's Soup Cans

Van Gogh: Self Portrait

Degas: Four Dancers (detail)

Toulouse-Latrec: Rue des Moulins (detail)

Renoir: Odalisque (detail)

Jackson Pollock: Number 1 (detail)

Jackson Pollock: Number 7 (my absolute favorite)

Matisse: Loretta with Turban, Yellow Jacket

Judith Shea: Post-Balzac

Religious Architecture

I believe that, throughout the world, holy places tend to be the most absolutely stunning.  Churches, mosques, temples, cathedrals-- they tend to be old, ornate and gorgeous.  Here in DC, there are two cathedrals (in particular) whose site is sublime:  St. Patrick's and the National Cathedral.

St. Patrick's is, I believe, the oldest church in the district, dating back to the 1700s.  It's a cobblestone structure with a big, lovely stained-glass window in the front.  Below, the facade and the tower.

The National Cathedral is huge, sitting on a campus that encompasses two schools and a college, all centered around the center building, which has a main tower and two lesser so towers over the main entrance.  I tried for quite some time and from several distances to get an overall impression off the magnificence and magnitude of the structure, but couldn't.  Below, the main tower and the side-entrance facade.

The Mole People of Crystal City

I looked utterly ridiculous, but I was out of options-- it was do or die. It was Laundry Day. So I set out with my wash wearing a yellow microfleece and red Hawaiin board trunks. Can you picture it? I payed no heed to the fact that the laundromat was almost two miles away-- I tramped there bravely, looking like a fool. Oddly enough, it was only in the tunnels where people stared.

***

The majority of my time in DC has been based out of a motel in Crystal City, which is not actually in DC, but a neighborhood in Arlington, Va. It has Metro access.

Crystal City is a peculiar place, adjacent to Reagen International Airport it seems mostly to consist of high-rise hotels, apartment buildings and aeronautic and military related office buildings. None of this is particularly strange, except for the fact that almost everything in town is connected by a vast system of underground tunnels.

There are probably four miles of tunnels, stretching from one end of town to the other, but they are more than just a pedestrian walkway-- littered with restaurants, stores, pharmacies, they function as an extrememly long shopping mall.

It is absolutely possible that, if one lived in an attached apartment building and worked in an attached office complex and shopped at the well-stocked stores and visited the undergroundgym and went to the underground doctor and optometrist and dentist, that they would never have to go outside. Ever.

***

These were the thoughts that occurred to me as I wandered through with my fleece and board shorts. Perhaps these staring people were mole people, so long removed from the outside world that they were frightened of someone so clearly from the surface. Or perhaps I just looked nonsensical. I imagine, dear readers, that it was actually an even combination of the two.

Fare Evasion

I delight in subways. Any town with an underground train is by the very addition a delightful place. So when I say that Washington, DC has my least favorite of all subways, be aware that that is like saying black walnut is my least favorite flavor of ice cream. It's ice cream, you see, and even the worst is wondrous. But, to subways.

In Chicago, regardless of where you wish to go, it costs a flat rate to ride the train. Not so in Washington. Different stops require a different fare, and this chart of charges seems as haphazard as a rope bridge in an Indiana Jones film. Anyway, so when you board the train, you run your fare card through the little machine, and when you exit you do the same, only it calculates how much your ride costs and then deducts the value. But, let's say your ride costs $2.10 and your card has a $1.95 value. What do you do? Well, you have to get out of line and go to another machine and put in the .15 cents before being allowed to leave the station.

I see what you are wondering-- what happens if you perchance to be out of cash? Well, you are expected to live permenantly in the subway station, of course. This happened to me recently.

Without change, with my useless debit card and unwilling to live in the tunnels forever, I made sure no one was watching and jumped the two foot barrier seperating me from freedom. And, of course, bumped into Angry Station Worker.

"What are you doing? That is Fare Evasion!" He cried.
"It want's .15 cents. The ATM won't accept my debit card and I don't have any cash on me."
"Did you know that Fare Evasion carries a fine of $50,000 and is illegal?" Came his retort.
"Well, is panhandling illegal, because it's my only option for getting any change."
"This is not about panhandling!" He shouted, growing frantic and red-faced. "This is about FARE EVASION. FARE EVASION! Give me your fare card."

