Tag: travel

Surrounded by vegetables,

and we bought homemade rhubarb candies.

The south Anchorage Farmer’s market ends for the season today. Carrots, beets, Brussels sprouts, potatoes are piled high and steeply discounted. The stacks of giant lettuces, kales, cabbages – grown to monstrous size in the sunny, long Alaskan summer days – are shrinking fast. Everyone is desperate to get fresh greens because in a few short weeks the only options will be limp and pale lettuce masses, stacked like wet laundry in grocery store fluorescent light.

There’s an announcement. The live entertainment, a guitar playing local man named Wayne, is moving out of state. He’ll play the farmer’s market no more. “Please sign the sweatshirt we are gifting to him in thanks,” the organizer said over the microphone. I sauntered over to the signing table.

A little black lab puppy sat at my feet, staring up at me with love in his eyes. A nervy wolfhound slunk past behind us. Later, a trio of sweatered Chihuahuas pranced 12 tiny feet around their boss lady as she selected potatoes. I crouched down to say hi and the little guy wearing a squirrel sweater half climbed into my lap. “Hi, hi, hi, hi, hi,” he said, sniffing the dried fish skin treats I bought to take home to Hamish and Miss Tibbit. His absurdly small paw prints looked like dog art down the side of my pants.

My WideEyedFriends and I stood gazing at the fish offerings. “Harvested from the Situk River,” said the sign on the coho salmon bin. “Where’s the Situk River?” WideEyedFriendD asked. “In Alaska,” the fishmonger told her, laughing. We watched the fresh pasta man slice our spinach linguini to order.

My rented Dodge Charger will haul me to the airport in a few hours – hopefully with a little muscle car kick but it is a pony version so it only has so much to give. I’ll leave behind the spicy scent of spruce forest and head back into the city stink of the industrial northeast. When I get off the plane back there, I’ll take a nice, deep breath of sooty air and feel at home.

October 10, 2015
Sunday morning in the rain.

We rented a 2005 Dodge Ram 4×4, grey with a red capper top, from a guy who doesn’t like over taxation and who is concerned that the WideEyedSpouse’s new hologram infused New York state driver’s license will be remarkably difficult to counterfeit. The rental rates were hundreds cheaper than one of the chain operations. The truck is sticky with years of mysterious stains. The side panels are dense with underbrush scrapes. “I buy ‘em prescratched and pass the savings on to you,” the guy told us. For once I feel no fear that I’m going to be fiscally punished for a minor rental car infraction. I didn’t even use a cup holder for my iced latte yesterday. Madness I know.

We stayed the first night in an airport Marriott. The toilet overflowed for no reason. The light switches had grime encrustations. The floor corners desperately cried out for a solid vacuuming with a crevice tool. Other guests were also given our room so that the door slapped against the security lock five minutes after I crawled my head-colded, jet-lagged, dehydrated self into bed. “Is someone in there?” they called in to us.

This morning I am lounging in a soft featherbedded mattress looking out over a rain drenched perennial garden to a misty Kachemak Bay.

All night the rain pattered on the metal roof and the birch trees fluttered in a small wind. I’m in a treehouse, I’d think. Then, no, I’m on a boat, an old boat with a wooden railed gangway between me and the open sea.

For the same price as the begrimed city Marriott we slept in someone’s mad dream – a self-built compound of small outbuildings and gardens with cats and hens scurrying through the blooms.

There are rules here, no shoes inside, no cats inside, park at the end of the compound…I had to sneak over to an earlier breakfast seating to score some coffee. But so clean. So calm. No anxiety pheromones leached into the walls. No thunderous Chinese and Korean air cargo jets landing on the roof. Just windows and flowers and a rooster crowing now and again.

July 13, 2014
Return from Rat Islands

“Get in the shower Robinson Crusoe, you aren’t in the field anymore,” the WideEyedSpouse sounded a little snarky.

“I’m still cleanish,” I whined. So what if I didn’t feel it necessary to shower for the third day in a row. “You know,” I told the Spouse, “you can be too clean.” The Spouse looked me over, “yeah, well, you aren’t.”

I took a shower.

I’m now two weeks back from living in a remote field camp and running a multidisciplinary research program. I am remembering to flush the toilet regularly and I don’t wake up wondering where I am anymore. I have been warm, dry, and well-rested for days.

I miss the field.

The aching beauty of the landscape.

Corvie Bay North, Kiska Island.

Tiny, higher elevation young delphinium.

Segula.

