Counting on it.

Thinking back on time in Greece.
The ongoings of seven months.

Flash back to march.  How when we first arrived I couldn't help but think how oddly empty the place was. And a little colder than I thought.
Abbey and I, one big bed, a swanky apartment, the sea, unfamiliar everything around each corner.  It seemed perfect.

So what to do with ourselves in an un-familer, small, empty, a-little-colder-than-I-thought town?
We did what anyone would do.  Sat ourselves down and drank the local drink with the locals.

Enter Ouzo.
And old men.

And the start of something good.

A month passed in a slow rainy sort of way.  Ouzo turning foggy with ice the sea turning dirty with storm.  Still we swam as we waited for the sun. 
Counting time as one way to count. Often passing time in memories.  Counting
    The days until summer.
        Empty wine bottles in a pool house in Santa Rosa.
            Candles on a table set for two. (one, two. me, you).
                Tomatoes on a vine turning red. Tomatoes on a vine staying green.
                    Mustaches in a room.
                        Spanish words I knew. Spanish words I didn't know.
                           
That was then.
This is after.                   
(1,2,3,4,5,6)    7 months in Greece and Paleros became more than passing time with Ouzo and the battle of a language barrier.  It became a home.  And our little house, over time, became cozy with bodies.
Greg.  (count the whiskey. count the balloons. count the bodies inside that tent.)
Carter. (count the dice. count the dances. count the bodies atop that scoot.)
Devin. (count the photos.  count the possible names for a rock in the sea. count the stars on a night hike.)
Junglers. (1,2,3,4,5.  Count surprises. count the magnitude of that earthquake. count the letters in the word ASSEMBLE. count the meanings.)

That was after.
This is the during.

Enter April becoming March.  Counting the years of my life. (23).  And changes in daily activities.  Count how many more people there are and how the sun is always out. (small crowded warmer-than-I-thought town.)
And in that crowd, new friends!  We found a family.  Too many dances to count.  Too many beers.  Too many shoes.  Too many getting to know you conversations fading to glad to know you conversations.  March becoming June. Turning to July.
    I counted other things.
        Steps to a front door.
            Coins dropped in an empty mandolin case.
                Dives I'd been on.
                    Days getting longer.
                        Suns up suns down.
                            Nighttime cups of tea.  Morningtime cups of tea.
                                Meals shared. Songs written.  Jokes made.
                                    Odd Jobs held.
                                        and, then.
                                            Wishes left on a fathers to-do list.
                                                Reasons for coming to Europe.

July becoming August.  Remembering those reasons and I left Paleros. (see you in a couple weeks, small waytoocrowded much-hotter-than-I-ever-thought town.)
    Counting
        Hours on a ferry ride.
            Points in a card game.
                Bulls running.  People falling.
                    Trains taken.
                        Switchbacks on a bike ride.
                            Good beers drank.  Bad beers drank.
                                    Thankfuls.  For Dave. All of them.
                                        Wishes left on a fathers to-do list. (less than before).

Enter August becoming September.  Our big, full house dwindling down.  The sun still hot, the ocean perfect.  We can count small things, on certain days. 
    Frisbee tosses and how long it takes to throw someone out of a ringo.  
        Days until we would move out.
            Big beers. Small whiskeys.
                Rides on a too-small-for-two bike.
                    Grapes in a vineyard. Peppers growing. (Turning red).
                        Teeth remaining. Teeth missing.
                            Empty Heineken bottles on a table at a bar near a church.
                                Nights spent on a boat.
                                    Bodies in a dinghy (too many).
                                        Familiar faces in a village.
                                   
And, over time, us moving out.  Packing up.  Those trinkets left behind by each visitor.  Sorting out trash from treasure.
    We counted clothes. 
        Old items replaced by new.
            Notes left on countertops, underneath fridge magnets.
                Old grocery lists. Receipts.
                    How many bits of black wire it takes to make a boat. How many corks to put inside for it to float.
                        Photos stacked and stuck, sticky, together. Count the days since that beer was spilt on the pile.
                            (Count how many tear when you peel them apart.)
                                Count the dance parties, the meals, the drinks, the laughs. 
                                    The reflection in the pool of a time well spent.  Happy faces smiling back in ripples.

And two almost three weeks of One American Left in Paleros.  That was when I counted all of this.  Counting also, pies made. Jars of honey.  Reasons to miss a place. (many).  Reasons to be glad to be going home. (more).
                         
So much counting for a time in my life where I wasn't really counting on anything.  No expectations, just time available and an openness to most things.  It was a fantastic summer, spent at once lazily but also full of adventure and discovery.  Lots of playing and some interesting bits of working more educational than anything else.  And some fantastic friendships made. Of the lasting variety. (Enter sappy music).

If that was the during, then this is the what's next.  Seattle. Family and friends and this little bit of writing.  (Trying to get it all down, but ended up writing about counting. Enter preschool teacher.)  Next it will be home sweet humboldt and a little bit of wondering. Plans for winter.  Wondering how they will play out, about  the surprises to come.  Wondering without wondering. Remaining eager.  And... how long till minds shift, until dreams change, replaced by something new.  The next unfmailiar.  Or, if they ever really will. (After all it's been about a year and I still dream of flying kites.)  

Whatever happens next, it's coming soon.  And I'm stoked.                           
             

To Padden, with love.

13 long years of pure friendship. Thanks for all the walks, runs, bedroom chats, camping trips, naps, dance parties, and cuddles.  For that one time you snagged a breadstick right out of my mouth, all the times you helped me decide what to wear to high school, every smile, tail wag, butt shake, cute little head tilts, for jumping out of the truck at all the most inappropriate moments, and how about the time you waited patiently for someone to open the door so you could march straight in to starbucks just to make it known that, yes, you were still waiting and could you hurry up please.  For the unconditional love, daily.  You'll be missed Padden... go catch a frisbee in doggie heaven.

3 of 4 AND 4 of 4: "Race like you train, except when you don't train, because you still have to race."

We hopped a bus out of Spain, leaving almost as quickly as we came.  Our general feeling was of such pure contentedness that we more or less forgot to say goodbye to Spain.  And that, it seemed, was the major theme of our trip.  We were there (there meaning each and every unique place we passed through) for no more than mere moments.  We were traveling with a motive. Four countries in two weeks.  I had never before traveled in such rapid motion. And now that I'm back I dont really feel that I can even claim to have been to Spain or Italy - the days spent were so few and the hours mostly passed inside of trains or some other method of travel, there was hardly time to look around.  People, nature, language, arcitecture, traditions, music, food, all new and waiting to teach me something but more or less neglected.  Where most of my learning came from was myself and Dave and what it is to travel in fast forward.  I am a go-to-one-place-stay-for-as-long-as-I-can sort of traveler.  I thrive in the transition between being lost in a new village and slowly learning its ways until it feels like a home and THEN picking up and going somewhere else.  Creating small lives for myself all over. But Dave and I, we conquered differently.  We went full to the brim with motivation and we didn't stop until we had finished our tasks.  And oh, how we suceeded. Yet as rapid and rushed as it was, I enjoyed every moment. 