I gave him my fare card and he sent me on my way, with stern warning that should this happen again I would be fined and taken to jail. After all, Fare Evasion is illegal.

I walked away witht he valuable knowledge that the District of Columbia would rather fill it's subway tunnels with beggars that charge a flat rate to board a train, like any rational city.

On Baltimore

Several of my recent posts have made allusion, either passing or explicit, to the unbearable weather afflicting the mid-Atlantic states. No city is succeptable to such as Baltimore.

Downtown Baltimore is a gridded mish-mash of ugly buildings, endless concrete and dirty water. It may, perhaps, be the least aesthetically pleasing city in America. I have met delightful people here, but there dispostion scarcely distracts from the fact that the live in a pit of despair.

For miles and miles one finds no estimable green space-- no parks, no yards, only a few fresh planted trees. There is only concrete here-- and this concrete absorbs the heat and magnifies it until one has the impression of living in a pizza oven.

The Inner Harbour, a blight on the otherwise pleasent Cheseapeake Bay, is a yacht-filled mass of pollution that stretches it's brown, oily fingers haphazardly through downtown.

Away from downtown, one encounters slum after slum, urban decay and empty lots overgrown with weeds and poverty. Standard issue architecture lines every street. Nothing stands out amidst the lackluster skyline.

Gross, sweaty, entirely unremarkable and wholly unpleasent, one can only flee and catch the first train to the District of Columbia.

The Little Italy Festival: Balt Amore

Open scene on a jubilant celebration of Italian heritage on an unbearable early summer day in Baltimore, Maryland.

In a room heavily air-conditioned against the oppressive heat outdoors, we sat. And we drank. And we played bingo, presided over by an ancient crone named Rose. Later, I would have ravioli, and a cannoli, and would continue to drink.

Wandering the festive streets scorching in the afternoon sunshine we shenaniganed. There was no breeze from the inner harbour-- in the red-hot stifle of a Baltimore summer we retreated into an Italian neighborhood bar and drank Italian beer. Night fell, and there hazy recollections overtake sound judgement. Who was that boy you were making out with in the corner, Jen? Did Emily just make the bartender cry?

All that is clear is that we drank, heavily, and that it is unlikely that modesty will allow any member of our party from returning to said bar.

Heat Wave

After three days of thunderstorms which thoroughly soaked everything that I own, the temperature on the Eastern Seaboard has soared into the upper nineties with no real relief in sight and humidity that casts a haze over every vista and valley.  Considering how hard it is to stay hydrated and watered down in average heat when in the mountains, I've reevaluated my plan and opted to break from the Appalachian trail for some time.  I plan on spending a month or so working in DC, at least through Independence Day, before picking up the trail again in Shenandoah National Park.  

Having walked close to 120 miles, I do not feel that this is admitting defeat.  I think this is an intelligent decision designed to avoid dying of heat stroke.

Rattlesnake

I'll apologize right away-- I don't have a photo of this, but I wish that I did.

I was having a break at the Quarry Gap shelter in southern Pennsylvania's Michaux State forest.  I was there, a father and a daughter ending a weekend hike, and another guy just starting a long distance hike through PA.  We were hanging out, chatting, doing this and that.  I was sitting on a picnic table, eating oatmeal when I glanced at the fire pit.  Crawling out of the rocks was a rattlesnake.  A big rattlesnake.  As thick in parts as my wrist and about three and a half feet long.  It crawled over the firepit (where, incidentally, that little girl had been sitting and playing around just a few minutes earlier) and across the ground, up the embankment and into the woods.

After being nearly bitten by a rattlesnake in Guadalupe Mountains National Park in 2006, I respect the creatures, but have no interest whatsoever in being near them.  I lifted my feet off the ground and it took a few minutes after the snake was gone before I'd put them back on the ground.

I knew rattlers were around this area, but nothing like seeing one to nail the point home.  Later on in the day, when I was hopping over boulders like a mountain goat, I kept a closer watch on where my feet were landing.

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.