Uncomplicated comforts.

Bathing with a view. Corvie Bay Camp.

The pure joy of a job to do, unencumbered by conflicting imperatives.

Heading home.

WideEyedFunk in 40 degree wind and rain in a cliff edge archaeological feature. I love my job.

But my gardens here in Buffalo are in bloom . Hamish the Corgi and Miss Tibbit the Useless Little Black Dog are here. And the WideEyedSpouse once again has my back against the world’s troubles. Home is good too.

July 4, 2014
Dare I wear surgical gloves on the plane?

Would I look like a freak, or would people be jealous?

I don’t want to touch any more crusty, sticky, or slippery patches. I’ve had enough. To prove I’ve had my fair portion of gross, I’ll share a few of my highlight ick moments from the past week.

I was heading to the farmer’s market on Saturday and I needed cash. Evidently farmers prefer that I pay for my $1 butternut squash in cash-dollars. I hit the ATM on the Canisius College campus. It is also near the Metro entrance. My fingers slipped from the greasy ATM buttons so badly it was actively difficult to punch in my digits. And oh, the ATM foyer stank of pee and vomit. So nice.

WideEyedSpouse and I hit the Central Library on Sunday afternoon. I felt something chunky under the entrance door handle. The skin of my fingers tried to crawl off. I am so thankful that whatever it was had dried to chunks.

I scooted into work on Monday. The stair railing on my way to my office floor left a sticky residue on my palm. Normally I don’t touch stair railings, but my foot slipped on something gelatinous. A goober I think. That’s 1970s kid speak for a mass of phlegm.

Tuesday at Target, my hand slipped off the grocery cart handle. I blame spittle. Baby spittle I hope. Although I’m not sure why baby spittle is less gross.

Today, Wednesday, I have to fly.

Have you read the studies? I have. Flu, cold, TB, MRSA, E. coli, lysteria, pneumonia bacteria. All normal. Skin crust, boogies, hair, chewed off finger nails? Expected. Greasy unexplained smootses on all seats? Of course! Wet spots? Annoying but unsurprising.

Even if the booger is not infectious, even if the hairs floating around do not carry lice or too much skin crust, I don’t want them touching me.

I just figured out my solution.

I am hitting the Home Depot on the way to the airport. I’m getting a full Tyvek suit. Oh yeah. With gloves and a mask too. Maybe eye PPE. I know when my fellow (disgusting) passengers stare it will be out of jealousy. And I figure there’s a pretty good chance I’ll get an empty seat next to me.

November 8, 2012
I know I would paint better if I had a pair of Dickies painters pants.

Wine: Does Not Impair My Ability to Paint Awesomely.

I own a nice brush. I bought quality paint. I sanded and primed properly. I’ve painted ceilings, walls, trim, floors in 5 different states, 6 different domiciles. Satin, flat, matte, semi-gloss, stain, paint stain, epoxy, and varnish. Interior, exterior, basement, attic, kitchen.You name it. I’ve painted it. And while I’m no pro, I can lay some paint.

But you know what? I was standing in Sherwin Williams the other day waiting for my paint to shake and I saw that their Dickies painters pants were on sale. It was a really good sale, only $18. That’s a great price for any kind of pants, an exceptional price for magic skill infused painters pants. I didn’t buy them.

Here we are, a little more than 24 hours later and I am commencing with painting the bathroom. I am all geared up in my ladies Carhartts and I am feeling ill-prepared. Queasy that I could do better.

Don’t mistake the situation. The ladies Carhartts are good, solid pants. They lived in 3 states with me. They traveled to 3 continents with me. They knelt with me inside them in the mud of a 4,000 year old whale hunting household in Chukotka. They crouched with me in 27,000 year old cave deposits in Portugal – where they also worked with me on a 100,000 year old Neanderthal beach camp. These pants and I have spent weeks on survey in the Western Aleutian Islands.

Now, here in Buffalo, they are paint pants. But the trouble is, the thing that keeps bugging at my mind, they are FIELD pants really. Not paint pants at all.

I just have this terrible feeling that I do injustice to the pants by painting in them, and injustice to the bathroom paint jobs by not having the proper pants on for the job.

The magic pants!

UPDATE, REMARKABLE UPDATE: From 1,500 miles away, WideEyedCousin D had my local Sherwin Williams store put aside a set of painters pants just for me. WideEyedCousinD, I thank you, the paint thanks you, and the house is ever-so-grateful. The Carhartts just want to hug you.

October 25, 2012