Category: Places

Last Days in the Van

I exited Vancouver yesterday via Amtrak. I had to walk down to the train station, past Chinatown, at about 5:45 AM. The sky was pink and grey, slightly dusting light over the many crackheads and shaded streets and block buildings. I liked this side of Vancouver, it was quite interesting. Getting through customs is of course not my favorite activity at the crack of dawn, but the Cascade line train was magically much nicer than the ones I’ve taken before. I am now in Seattle, taking in new things but reflecting on my past few days.

I decided that Vancouver is a city of amazing parks and useful integration of the nature into the city. It’s crazy that there can be so many immense skyscrapers and gridded activity with humans passing all around by so many of the urbanized nature sites with clear waters and tall pine trees.

I went through Stanley Park a couple times. The first time in, I of course did the normal activity to check out the Totem Poles. I also came across a number of tourists speaking a multitude of different languages, leaning over a dock. I looked down, and they were all observing a pack of raccoons digging their little claws into the sand to find clams, and devouring them like bandits. I learned at this situation that the word for “raccoon” is the same in many different languages, but I’m not exactly sure which ones they were. Of course the views of the Lion’s Gate Bridge, and the people that were staring at it, were quite amazing in their own way.

There is water all over the city, and many different points to check out the mellow waves, bridges and boats. The urban beaches are also top-notch. It is one thing to read simplified reviews of these beaches on tour guide websites, and another to actually breathe the Canadian salt air and feel the sludgy mud on your feet.

I checked out Jericho Beach one of the days, and was amazed at how such a big city could still encompass such a beach.

The view to the front was of green mountains with rolling peaks surrounded by white clouds, the view to the right was the city scape of Vancouver’s skyscapers and Stanley Park, and the view to the left which eventually drifted further off into the Pacific Ocean.

The water was quite shallow, so the immediate part of the water-beach break was infested by sand boarders sliding along the wet earth. The water had lots of huge and tiny boats, carrying people or cargo or both. I managed to get a sunburn at an unusual time of the day, but I was more focused on the picturesque combination of these factors. They held my interest of enhanced human access to cities and to nature in such proximity.

Compare and Contrast Travel

I have been in Vancouver, British Columbia, for 4 days so far. I have been staying in this downtown hostel that is more of a dirty flophouse in my opinion, which has been quite funny.

I realize that when I travel, I always tend to compare everything to other places I’ve been. Within a day, I made the observation that Vancouver reminds me of a combo of Toronto and Portland. I also have walked through Chinatown a few times, and decided I like it more than the one in San Francisco, less than the one in New York City, and of course more than the one in Portland, as it’s kind of a joke.

I was sitting in a park the other day on the water, and a German tour guide came by, and from what I made out of my knowledge of German, he compared the Lion’s Gate Bridge as the Golden Gate Bridge of this city, and Stanley Park as the Central Park. I have also walked down Hastings Street, which is supposedly the sketchy street of the city full of drugged-out weirdos, and decided it was no worse than Mission Street in San Francisco, or the west side of the Burnside Bridge in Portland. Yaletown looked like the Pearl in Portland. Downtown clubbing scene resembled home too.

Of course some things about this city are unique. In Chinatown, I became fascinated by this shop that had a plethora of dried-out dead animals, even though I’m a vegetarian. Never have I seen a specimen of double dead geckos on a stick!

I noticed there seem to be a lot of international ESL students, most of whom look Japanese and Korean. I notice these things because I used to work as an ESL teacher.

I also saw a seagull trying to scarf down a starfish, which is also a first. Later that day, I saw a seagull picking its beak at a flattened-out pigeon that had been run over on the street. Yum.

Well, I have a few more days in this city to go exploring. I am enjoying my time so far, and hope to run into more new stuff, or perhaps see if it reminds me of familiar places…

OBX

Nowadays, I often compare my beach trips to the Outer Banks of North Carolina. I went to Sauvie Island over the weekend, which is a beach and farm-lined island outside of Portland, and being there kept giving me vague flashbacks of this place.

