"Dear U.S. Government, I have a beard, a motorcycle, a diary, and a sudden distaste for how visitors to our fine land are treated. Don't give me a reason to start a revolution.
Cheers,
Bonne"
There were moments when I used to be critical of people who succumb to the natural impulse of our times: to use Facebook status updates as an avenue for venting. In essence, it's a cry for help or attention, at the very least. I do make an effort to be above it but sometimes... you carefully and deliberately shoot that proliferative virtual signal flare not so much as to wittily blow off some steam but provoke that right gaze.
I cannot recall ever critically addressing the powers that be in this great nation in my adult life since I learned early on that when in your father's house you abide by your father's rules. Many would denounce this Confucian ethic as a sheepish trait of an indifferent citizen but for the most part I valued harmony over dissonance. Hate hippies, stay the course, God bless America and all that jazz. But for once in my life I wanted up on that soap box.
Before I parted from Dora's hospitable company that morning, I read a text message from my lady that she was turned at the Canadian border. She chronicled the manner in which she was detained, interrogated and sent back in so many words. My blood began boil with the same short fuse that the Navajo were grieved with while I suffered the commercialization of their land and culture back in Arizona. Before it erupted into a closed fist plowing into the nearest wall, my host strolled in to tell me "good morning." My teeth grinded against one another as I attempted to reply with the same words. The facade was painfully maintained until we parted from one another, though I was purely sincere in thanking her for the most memorable stay.
Just before I saddled up Chance I took out my phone and reread her message. This may seem to have nothing to do with my story but it affected me enough to ride blindly off course and plague my mind for days.
Besides having to take a three hour bus ride across the border to fly out of a cheaper airport at 2 in the morning, Renuka, my longtime girl, had an unusually difficult time at customs. We've been visiting one another several times a year, sometimes even monthly and she had the stamps to prove it. Nevertheless, out of the blue, they accused her of illegally escaping into the U.S. because she apparently lacked ties to Canada. If I know her, she would fly a Canadian flag just by default as she isn't exactly fond of our diets, health, lifestyles, coorporations, economic and foreign policies and the big one, how we handled displacing the Native population. Ren only hit the accusation back with a proud nod to her free health care. They then grilled her about her plans which were to simply grace my eager family with her company and await my return, sticking around only until school started up again in September. The officer found her story sketchy with me being on a road trip then demanded to know everything about me. Her interrogator deemed a lot of what she was saying as fabrication (with what evidence, I do not know), denied her entry and called a cab. When my lady asked for her passport and phone back, the officer barked that the cab driver can give it back when she was returned to Canada.
What sent me over the edge was a combination of things. Chiefly, my parents adore her. She is the daughter my mother always wanted in a family of men and to my father, the sunshine who tempers a lifetime of hardships. Denying them that simple happiness was a cross against me already, especially with my guilt of being away and worrying them. Then there were the hoops she would have to jump through just to achieve a simple visit that hit our pocket books as we're no longer enjoying the benefits of free travel. My brother actually anted up half of the plane ticket out of selfless care for his fiancé who really needed her best friend, Ren, during a difficult time. Then, of course, there was just how she was treated with unecessary rudeness by my own representatives of a country I was falling in love with on the road. Not to mention that my own trip was spoiled. How exactly I was going to keep on riding with an injustice occuring against my loved ones, I did not know. Naturally, I took this incident personal.
The motorcycle's engined fired up and and recklessly sped out of Houston without any heed to the direction nor traffic laws. This time there were no vocal eruptions but rather a deluge of internal strife which my bike unfortunately suffered under my sharp impulses. Eventually a near-empty tank would yank me off the road to a gas station where the burning engine and the wind calmed to a halt, leaving me to somewhat come to my senses. Now lost, I pulled up the map to which was only partially loaded due to my remoteness and lack of wireless Internet. From what I could tell I had gone south as opposed to east. This irked me for but a moment as I noticed patches of blue were towards the bottom of the screen. I knew exactly what I needed to do for myself.
Instead of backtracking and returning to a easterly heading, Chance and a slightly cooled off rider carried on south...