So we were leaving Spain.  We had about a week to be back in Greece, and all we needed to do in the meantime was bike up the most vicious climb in the Tour de France.  Go time.  We arrived in southern France, just over the border, to a small town with amazing landscape views, old forts, good pizza and better cider.  We camped a night, near a river, and it rained on us and I woke up proud of my 18 Euro tent - serving me much better in a french rainstorm than any fancy REI tent ever had in Humboldt County.  I thought back to one particular night waking up in 5 inches of water and leaving to make a driftwood fort on the beach cursing my tent the whole way and becoming intensely soaked by that rain.  A bonding experience for an interesting time.  Different story. Anyways -

After a serious night of sleep, catching up on the hours and hours we had been missing, we woke, donned soaked sneakers, and made our way to a train station as the sun rose slowly.  Train after train, until we reached Grenoble, France.  Our final destination.  We unloaded, navigated unfamiliar subway routes (one of my favorite activities) and made our way to our couchsurfer's house.  WHO happened to be incredible - a garden full of cacti and tomatillos, "bringing mexico to france", he claimed, as well as home cooked food, an abundance of books, good music and a blow up mattress on a hardware floor.  Paradise.  That night we slept like royalty.

The next day was spent with preparations: navigating, purchasing, bicycle renting, and a little bit of fear for the pain I was about to be in.  The lack of training was setting in.  Maybe I should've ridden a bike, at least once, in the past few months. But here's what Dave said on the matter, as we sat drinking the best beer I had had in maybe a year at a street side cafe under an umbrella trying to hide from the sun:

    "Okay, here's my plan.  Don't train.  Go to Europe.  Drink a lot of beer.  Eat horribly. Start biking up the mountain and by about the tenth kilometer I will be so delirious with pain and exhaustion I'll be convinced I'm riding an escalator to heaven.  It will be easy from there on out.  I don't see how what could be possible go wrong." 

So in that I found faith, and the next day we woke early, even after a late night barbeque and some homemade liquor tasting.  We were ready, we were dressed, on our bikes, full of carbs, two water bottles each, all yellow and orange from powdered electrolites.  I had a small bag with a camera, some food, and a can of white spray paint.  I took one last look at my legs, and knew they wouldn't feel this good again for a long time. 

lookin reeeaalll good. check out davie's shoes for a good laugh.

As soon as we started ascending I felt I had made a mistake.  This felt horrible. WHY would anyone in their right mind volunteer for this.  It didn't help that the first two switchbacks were the most difficult by far, the longest and steepest.  But Dave was right, after we got going it was easy to become so delirious that a rhythm pedal after pedal, foot down after foot down moving slowly but steadily upward became second nature.  My mind was somewhere else and willingly I let it stay there and I just kept moving forward.  We took copious breaks, every two or three switchbacks, but it didn't matter.  There was no stopwatch and we had all day to make it to the top.  A few times I thought I might just keel over, just fall over the edge of the mountain, but then there was Dave to sing to me and get me going again.  Other times I felt I could go on in that manner forever, felt fantastic and proud of my body and pushing every limit of what I am capable of.  I do love a good challenge, and this one surely took the cake. 

21 switchbacks and 2 1/2 hours later we made it to the top.  A lovely couple from San Jose bought us lunch and we downed those victory beers.  Sitting there in glorious satisfaction while simultaneously dreading what my legs would feel like when I did stand up.  Thinking about the descent.  And where to spread the ashes.  And sleeping.  I was exhausted. I looked at my hands, made a fist, and then stretched my fingers out long, and slowly back to a fist, contemplating how all the little muscles in my hands and fingers, and how they would hold up with the breaking while going back down the mountain.  When we did finally stand up (more painful than I thought) and sit back on those saddles (horrible. SERIOUSLY horrible. I understand now why people wear those padded biking shorts) and begin to descend, all the pain was more or less erased, replaced with an overwhelming sense of achievement.  We went down to the switchback #1, and stopped.  The view was fantastic, there was a green hill with purple and yellow wildflowers, and space on the street to leave some writing.  If you've ever watched the Tour de France you know the way the streets look, all covered with messages for the riders, for family members, anything anybody could think of to write, or draw, was there on the course.  And we were going to add to it.  In between the traffic, the cyclists, we snuck onto the road shaking that can and writing letter by letter "kick kaas" as big and legible as we could muster. 

The story of Kick Kaas is a little lost to me.... but something about my dad being at a meeting and someone misspelling his first name, "Kirk" putting a c instead an r and there it was Kick Kaas, and I can just imagine him laughing to himself thinking that is the perfect nickname.  He later had a bike with Kick Kaas written on the side and my entire family now has shirts with his face in a caricature fashion that read Kick Kaas and all in all it is an inside-outside family joke, now written there on the course for all Tour de France racers to contemplate... while we were writing it one cyclist came by an exclaimed "Kick Ass! It's the same in every language!" and I smiled.  He understood.  And after it was written I scampered up the little green hill, contemplating the view and kneeling among the wildflowers.  There I left the ashes, where he would watch riders cross over his name, while looking at the view, seemingly spreading out for ages in front of him.  It was perfect.  Easy and at peace.  I left him there, mounted the bike one last time, and made my way from clouds to town. 

The end.




And one more time, just to clarify:

-Visit Denali State Park
- Visit the pyramids in Egypt
- Run with the bulls in Pamplona
- Visit Australia, and New Zealand
- Hike the Pacific Crest Trail 
- Visit the great wall
- Go to France and ride the Alp D’Heuz
- Race in Ironman Hawaii in Kona
- Live on a beach.

Part 2 of 4: San Fermin

The place looked like an image straight out of a Where's Waldo book only everyone is dressed like Waldo and you're just trying to find your friend.  We'd lost Lauren the night before, the morning before really, and now we looked for her in a sea of white with hints of red here and there.  What a sight, everyone dressed the same like that.  Every bus, park, street, restuarant and bar filled to the brim with those outfits.  Little red sashes and bandanas floated in a sea of otherwise all white.  A red balloon drifting towards an overcast sky.  A drop of paint on a clean canvas.