The first time I went there it was during the summer, in 2005. From what I remember, we set up a camp ground on Ocracoke Island, and spent the night drinking wine on the beach, and later running into the ocean waves under the stars.

The following day we parked our car in the parking lot on the edge of town by some general store, and paid a man to escort us to an uninhabited island a few miles away with his boat. Though sunburned and eaten alive by horseflies in the daylight and mosquitoes at sundown, it was quite an interesting human versus nature experience.

After he dropped us off on a dock, he warned us of the shark-infested areas, so we had to make sure to steer clear of any possible predators in the water. The beaming sun made us delirious, and we had to find patches of water to cool off, where we wouldn’t be attacked, and could swim aside the wildlife and sparkling flying fish that would jump out of the water. At the end of the day, we had to turn on our camping stove buried in the sand to cook some ramen on the beach, while hundreds of mosquitoes somehow dove into the small, contained fire. We got in a tent to try to shelter ourselves, and made sure to kill every last one of them before we would rest. The following day, the man picked us up from the dock and drove us back to the designated parking lot on the end of Ocracoke. We entered civilization again, all battered and burnt and half-dressed with eyes half open, obvious products of weak survival skills against this area’s natural habitat. I believe we departed the coast to Asheville that day, to take on the landlocked mountains, as we were defeated by the coast.

I went back to Ocracoke about two and a half years ago, to escape the dark and dismal late fall of New York state. The way down, we took the ugly highway trip down Route 95 through the New Jersey turnpike, the dreaded drive-through of the Northeast, full of stench and Ikea and oil tanks and traffic and rusty industrial steel and crazy connections of multiple on-ramps through the most densely-populated American state, also known as the country’s armpit. A couple states later, we stopped off in Washington, DC, for the night, then continued on out of the megaopolis of extreme population, southward, into a warmer place.

The entrance into the outer banks is quite wholesome. It is a network of long islands with beach houses, and lots of little shops selling fudge and sunscreen and beads and kites and fresh produce, as you can smell the salty ocean air and see it flapping all of the flags hanging in the air. At one point we took a large, free ferry boat across the water, where people get to dock their cars on its platform, to hang out in the waves under the seagulls, and wave to other approaching ships full of jolly vacationers.

We reached Ocracoke, one of the more southern islands, and entered our somewhat-remembered campground. It has a bunch of sites set up around a circular parking lot, sectioned off right before the brush and cacti and sand dunes that then descend off and downward into the sandy beach. You must run uphill through the friction-packed sand trails and brush off the dozens of mosquitoes before reaching the summit and sliding down to the ocean area and have the breeze blow these pests away.

The beach there itself is quite slow-paced. The waves are mellow, and the water is warm for swimming. Once in a while, you can see groups of dolphins jumping up and down through the water in synchronized patterns.

The people there seem to encompass the slow pace. Once in a while, some buff men go out in their kayaks and face the windy water with their paddles. Otherwise, it is usually just groups of people hanging out on beach blankets, or a collection of men who set up fishing poles upright in the sand and wait around for their daily prey that they put in buckets.

By the end of the day, the sun sets on the beach, creating another warm mesh of concluding mellow colors. A spread of different shells and former sealife washes ashore, sometimes even a crystallized jellyfish.

I haven’t been in a while, nor do I know when I will go back. I hear stories from others that go to the Outer Banks, and compare mine to theirs’, or I see stickers on the backs of campers and try and guess which island they may have spent their time.

Karlovy Vary

One of the majestic treasures of the Czech Republic is a small resort town named Karlovy Vary. I think its name in English translates as something as Carlsbad, taken from its German name. It is a spa town that is located close to the border of Germany, in the western part of Bohemia. Though I did not make it to any of the spas or massage parlors, I found it an excellent daytrip out of Prague.

Some people envision relaxing resorts as some pristine and sunny paradises, excluded communities with climate control and tropical pine trees and soft sand and smooth breezes and complimentary margaritas while you relax on a float in a pool.