In a little over an hour I was smelling the nostalgic aroma of a salty body of water. Catching glimpses of it coming over hills and passing by beaches irrationally put a smile on my face. It made waiting in line to board a ferry worth the sun baking and bird drop ducking.
Huzzah! Our first sea crossing! We were officially as south as we were ever going to go (for now...) and what a way to reorient ourselves towards New Orleans. From here on we'd keep the Gulf at our right. My troubles were far removed from my mind now. The road demands living in the moment, I thought in the seabreeze. Get as far as I can, enjoy everything on the way and only dwell on the problems of thousands of miles away off the saddle.
The ferry from Galveston to the Bolivar Peninsula was short but just what I needed. I had been landlocked for the last two months and having always lived on the coast no matter where on the globe I called home, this was a real treat. I made my peace with my mechanical horse on that boat and even thanked him for the off chance that I might have been lead down here.
We were the last ones to get off so once rubber was reunited with pavement it seemed as though all our seafaring companions had disappeared. This stretch of road on a skinny peninsula bordered by a bay and the Mexican Gulf seemed like a different planet. For one, the humidity was so through the roof that the camera lense continually fogged and it felt like I was breathing in water. It seemed mostly baren but occasionally there would be small settlements where all the homes were raised a dozen of feet in the air. It never occurred to me that such dwellings existed in America but considering how exposed this coast was, it made sense.
I thought about the tropical storm that had been battering Florida just a few hundred miles before us. Last I heard it would weaken before becoming a threat to anything west of the Mississippi so I wasn't deterred but we stayed mindful of exit strategies inland.
Something told me they weren't open today.
The decaying gas station - probably a victim of Hurricane Ike a couple of years ago - though it appealed to my fascination with human ruins being reclaimed by nature, I was actually hoping to find some gas. This lonely coastal road didn't seem to have any for miles and I didn't know how far before we could fuel up again. Not a fan of backtracking, we rode on.
The area was quintessential bayou. That optical illusion where the sun seems to make the end of the road look as if it were covered in water was difficult to discern at times from portions of the road that really were lightly inundated with swamp water. We ventured carefully although once again, the humidity and heat were begging my right hand to roll back the throttle more than I should. In time a motel attached to a gas station appeared but the motel was closed and the gas station hadn't been serviced as they were out. That was new but it must happen all the time, especially in removed places like this.
The road sharply veered inland and to our elation the first major towns were reached. The both of us tanked up and got our bearings. We were a mere 300 miles from the southern end of the Great River but in no particular rush to reach it as I had plenty of writing to do, a repertoire to cook up, a Cajun host halfway in Lafayette, and the border incident to address!
The country roads I took out of Texas and finally into Louisiana were some of the most pleasant, even with the trying weather. The sun set in a small town of Oberlin where I'd shop around door to door for a decently priced motel. The one I landed at was not only the cheapest but the best roadside accommodation since venturing out of the Rockies! After staying in so many you get to become a connoisseur of budget lodgings and for no reason at all, this place seemed to invest in all the little things that made life on the road comfortable. Okay, so they were a few paces away from a railroad track that sees and definitely hears a lot of traffic but it was worth it!
Now free to bathe myself in rage without the road, I got caught up with my lady. Her mother was furious, her father not surprised, and herself, very much victimized. Apparently she would try again with a new ticket and proof of her questioned ties to her Commonwealth nation the next day. The manner in which she described the experience seemed highly unwarranted and, to my naïveté, un-American. Then I got to thinking... Perhaps I'm not as American as I thought. Self-defeating is not my style, though, so maybe I was just finally waking up into the responsibilities of my citizenship which is to recognize injustice and refuse to tolerate it.
First I went about it in typical alpha male fashion, demanding the name of the customs officer and vowing to invert the direction of his snobby nose if I crossed his path. If I can afford assaulting an officer it's a done deal, though out of respect for the uniform I would resolve to provide him that permanent reminder in the middle of his head while off duty - mano-a-mano. A few years of jail time is no skin off my back as I've plenty to read and all the more to write.
