• Salem Girls Are A Whole Lotta Trouble

  

  Day 190

  When I was little, I used to have terrible nightmares about a witch. Not a typical green faced, slovenly looking thing, but one with a bald bony skull and long gnarled fingers. In this dream I had (often on rainy nights) she would hover just outside my window sans broom, tapping the glass, the wind howling demonic slander. I knew it would happen every time, but I couldn’t make it stop. I would get up and pad softly to the window. My spine was a belt sander of fear. Every time it was the same. I would pull back the curtain —her haggard face would scream into the glass, and her ember yellow eyes burned into my little soul: “You…are mine.” 
  
  Yeah, so I guess I have a little discomfort around witches. Some might even say a slight complex. Which is exactly why I prodded Travis to come with me to Salem. Home of Witch central. Gotta face those fears head on, right?
  
  For those of you who know, some crazy shit went down in Salem in the late 1600s which resulted in a lot of bloodshed. But the world continued turning, and we are all fine to do this day, right?
  
  Well, for those of you who don’t know, there’s a deeper story behind all this. Let’s just say it had further reaching implications at that time, than cyber-bullying has had on our young population today (not to dismiss the youngens experience with harassment via cell or computer). To think the massacre all started out because of a few bored pre teens and a little home grown hysteria.
  
  The Not-so-Short Story
  
  In the year of our Lord 1692, villagers of New England made their livelihood by breaking a sweat in the fields —gentrifying their recently acquired land and protecting their families from attack by the French and outraged Wabanaki Natives. Good villagers feared God. They interpreted crop failures and tensions with local government as a manifestation of God’s wrath.

  To keep alive during the harsh winters and hot summers, men and their sons fished, hunted and toiled. Women and their daughters (to avoid being lustful, of course), sewed, cooked, cleaned and were slaves to their men. This was the Puritan age, folks.

  Children were seen and not heard. Childhood was for suckers, really. Girls had no idle time. They did not play; nor did they laugh, nor talk unless bidden. Hard to believe that this repression, an intense fear of punishment from God, was sealed by the failure of the court and judicial system, which ultimately led to the deaths of 20 people, and imprisonment of 150 (five of whom died in their cells). Curious? I bet you are.
  
  I won’t pretend to be the expert on the details, folks. You can get the full story if you’re interested. What you need to know is that in March of 1692, an eleven year old named Abigail Williams, and her nine-year-old cousin, Betty Paris, begin acting funny after listening to ‘magical’ stories told by a local servant named Tituba. The girls begin acting out, falling into catatonic states, shrieking, barking, crawling around, and collapsing into fits of shaking. And without a cause. Oh my!  

  The local minister (who needs a medical doctor), being unable to determine the natural cause of their fits, immediately declares them a product of witchcraft. Soon the behaviour begins affecting other young girls in town. Now people are wondering if it might have been some mouldy bread or even a hereditary disorder. When asked who was tormenting these adolescents, the girls respond by naming several local women, saying that the women’s spectres are flying around and pinching them. Rather than investigate further, officials haul the older women into court. At first the ‘spectral evidence’ is dismissed and the women given a not-guilty verdict. But just as the verdict is entered, the teens begin acting out in court (of course they were invited to court as ‘witnesses’). Convinced, the judge determines the women to be guilty, and sends them to jail.
  
  Day after day more women and men are accused, convicted, and sent to prison. They are told they must pay for every meal eaten —every day of shelter, once they finish their sentence. In total over 150 people are imprisoned, including infants of accused mothers. Five of these people rot and die in prison. The sentences for others are even worse: excommunication and death. In summer 1692, 19 people are hanged over a tree, their bodies tossed into a shallow grave. As well, one man is crushed to death because he will not confess. Those let out of prison years later are bankrupted and left to die.
  
  These are not the green skinned, broom flying, evil witches that society and the media has carved out of history. This isn’t the witch in my dreams. These are normal folks; victims of poorly regulated government and social hysteria. These are bones in the earth. One of many stories that leaves a person feeling a different kind of discomfort.
  
  In the aftermath (years later), some of the teen girls will apologize and say that the Devil made them do it. I wish I had a dollar for every time someone used that one. Nearly 300 years later, most of the victim’s bones are still unclaimed. The Salem memorial that was set up in 1992 and some hokey museums are a reminder of just how bad things can get when your religion allows for false accusations, and your court system for false imprisonment and unlawful deaths.
  
  A few days ago we visited the Salem Witch Trials Memorial. It sits beside a cemetery with graves dating back to the early sixteen hundreds, holding the leftover hair and teeth of famous governors and destitute beggars. Gravestones so old, they’re paper thin and falling over. Their inscriptions blowing away like dust. Yet, the story of the Witches of Salem is still a dark smear on the face of humankind. 
  
  Seems like I should be over my fear of witches now. Perhaps I should be more afraid of being a scapegoat in a world which still manages to do a bang up job of targeting people out of fear. Shoot first, apologize later.

  This was an important day.