I think I like a place like this more. I remember it being grey, cloudy, cold and tucked in the hills of patched forests, some of the trees naked, some of them short and evergreen and some of them displaying their last stretch of November browns and yellows, flaunting what they still could.

Amidst the uncomfortable climate and wetness, you can touch your hands under the designated hot spring fountains, and get a taste of burning mineral water for some interesting geological contrast.

The town was full of many Russians showing off their flashy fur coats, likely relaxed by all of the massages and spas and treatments that this town has to offer. There were also many suspended cardboard cut-outs of Bechorovka hanging along the river that ran through the town, the Czech Republic’s national liquor that tastes somewhat like gingery, syrupy, sugary Christmas. Another wonderful warm-up is the smell and taste of the huge, flat waffery cookies that they seem to have in markets all over this country, but in Karlovy Vary, they place them in a flat press and sell them to you on the streets.

One final destination is the ascent up the hills via a designated tram car, to a small panoramic glass tower where you can look below upon the streets and structures, all within a colder elevation with circling snow and wrenching winds. This spot is probably a scenic scam by the spas and the springs and the warming liquors and pastries to make people come back down for warmth treatments.

Back to Familiar Grounds

While I was back East, I decided to break my Tri-State habits and actually make the 2.5-hour drive upstate to Binghamton, New York.

Making the journey there doesn’t particularly feel like traveling, but more like going to another home. The drive up route 17 is more than familiar to me, having memorized the speed traps on the journey where cops like to hide, as the road winds through the rolling hills of rural greenery with exits every 15 miles or so.

Upon reaching my destination, Binghamton was a lot smaller than I had remembered. Getting around places was easier than I expected. Some of this probably has to do with the fact that I was visiting during summer, rather than my college years in the dead of winter when it gets dark at 4:30 and you take outdoor study breaks where you have to slip over ice on the crumbled sidewalks and catch yourself falling,g or accidentally step in a huge pile of snow that you must clear off your insulated boots before tracking it into a sheltered establishment. Nevertheless, there are just a few general landmarks or destinations in Binghamton that everyone has in their minds and has memorized the routes to get there, rather than being in a city where you get confused with your range of options.

It was nice going to a place I had not been in a while and knew where everything was more or less, the food stores and the cinema savers and the on-ramps and cafes and ways to wherever. Not a bad thing to know where to drop my friend off at work, where to fill up on the cheapest gas and where to park for the Salvation Army. A good comfort in missing a place and then going back to see all the people you care to see and still having an ever-lasting place in the general social sphere of those who remain and return to this place.

The houses in Binghamton look as ever uncared for and rusted as usual. I passed my old apartment building on Walnut and Main and it looked like it had not been updated at all, and even appeared like this entire boxy three-story structure was even tilting to a side.

Of course, there is always going the laundromat for endless entertainment.

Metro North

One of the big landmarks when I think of going home is the Metro North Railroad. It is a commuter train that links a good portion of the New York City Metropolitan area to Manhattan.

I always know this transit system will be an inevitable part of my time going to the East Coast at this point in my life, and often tend to vaguely daydream about it during my flight to New York.

The Metro North public transit network is utilized by thousands of people daily. It is foremost a commuter line frequented by career people who pay peak hour fees and read the New York Post or Times or Wall Street Journal or endlessly check their Blackberries or iPhones. It is also a weekender-frequented line that is ridden by obnoxious teens with fake identification cards, all done up in high heels and make up and impractical clothing to check out the clubbing scene. Many sports fans also ride Metro North, particularly Yankees fans in popped collars who have no problem offering Scoal chewing tobacco to their fellow riders at ungodly hours.

For me personally, I think of my teenage years, when I would dread the trapped suburban cave of Westchester County, and spend all of my hard-earned money from my several pointless jobs on the train tickets to take me to a more magical place. I have countless memories of paying for tickets into the automated ticket dispensers and being angry at the gradual increase of their prices over the years. I also spent lots of my time living there standing on the platforms of Pleasantville station, the closest to where I’d lived. Or scenic Scarborough Station, where I got to watch the Hudson splash waves.