We'd arrived on an over-crowded bus, carrying eager tourists to a weekend of party and drink with the undertone of a religious spanish festival.  A very deeply rooted and loved tradition.  We arrived in time for the firework show, watched it and the people around us, took a deep breath, and dove in.  We had nowhere to sleep, it was sometime around midnight, and we took off walking.  Down every road we could find, keeping ourselves awake, we devised a plan.  Three dances in every bar, and we would leave when they asked us to buy a drink.  We carried on and on up and down merging into the crowd and the movement, surrendering to the festival as it is, an opportunity to party, dance, meet, drink, and not as it once was.

Already we had made the decision not to run.  I couldn't justify myself running. I had no place as a tourist to take part in such an old tradition, nor did I have an understanding of the festival deep enough to find a reason to run.  It wasn't right.  However, The List clearly says "run with the bulls", not "go to pamplona and maybe run or probably just watch".  So I struggled with that.  To go against my initial gut instinct and run, or to not follow the diction and only half achieve the goal.  I sat with those thoughts and waited for some clarity.

The night moved ahead, quickly.  Friends made through dancing, drinks, street side mayhem.  Our white outfits slowly became a blur of red and brown, too much of everything staining any purity a mess of color.  Morning peeked slowly across the town and we staked our spots for the running.  Waiting patiently as workers placed wooden barriers along the course, one to keep out spectators and another to provide a safe haven for runners needing a break, be it because of injury, exhaustion or just plain fear.  As soon as our barrier entered the concrete we clambered to the top, fighting for space with anyone around us.  And we made it, Dave and I, sitting together on the topmost plank of those old fences, near to the bullpen and with a wonderful view of the street and surrounding old buildings.  Every way I turned was a perfect line of excited faces, identical outfit after identical outfit, one by one down the row.  Those who didn't make it to the barriers climbed on anything - stop signs, street lights or the few trees near enough to provide the view.  Together we climbed, and together we waited. Sitting 2 hours on a piece of wood two inches wide as the sun grew brighter and anticipation reached a maximum level. 

The actual running was faster than I thought it would be.  As soon as it started it seemed to be over.  The first alarm sounded and the crowd grew tense.  Here it was - mob of people coming up the road, looking absolutely terrified and stumbling all over one another, causing falls and all levels of confusion.  Eventually the bulls came, one after the other.  Huge, silent and focused.  Running towards the pen and the inevitable, paying hardly any attention to the frantic running around them.  I thought to myself how easy it would have been to run, how I should probably have just maned up and done it right the first time.  

After 2 hours of waiting around those barriers, the run was over in hardly 15 minutes.  We climbed down, spent a rough morning wading through trash filled streets, stepping over the little flowing rivers of who-knows-what dripping down every street, and searching high and low for Lo.  We talked of plans.  We wanted sleep.  Needed sleep.  3 nights on boats, 1 night of camping, and now we found ourselves at the biggest party in Spain and we were losing momentum.  We'd seen the festival, and that was that.  We'd embraced it, but one day and one long night was more than enough, so we brainstormed on what would be next.  Camping in the mountains, Barcelona or mobbing it up to France.  We simmered on our ideas...

But then there remained the problem of the diction.  Would I be able to really say I ran with the bulls? Could I cross it off when really I just watched?  Would it be worth it to man up and spend another wild night to make sure I had done the job right?  I was torn.  In the end I settled on the thought that nowhere on the list does it say he ever would have wanted his daughter running, and in fact I'm pretty sure he wouldn't have.  That combined with the fact that I didn't feel comfertable with it made me okay with my decision. 

We settled on a train ticket to southern France, just over the border, to get ourselves out of Spain and on to our next destination.  We had about 2 hours before our train, so we gathered our luggage and set out on the next task:  the ashes.  The whole time I had been at San Fermin I thought constantly about where to put the ashes, and I still hadn't come up with anything.  Where could I leave him amongst the chaos of the city?  It was too filthy, too crowded, and with too much concrete.  I wanted nature and peace.  When I finally placed the little container of ashes in my hand, familiar feeling now on the third go, I walked without a destination in mind, following Dave to somewhere he remembered, somewhere that maybe would be nice enough for me to feel okay leaving him there.  Right near to the corral, where they keep the bulls before the running, there is a church, and behind the church a grassy hill leading out of town.  I stood awhile admiring the location, feeling beyond thankful for Dave, and making a plan to climb over the little fence and put him somewhere in the grass, near to where the bulls are released, where he could watch all the action.  I turned to look at the corral, empty now after the running.  Some tourists were poking around taking pictures, and there was even a space between two fences big enough to crawl through and I noticed impacts in the dirt left from the hoofs of eager bulls and I thought how they would change when new bulls came in for the next days running, and wondered how it was that so many big animals fit into such a seemingly small space and no wonder they were angry and I thought again of the hoof prints and it hit me.

Run with the bulls.  He didn't want me to run with the bulls, he wanted to run with the bulls.  I could have done it for him but I didn't and that was that.  But it didn't matter anymore, because it was him that wanted to run, and it was going to happen.

I crept in past the picture taking tourists, through a slit in the fence, and stood there in the empty corral, my footprints mixing with those big circular indentations and I felt a little small but happy.  I hurried more than I would have liked to; I wasn't supposed to be in there and I wasn't about to get kicked out before I could manifest this idea into reality.  Little black container of ashes, lid popped open, turned upside down and thats where I left him, in a neat little row, waiting waiting like I did for the bulls.  And there they would be, those big creatures, confined, frustrated, ready to run, with little bits of him on them.  There he would be running with the bulls the next morning, and the morning after, on and on.  The idea filled me with happiness until I thought I might burst, and it was all I could do to just stand with the widest grin on my face staring down at the little line of grey mixing slowly into the light brown dusty dirt.  It was perfect.  In the midst of the biggest party in Spain I heard nothing, time stopped a bit and peace prevailed to make space for all the perfection of that moment.  And then I remembered the tourists and the cameras and I felt more than I little goofy so I turned, making my way giddily with hops and skips to Dave and together we left Pamplona, and all its madness, on a slow bus to southern France.

...to be continued...

Part 1 of 4

Its about 9 in the morning, rain is pouring down seemingly out of nowhere this whole house is asleep but I feel like it's christmas morning. Wide awake on only 4 hours. I have a story I need to tell but there's so much.  The list has been delved into over the course of a grand adventure and I'll have to divide it into separate posts but the long and short of it is:

-Visit Denali State Park
- Visit the pyramids in Egypt
- Run with the bulls in Pamplona
- Visit Australia, and New Zealand
- Hike the Pacific Crest Trail 
- Visit the great wall
- Go to France and ride the Alp D’Heuz
- Race in Ironman Hawaii in Kona
- Live on a beach.

4 done. and done.