  Tagged: Rachel

  Posted on April 25, 2010

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• Weekend at Berni’s

  Day 189

  Just want to make a huge shout out to Mr. Kevin Berni, his lovely wife, Becca… and the crazy animals they live with.

  We’ll always have Lily’s poo burps, beers at Dharma Buns, Vic’s Waffles, and Val, you know —the one that introduced yous, to comfort our memory in the cold Canadian dark. 

  Our readers might not know this, but we were in some serious trouble when we arrived in Boston. The only RV parks around are closed until May. Even worse, our smell had progressed from ripe to rotten. This is why the name Berni is emblazoned on our mantle (if we had a mantle). 

  In addition to the good times, they lent us a shower, 88 gallons of Walter water ‘down cellah’, a cedar planked salmon, and some New England hospitality (the finest).

  Hey, we should totally meet up in Bah Habah (Bar Harbour to those outside of New England).

  Tagged: Travis

  Posted on April 24, 2010

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• Things to Do in Boston When it Rains

  

  Day 184

  It’s a light spattering, but it’s consistent. It has been raining off and on for three days. And it’s officially colder than Calgary. Well. We’ll have to cash it in, what with not being used the rain and all. Catch that sarcasm? ‘Cause I’m laying it on pretty thick.

  Not that we can’t handle our rain, but I can say this. It feels like we’ve done a full circle with the seasons and pretty much reached the north part of the continent where winter is still energetically gnawing on the neck of spring. So, what do you do in Boston when the cold is chewing off your fingers?

  (picture the rest of this post narrated in a thick Bostontonian accent)

  Mysterious Bookstore

  I can’t find the name of this damn bookstore, but it houses rare and fantastic literary joys. It’s tucked away down a dark alley in downtown Boston. You can find architecture in books about Frank Lloyd Wright, classic crime novels, civil war posters, and poetry of Bill Shakespeare and Bill Carlos William. Astounding. A tiny electric fireplace unrolled electric heat, toasting our wind burned faces red. I picked up Obasan by Joy Kogawa for $6. Travis got an iPad. Umm, yeah, not here though. The whole time, the bookstore owner was being interviewed by a journalism student about the future of book publishing. Uncanny.

  Dharma Buns

  This isn’t Boston, but it’s close.

  If you are ever north of Boston in a little town called Lowell (sublime except for its sewage plant), waltz into Dharma Buns Sanwich Co.. This little artisan sandwich shop mixes the best of art, food, music and beer into a medley of customer satisfaction. The theme is based upon both the mind boggling TV drama LOST, and even better known: the legendary Jack Kerouac, writer of On The Road, to name just one. We actually worked our buns off here while drinking cold oatmeal stouts and eating home made turkey burgers. When we had our fill, Dharma flipped LOST on for its weekly marathon. Crazy, I tell you. And wonderful. Could that catch on in Calgary?

  Farmers Market

  Expect to slide out of here with your gut touching the floor. Wil, you said we were looking trim. Well, that was before Boston. The food at the Farmer’s market will stop your heart. Row after row of joints serving pizza, sushi, Indian samosas, fresh fruit smoothies, Chip Yard cookies. It’s actually disgusting. A Cheers lookalike bar. I posed with a cardboard cut out of George Wendt (Norm). Stuffed lobster is a big thing. And what I mean by that is plush toys. Lobsters. I kind of like them. But not as much as I am amused by the Boston pigeons. I swear they have accents too. And they tuck their heads down in the cold just like the humans do.

  Red Sox Game

  Don’t do this when it rains. That’s stupid. But when you’ve pre purchased tickets for $54 a pop, you should probably go since you won’t get a refund (you may get an alternate attendance day, but if you’re living in an RV and home means another Walmart parking lot, this is not relevant). It was our first real baseball game. And the fans were something to reckon with. You do not want to be cornered a Red Sox fan on the subway while mumbling about the Yankees or any other rival team. It would be a crucifixion. 

  There we were, nestled with blankets and screaming “Yoooouuuu” after Youkillis: a star quarterback. Wait, wrong sport. First base man and star batter. We fit right in! We yelled when everyone else yelled and got big fat hot dogs and shitty Coors (that’s beer for all you refined folks) like everybody else. We even faked our accents by taking tips from the Kettle Corn guy, “Kettel cowan, get ya kettel cowan.” Nobody even knew we were visitors (we like to consider ourselves spies, actually). We owned the game.

  It’s a bit chilly, but the sky is holding out. Then, Travis says the ‘r’ word. And down it comes, pissing out of the sky with a vengeance. Rain. Buckets full by the fourth inning. Ok, it was only drizzling, but you’d think it was God’s scourge upon the earth the way the locals reacted. The lady beside us, jerked her finger in our direction and said, “Blame those two. They said the ‘r’ word.”

  It sounded like she said, “aah woyd.”

