I had just managed to find my way to a Fred Meyers.  As my gps is several years out of date, and my phone has been reduced to an awkward timepiece, finding the all-purpose superstore was something of a success.  I trundled in with my laptop tucked under one arm, and perched on the patio furniture they had on display.  Ah, free wifi, the joy of travelers.

On my way out, I foolishly wandered into the electronics section.  As I had a small sum of money finally come in, from a debtor I had nearly given up on I was feeling rather plush in the wallet.  After spending a small amount of time quizzing the sales person, and then some more time researching online (with my trusty laptop!) I decided on a purchase.  Feeling happy with all things, secure in the flower of my maturity, strong of limb and clear of gaze, life was pretty good!  Nice new toy tucked under my arm, and I was back to my car.

I took stock of my possessions, on this extended weekend.  What with my laptop, jumping stilts, and various electric gizmos, I estimated the value of things in the car was roughly four and a half times greater than the value of the car.  Such is the life of a techno nomad, I suppose.  As it was, I had an abundance of costumes, plenty of gizmos, a nice little stockpile of food, including some gloriously ripe (and cheap) fruit.  My gas tank was more full than it was empty, and I had time to spare.  After googling things to do in Portland, I read up a bit on a brew and view.  The concept is an indie sort of movie with dinner and drinks available.  I liked the concept of it, and decided to take myself on a date, as it were.

I put the co-ords into my gps, and gamely plunged back into traffic.  Just as I was approaching the freeway, I saw an older man standing on the sidewalk with a sign.  Nothing unusual there, I thought.  But as I drew closer, I could see this gentleman was clean and neatly shaved, and dressed in respectable clothes.  If the cut was a few years out of date, one could just say he was adhering to the fashions of his prime.  Then I read his sign.  Hand printed on bright construction paper, with reinforced edges of duct tape.

NEED HELP TO PAY

WIFE’S MEDICAL EXPENSES.

PLEASE PRAY TO GOD

FOR A MIRACLE

I read his sign, held firmly in his trembling hands, his head held as high as he still could.  I am ashamed to say I dropped my eyes away from his as he looked at me, rolling past to stop at the light.  I was ridiculously grateful not to have had to stop in front of him, to see the determination in those fading blue eyes for any longer.  I sneaked a glance in my rearview mirror, seeing him drop is sign as traffic piled up, and turn gently, his arms shaking steadily.  I saw the pride in the way he held himself, even as he beggared himself.  What kind of love must that be, for a man from the proud era to stand on the windblown side of the road, beseeching strangers for aid, in whatever sort they could give.  I wanted to meet the woman who inspired such an act, but I will tell you plainly that I was afraid.  A callow youth such as myself would only pale in the face of such quiet pride, such fierce love.

I am not one to beseech a god in the sky whom we can only have the most rudimentary grasp of.  I do not put faith in words in the silence and well wishes alone.  But on that day, snug in my car of wealth, secure in the medical generosity of my home country, I sent out a wish for this stranger, this woman wherever she may be, and I wished for their love to be enough.

It was the very least I could do

What does a gypsy do when not traveling?  Well, precious little, so far.  As much as I have been enjoying this settled time, I seem to compulsively check the airline websites, check in at my favorite places, input fictitious departure dates, destinations I covet.  I move the dates around, watch the price rise and fall.  The longing to travel never really fades.

I recently read that the road can be like a string tied around your neck; pulling when you aren’t following.  And while the cold bite of winter was enough to chase me to ground, curled up and biding my time, the sidewalks are awash today.

Snow, heaped carelessly in dirty gritty banks, is dissipating.  The gutters chuckle to themselves, much like the streams that once crossed this land.  Before sidewalks.  Before man attempted to subjugate the earth.  My mind is drawn to the streams I have known.  The waters sweeping past, either low and contemplative, or fast and boisterous.  I have passed pleasant hours beside many kinds.  I hope to do so again.  Though the waters are different, the shape of the stream welcomes me back.

Perhaps it might be said that we would gain insight from emulating the stream.  Thought the very matter of its defining trait is ever changing, the essence of the stream is the same.  You do not meet a stream after a long winter, and accuse it of being a different stream than the one that was there the previous summer.

Last year, I spent hours beside a stream in BC.  I watched the small bubbles surge past, watched the water roil from the forces below.  I saw how the rocks, large and round as dragon eggs must be, saw how they shaped the stream.  I picked up bits of driftwood, battered smooth by grit and sandbars, so far from where they fell into the water.  I dipped my head, bowing low before the might of the waterfall, touched my lips to the seething surface, and drank of the water.  I crept to the very base of the torrent of water, until my eyes were filled with the ever moving water, my ears could hear naught but the endless roar of it, until the droplets beaded on my skin and ran down my bare body.  Humbled, I crouched beside the uncaring marvel.

I slipped my fragile body into the cold water.

A slap, a bite of chill.  The water, from tugging on my ankles, became an undeniable force on my whole body.  The water pushed me, like thousands of tiny hands patting my body.  I was enveloped.  Giving control over to the water, I was swept downstream, headed for the pinch of two shoulders of rock.  the water bunched at this point, heaving great gouts though a smaller space than the cauldron at the base of the falls.  I twisted my body in the water, shaping my form to encourage the water to carry me up, sweep me along with it through the middle, as opposed to dashing against the shoulders.  Not fighting, simply working with the flow.  No point in fighting.

The water swept me along, carried me true, up and to the very brink.  I glimpsed the riverbed downstream, wide stream, shallows for wading in.  Then, I too frothed through the shoulders, tossing up and dashing down, heedless and unstoppable.  Flowing over the rocks, tossing sticks from my path.  Flowing into eddies, unexpected swirls and dashing back.  Leaping over the shallows, spreading out to wet all the rocks, bringing life and nourishment from upstream.