The story:

Before we even left Greece it felt like we had left Greece. Abbey, Dylan, Dave, Lo and I in one car, driving down the highways, away from our small house and just somewhere new. And it was needed and nice. We had dinner together by the sea.  Fish, feta and ouzo. And we were goofs.  Sat around for too long, risking missing our ferry, being served free drinks on top of our wine and it was all quite glorious.

We arrived in Igoumonitsa with just enough time to buy our tickets and climb on the ferry. And, since Dylan and Dave haven't been around long enough to know how to keep up with the Greeks in terms of Ouzo drinking, (Abbey and I learned well when it was still winter-ish) and since Abbey was driving, Lo and I had gulped down all those extra free drinks, our bladders were full and finding a bathroom was nearly impossible.  A little painful, a little drunk, at about 1 in them morning we climbed on that massive ferry, biggest boat I've ever been on, with its Casinos and bars and discoteques.  We piled our bags in a back corner and curled up on the floor and fell fast asleep.  The morning passed by in a lingering state of waiting.  Of movement you have to trust in.  We played cards and passed time as you do when there isn't much to do, sleepily and slowly.

Arriving to Ancona, Italy in the height of the afternoon heat, we wandered about for a train station, found one, and made our way train by train to the city of Florence, where we camped for the night, three of us in a tent for two.  In the morning we walked through the city, amazed by the architecture, the cobbled streets under our shoes and the heat beating upon us.  The people had a relaxed air about them, and the entire energy of the city seemed created for artists or those equipped with a wandering mind.

We left the city, Lo promising to come back and spend time, Dave and I focused on our destination.  Train after train until we reached Livorno.  After a mix up with wrong ports, strange directions and me communicating Spanish to Italian to English to the Greek words I couldn't help but say, we found our way to a "cargo ship with some space for guests, and not the other way around".  Cards in an empty warehouse as we waited for the boats and I got talking, in Spanish, to a teacher from the States traveling with 20 or so students on a 2 week field trip.  We all got talking and instantly a friendship was born, and as he later put it, in a crumpled note:

"Our lives are like spider webs.  They criss-cross, intersect, join in passing.  Through this organized chaos there is strength.  At every junction where two lives meet, the web is stronger.  You three have become a part of my life's web.  My life and story are stronger because of you." 

(He's his own story - worthy of telling but in another time/ space.)

Fast forward off the boat, some metro rides, beers with Clay, sandwiches, and a call to a brother of a friend that we had never met, that went something like:

Lo: "Hey, Dougie. Is this Dougie? Yeah this is Lauren.  Lauren.  Yeah, Lauren.  No, you don't know me.  I know your brother, and your dad.  Yeah, seriously. Yeah I know them pretty well.  Mhmm yeah well they talk about you, and I'm in Barcelona tonight with some friends, maybe we could meet up for a drink?  Yeah they talk about you.  Mm yeah I've seen pictures of you when you were a kid. Really, I have. That sounds creepy, sorry.  (pause)  I promise I'm not weird or anything.  (pause)  Yeah so this is a little awkward because I know everything about you and you've clearly never heard of me.  (pause).  So you want to meet us for a drink?"

And so our night in Barcelona commenced. Another story for another time/ space. To sum it up: an old sail boat, melons,whiskey, Marvin Gaye, cheese, ham, boat deck dance time, white wine, unexpected swims, trumpet playing and... Dougie, Dave, Lo.  Good, good time.

Woke up, left the marina, and we were San Fermin bound, for the running of the bulls.

... to be continued ...

Live on a Beach

I came to Greece without too many intentions.  To settle a while, see old friends, get to know a place on an intimate level.  It was such an easy and natural choice that I jumped into it without hesitation.  I went to China to visit friends, and cross off an item on the list.  The list was in the forefront of my mind when I bought that ticket.  I thought that from Greece it would be much easier to make it to Spain and France, and so that plan came to light, two more checks from the list.  As for actually being in Greece, I didn't think the list would be involved, didn't see a way it would.  It was my mom who first mentioned it, "what about living on a beach? You are already doing that.".  I thought it over, and, technically I don't live on a beach.  Not on it.  But we discussed it.  I wake up and I see the sea.  I jump over the back wall and in 4 minutes I'm swimming in the Ionian.  I don't know, maybe I am stretching it a bit, but my family gave me the go ahead, and so I went.  And it's done.  

I woke early, wanting to spend the afternoon at the sea, contemplating the location and being in the sun.  Together Lo, Abbey and I walked through Pogonia with our instruments, up the hills and out and around the sides of the mountains, down the little dirt road, across a grass field and onto our favorite beach.  We sat on the rocks and watched the ocean lunge toward us at regular intervals.  The sun was out and we swam regularly to cool down our heated skin.  I had the ashes in my backpack, knowing I would spread them here, but not sure when. Or how I would go about it.  So we killed time playing our guitars.  The church behind us sat solitary in its grass field, watching our backs as we lounged, laughed, loved every note we played, and the fact that we were together.  I appreciated them coming with me, appreciated them for knowing me, knowing my dad.  For not passing judgement about what I was doing, not thinking it was strange, or morbid, like I often feel some people might, but just loving without hesitation. 

Enveloped in that girly roommate love, we let the afternoon pass us by.

When evening was creeping silently behind us, I figured I needed to get on with it.  We played one last song, to the air, the sea, the beach, the church, to my dad and to each other.  A song that seemed all too appropriate: "My Heroes Have Always Been Cowboys" by Willie Nelson.  And with that we waded into the sea.  I held the small plastic container of ashes in my hand, and we told some stories of Papa Kaas.  Ones Abbey and I both knew, of concerts and dinners, him visiting California, first impressions and last impressions, and all the drinks and stories that regularly accompanied his visits.  We all took turns, emptying the container little by little into early evening's clear blue water, watching it soak in slowly, dissipating amongst the salt and the life that exists in the rhythmic ebb and flow of the Ionian.  He became a part of it.

And the interesting thing about this list is trying to decipher why these certain items made it on.  From what I remember about summer vacations with my parents to beach houses is my mom and I relaxing on the sand, content in swimming and sunbathing and reading all day.  What I remember from my dad is sheer boredom.  But I trust in his list, with the editing he did I don't think "live on a beach" would still be on there if he didn't want to someday actually do that.  Even if just for the romanticism of the whole idea, he wrote it, so I've done it.

Tonight I am leaving on a night ferry for Italy, then Spain, and lastly France.  Running of the bulls and Alpe d'Huez, two events that I can fully see papa Kaas partaking in without question.  I'll have some good stories coming soon.

So here it is, as it stands now, The List (or, the 7 remaining):

-Visit Denali State Park
- Visit the pyramids in Egypt
- Run with the bulls in Pamplona
- Visit Australia, and New Zealand
- Hike the Pacific Crest Trail 
- Visit the great wall
- Go to France and ride the Alp D’Heuz
- Race in Ironman Hawaii in Kona
- Live on a beach.