  There we are, bottom of the ninth inning. Tied. Tampa (the suckass team) has just struck out. We’re wet, cold, and eager to see the Sox pummel Tampa back to Florida. Just as the Sox are about to bat, a stream of men come running onto the field with a giant canvas sheet. They call the game. It’s a rain out. 1-1, last inning (it’s been drizzling since the fourth with no change in intensity) and they cancel the gd game. Can you believe the noyve of those people? I mean, seriously. Somebody oughta calla umpiyah or somethin’ —get things movin’. Flarin’ a Boston temper over heeyah.

  Anyway, we had so much fun, we didn’t mind being crammed onto the subway with thousands of moist, angry fans. It was a riot. You should try it. Just once.

  Tagged: Rachel

  Posted on April 21, 2010

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• The Countdown.

  Day 183

  I think this is the suggested official day that we’re supposed to be back across the border. But we don’t really know because the information posted on the interwebs is so contradicting, it’s like seeing someone else’s reflection in the mirror in front of you. If anyone is interested in visiting the US for over 90 days, do some research, okay?

  At any rate, because we know you care and miss us a great deal (there’s at least five of you), and because we legally have to, we’re coming back to Canada in T-5 days. The proposed return date is Friday, April 23rd. This is actually four days short of the six month window we were given. Border patrol, please note… We are good peaceful Canadians and do not wish to spread bad karma. Please let us back into Canada. At the same time, we like the US, so we’d appreciate it if you would also consider letting us back once in a while, too.

  We’ll be sliding up through Bangor, Maine and crossing at a little outpost called Houlton into New Brunswick, eh? There, the obligatory ‘eh’. Now shut your mouth, Jerkin Van Gurken.

  Crap. That means we have a shit ton of prep to do. Like figure out exactly how many bicycles, bazookas, and blankets we have. Gotta tear Walter apart to make sure no one else planted odd haze-inducing leaves under the axle.

  Sidebar: A former coworker’s parents RV’ed into a huge trap when their motor home was confiscated at the border. Seems US guards found some weed that been planted by a hooligan under the RV when the ole’ Smiths stopped at a rest stop before crossing. We refuse to make any mistakes. We will scour the vestibule ferociously and take no pee breaks. At least I won’t. Travis is all, “You worry too much.” Whatever. Pee freely, ya old beanbag [a term of endearment].

  Stay tuned for the show down. We’ll probably film the aftermath, and hopefully we won’t have any border-patrol-induced emotional-wreckage to sob about. But if we do, you can be damn sure you’ll get a kick out of watching it.

  xox

  Tagged: Rachel

  Posted on April 18, 2010

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• Is This a Test?

  

  Day 1—what the hell day is this?

  It’s been a bit of a rough week. After missing out on the glory of New York, we dodged our way across the Bronx, past Greenwich, and into Providence, RI. Quaint little town. Didn’t see much of it, as we were embedded in the lining of Walter’s insides for three days straight, frantically tidying up some loose project ends. They have nice sidewalks here, though.

  Resting on a sleepy side street, and after another allnighter (okay, for Trav—I got three hours of sleep), we packed up and moseyed on up to Boston. This day was doomed to fail.

  Today felt like the ultimate test. Ultimate. Like stress I haven’t felt in a million years, test.

  Hadn’t even left the parking lot and found a shiny orange envelope tucked under the wiper. $20 parking ticket. Thanks Providence. That’s a bit ironic.

  —Travis is lucid, having been awake for 26 hours. Doing alright.—

  • I’m driving. Looked up a little RV park claiming to be six miles from downtown Boston. Liar!

  Google map? Also a liar. GPS? Liarliarliar.

  • All these technologies drove us right into the ghetto of Chester, Massivetwoshits. Warehouse with shattered window and graffiti framed Walter like a gangsta photo backdrop. We always get the scenic tour. Sat for half hour debating our next move.

  What are we going to do? —Being the theme of today

  • Headed to Lowell for comfort. Into the arms of another fascinating and clever friend, Kevin, aka Bean Town Berni. aka UI Awesome sauce. Digging breakfast tomorrow, for sure.
  • Another hour drive to Lowell, in mad rush hour I might add, and we realize we are full of the bad water, have none of the drinking kind, and are dirty and smelly. Hey Kevin, wanna snuggle?

  —Travis is looking a bit pasty at this point, language head making not sense. 34 hours—

  • Maneuver down the tricky side streets of southern Lowell to the local Sewage Treatment Plant. They have free public dumps every day of the week!
  • Wait for ten minutes. No one is around. The smell of Lowell sewage wafts into our nostrils, makes a nest and camps out. Walter is infested with the stench.
  • Finally get a signal from First Boston accent guy to follow him. We promptly drop Walter’s drawers and let the earth reclaim its deposits. In the process, we spray our sandal, jeans, and faces with the deodorizing mix of grey and black water as the opening of the dump hole is two feet wide. Gotta keep a foot on that hose to keep it from squirming.