Thoughts of a young Ernest Guevara came to mind while throwing a very contained and likely life-shortening fit in my quarters. I vividly recalled a scene in the biopic adaptation of his memoirs, The Motorcycle Diaries, where he assaults a mining company for their treatment of the local poor - essentially his first armed conflict with a major authority. Although it wasn't more than a few thrown rocks in the heat of what his best friend would call an overreaction, a notorious revolutionary was being born. It soon occurred to me that beating up a snot-nosed member of the border patrol would only satisfy immediate and personal vengeance, when in the larger scope of injustices, our country was treating countless visitors like criminals.
Before I high-tailed it out of Escalante, Utah what seems like an entire lifetime ago, I met a expatriate couple - an archaeologist and a journalist, as you may recall. The journalist, who I profiled as being an affluent upper class, older Caucasian man passionately denounced the welcoming party that bitterly awaited travelers at our borders. He painted a picture of the weary yet hopeful, herded into lines that decided fates after long journeys filled with high aspirations, now backfilling with anxiety before brands in the form of an overpowered stamps. Then, I only humored the conversation out of politeness but was more eager to hear about the duo's adventures.
My experiences with these guardians of the U.S. of A. have always been proud ones. Last summer was the only time I had undergone secondary screening due to my stamp-battered passport and devil-may-care decision to only visit the shores of Victoria, B.C. for an afternoon of English tea and be back home in time for an American dinner. When my occupation was revealed, my interrogator apologized, admitting to profiling my manner of dress to be that of a drug trafficker. If anything, I was flattered. All other notably smug moments before these hounds were often on coach busses between New York and Toronto. Usually the border crossing would be in the middle of the night and a chore to shuffle out of the bus for but when the officers would bark those holding U.S. passports to come to the front first, I'd usually be the only one and strut down the aisle as arrogant as an American can be. On more than one occasion would my stamp come with a sudden change in tone as if to apologize for interrupting my sleep.
Back then I was too full of myself to notice how everyone else was handled no better than livestock. My elitism and even racism kept me blind to the plight of many innocent people. Sure, a handful may have been here illegally but that desperate desire to be in this country against all odds needn't be met with such scornful and undignified protocols. Only now did I recall that on some bus trips my passport was handled more than once at remote locations surrounded by armed guards in the middle of the night which gave credit to the articles I had been reading regarding Customs and Border Patrol raids on domestic transportation. Even Greyhound and Amtrak have been accused of playing their part in taking advantage of and entrapping-
I am getting ahead of myself here, especially for a humble travel journal. The point I believe I'm trying to set for the record is that for the first time I may be forming a political opinion of which I intend to act on in some way. My anger hadn't quite parted yet so my first thought was to ride towards the Mexican border, make a lot of amigos and lead an armed uprising to inundate the United States with more immigrants than they would know what to do with. It sounded far-fetched as soon as the thought crossed my mind but I didn't shake off the notion of at least growing more politically active. Then again, who knows? Could this be the calling I've patiently awaited this trip to manifest?
Though I was not entirely a fan of the man before setting off, it's difficult to ignore how my circumstances have been playing out parallel with my dear Ernesto. What was the tag line to the film? "Let the world change you so that you may change the world," was it? It's doubtful that the young man who would become the infamous Che saw himself embodying the spirit of a world wide revolution during an innocent little motorcycling adventure but the seeds certainly were being planted. For now I will sow mine.
To hold myself to being more responsible for the land I call home, I threw that message in the introduction to this chapter out into the winds of the social networking world knowing that somewhere in Langley, Virginia, my journal and subsequent life will have gained a new and highly attentive audience. Then, instead of counting sheep to force myself to let go of the day's troubles, I contemplated where on this controversial hide would a tattoo of el Che might go along with Don Quixote's.
Word spread about my journal thanks to sharing my general itinerary with the Couchsurfing network and, literally over night, I had a slew of invitations for places to stay. Unlike the common practice of searching through available hosts in a given city and requesting an invitation, I've been leaving it to chance by allowing the hospitality to find me. So far this open-minded method has worthwhile.
My first stay would be south of Oklahoma City for a night with a teacher by the name of Jeremy. I rolled in late in the day but he was kind enough to find us a place that was open late enough to grab dinner.