Couldn't have done it without these ladies. Photo by Devin Hume.

 


Also,
I've been slacking on the blissful moment posts, so heres a quick synapsis of some amazing times that have been had:
    Watching the moon rise with Devin and Abbey on a whimsical night hike
    Singing "I'll Fly Away" in a small church beach with my roommates
    Yesterday jumping off a boat deck in the early dawn hours
    And, surely, the feeling of movement that will come from stepping on a ferry boat tonight.

loving TUL

We saw these stickers posted all over China from north to south and in the most random of locations.  "I love TUL".  And we all noticed them though none of us really mentioned it and I formed my own perception of what it must be, figuring it was a band or the initials of some dreamy Chinese actor.  Until one night laying in four small beds one of us glanced at the ceiling and there it was for the 100th time, "I love TUL" and I forget who, but one of us finally wondered out loud at what it could mean and a new member to our group answered quick and direct:

                            I love the unemployed life.

A light was shed on the mystery of the stickers and we smiled, all relating fully to this new meaning.  And today in a kitchen I counted the months and I've realized I haven't held any sort of regular job since September and I do love this life.  And sure I worked my ass of through college to make money that I blew as quick as it came on travels only to save again and I will be right back in that situation come fall time.  But for now I work slowly through the money I've got while relying on the odd jobs I find while avoiding routine and lets see how long I can keep this up.

And since I was last employed I have filled the open days with some serious explorations.  The places I've encountered and the people I've met have been some of the most incredible of my life and I am beyond thankful for every second.  Now a year has gone by since I've worked at the preschool, since I have had to do homework, since I maintained any sort of routine.  So because my blog needs more pictures, and because I am thinking about it, I'll take a look over some of the glorious moments during this year of TUL in highlights.  

thanksgiving came early

TIMING. you can wait for a ride for days but the moment you leave for beers here comes a pick up. But now we've got beers and a ride. Que rico.

camping on beaches.

camping in desserts.

 

"Lets see if we could get back by hopping on a train"

crazy farm. and a slight routine. and I miss it.

New years back from Mexico.  Road trips to Idaho mountains and the people that make me laugh harder than anyone else on this planet.

Funk faces and Spokane living rooms.

Chinese mountains and the opportunity to be with such incredible women.

Oh yeah. and NOW. I need to start taking more pictures to show this Greecy life of mine.

I'm fully thankful to have this time.  I realize this time in my life is fleeting and before I know it I will be back into a routine and that will feel good too.  A time and place for it all.  And while I sometimes feel useless and a little restless and like I should be working at something I remember that I am fortunate to have made this time for myself to learn new skills, to adventure and play so hard, to gather grass stains and new ideas from a constant influx of people.  To live in the now and the new.

Although I did my full share of working and saving to get to this point, of selling all my possessions but a few, I know that without the money I recieved when my dad died I never could have made China happen and it would have taken a lot longer to reach Greece.  I'm confident Papa Kaas would be in support of the way I am spending it.

And on that note, tomorrow is my dad's birthday.  A huge and well known reason for why I am in Europe is to cross off three of the nine remaining goals on his list.  Starting tomorrow, June 16th.  There's a beach down the road with a small church, and I have visited so much, I have written about it at length, and tomorrow I'll go for a candle, a swim, a hike, a read, and I'll leave another of those little vessels full of ashes there and cross off another line.

More to come on that.


My current career:

Making music with Lo and Abbey on street corners.

onions running music and... now.

I am cutting a yellow onion and it reminds me of something.  The smell.  Nevermind that I've probably cut over 100 yellow onions in my life, this one reminds me of something.  The smell.  And I read the news online, I am listening to Beirut on a cd from a friend and despite the headlines life is feeling pretty fantastic and yet this yellow onion is making me think of something.  Lentil soup. Potato salad.  Lila didi.  Crossword puzzles.  Rainy sunday afternoons, summer evenings barefoot with the fresh cut grass, Indian nights cooking with two others in such a simple kitchen, a snowy balcony.  It could be anything, but it reminds me of something.  I'll think on it. 

2nd annual Abbey Bekha half marathon went down a treat.  A year ago I shared that Eugene hotel bed with Abbey and Sarah, as Liam slept on the floor and we drank a little tequila and reminded ourselves how a good nights sleep is highly overrated, especially before race day.  This year I watched Blow and went to bed early.  Not quite as exciting.  Next year?  With limited expectations I fully expect us to be somewhere in Latin America salsa dancing the night away and again reminding ourselves not to fret about getting enough sleep.  But we'll see when the time comes.  This year - we started off casually making our way to the back of the pack.  Who needs to be trampled by anxious Greek runners for five minutes until people sort themselves out? Not us. So we lingered and we waited and we settled in nicely.  Until all at once and without any warning the entire group of 600 runners turned around in place.  Not only were we instantly in the front, we were in the front facing the wrong direction as the gun went off and chaos ensued.  2 hours and 20 minutes later we were barefoot drinking a beer with our fabulous support team chit chatting about this and that.  Overall the event was put together flawlessly, complete with those Grecian quirks that never get old... like handing out orange Fanta and Redbull instead of water.  Put that together with the fact that they forgot porta-potties and you've got a bit of a mess.  Loved every minute of it.

Fast forward to the next evening.  Lo, Abbey and I decided to busk for loose change in the Paleros square.  There was a rainbow in the mountains, a back drop for Lo and I as we strummed and sang as loud as we could, knowing our voices would dissipate into that night air before they had a chance to reach the ears of tourists in open restaurants nearby.  Playing for them but mostly for ourselves and beyond that for the air, the stars, the chance at outdoor practice.  We gathered a few fans, and came out ahead. Six euros 50 cents, 3 beers bought for us, and 3 chocolate eggs, (the kind that comes with toys - illegal in the states).  And after it was Skippers, for the usual good people, a fire show, beers on tap, dancing, and a lost wallet.

And when I look at it, living here is so easy, so slow and wonderful.  And my friends at home are asking for more writing in this blogg-o, but lately it's been hard as a routine develops here.  My days are full to the brim even though I don't have much to do.  What I do have: I have the most incredible roommates, and I am falling in love with this village.  The amount of tea I consume and the sun on my face reminds me the past year and how and when to recognize the growth and continuation of it.  More often than not I am cleaned by salt water instead of showers and willingly I jump, run, swing, climb, swim, thankful for this working body and wishing to do more of all that.  And here, when you least expect it, the clouds drop thunder and lightning creating nighttime electric energy you can feel and nevermind all the mosquitos, all the flies.  I have the opportunity to play music every minute should I choose.  To dive into the ocean, spin fire, spend 15 minutes watching this one fly perched on the corner of this computer screen.  It is still, and for that moment I forget how annoying they are, making room for admiration of their tiny bodies.  Every miniscule moment.  The kids in this town are now familiar and we've grown a family.  House wine is good and inexpensive and while I'm home and while I'm away I am able to think, to listen, to try and to learn and I am genuinely thankful for all the small things.