The Ossining Station is where I spent my old morning commute to Riverdale, which is in the North Bronx, where I had worked as an ESL instructor. I would wake at 6:00 AM daily, be driven there by 7:00, and wait for the 7:08 train. I would often buy the coffee from the small convenience half-store set up there in the upper deck’s shelter, then walk down the stairs, wait for the train to arrive and and watch the other commuters load onto the platforms. On the way back to Ossining, sometimes I even caught the view of the Rockland County commuters boarding their ferry to take them back across the Hudson. I would ride the Hudson Line back and forth daily, in a pre-peak hour where I would sit alone and drink my  caffeinated beverage without a cup holder and correct tests and essays, or sometimes get the opportunity to daze off into the Palisades cliffs of where New York State ends and New Jersey begins (or vice versa on the return train). It was my only time being truly alone and at peace at that point in my life.

Today, I face no commute, and Metro North trains are something I always take when I’m back in New York, still having the same feeling of anxiousness to leave the suburbs and be in the city. I have pretty much memorized the Hudson Line, that goes along the river, and the Southeast Line, that goes through inland areas through the backs of many different towns that gradually turn more urban.

On both of these routes, I’ve memorized the slow-down when the train goes southward from the Bronx and crosses the bridge into Manhattan Island, where it then inevitably docks at 125th Street in Harlem.

After Harlem, the silver bullet then drives through a long stretch of underground tunnel and slows down even more, eventually weaving into the bowels of the Upper East Side and finally into Grand Central of Midtown Manhattan.

I am so familiar with the routine of getting off the train, and entering the dirty and dark, brown and grey platform station with trash cans full of hundreds of old newspapers, where all of us now-walking passengers are completely jammed and crammed through our gradually ascending exodus out of these sub-city track bowels, like some entrapped troglodyte creatures instinctively heading for the light, into Grand Central, a dome trap universe of hustle and bustle and travel and commute and overpriced fast foods and boutiques.

The final step is to either exit out the doors of Grand Central and enter the commotion of 42nd street, the reaching skyscrapers and yellow cabs and the drift-off of tourists from Times Square mixing with the thousands of commuters dressed in pressed collared shirts and shoppers carrying an abundance of brand-name store bags. Either I walk to my destination, or go underneath ground once again to the MTA subway, and ride up, cross or downtown and begin the awaited adventures.

A Huge Microstate

Israel is such a small country. But there seems to be so much going on. It is always in the eye of the media, for better or for worse (usually worse). It is seriously the size of New Jersey and yet has so much impact and attention on the world. There are such strong opinions on an international level about such a small location.

I was talking with my aunt the other day about what she is going to do in Israel when she travels there with my cousins. It occurred to be that 80% of the things she will do were things I also did. For instance, she will ascend Mt Masada, but by means of a cable car, rather than hiking up the narrow rocky paths while it is still dark in the morning, and reaching the summit at sunrise. She is going to explore Akko and Haifa, which I saw, check out the Old City of Jerusalem, which is a must-do for anyone visiting this country, and visit Ein Gedi, an oasis by the Dead Sea with a waterfall I remember pretty well. And the hot springs in Tiberias. And the huge crater in the desert. And the remains of Casearea on the Mediterranean coastline.

During my trip on Birthright, we went to the borders of Egypt, Jordan and Syria probably within five days. Whenever we would pull into a new attraction, there would usually be another Birthright tour bus full of other American Jews entering or exiting the destination. Whenever I talk to other people who did Birthright at another time, we usually cross-check each other’s experiences.

I remember I went to Eilat a few times, which is a small tourist city on the southernmost tip of Israel, situated on the Red Sea, by the borders of both Egypt and Jordan. There are two roads going there through the desert, and I was basically able to memorize both of them by the time I left.

When people in Israel talk about a “really long drive,” it usually means 1-2 hours.