This was a college town so the venues all had some kind of eclectic charm to them. This one, as Jeremy guessed, appealed to me because it was converted from a chapel! It still had a lot of the church motifs maintained and even the very same pews! The food was superb too, which my host was kind enough to cover, though I would insist on getting breakfast in all fairness.
The elementary school teacher (who taught in the Philippines too) was a gracious host, offering his own room and bed and even a towel to keep for the road. I declined both offers as I always already fond of the couch and any additions to my luggage would upset the Jenga that it is. Thankfully he got that reference, being a master Jenga player himself. We'd chat about movies, the basketball team that Oklahoma stole from Seattle who are going to the playoffs, and tornadoes which I had been curious about but shy to ask. He not only had some good stories but took me around town after breakfast to see some recent wreckage from just a couple months back! Boggles my mind that people carry on with their lives in such a hot zone but then I think back to the seismic activity that I live with at home. I suppose home is home.
Speaking of natural disasters, a rain storm was making its way over. Jeremy and I watched a forecast on television and it was so amusingly different - the tone and angle the meteorologist had when referring to the rain. The toothy man in front of the green screen was excited yet remorseful that the clouds would only be bringing an inch at best. Back home the weather person is like that when it comes to sun! Whatever the level of presipitation, nevertheless, it's enough to bring the oils to the surface of the asphalt, making for treacherous motorcycling conditions especially if it's the first rain in a few days.
Thus, I had to cut my stay short and race the rain. I had another fan looking forward to meeting up for lunch but unfortunately these clouds were chasing me out of town. Thankfully my packing had become so routine that I managed to get saddled up in no time but the first drops were already falling. As pressed as I was, a tradition of documenting my hosts could not be neglected.
With that we were off!
In case I couldn't outrun it I equipped myself with my jacket and chaps. A sprinkle or two managed to get in front of us but after a spirited hour we crossed into the blue.
The clouds weren't going any further south so with that behind us, let's give the Lone Star State a big howdy!
Not only did the ridiculously cheap and high octane gas provide a generous welcome but so did the state's citizens. Within ten minutes of parking to fuel up, four different people approached and made Chance blush. I suppose a Brit bike has a home in Texas!
And I suppose there are stranger foreign vehicles. Dallas was the first major city I had been in since Denver but even after just a few days of open road and country in between, it's always a culture shock to break hard into freeways, stoplights and traffic. And oh, Lord, the traffic. It's one thing to be in 100 degree weather but stopped on hot pavement coupled with engine heat rising up is hell on earth. I gave up the silly first-second gear limbo and pulled into a Starbucks, where I normally believe the air conditioning to be overkill. It's a sight to see a native of Seattle demand the "tallest cup" of water from a Starbucks.
My next host was in the next city over - Arlington. All my knowledge of that neck of the woods were from a cartoon by the creators of Beavis and Butthead so, naturally, I kept my preconceived notions to myself. Although, I did sit next to a propane salesman at the coffee shop, passed by an actual middle school named after Tom Landry and countless Asians who may have the surname Wasanasong or even Souphanousinphone. Albeit, the roof I would share in Texas would be everything but cliche!
No, he wasn't a serial killer dragging me to a pit where I'd be skinned alive. The same boot that was taped up lost a zipper hook earlier that day and Gary was kind enough to assist me out of its clutches. So much for first impressions! For an older Texan I presumed putting on the airs of being a man's man out of habit would be necessary but right off the bat, whether I had a choice or not, being my rambunctious self felt right at home.
Gary was a retired airline employee so the conversations rarely fell to silence. The fact that he was tenfold the cinephile I was and had a plethora of good music to share also guaranteed entertaining evenings. His collection of gadgetry, though not my cup of tea, were fascinating nevertheless and I never ceased to be excited in sharing their existence with my more tech-savvy family and friends. Then there was his cat, Ninotchka, I believe it was - she seemed unusually taken with me much like Zia was. It was flattering to have the unspoken approval of things as innocent as babies and animals.