I finish with the onion and push it to one half of the cutting board still pondering what the something is that I am reminded off but in the end I shrug because what does it matter?  I know without needing to that from now on that something will be the memory of cutting a yellow onion at a white table in a living room in my house in Greece the day after I lost my wallet and the day before tomorrow.  No matter the memories that came before (onion oriented or not) the current moments relevancy is much easier to pinpoint than lingering in the past looking for a broad idea of what the current moment is causing you to remember.  I take the memories the smell creates and move them back a notch to make room for the now: for the steadily growing memory of what is.  

Bag of tools

More moments of bliss coming at me, full force...

I've been putting a lot out into the wind lately. Living with less money than I have had in years, in paradise, Abbey and the sun everyday.  I put intentions out there for what I hope to gain, learn, experience, and the world is returning them in more obvious ways than ever before.  For as long as I've been away from any sort of home, living in continual motion aided by the wanderlust, and even during the time I was with a home, house, routine... every person and experience has had an impact, a new lesson, idea, belief to agree or disagree with.  A new skill to teach.  I can't help but smile that smile of thanks for the small bag of tools that I keep in my back pocket, which is now expanding without warning.  I love it.

"Bag of tools" is an expression from my bass teacher, which he would use whenever I was struggling with a piece, school, or simply living where I was.  He would remind that even when I have nothing else, I have a bag of tools, and that it is chock full of everything I need and expands daily through interactions with the world/people/animals around me.  I have the resources already in place, but to recognize them, use them and always try for the expansion of them, is the hard part.  Then to open up the bag, share it, realize how to be a learner and teacher simultaneously every day no matter the interactions, is the goal.

Lately, for me, it has been more learning than teaching, at least in the bits I am recognizing.  I am accomplishing the goals I set myself on this year, (although the list is now moving slower than expected - but if nothing else, I have time).  But in regards to my other aspirations, good location and timing with the people I encounter has been more than ever so APPARENT in bringing me to where I want to be, and I am beyond thankful for that.  Letting intentions take to the wind like a kite, and seeing the ways in which they return.  Yesterday I went on my first open water scuba dive, the first step to the first goal I set for myself this year, in Bellingham, new years day, written on some random corner of an already filled in journal page.  Partnered with incredible teachers, 16 meters deep in the Ionian sea, I eventually felt beyond content within it. 
                            My eyes opened wide so as not to miss a moment. 
                                A window into a world I have many times attempted to imagine. 
                                    Weightlessness with the sun coming in lines through blue water, coral, rock, with the fish, sand, and all that strange underwater life. 

A new feeling, and a wonderful one; I so badly hope to explore this other world on as many occasions as I can manage.  I am feeling amazingly fortunate.  Adding it to the bag of tools, along with spinning poi, fixing bikes, the correct ways to dance with Albanians, and when an olive is ripe to pick.  Not to mention the mental shifts and enlightening moments too many to count.

Filling up the bag.  Slowly, but more importantly, steadily.  Day by day, siga siga.

moments of bliss

Sometimes when my mind drifts in circles as I lay on the couch or wash my hair or walk the dog or smell a flower...
I think of certain times that were absolutely blissful.

Last night I was laying in bed.  It was 9:00 and I was going to sleep until 11 when I was due to meet some friends at a bar for a solid night of drinks and dancing.

I started remembering a time when I was alone at my house in California, wind and rain against windows and I was wishing it would stop so I could ride my bike to Alex's and I remember I didn't have socks on.  I was making tea, boiling water in a green kettle that had long lost it's whistle and had been in my life for as long as I can remember.  As the water boiled I went for a mug, but there were none.  The kitchen was clean because I was living with Bethany, and it too was without any mugs.  Checked the living room, piano room, front porch, back porch.  For all we drink, it was remarkable to not find a single one.  I rounded the hall and climbed the stairs to my bedroom.  Ah, thought I.  The small table next to my bed had probably 5 mugs, 3 wine glasses and a few more cups. I grabbed the mugs, and before I went back down the hall peaked into the room where Lauren and Taylor slept.  I found there a collection of ten or so various items of drinking ware.  So I made some trips. Carried mine, then theirs.  On my second trip down, I figured, eh, since I am doing this, might as well see what Daniel has stocked up.  And he did.  Mostly water glasses, which I stacked precariously on my journey downstairs.  They clattered and shifted as I set the load on the counter, and looked down at the array of glasses, now more than 20.  The water was boiling, and would have been whistling if it had a whistle to whistle.  For a second I reflected on that whistle.  I think it had melted off or something.  I can't remember the exact story.  Maybe it was behind the oven with the cobwebs.  I'll never know. 

I set those glasses down, turned around and went into Spencer and Bethany's room.  And I just had to smile to think of those lovers that I love so well sharing that space as I collected 7 or so cups and made my way back to the kitchen.

And after the dishes were done, my tea was poured, I sat down on the kitchen floor, mug in hand, sipping tea and eating a cold artichoke.

And I was boiling over with love for my roommates.  If I had had a whistle, it surely would have blown pink clouds of gushy hearts and the like.  Davie D came in and sat on a stool and had some artichoke and I poured him a cup of tea and told him of the mugs and he said something like "yes you sure are slobs" and I said something like "slobs but we are all slobs and I love them for it for their glass hoarding tendencies and messy beds wet towels on the floor and it all."         

And maybe I was thinking too poetically but it seemed to me that in every one of those mugs there was a little story and most of the times that story was of us.  Cold mornings drinking tea, nights of wine at the bedside, bottles of whiskey poured into glasses, of Bethany bringing Spencer coffee in bed, of Lauren bringing me wine after a shower, of beer with Daniel, Lauren and I laying together in my blue room.  It's too sentimental now, but then and there on the floor with that mug in my hand listening to the rain and chatting with Dave I felt as blissful as could be.

I am thinking there will be more blissful posts to come.  A trend perhaps. 

And, my birthday.  9:30am, Greg and Abbey are still sleeping off last night but I couldn't sleep last night.  This village we live in is turning wild, with tourists and noise.  I danced until 3, my best partner a 50 year old English man who really did have moves.  The night went on with perfect timing the right songs and new faces French American Australian English Greek.  In the afternoon on my first day of my 23rd year and I've been on a bike ride jaunt, tried to help make flowers grow and am now drinking a Mythos as Greg makes spaghetti sauce, smelling boiling tomatoes garlic spices and our house is really quite warm and homey.  And a thunder storm in the night, lightning like I've never seen, the thunder rattled our windows as we stayed inside with cake, whiskey and blankets, the three of us and the end to a very good day.