Despite it being such a tiny place, it is also one of the most environmentally diverse places I’ve ever seen. There is anything from flat plains with farmlands to rocky hills with Biblical remains and clay earth that sticks to your feet and builds up while you hike, to cold and rainy urban terrain in the hills of Jerusalem, to arid desert to pine forest to Mediterranean beaches. There is also a very interesting array of people from such a multitude of backgrounds, Jews having come from a few different continents since 1948.

I remember always stopping at a specific gas station on a route and there was a colony of cats that would scarf down leftover fast food. I liked expecting this.

Many of the sites have more historical and social significance than actual impressive appeal. For instance, the Sea of Galilee, which is where Jesus supposedly walked on water, is a small lake that is gradually declining in water level. Though very beautiful to see, I was more fascinated the fenced off areas of mine fields up in the hills.

I suppose Israel has the most concentration of interesting travel arrangements and components and religious sites and political dispute out of any country on earth.

Back to Coney

I somehow found myself back in Coney Island and Brighton Beach, Brooklyn, the second time in the 5 days I’ve been back.

Except yesterday it was different. It was about 95 degrees, and full of people. I was unable to step on the sand because I cut my foot pretty bad the day before, so I stayed on the boardwalk to examine the people of all sorts: young, old, families, couples, clothed, in swim trunks, in bikini tops, fair skinned, light skinned, too skinny or too fat, showing too much skin or looking too hot with all their clothing on. With such an interesting diversity I kept wondering what exclusive beaches must look like. I think this place is the only beach in the world where you can have such a blend of contrasting demographics.

Last time I had biked, but this time I was in a car, and finding a parking space was quite an adventure. There are the tiniest little driveways along the jam-packed streets and small urban houses behind their steel fences, with lots of the curbs painted yellow or with no parking signs, all somehow crammed within an area infested with Odessa’s former population and Russian-inspired developments. My boyfriend had made the observation last time that it was the only beach he knew of where one can purchase a fur coat in the summer.

I had the pleasure of eating at a Russian restaurant that was misted from the awning and tucked away in the shade, but had to experience others eating certain foods that smelled vile and looked very scary.

We then walked down the boardwalk from Brighton Beach to Coney Island, to the red steeple and past the Cyclone and famous Ferris wheel, with humans everywhere eating mangoes with hot sauce or Nathan’s hot dogs or  fried shrimps, passing NYPD men in uniform goofing around by their scooters looking chubby as ever. The restrooms were full of families crammed together in front of the far and few between running water outlets, washing the sand of their ankles and feet, while the sandy water dripped out to the long line of women waiting for the indoor facilities.

Stopped off in a bar to cool off the madness from the heat and the crowds and relax by the bikers rocking their black leather. I could once again hide in the shade under an umbrella with my sunglasses.

Always an interesting time!

New Times in Old Places

My much anticipated trip has been set, and now I’m in a state of half-doing and half-reflecting. I think back on my first 12 hours as the most interesting time so far.

I took the red-eye flight out of PDX. Unfortunately I was unable to sleep because some inconsiderate people thought it would be a great idea to bring their babies on the 5-hour plane ride. I kept checking in with the air map to see what state we were over, from Idaho to Minnesota to Pennsylvania, and finally the slow-down and gradual descent over Long Island.

Upon finally landing, I gathered my half-conscious state to wake up in the aircraft. The flight attendants said welcome home to some of us, or enjoy your visit to others, I guess I was somewhere in between.

I waited to be picked up, and watched people caravan themselves and their luggage into the line of yellow taxi cabs to take them to whatever metro-region location they needed to go. After getting picked up and then driving along the pothole infested highway roads, we somehow got lost and ended up in Nassau County, Long Island, and determined we should go the other way.

We drove back into Queens and then into Brooklyn, where we were supposed to be. Walked out and walked around the boro, observing the scene just past the rush of 9-5 commuters who had already boarded the subway and were off to their air-conditioned offices. It seemed now the time of shipments, where trucks full of cargo were unloading themselves into the many convenience and other crowded retail stores.