That night, after the best home made dinner I've had since, well, home, Gary treated my movie withdrawal and we watched a film of my choosing. I had been craving to see it again since its released and thanks to a service I both praise and scorn for its over-convenience, we watched The Way on Netflix. It's essentially about one of the other pilgrimages I hope to make at least once: El Camino de Santiago de Compostela. My host and new friend seemed touched by it and understood me a little bit more. I, for one, was bolstered by the drama and could barely sleep that night.
The following morning would be the latest I had ever slept in since hitting the road - an impressive 9:30am. That ruled out catching a cattle drive through town that Gary mentioned was up my alley but at least there was a evening run that I could witness. That made meeting up with an old coworker who was on layover in Dallas possible! Before I could head out the door, though, there was the shoe problem. Long story short:
It's always so liberating to take Chance out without the weighty saddlebags. She's that much faster, more agile, and all around fun. Zipping around through traffic and onto some open freeway was the bee's knees. We did get considerably lost but my luck just has a way with things. I took a random exit to check my map only to find myself in a very familiar parking lot!
Hah! My old stomping grounds. Of all our layover cities, I loved DFW the most exclusively for this chic hotel.
So strange to be here without my uniformed crew and signature luggage in tow. I sauntered on in half expecting to be kicked out as being part of the common rabble. I sure as hell got the look from the front desk. Gary would call this elitist disposition a Dallas attitude or "Dallitude" for short. Before any security could be motioned my direction a heartwarmingly familiar voice greeted me from across the room: my dear friend, Ed!
As one of the only other male flight attendants from the largest graduating class we bonded instantly. The two of us sat down right there in the lobby and got straight to catching up. He was rather taken aback by my appearance as I was notorious for strutting designer clothing, spotless Italian shoes and not a single follicle of facial hair. Still, he liked the "vibes" this new person before him was giving off. Ed would always say in class that he always wanted to be me when he grew up which I always took as jest as he was nearly twice my age already. He brought that joke up during our little reunion, stating that he truly admired me and all the more with my recent endeavor. Ed had spoken with a lot of our coworkers as soon as I left and got the consensus that I was "the most Virgin" of them all, leading him to question what I saw that no one else did to take off. Touched, I passed it onto him for the record that nothing was wrong with the job or company. I just went on a hunch that I needed to stop everything and do something for myself, as you know, and the rest is history.
Just then one of Ed's crew members stepped off the elevator. His name was Mark and my old friend introduced us as if the new kid was in the presence of a legend - hah! Ever the flatterer. They were still delayed so the three of us took a walk outside to grab lunch. After Mark asked for my story his reaction was the usual envy but also alluded me to Into the Wild - his favorite book.
Mark commented, "I wish I had the courage to be free like you."
Strange thing to hear from someone whose career gives them virtually free access to any corner of the globe. But he was right; what I had was different. Humbly and truthfully I confessed,
"I can't say I had courage but I'll tell you bravado goes a long way."
Despite being delayed indefinitely the two fly boys couldn't venture out for long. My kind of freedom was definitely something tantalizing to these guys especially during days like this and I can admit not missing that aspect of the gig. We parted shortly after a few burgers and a photo opportunity with the famous bike. The last time Ed was near my ride was when he took the final footage of me riding out of the headqusrters parking lot into the sunset graduation day for the ending to his class tribute video. Perhaps Ed was a prophet.
I still had time to kill before catching this Fort Worth tradition of running cattle through town so I ducked into a Starbucks to knock out some writing. My girl in Toronto messaged me about flying out to Washington for the summer to hang out with my family and await my return. My excitement was there, I promise, but one thing I had a disdain for was playing travel agent and finding the cheapest and least risky route to fly on standby. Another coworker stepped up to the plate to offer a standby pass for her but it just gave me a headache to try and work out so I insisted on just buying a ticket like a normal person. Honestly, between the logistical nightmare of free travel and a paid ticket, I'd rather pay. What I thought would be a painfully brief moment of my day like ripping off a bandaid ended up draining me my spirit so once her itinerary was figured out, I just tucked back the kickstand and went home to Arlington. Despite my crabby mood thereafter, I was thrilled that she would be awaiting me on the other side for without her blessing my trip may not have happened at all.