And an even better year.  

Konitsa

Greg was visiting and our lazy lifestyles became even lazier.  A couple trips to town, one muddy romp, whiskey at bars and wine with dinner.  Work on sundays, maybe saturdays.  Not too much else, besides that occasional Ostrich egg and visits from the sheep.

So we jumped in a cab, following Greg's longing to visit Meteora, Greece, and monasteries built on clifftops.  That meter was going way too fast and we jumped right back out, and hitched a ride to Preveza with cigarette smoking gas station employees in a blue pick up who liked the Red Hot Chili Peppers and Abbey's eyes.  From there a bus to Ioannina, where we killed five hours through wine, free food, dice and a lakeside walk.  A night bus to Kalambaka so we could walk to Meteora where we stopped to shelter ourselves in a camp sight for a night.

Three of us in a tent build for one where we insisted on laughter to avoid hating each other during sleepless, uncomfortable hours.  A full moon provided an illusion of dawn which lasted through the night, as I lay anxious, awaiting that feeling of sun through tent walls.

In the morning we walked.  Fields of wildflowers, tall grass, and those rocks. It seemed as though we had been lifted, taken across the universe and deposited on some long lost planet where stone reached sky and color filled in the rest like Crayola streaks from a childhood hand.  I tried to imagine some daring monk who had first decided to build places of worship so precariously atop those cliffs.  Someone who understood a benefit in worshiping God and nature in the same sentence, perhaps.  Or just had a longing for the dangerous.  Whoever he was, and whatever the motivation, bravo.  We followed a cobblestone trail fading away to dirt, and marveled at the flowers, trees, stones.  Due to some impulse we pushed ourselves behind hanging ivy and between yellow rock following an internal notion of goodness and discovered a cave, which grew larger with every step and we rested awhile wondering about presences before us and shared space throughout time.

The day continued on in that fashion, admiring nature, architecture, art and faith and how it is the combination that creates the religion.

We had walked far, hard, and in such heat.  We needed food, drink, a good nights rest.  Hitched a ride to town with a German rock climber, grabbed our bags, a beer, lunch, and a bus ticket back to good ol' Ioannina with the hope of sleeping in our own beds later that night.  Arriving at the bus station the general feeling amongst us was so positive it radiated, pulsing, into all of those around us, for really, it had been a fantastic day.  We purchased our tickets to Vonitsa, and had time for coffee before our bus left.

On that bus, the last one of the trip, we drank Ouzo and played 21 questions, (Scooter, Lasagna, Sunset, Jon Bon Jovi, Castle...) and swam with a comfortable ease in the fact that we would soon be back to Vonitsa, a quick 20 minutes from our house, where our neighbor would give us a ride home, and the rest of the night would be filled with wine and love and good nights of sleep.

However, as it goes, it went a little differently. The bus stopped after an hour and a half, we glanced out the windows and, knowing it wasn't our stop, stayed cozy and content in our seats as the bus emptied.  Completely.  Eventually the driver came on, and yelled something in Greek the must have meant,

            "We're here, what the fuck are you waiting for? Get the hell off this bus. I've got a busy night and your three are slowing me way down."

So we stepped into the night, into an unfamiliar town, and man were we confused. 

            "Vonitsa?" We asked, to the general public. Yes, it replied, "Konitsa". 

Abbey looked at me. Greg looked at Abbey.  I looked... confused.  Konitsa.  It rang through our minds like the church bells of earlier.  Konitsa, Vonitsa.  Of course.

We took out our handy road map, and there it was, in small black writing.  The exact opposite direction of where we wanted to go, and only about 20 minutes from the Albanian border.  Lovely.

We ran through our options. Stay the night? All Lonely Planet had to say of the place was that it is "dangerous", so we decided to try our best to head out.  Too dark and far for hitchhiking, we resigned to getting on another bus, if one was running so late.  And, after only a little frustration, one angel of a cab driver, and some wonderful timing, we were on a bus back to Ioannina with our Ouzo and the memory of a trip to the border of Albania to look back on whenever we may need a good laugh.

The events that happened next seemed to occur in a rapid fast forward.  Backtracking is never enjoyable, but we tried our best at positivity.  There were only six of us onboard, and as we began chatting to the three boys sitting around us the conversation quickly grew interesting as we swapped answers to the question that is always asked first in the life of travel: "where are you from?".  Two boys from Afghanistan and one from Pakistan.  As we answered "America" we instantly became full to the brim with questions for one another, and in what seemed like 10 minutes, we were back at the station, in a city which, by now, we knew quite well.  Our 12 brown eyes took turns exchanging glances, as hands reached towards shakes, and eight of those eyes headed for Athens, Greg included. 

Abbey and I took our four to a cheap hotel, strange movies, comfy beds and new perspectives.

An Egg

And so we were gifted this Ostrich egg. Walking down the road, homeward, Abbey and Greg and myself.  We were hoping for a ride but none came so we continued foot after foot, slowly, patiently.  Stopped to say hi to Bert and Ernie, our Ostrich friends.  They didn't say much, as usual. Yet we walked away, proudly, with one shining egg.

An Ostrich egg has the equivalent to 24 hen eggs.  So we began thinking of what to do with it.  Make the biggest scramble ever? Feed a hungry village? Hard boil, and make 100 egg salad sandwiches?

So we got the thing home.  Set it on that shiny counter.  Poured some Ouzo.  And the events that followed... well...




We deserved another shot of ouzo.

What happened can be interpreted 3 ways.

The first:

Six hands, six eyes, three similes, two holes punctured on either side of one huge egg.  Simple, really. The process went much quicker than we thought...
A hammer and screwdriver were the useful tools to do the trick. As I delicately punctured the largest single cell known to mankind, patient faces stared back at me and I thought, "Alright, here we go.."
Yellow membrane and clear royal jelly escaping the shell. Spontaneous spurts of dancing accompanied by ouzo shots and laughter, what could be better than this experiment? Lights flashed and I was curious of the aftermath of the successful outcome...Fritatta? yes. Brownies? ok. Cookies? yep. All made and still, more egg left...
Looks like we're set for a week.

The second:

(and then this shit fucking happened, we were at this disco hanging out with Albanian drug lords and they were like, "Hey! Come on our yacht."  And we were like, "K."  Then on the way out this rival gang was waiting outside with a bunch of guns and dogs and hummers and rocket packs.  And they were like, "Bro you've crossed us one too many times."  Then this guy opened his shirt and had a dynamite vest on and was like, "This can go one of two ways Bro."  And the other guy was like, "Bro..."  Then, somebody threw a smoke bomb and we jumped on the back of a motorcycle and then next thing I remember I was on a yacht smoking cigars and being served by siamese twins from Myanmar).