  —T is dappled with hose ‘water’, and mumbling. I need to feed & put this guy to bed—

  • We have less than 1/8 a tank of propane left. Been nursing the last drops since you can only buy it from Uhaul’s around here. Apparently no one BBQ’s in East.
  • Maneuver back through traffic, listlessly around a traffic circle (ever tried that in a 31 footer?), and through a bridge. I say through because the bridge has been walled in on either side by concrete and gnarled fences. Single lane. No shoulder. We squeak through like a fat gerbil through a paper tube. Dammit, Walter.

  —Travis is looking puffy (still handsome, but puffy). 35 hours. Exhausted—

  • Walmart looms ahead. There are no RV parks in Boston. Not even close. The ones that are ‘around’ are closed for another two weeks because of winter. Damn winter has stalked us all away around the effing country.
  • I feed my weak spouse some disgusting Kraft Dinner. We’re out of milk again which equals pasta the consistency of wet bread.

  —His eyes gloss over as sleep begins to drug him. 36.7 hours—

  • It’s cold tonight. Which means more propane burned up. Thinking we might be waking up to gangrenous fingertips.

  It’s 11:31pm. I’m sitting alone in the dark and Travis tosses in his sleep. The sewage smell has dissipated thanks to me painting everything with Febreeze. For some reason I’m not tired, even with the weight of this disastrous day digging into my shoulders. I guess I’m reflecting on this Dorothy-hit-by-a-tornado afternoon and wondering what the hell we were supposed to have gleaned from all of it.

  It kind of felt like a monstrous test, you know? I’m hoping it’s not a precursor to crossing back into Canada. As in: You haven’t seen shit, Rachel. Things could get a lot worse. Where you gonna sleep for the next two weeks if the RV parks are closed?

  Or maybe it’s just a bad day.

  Still. I’m not sad. The low roar of a steam engine train pulling itself along the tracks like a tall, tired giant fills up my ears in the blackness. I get to be a part of his journey. It’s my story now.

  I don’t regret a single day. Sleep tight, baby.

  Tagged: Rachel

  Posted on April 15, 2010 with 1 note

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• Big Apple, No Time

  

  (the view from Liberty Harbor RV & Marine Park, NJ)

  Day 178

  Okay, I’m callin’ it. As much fun as a person could have sitting in a shitty RV park in Jersey City when they were supposed to be dizzying up the sights and sounds of New York; that’s how much fun we had. Now, we did leave the RV a time or two (only the equivalent of one full day out of six). But our content is fairly limited. We both agree, New York requires a do over.

  We have our reasons. Busy beavers on the computer. Projects and the like. So, let’s just say we hold onto that day in our hearts —that fantastical day in the Big Apple— like a baby holds onto her mother’s teat. Unapologetically. And with fervor. It was the best damn day ever.

  The highlights…

  MoMA: The Museum of Modern Art

  We left our tripod at home and were struck mute by live installations such as Marina Abramovic’s The Artist is Present. Marina is unlike many artists. Much of her art consists of questioning & pushing her own threshold of pain to exhaustion; she likes to flirt with nirvana. In pain, she finds beauty and presence. She sees no dividing curtain between art and life. Credited for her work throughout the 70’s and to today, single take clips of her screaming for 16 hours until her voice goes hoarse, scrubbing 10 tonnes of cow’s bones as a symbol of the futility of blood shed in the Bosnian war, and whipping herself with a cat-o-nine tails until she collapses onto an ice block serve as a couple examples of her commitment to ‘keepin’ it real’. She was actually on the third floor, patiently sitting in a chair, staring at anyone who chose to sit across from here. That was being filmed too. You might see me in the corner looking amazed and slightly overwhelmed. I bet that film is still running, and she’s still waiting for the next brave chap to sit across from her.

  Oh, I have to mention, one of her exhibits involved two (hot) naked female models standing face to face in a narrow doorway. You had to go ‘through’ them to get to the next exhibit. They were the doorway to another world. Is it just me, or would that totally mess with your comfort zone, your bubble of social norms, your ease with nakedness, your sensitivity to brushing against sex organs? We couldn’t do it. We fully intended to, and then both got shy and just sort of backed out of the room.

  What would you have done?

  Pizza

  Any of you chumps who think you’ve eaten the best pizza obviously haven’t eaten it in New York. New York makes pizza better. It’s crunchy in the right places, it’s gooey on the top, and it’s filled with rich meat & cheese, made with a perfect dough. I am heartily committed to this pizza format. Little Caesar’s can eat a goat ass. Domino’s can munch pubes. Calgary’s CPU pizza is simply droll. Nothing compares to New York Pizza. If you disagree, I’ll cuff you in the kidney.

  Funnies

  Met up with our all time favourites, Mel and Mark. They live next to the Hells Angels. These crazy kids trecked all the way to New York from infamous Calgary to do some learnin’. Melanie invested some hours and probably a major love affair with New York theatre. Mark is training for Iron Man (and what better place to get exercise than up and down the blocks and blocks of NY streets?). These two are awesome sauce. I’d have to say: Mel is one of the reasons I decided to quit my job, start freeing up my creativity, and in the long run, buy an RV and become a trailer transient. Her creative juices hit you in the face (in a gentle and life changing way). Thanks Mel!!