Brooklyn was a fun escapade, in contrast to JFK and then ending up in Long Island. At a friend’s apartment, an interesting technique to kill time is to sit at the edge of the building’s rooftop and watch pedestrians, coming and going and observing their range of surroundings, but never looking up. And then turning your personal range of vision upward from the street to take in the vast New York skyline.

The next task was a bicycle journey to Coney Island. We started off in Bushwick, and cycled our way through about five or six different neighborhoods. Biking in New York City is definitely a different universe than biking around Portland, full of taxis and jaywalkers and a whole lot more one-way streets which you cross and navigate anyway and try to figure out the correct arrangement of traffic without obvious red and green lights.

The most interesting part was the bike path down on Ocean Parkway, which was lined with benches of senior citizens, dressed up in scarves and strange floral patterns that were apparently in style 30-some years ago. Trying to guess their ethnic background, not sure if they were new immigrants that brought over something from their home culture, or old immigrants who never really left the neighborhood or learned English, but stayed in some sort of static existence that they will probably never leave.

Brighton Beach and Coney Island certainly have their own thing going on. We locked our bikes on the boardwalk, then walked on the sand which was covered in green and brown broken glass shards and assorted cigarette butts from angry New Yorkers who make a choice to pay $11 a pack.

We set down in front of two overweight young men and listened in on their conversation, one asking the other if a girl would like him if he had a nicer car. The lifeguard sat above us on a high chair, watching the panoramic make-up of people set down on the sand for a few hours, all the while wearing an uber sun-protective outfit of a heavy rubber jacket and baggy pants, their way of beating the necessity of sunscreen re-application. I took a walk above the boardwalk and Russian-speaking voices elevated up and echoed from the below, through the voids between the wooden boards. In the woman’s restroom, all of the women in there over 30 were having a slow grooving dance and sing a long to Marvin Gaye’s “Let’s Get It On,” and I had to stand back and wait to exit to not ruin anyone’s moment.

This southernmost tip of Brooklyn was quite an extreme concentration of stimulation, considering I was still delirious from no sleep, worked by the 12-mile bike ride and fried by the hot sun above.

Coming and Going

Come summertime, Portland turns into a new place. The sun shines, and people breeze by on their bikes, showing off their cherished cut-off clothing that they have had in storage all year, looking forward to the magic day they do not have to suffer from constant dampness.

I was sitting on the bench the other day and a woman noticed how smiley everyone had become, as they had certainly earned it. I absolutely agree with that, as I’ve visited places where it is nice all year round, and no one appreciates it. I remember when I was in school in upstate New York, the first day of sun was so cherished, and everyone was out on their picnic blankets or playing volleyball or chess in the communal dorm yards. When the sun was nearing sunset, and the shadows would encompass our space, we would always move our blanket down a few feet over and over to catch the continuous rays.

I’ve been trying to watch the sunset every night that it’s clear. I’m skipping tonight because it is cloudy. However, I did watch it from my roof three days in a row, which was quite a treat. I get a spectacular view of the sun setting over the hills of pine-infested trees on the west side of the Willamette to the West, and then an interesting shadowed view of Mount Saint Helens to the North. This volcano looks white from its snow during the day, but during sunset, it gets shades of mystical purple.

I went to the bluffs off of Skidmore Street a couple nights ago, and that was quite a scene. People had picnics already set up, and were sipping wine and eating cheese and waiting for the magic colors to appear upon the solar descent.

Tomorrow, I shall leave. Though enjoyable in this weather, I’ve been here pretty much all alone, with no one to share my experience with, unless you count my cats. I’m looking forward to my flight to New York tomorrow night. Although it’s supposed to be hot and sticky and mosquito infested, I’m excited to see new old faces. I’m excited to see the trees have turned into summer, with their full leaves in stock and on display, because I was there last in Spring when everything was just budding. I have about a dozen potential plans I’d love to turn into reality, and I hope I have more to do than I expect.