The third:

Lost a week of my memory. An empty egg shell, but where did it come from? Ah, fuck it.  Lets paint it red, celebrate Easter, play soccer by the church.  Look at all these brownies, and cookies! Cookies for breakfast, but ah damn, we are out of milk.  Cookies and seltzer water.  The pools overflowing with rain.  Where do the sheep go to stay dry? Think I will stay inside today and read a book. 




And apart from all that, this past month has taught me many valuable lessons. For example, when you go dancing with Albanians, you should spin three times every time they spin you.  When you add ice to Ouzo, it turns a foggy gray color.  You cannot buy anything between the hours of 1 and 6, so you might as well sleep.  Don't leave laundry out in a windstorm, chances are it will fall in the pool.  Never turn your back on the kids near the church, they have tricks up every sleeve. And, that one Ostrich egg can produce a frittata, 20 cookies, a whole plate of brownies, and you will have egg-in-a-bowl for a left over.







*this (mostly fiction) post was written by three. without our combined recollections it could never have been made possible. special thanks.

rainy day

A rainy sunday.  Thick drops flood our deck as they paint the cement dark, heavy air hanging lazily while the sky and sea blur to be one, dressed the same shade of blue.

It's everyone's day off, but we see no one.  No kids playing soccer at the church, nobody works in their garden, nobody stands around talking, leaning, laughing against fence posts.  Rain drives them inside. No bells on the hillsides.  Even the birds have gone to bed.  Quiet prevails.

We woke up late.  The time change didn't help.  Tea, breakfast, more tea, we nurse light hangovers as we lay back in bed to watch a movie about love.  The rain steady and heavy.  4 pm comes fast, the day passing us by.  Inside, hiding from that water, that cold.  Remembering times in rain and all the wetness of the Pacific Northwest.  We grow nostalgic, love it, and need to be in it.  Raincoats on, we step out.

Up a hill, past empty playgrounds, "yassas" to wet chickens, lemons dripping from their trees.  My hair grows heavy so quickly, sticking to my forehead.  Pants wet to the knees.  The road curves as we climb the mountain, past a small church, the place where the road fell to the sea, and to where the cement begins again.  We come to a look out, that ocean so many shades of blue, a rainbow now growing out from the middle of it, curving to land on a mountain top.  We sip some ouzo from a bottle and walk on, across and down, turning left on a soggy brown puddled street leading to a grass field and a small, old building.  A church.  On the beach.

We go in, through small blue doors, dripping water to the floor.  11 wicker chairs, and a podium decorated with a crumbling bible.  I have the urge to pick it up, to see what passage it would fall open to.  But all my beliefs and non believing hold me back, so I touch the spine, gently, almost as an afterthought.  I light a white candle, put it in a bowl of sand.  Walk outside just as the sun is burning through the clouds.  Sit down with the pebbles and small pulsing waves and Abbey talks to me, says something about...
  
              how, the world spins so fast, and here we are, this little dot in the geography of this planet, and we are still alive through it all, our hands functioning so well as we hold small pebbles, old pieces of this earth traveling across the ocean to land at our feet, and we feel so still, but in truth we spin and we spin and we spin as the moon moves the waves, and she reminds me of a sentence I read in India, that, for some reason, sticks with me.  Coming to the surface at moments like these, short and sweet:
  
             "All this and I am still alive.  I fear I have no death."  (Tagore). 

And, also, how
  
             "The world is permeated with roses of happiness all the time, only none of us realize it.  The    happiness consists in realizing it is all a great strange dream." (Kerouac).  

And that is the point.

(Drawings courtesy of Abbey Koshak)

movement through stillness

Signed my name above that thick black line. Free of a lease. I study the form.  6 names.  Andi, Daniel, Bethany, Spencer, Rebecca, and Amelia. And I realize with a small shiver that I am feeling quite sentimental about this.  With our names all in a row, this random selection of various residents, we have put into a legal document the cold hard fact that a chapter has closed. The pages have been turned, all covered in writing, paint, doodles. Whiskey and coffee stains.  Cigarette burns.  Lines crossed out and rewritten in a sloppy sideways fashion.  And the book has turned to lay open, page up, on a clean white sheet. Now being slowly filled in with a doodle of a mountain side dotted with sheep.  Guitar chords and a sharpie drawing of a sunflower.

And what is it that I am talking about?

I am just thinking that I will miss those big echoing hallways.  The sounds of bare feet slapping old wooden steps.  A blue room and breezy sunlight coming in through curtains brushing my face as I sleep away some afternoon or another.  And even when I didn't live there, I did.  And now we've signed away any responsibility to damage done to that house over 4 years, and are free to walk away with a book full of memories and one of the biggest, closest families I've ever known. Bravo 12th and C. 

All this and these, memories of yours and mine, coming at me during a lull.  Like the one between waves.  Ocean waves.  Salt and kelp and that slow soft pounding.  A lull because, I've really been moving a lot in this past year.  Traveled the USA, finished college, saw Mexico, China and now the brakes hit the floor and I am a little dizzy but happy to be here.  I lay around on a big white bed, next to a big wide window, watch the sunrise in those lazy shades of pink of blue and they reflect off walls and window panes and I just smile, roll over, sleep again, easily.  Because, things move slowly here.  Sheep make their way idly down the hillside, to where grass meets water.  Cars putt past spilling the dirt road into the air.  Sailboats sit, waiting for the wind, the sun.  No work for at least two weeks, everyone says.  So we relax.  We drink wine and we play music and we lounge and laugh.  Climb mountainsides and watch the sun make the way across the day.  We wait patiently for that sun to grow warmer, to bring sails to bring tourists to bring us work and the waiting is, perfect.  Is paradise right now in a quiet sleepy town ideal for all this reflection and recognition of these silly sentimental feelings.  

Like being on the beach in Mexico. Working slowly southward day by day.  Time passing as the scenery stayed the same.  I moved, but had the thought that maybe I was still.  And in my blue tent night after night I ran out of books to read and my mind played small tricks on me but I figured as long I put foot in front of foot it would lead somewhere and I HAVE to be moving.  Not keeping still, but moving forward, no matter how much the sky, beach, sand appeared unchanging. At least thats what logic declared. 

And this doesn't make much sense, but the fact is, I am still as can be, sitting on this bed by the window, listening to Abbey play the guitar and then leave to comb her hair.  And we've got nowhere to be.  So we'll stay here.  Yet through all this staying I am feeling an undeniable sense of movement not through time or space but in my mentality to be able to stay, and wait.  

And that is something I am so very happy about.