Back at Gary's and after a much needed shower we sat down to yet another amazing meal.
In between listening to some shared favorites from his music collection, we chatted about my curious journey and it's place in the realm of Couchsurfing. I explained how I don't hunt for places to stay but instead let them find me for serendipity's sake. Usually I'll skim the profile of the inviting home but try not to read into it too much. Apparently I missed that Gary is a "friend of Dorothy" but he found it pleasing that I didn't seem to care. Admittedly, it didn't occur to me at first but once I put together the immaculate home for a single man who cooks divinely and dines to easy listening, I figured it out. He wasn't exactly the Hank Hill I was expecting but I could not have asked for a better host. Truly, I didn't know gays existed until the late 90s, for let's face it, I thought everyone before then was just really into glam rock. He laughed at my initial obliviousness and I hit him back by cheekily coining him for his ingenuity and gadgetry as MacGayver.
I smirkingly passed on the invitation to go skinny dipping in his heated pool and took up the offer for a movie he thought I would enjoy - The Man from Earth. It was a low budget science fiction indie with a hokey premise yet it played out masterfully. As soon as the credits rolled I became instantly infatuated with the deceased writer and was wired again for another night. There is truly nothing like a good story. A story is where man can find immortality.
This time I was up bright and early to catch a Texas style running of the bulls! I'd swing by the Fort Worth Stockyards on my way out of the state.
While packing everything back on the saddle Gary asked out of the blue, "So what do you want to be when you grow up?"
It was a damn good question. I hope the answer comes to me before the end of all this pavement. This pilgrim bid another gracious host adios!
My steel horse and I strutted through the historic district that was once a livestock market. When we finally found some place to park my ego took a backseat when I realized one of my saddlebags holding all my survival gear was dangling by three zipper teeth. Lucky son of a gun!
The stockyard was a unique fusion of history and tourism. I actually didn't mind the T word so much here for it seemed like there wasn't much to bastardize. The Texans celebrated every aspect of their ranching culture even if with a bit of campiness.
I have a weird thing for bathrooms, especially if they're extraordinarily clean and nice smelling. It was worth a photo for posterity.
I wouldn't mind having this guy's job. It's just a tip of the hat here and a wink to the ladies there. I was still a bit early for the morning cattle drive so I headed into one of the saloons for refreshments. Something truly of the Lone Star state's cuisine had to get in my belly for the long road east so I went with the joint's signature Boss Burger. Stuffed my face like a boss, I did.
Before long I heard yips, calls, and an army of hooves striking against the cobblestone coming down the street...!
It wasn't quite like I had imagined but then again, I tend to have a rather epic imagination. I was picturing a particular scene from the movie Australia but it was still an amusing event to witness. The most impressive corralling done there, in my opinion, was that of the expertly executed flow of the tourist herd into the stockyard station to line up for the gift shops.
After tipping well for the exceptional service and ringside seat, I vacated the saloon only to be roped in, myself, into to a little tourist trap. The lure was the sound of a Colt revolving cylinder snapping back into gun's frame. I just had to see what was going on.
It seemed indicative of this all-American state to utilize real firearms to simulate wild west shows! They shot blanks, rest assured, but that's still pretty ballsy in this day and age. I took it as a proper send off and made my way for Louisiana!
At one of the gas stations along my final eastward stretch I noticed Chance's license plate was hanging by the keychain loop that I installed the very same time of my shoe (seems that my bike repairs are in tune with my boots).
Oh and what do you know? My tabs are expired. Truly, I didn't plan on being out this long!
Thanks to a zip tie it looked good as new. Another triumph for ghetto-rigging!
I thought the heat and humidity was bad behind us but where we were going just kept testing my tolerance and not to mention the bike's. Besides keeping her RPMs low to keep from overheating her air-cooled engine and ceasing up, we ditched the highway a couple times to find shade and comfort.
This particular sanctuary was rather relaxing. Something about tree covered roads and looking up to see layers of different shades of green always rang with me. There's possibly an association I have with my outdoorsy childhood where I often played under leafy, sun drenched ceilings.