Gasping, I found myself bound by my own skin, pressed against the rocks where the water had flowed too shallowly to carry my flesh any further.  The water dashed away, passing around the bend.  Leaving me to be caressed by the water chasing at its heels.  Never ending chase, flowing along…

I grinned in the strong summer sunshine, grateful to have been a part of it, even if for only a moment.

One thing about early morning flights; it doesn’t really hit me that I am traveling until I am actually in the air. When your flight leaves at 7 am, there is not much time for a night person to wake up until, say, after your nap on the plane.

I scarcely remember customs, now that I am on the other side. I know I had my papers in order, and my passport at the ready. How nazi does that sound? Having your papers ready. If your papers aren’t just so, or the border guard doesn’t like you, for some reason, they can turn you back, or delay you so badly you miss the flight. They can mark your record, so that every time you want to cross, you can be assured of a thorough search. They can simply bar you from the country, for four years. If they don’t like the way you look. As someone who lives on the fringes of mainstream society, this is something I worry about.

It turns out my preparation was not needed, this time. The guard was a young guy, pretty cheerful. He didn’t ask twice about my purpose for travel, after I said I was visiting friends for some snowboarding. There were no questions about my lack of return ticket, and so my friends standing by waiting for a call to confirm were undisturbed. At least they got to sleep in. My papers proving I had property in Canada that I was not about to abandon, and a letter stating my expected return to Canada, all not needed. I breezed thru customs, bleary eyed and grateful.

Once on the plane, I chatted with my seatmate, pleasant nothings about his love for skiing, my attempts to learn snowboarding. He told me about his high school sweetheart, who he met up with again after 34 years, fell in love with, again, and this time, married. He showed me pictures of his disabled son, his daughter, and his elderly dog. I learned his views on older animals in pain, and we shared the distress of our dogs growing older. I told him about my truck and my dog, about my mum lending me her car. We chatted for a good hour of the flight, before I had a nap. He handed me my bag as we deplaned, and then his back disappeared into the crowd of ruffled passengers.

I never even learned his name.

I have slowly come to this realization, that I like it this way. I like the brief intense connection, the shared moments, and then the alleycat goodbye of simply… walking away. No serious information exchanged, no expectations, and yet, I learned details about this man that I reckon his last girlfriend didn’t know. Such can be the way of travel, tiny bits of life, in a sea of swirling humanity.

I made my way thru the San Francisco airport, the hanging mobile of planes stirring faint memories. I have been here before, much like this, making a connection to somewhere else. Once again, I pass thru the security areas of this place, here, but not really of the city. It is hard to feel part of the outside world, when behind glass walls, and security guards. Held apart from society at large. Like planes are some sort of politician, and you may only get near them with proper screening and searching.

The scent of food, charred bread and salty soup assails my nostrils. Here in this tiny food court, between gate groups, I find a soup and sandwich sort of place. Eschewing the overpriced fare, (seven dollars for an egg salad sandwich?!?) I detour past the condiment stand. Sure enough, tiny pats of butter. I snag two, and carry on to my gate. Once I have located my gate, I sit down, a nice seat overlooking the tarmac. I watch the planes taxi in, fascinated by the ground crew, their guiding the effectively blind planes in. With this entertainment, I shuffle in my bag, finding the grain bun I had bought a few days previously, for about 90 cents. Buns, especially dense grain ones, travel pretty well. Butter does not. Mostly, you can find free butter, and jam. There is rarely such a thing as free buns.

I watch the planes, and eat my breakfast. A handful of trail mix, made the night before, rounds out my meal. Do I need to mention the water bottle? Of course I carried an empty water pottle thru security, and filled it with free tap water. The small noises of many people in an indoor space bounce around the gate waiting area. Several children run about, much to the tired annoyance of their parents. I suppose some must sit still, but I don’t notice those ones, now would I? No, it’s the screaming sibling pair, tired and fighting over some favored toy. I hope they are boarding the plane next to this one, and will not be on the connecting flight I am heading to.

My hopes are borne out, and my next plane is a bit quieter than the waiting area, tho there is a few vocal children on the flight. It’s only a quick hop over to Reno, however, and then I am rolling down the glassed in hallway, escaping the secure holding pen. I spill out into the main luggage claiming area, people milling all about. There are a few joyous reunions, but most people appear to be merely making a quick trip. I miss the bustle of a bigger airport, with its intense human interactions. The basic emotions, concentrated. Loss, in the farewell to a departing one. Joy, in the return of a loved one. Airports bring out the pure emotions.

I walk out into the sunny lobby, and meet up with my friend Jay. Smiling, we hug, and I toss my bag into his truck. Off to another adventure. My life truly is wonderful.

It would be quiet out here. In the wide green forest, where no electricity intrudes, no city water pumped and filtered for your own good. There is the darkness, the pockets of shadow hiding in the hollows of the trees. The sun creeps below the jagged skyline of treetops and the pockets of shadow spill forth. The sight fails when one looks into the forest, perched on the lone ribbon of road that winds thru here. LIght is swallowed below the trees, and space is made for the night things. Branches creak, and the wind shifts. What noise may come forth to your small human ears, stripped of it’s meaning? We hurry along the road, leaving the dark spaces to the night creatures.

Back to the arms of our false light. The generator burns oil we pulled from the skin of the earth. Light comes forth, from lights perched in the cabin. Back to the small homey space, we can find a beer in the cooler, and a chair in the circle. Leaving the night creatures to the forest, we surroud ourselves with light and cheer.

It could be quiet out there..