1861. The Civil War is in full swing out east, but it is only a memory –a short memory at that – of a young journeyman. It was in the confederacy he served two weeks, the same amount of time he just spent crawling across the Great Plains in a stagecoach, before disbanding, choosing instead to follow his brother to the Nevada Territory in hopes of striking rich in the mineral rush. Like most young men, he had spent many of the previous years wondering, as it is, through odd lands and odd jobs. For four years he worked as a printer in some of the largest cities on the East Coast, New York City, Philadelphia, Washington DC, before trying his hand as a steamboat pilot and steersman on the Mississippi. The river, for him, was steeped in adventure; the allure of sunsets on a wide river quenched his ever expanding bend on romanticism. He would learn the river, its abundant ports, its many shoals, and how it sometimes separated the two sides now engaged in war. That very war would dry up commerce along the river. Besides, restlessness, a need for more, for bigger prizes, is woven into the fabric of many young men and women. He decided to leave. Nevada was a chance to capture those bigger prizes and leave behind failures in the capitals of the East. And though he did not know it at the time, he would become endeared to his country for what he was always doing, even at that moment: writing, to anyone who would read it, his mother, friends and various failing newspapers his brother owned.
America
Mooned in Colorado
In the morning I awoke to the train clumsily arriving in Denver with the blood orange sun rising in the east. Most of the night was spent alternating between sleeping across the seat I commandeered next to mine or sitting upright, lazy boy style. Neither of those strategies were too effective. On a bus ride to New York City some years ago I arrived at a stop in Philadelphia in the same sedated state and I still can’t decide if I can say I’ve been there or not. Denver looks tyrannically boring. I had read it is best to get a seat in the observation car upon departure from the “Queen City.” Apparently everyone else read this as the car was packed full of geriatrics. A tour guide soon grabbed the mic to narrate our journey and it became apparent he planned to rant for some time. He informed us the train depot was beside the Rockies stadium and that the team should get their act together. My little league baseball team was the Rockies; maybe I can gather the team again and we can go out there.
I have boarded a train for California. It is named the California Zephyr and it will snake through the Mid & Great West for fifty hours before depositing me at the San Francisco Bay.
I spent the previous evening in Chicago. Chicago, I’ve noticed, breeds a particular type of crooked politician. They seem to adopt the “go big or go home” approach to committing crime and do it with irreverence. I asked my cousin, who lives in the city, about this and he informed me Chicago has the same politicians as everywhere else, but here they are exposed with more enthusiasm than elsewhere. Jesse Jackson Jr. and his wife were both just thrown in jail for campaign fraud so I have to say I agree. We spent part of the evening the legendary Old Town Ale House. I have religiously read the blog of its operator, Bruce Elliot, who goes by the moniker Geriatric Genius. I discovered it through the late Roger Ebert’s website. The Genius diligently chronicles the comings and goings of the bar’s patrons. Ebert called the blog the Canterbury Tales of barfly writing. On all the walls are many aberrant paintings by the Genius depicting various politicians in less than favorable light. There is Sarah Palin naked with a hunting rifle. There is Rod Blagojevich, naked, preparing for a cavity search. They are deeply just and funny. There is only a small television and the jukebox features old rock and opera. There were a remarkable amount of yuppies but all seemed quite happy and well behaved (we all know yuppies are trouble). It was a proper bar and I hope to return.
For two summers in a row, I’ve spontaneously chosen my year’s vacation at the behest of my employer. “You should probably pick some days so we can work out our schedules,” they’ve said. It may be my diligence and hard work that has sprung such a request, but more likely it’s an obligation – take the days we legally must give you and get it over with. Predictably, vacation is never too far from the mind of anyone who occupies a cubicle forty hours a week, so this demand is always welcome. But I am as indecisive as it gets when shackled with choice. I weep when I find a grocery store with fifteen types of apples for I can’t choose. I must weigh the cost and benefits of each apple according to color, crispness, sweetness and portability (red delicious apples are the size of softballs now). My grocery store trips are epic poems. First world problems, I know. Furthermore, I’ve adopted the Bourdain principle: “be a traveller, not a tourist.” Pretentiousness aside, Myrtle Beach is typically absent from my options. I don’t go to places to relax; I take breaks from life by getting lost.
Grasshopper Soup 