  So we met up. Checked out Upright Citizens Brigade in one of them awesome Manhattan western districts, for the ultimate in theatre comedy. Kay, we have Loose Moose in Calgary, and not to poo-poo the polish of Loose Moose (it’s tough getting up there in front of humorless attendees), but Citizens Brigade bowled it dead in the water. We laughed so hard, we peed. Or I would have, but I the really sharp chair spring sticking in my butt cheek kept me civil. Mark was sitting on a seat bottom resting on a milk crate. How awesome is that?? This place framed our evening perfectly.

  Crif Dog

  After that it was Crif Dog. Now the thing you don’t know about Crif Dog is it’s all about bacon wrapped hot dogs. This will be catching on in Canada if I have anything to do with it. For a mere $20 we were enabled four sanctimonious (they were holier-than-thou) hot dogs and four Blue Ribbons. Eat your heart out, Tubby Dog. Here’s Mel’s fantastic take on her Crif Dog experience (it has to do with PDT, which is code for awesome sauce).

  Karaoke

  After more beer at the St. Marks Pub, we all headed to Sing Sing: a hilarious little karaoke bar that charges a singer $2 per song. Best idea ever. That way if you sing a lot and suck, at least you’re filling the bartenders’ ears with money.

  I can’t believe it, but this was our first Karaoke experience during the whole trip. Yes! Even with the chance to sign up for Cogaoke in Austin, and sing with Croft, and Alix, and Scott in Seattle. This was our first time. And for first times, it was pretty fantastic.

  Mind you, I was drunk. I remember telling Travis that someone had plugged the toilet with a tampon, so in my ‘helping’ mode I decided to try to fix it. Relax, I did not dip my hand in the bowl. Instead, I knocked the top of the toilet tank cover off and I think it shattered as it hit the floor. Oh well. I paid $2 for my song (Like a Virgin).

  Great times had by all. Great times.

  Again, this is why we will be needing a do over. Serious. Anyone up for a huge face melting, over the top, fashionable, beer guzzling rendezvous in New York? Bars are open till 4am.

  Call me.

  Posted on April 13, 2010

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• Heart to Heart in West Chester

  

  (from the backyard)

  Day 175

  This is to our soulful friends in West Chester. Drew, Danielle, & little cherub —baby Jette. We’re on the same page. We think the same way. Let’s meet up and do it again.

  Thanks for a wonderful escape into Amish country on Monday night. Thanks for the Indian food, the wine, and the fantastic conversation. Thanks for the hilarious stories. Thank you, most of all, for your friendship.

  It’s not often you get to find yourselves in the people you meet. But when you do, it’s a damn good day.

  PS— there’s an RV with your name on it, beckoning you to explore the West again. Say hi to San Diego for us.

  Posted on April 10, 2010

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• Philly. The Musical.

  Day 172

  Ever go to a city and just feel like it sings to you? Philadelphia was a musical. From the time we entered to our departure, the mirthful music of joyful encounters, random traffic tolls, and Apple Store lust resounded in our ears.

  Here’s how it went (picture this to ‘Orphan Annie musical’ music)

  Cue music.

  Scene 1, On the Road

  Me: Oh look. I think I see it. The RV park is so majestic.

  Travis: Actually, my dear, it looks a bit infested (with ducks).

  Unison: Let’s rent a zipcar and be on our way. We can’t wait to see the sights of Philly.

  Me: Oh f*ck, is this another toll on the toll highway??

  Travis: It sure is. Let’s see how much they want for us to stay. These roads are trash.

  Disgruntled Ticket Person: That’ll be $6 cash.

  Travis: But we don’t have any cash. What to do so we can pass?

  Disgruntled ticket man: Here’s a ticket violation. Phone it in, you can’t pay at the station.

  Rachel: Glad that’s sorted out. Let’s go to Philly and get some beer!

  Travis: Alright, but we should really get a little work done here.

  Scene 2, Beside a Funky Coffee Shop

  Unison: I am so glad we’re in this beautiful city. Working out of a Calgary office is such a pity

  Nice Lady: Oh wait, don’t plug the meter. I have an hour left on my ticket, but don’t need to be here

  Unison: Thanks, Nice Lady! We can tell Philly is not a gritty city.

  Scene 3, Jim’s Steaks

  Rachel: Time for a cheese steak. Alright, that wasn’t bad.

  Travis: Let’s check out the Liberty Bell. If we don’t, I’ll be sad.

  Scene 4, Dinner in the Lazy Evening

  Hot Gay Server: Try the braised lamb. It’s damn delectable.

  Me: I don’t even like lamb, but I’ll try it just the same.

  Travis: They can cook a mean steak. That’s respectable. But it’s still not as good as Travis James’.

  Scene 5, Downtown Philadelphia in the heat

  Rachel: Is that man wearing a fuzzy purple suit? He’s calling out to all the ladies.