I wondered where this hidden road lead but the heat of the day as well as the daylight, itself, pressed me back to the open road east. Baton Rouge was where my next bed awaited me thanks to an invitation by a thoughtful Christian lesbian couple but it was twice the distance than my usual endurance runs. The plan was to get as close as possible, revisit our old friend - the motel - and make an early break for the red stick city.
Unfortunately we didn't get far. In fact, we were just shy of the Louisiana border when I stumbled into the first motel I could find and coughed up more cash than I would have liked to give in exchange for a clean room and air conditioning. I barely got either. Camping wasn't an option for this pilgrim as the national forests were far and few in between and not to mention the humidity was merciless regardless of being in the shade. I humbly accepted my accommodations and took advantage of the time to myself to write.
~ ~ ~
The intermission journal entry was a departure from the original nature of this diary. Initially it was to be a memoir for myself to assist in my introspective journey but it soon garnered an audience that couldn't be ignored. As I alluded to in The Crossroads chapter, more seemed to be riding on my saddle than myself and my personal baggage - figuratively and physically. A lot of good people seemed to be living out a dream through my own, if not at least entertained by it. Appealing to that collective will to continue took much humility and strength of character in admitting to overreaching my goals and requesting a little help. The response has been... Touching, to say in the least. Without getting too sentimental, I'll simply say that I am surprised and infinitely grateful at who are in my corner. My sincerest gratitude extends to you for the miles and the spirit to traverse them.
~ ~ ~
Back to the tale at hand, the following morning was met with a rude awakening. The manager called and demanded to know if I'd be staying another night without a proper greeting or anything remotely resembling southern courtesies. I bit my tongue and politely declined, reminding her that the checkout time was still an hour away.
While catching up with my messages at an unhurried pace, I was saddened by the news from my upcoming hosts across the border. One of their closest friends, but a year older than myself, had been killed in a boating accident. They generously offered to still host me but in an abbreviated time frame as they were now to attend a funeral. I replied with my heartfelt condolences and insisted they not neglect their time and space to mourn, which they appreciated. My thoughts took me to my high-on-life, youthful idols like McCandless and Ralston who were claimed by death or almost, respectively, at the moment of epiphany. It was a stark reminder of my own mortality to which I reverently hoped wouldn't be required in exchange for understanding my life's mysteries.
The less significant issue of where I would be staying that night eventually surfaced to my conscience. There was a request I declined in Houston earlier from a Hungarian medical researcher who was more than willing to open her door to me again on such short notice. Luckily it was not too far out of my way for my terminus of New Orleans was southeast and it would be a trivial set back to first head south and then continue towards the rising sun.
Hours and miles of riding later, my two lane highway became a dozen roadways that seemed to go in every direction above and below us. The mega city of Houston grew out of the concrete horizon ever so slowly as we sped towards it.
Though I wasn't looking forward to the hustle and bustle of another metropolis, the large body of water behind it was a worthy trade off.
I had only gotten off the motorcycle once today so by the time I reached the downtown area I was desperate for a place to park, cool off and get fluids in me. Normally I wouldn't subject my champion to the isolated and impersonal prison cell that is a parking garage but this new level of southern summer weather had unknowingly sucked me dry. The copious perspiration was apparently undetectable due to the wind and blaring sun instantly stripping away my natural cooling system.
"Bill me later but no one better lay a hand on my motorcycle," I grumbled aloud while locking up the wheels to make towing impossible without a forklift.
Stumbling my way out onto the streets, I composed myself as best I could, entered the Starbucks and carefully asked for their venti-est cup of iced beverage. The fatigue took some time to wear off. While sitting there wearily sipping drinks through a straw like a comatosed patient attached to an IV, I began to notice my surroundings and how out of place I must have seemed.
There were doctors and nurses, business people, grad students and the like. I don't know what came over me - possibly the dehydration - but I didn't want to associate with them for some reason. I gathered my things, walked outside and sat on the curb. A homeless woman was sitting not far from me and I stared, unashamed, thinking I had more in common with her than the suits inside.
I may not fancy the lifestyles lead in the city but in retrospect, I believe my mood swing was more or less a result of my dehydrated state. My embittered self would be reminded that all creatures under the sun, regardless of how they lead their lives, will melt outside of shade. My butt scooted over under a tree whose foliage was so thick it looked like you were looking up at the night sky.