  Travis: I love this city dearly; the way that hell loves Hades.

  Rachel: Now I wanna get my toe nails painted.

  After…

  Rachel: They didn’t steam the instruments. I feel tainted.

  Scene 6, At Timberlane RV Park

  Travis: It’s all ready time to drop off the Subaru.

  Rachel: So that means I’m driving Walter into the city without you?

  Travis: It’ll be fine. I’ll follow your ass.

  Rachel: Oh no, we’re on empty. I’m stopping for gas.

  Travis: I gotta get this car back before one!

  Rachel: Ok, see you later. It’s gotta get done.

  Scene 7, The Ill Fated Toll Booth

  Evil Ticket Man: Muahahaha. That’ll be 12 bones.

  Rachel: But I only have six dollars!

  Evil Ticket Man: You don’t have the bones?? That makes me holler. Go to the glass booth and pay with your Visa. I hate my job, life & that booth girl, Louisa.

  Rachel: I hate that I’m crying, but Walter’s 31 feet. Him in downtown Philly = me, dead meat.

  Scene 8, John F Kennedy Highway

  Travis: You made it! What’s wrong??

  Rachel: I’m so stressed I can’t talk, let’s move along.

  Travis: GPS, why are you steering us through the ghettos of Philly?

  Rachel: It’s broken again? I going to scream. Really.

  Travis: Don’t worry, there’s the Apple Store. We’re saved.

  Rachel: Don’t take this the wrong way: you’re depraved.

  Scene 9, Inside Walter to West Chester City

  Travis: I got to fondle the iPad. I need a cigarette.

  Rachel: Weirdo. At least we dominated the challenges we met.

  Unison: We enjoyed this trip so much, let’s tell the internet.

  Posted on April 10, 2010

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• Old Bay Day

  Day 168

  We got the tour upon arriving in Maryland. Popped into Baltimore to meet up with our friend, Brian. That’s ‘ian’ not ‘yan’. The ‘yan’ Bryan’s are often evil. Think about that one. There’s some truth in it.

  Anyway, nice Brian showed us the dirty canal, the broken bottle in the parking lot, the LensCrafters. We nearly fired him as our tour guide, but then we realized the immense amount of pressure he was under. Have you ever been a tour guide? Didn’t think so. Besides, he’s nice Brian!

  We really put him on the spot, so we let up as we wandered the beautiful downtown core of Baltimore (that he, a local, hadn’t yet visited). Brian sat us down at for some local flavour (tater tots and crab dip) and he shaped our evening for us.

  We had a fabulous dinner with him and his cute and charming fiancé, Tasha, at Fuji Sushi. I had the pleasure of being the next girl to enter the bathroom after a rather boisterous and somewhat embarrassed woman plugged the toilet. She was drunk and sitting at the next table. I couldn’t look in her direction without thinking about the wad of, um, toilet paper she was responsible for.

  At any rate, I didn’t let this ruin our evening.

  We had a blast, and finished the night up with bountiful conversation & delicious wine back at our lovely hosts’ domicile. Bottled wine is so much better than boxed, isn’t it. We also learned a valuable insider tip. Apparently the secret to the luscious dishes of Maryland is Old Bay spice. Brian and Tasha kindly gave us a pound of it to sprinkle on everything we see in sight. I will be trying it as an air freshener, as Walter is starting to smell ripe.

  Thank you, Brian. Thank you, Tasha. We had the most fun with real human beings that we have had since Austin, TX. And that’s saying something important. Because we loved Austin.

  PS: Brian, you’re most welcome for our visit and its ensuing opportunity to experience Baltimore’s chic underbelly.

  Posted on April 5, 2010

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• The Sin of the Tripod

  

  (photo shot sans tripod)

  Day 167

  We’re like spies.  A few days ago, we strolled into Washington, DC. That’s Washington in the District of Columbia. Weird, right? So we’re staying an hour away in the closest RV park possible. We take the bus 50 miles into town loaded up with our back pack, headphones, books, camera… and a tripod. The ill fated tripod.

  Important tendril of advice: DO NOT, UNDER ANY CIRCUMSTANCES, BRING A TRIPOD WITH YOU TO WASHINGTON, DC.

  You will be treated like a threat to security and to the sacred virtue of politics & art.

  This did not unfold until we naively perched ourselves at the back end of the capitol building. Travis began extending the insipid tripod legs in the balmy morning sun. A perfect time to take pictures. No sooner had he reached for his camera, the roar of a motorcycle startled us. A stern looking cop with a bud in his ear was mere inches from our shocked faces.

  “You cannot take pictures on federal property with a tripod without a media pass. Please take it down immediately. You must apply for this pass in advance. Even then, you must remain on the grass back there…” (he pointed another 100 feet back) “…Thank you.”