I'm usually not this rebellious but in my defense the sign with the parking rates only referred to cars... My Houston host wasn't too deep in the labyrinth of one way streets. Wasting no time with the buzzer, the rascal bike and I slipped into the fancy gated community behind another car before it shut. It truly pays to be on two wheels in this world.
The onlookers only spurred me to embrace my outsider stigma. I explored the grounds without any haste and relished in the thought that I must seem like the bogeyman or, more fittingly, a free-spirited virus that has jumped off the surrounding rat race and infiltrated this bubble world of budding doctors.
Before my unwarranted ego trip got the best of me, an unexpectedly warm voice called out my name from behind. Instantly, I remembered my manners as a guest and was taken in by my new host, Dorottya, or Dora as her friends call her. As I mentioned, she was a Hungarian medical researcher working on her master's degree on a scholarship from her country. Besides working and studying she has hosted dozens of her friends and family from back home and I was to be her first official Couchsurfer!
Her excitement was infectious! I left my crabby mood at the door and made myself at home with a long awaited shower. It was kept short as she had intentions of showing me around town which I wasn't exactly expecting nor too thrilled about but something told me to just go with it. On our way out to her car, we passed by a couple of her neighbors who were also med students. They seemed all right and I even got chummy with one who was on his way to boxing practice. I didn't know what I had initially against them. Perhaps I was offended by the idea that these young people were stuck on tracks that would lead to rich yet unsatisfying lives. Or perhaps I was just jealous they had a calling and I didn't.
Tonight I was with company so out of respect I saved the introspect for later. Besides, I lost my train of thought when she went to open my door - presumably out of courtesy - only to to dive in and open her driver's side door from the inside. My laughter didn't cease until we were well out of the gated grounds for I have to do the same exact thing with my car, Serendipity. Except I actually play up the gentlemanly gesture and downplay the signs of an aging vehicle.
We toured a lot of the city by car because, as with everything in Texas, "bigger is better" so it wasn't really a place that was friendly to pedestrian exploration. Thanks to the adjacent oil industry along with world class medical institutions, Houston is an affluently expanding city and you had to have a car to get anywhere here which was a 180 degree turn from Dora's European lifestyle. Though she would mention a lot of the area's shortcomings her clauses always pointed out that she still loved it as a whole.
The skyline was rather beautiful in its own way. It reminded me of a perspective painting I once did except the buildings were in decay and half submerged in a water that sublimely reflected the sunset.
Between sharing intriguing historical and cultural facts about Houston that ought to be payed for by her tourism board, she would pepper in amusing anecdotes from her own experiences which were always surprising. Apparently she comes here to play pickup games of basketball even late at night!
As much as she wanted to share everything should could in one night she was also eager to hear about my travel experiences. Dora seemed both perplexed and entertained by my attempt to explain the differences of being an audience member in an American and Japanese baseball game - two different worlds, let me tell you!
Next was a dinner that would hit home as a real Houston meal! I forget the name of the place but it had so much character and western charm that didn't try too hard or even at all. Everyone eating there and working there just seemed to be in love with life at that moment in time and that just seemed to sweeten my brisket.
Dora would comment on how happy she was that I was actually enjoying myself. Normally she hosts folks who are first time visitors to the United States but even I, as a pilgrim in a relatively foreign land, found much to simply kick back and appreciate.
The night would end with a couple cold drinks at an Irish pub. My loosened tongue told a weird story about how I met Justin Bieber and revealed a little known secret about what I was going to do once I arrived in New Orleans.
When we got back to her apartment she showed me a map on her wall of all her favorite places - one being New Orleans and gave me plenty of advice about The Big Easy. Soon after, she retired and left me to my laundry and bravadic plans for when I finally would arrive at this pilgrimage's end.
Waiting between the washing cycles I had time to think about not only that but also my gratefulness to these generous hosts as of late - passing me along the way like a baton in relay race to my goal. Without them I'd be pitching tents on the side of the road and having no appreciation for the hometowns passed along the way.