  And he left without a hint of a smile. We swallowed, folded that tripod, and proceeded to take a few shaky hand held photos. Oddly enough, we felt a lot like we did that other fateful day when we arrived at the US border. By this time, the aura of the ten or twelve guards armed with giant guns surrounding every entrance had infected us with discomfort. Thoughts of bugged bushes and heat seeking missiles aimed at our eyeballs kinda dampened our patriotic mood. That’s all we needed from the Capitol building.

  We backed away, nervously laughing and because your brain can’t control itself under duress, we chattered away about all the things the ‘ears’ of Capitol could probably hear, using terms that probably would raise Homeland eyebrows. That is, if they didn’t know we were two naive kids from Canada talking in third person about the likelihood of being apprehended for talking in the 3rd person: bombs, planes, codes, spies, telephoto lenses. You name it.

  We didn’t get locked up, if that’s what you’re wondering.

  Washington (the city) is the place known for all of its epic political and government stuff. If you want all the gory details, you best read the city historia. As much as I love architecture, the history of the American constitution is fuzzy for me, at best. I far prefer the delicious undressing of the arts. Visiting museums and guessing at each artist’s decision to use ink, or oil, or cheeze whiz. That said, Washington, DC houses both historical and contemporary museums (including the National Gallery of Art) that would impress even an art critic extraordinaire. And they’re free.

  But guess what? Don’t bring your tripod. We were searched upon arrival (although the three legged idiot was folded neatly behind us and in no way posed a threat). Then we were told that our camera was fine, but under no circumstances could we bring in the tripod. It was “unacceptable.” We checked it into the coat check under the disproving eye of the checker. He also ‘reminded’ us that it was not a good idea to bring our tripods as no one would admit us into the museums. Umm, thanks Tips. We hadn’t heard that one before.

  My biggest question is why are people getting in such a huff about the infamous tripod? Are they afraid we might actually take a level, well cropped photo of an iconic art piece? Boring!

  Are the federal guards, with their smart mini telephones plugged into their ears, worried that we might somehow capture the Capitol building in all its architectural glory?

  Maybe they have issues with ‘misfiring.’ That is, a poor amateur photographer peering into his camera cross hairs is mistaken for an armed assassin and then paints the town red. With his blood. Guess we’ll never have the answers to that one. I imagine the president’s security force is pretty tight lipped about accidental deaths.

  So tripods. You might not believe it happens. But it does.

  Don’t be dumb. Don’t bring a tripod.

  (Other than that, Washington was fantastic)

  Posted on April 5, 2010

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• Cavernous Secrets, VA

  

  Day 164

  Now you will learn about caves. Actually caverns. A cave is different than a cavern. I bet you didn’t know that.

  Humans have determined the distinction between caves and caverns based on human relativity. What I mean is, to name the thing either a cave or a cavern, we have to describe how we as humans can penetrate it. Don’t believe me? Check out the difference between caves and caverns in your preferred search engine. Caves are “…natural underground space[s] large enough for a human to enter.” They are entries for humans. Human entry. Point made.
  
  Caverns are places where no natural entry by humans, nor sunlight, can occur. See: plugging the hole. We visited Luray Caverns. They used to be called the Luray Caves, before a few opportunistic men penetrated their dark limestone folds and determined that there was some value in allowing other men (and women) to penetrate them, too. So they sealed off the entry way with a lavish building that charges you $22 to enter it. Now it’s called the Luray Caverns. And nothing from the natural world can get in, unless it wants to go through the back door.

  We arrived at Luray Caverns for exactly the purpose of penetrating it. And we enjoyed every mysterious second. The caverns made no comment when questioned about whether or not this feeling was reciprocal; however, sources say it hasn’t complained since its discovery in 1878. Why would it start now?

  Now, here’s some other things I’ll bet you didn’t know about caverns.

  • the process of cave/cavern formation and development is called speliogenesis
  • Stalactites are the long rods that hang from the ceiling. Think ‘C’ for ceiling
  • Stalagmites are the ones growing up from below. Think ‘G’ for ground.
  • Many stalacs and stalags are formed by dripping calcium carbonate, (that’s the same chemical compound as limestone, or chalk for the rest of you)
  • These crazy caves can also be formed out of hydrogen carbonate, dolomite (huh?), gypsum, salt, and marble
  • If the cavern cannot be penetrated (aka no natural sunlight entry —the definition of cavern), animals cannot dwell in there as they’ll starve
  • Cave habitating animals (like bats) are called troglobites, you troglobite 

  What makes Luray Caverns so cool is that they have the only Stalacpipe organ. In 1954, a guy named Sprinkle noticed that when his son hit his head on a roof rod (stalactite), it emitted a musical tone. Sprinkle decided to create a complete scale with various stalactites; the sound carried by stereo magnetic forces (yeah, I made that up). It impressed all the locals so much that people dressed up in suits and gowns and had balls down there. Seriously. We had the sheer luck of listening to this roof rod musical, and it was pretty… pretty impressive.

  Anyways, I like caves. People have weddings down there, and if I was to renew my vows, I just might do it in a cave. With Batman. Hah, just kidding. I’d still marry Travis. But I’d make him wear a suit. The one that Batman wears.

  There’s a joke somewhere in there about cavern penetration, but I’ll sidestep that one. I’m a decent person.

  Posted on April 2, 2010

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• Nashville. The Equation.

  

  Day 161

  What makes a city worth settling in? We pondered that question in Nashville. We spent two days (in the rain no less) pondering that question and here’s what we came up with.
  
  1. A city worth settling in has an aura to it. You know that aura —well, actually if you live in Calgary right now, you probably don’t. It’s the one that makes you feel like you’re barfing love out of your heart for the people and music and food, as well as each tiny blade of grass that waves in your little city.
  
  Nashville has that aura. It’s got people who will bend over backwards for you. We bought a scrumptious smoothie for $4.87 at the Opry Mills mall. It’s a stunning mall. Completely floored in hard wood. For whatever reason, our Visa wouldn’t scan (stolen credit cards often don’t. Hah). So the guy says, “Here let me look after that for you”. What???? When was there ever a time that you bought anything, and the shop keeper offers to pay for it because YOUR payment method isn’t working?? Just in case you don’t believe us, here’s another one. I drove us to a quick lunch at Caney Fork Fish Camp to satisfy our Nashville stomach gnashing. Ahem.
  
  I said “I” drove! Isabella (our scoot). For the first time in human history! Umm, round of applause please?
  
  Anyway, there we are. Trav wants the buffalo chicken sandwich. He always gets the red hot meat sandwich. So the waitress (or server, whichever least offends you) says, “Mm mmm. You don’t want that. Trust me. it’s all slippery and disgusting. Order the catfish.” And he did. It was delectable. You don’t get that kind of honesty from people in a service industry. Usually it’s, “That sequined tank looks great on you.” Even if your spare tire has sprung a leak on one side and your boobs are lumpy and disheveled. Honesty truly is a rare virtue. In Nashville, cops let women sit on their motorcycles. Case in point.
  
  I could go on, but there’s more to this equation. More than just awesome people.
  
  2. There’s gotta be culture. If you dissect a city and it has no music, no art, nothing that makes it stand out, you have: Calgary. Hah, just kidding. You have Dallas or Houston or the entire state of Florida (except Jacksonville; they have Burrito Gallery).
  
  Nashville, as you know, is the music capital. There is talent oozing from its pores. So much so, we were awestruck. People in the street sang better than American Idol finalists. We watched a band (unravel) on stage called Gypsy. Unbelievable bluegrass talent with a mix of touching sibling rivalry that ended with members stomping off stage for a ‘cigarette break’. Every bar we stepped in was the same. Beautiful talent; amazing vocal genius. I think Trav like the girls’ accents. Yep, that’s it.
  
  At any rate, Nashville is the cat’s ass as far as culture is concerned. Murals line the walls of historical buildings, print shops create art for upcoming shows, musicians stream the streets eschewing fabulous falsetto. What more could you ask for?
  
  3. There’s gotta be education. Nashville has 13 universities. That’s a lot. That means, there’s a lot of smart Alpha Omegas sitting in coffee shops and pubs, making important decisions. Like what kind of public transportation discounts are needed to make people happy; where taxpayer dollars should be allocated; what kind of music people should listen to. What kind of issues are important to… there I go rambling again. You get the point. Education is the infinitesimal key to the city. Do not abuse the grandeur with which it operates. Umm, I think this means. Be smart and work hard at what you do best. You make your city happier when you do.
  
  4. There’s gotta be acceptance for diversity. Nashville appears to be totally culture friendly. On the outside. We have no idea what it’s like on the inside. We were only there two days. However, we experienced one tell tale symptom of intolerance. A local exposed his true black and white feelings on the bus. Our charter bus driver: he was witty, chatty, polite, completely helpful. And racist.

  Now I’m not saying everyone in Nashville is racist, but he was.  His ‘reason’ for  Memphis not being as safe as Nashville, we’re told, is that there are, ‘black people, low income black people living there and committing crimes’. It was a sad moment that made us shake our heads in disbelief. The guy was so cool. Then he had to go be himself with all his unfounded prejudices. Doesn’t mean he speaks for the rest of Nashville. I mean, it’s a learned city, right? Hopefully the rest of the population is smart enough to realize that we can easily see each other without the tinted glasses of colour. And just be cool with what we as humans have to offer, instead.
  
  So the lesson is, while I could not habitate Nashville due to the incessant country twang emanating from its city centre (Travis might consider it), it does seem to illustrate the equation. It has the aura, culture, education, and acceptance a city requires to make it mighty.
  
  See if this equation works in your city. I’m curious.
  
  
  

  Tagged: Tennessee, Nashville Opry aura travel culture education music acceptance equation habitat country

  Posted on March 30, 2010

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• Rachel with the horses at Graceland Mansion. Not much more to say here. Elvis Horses on Vimeo (via Vimeo)

  Posted on March 28, 2010

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• Hunka Hunka Burning Sludge

  

  Day 156

  Oh, did I mention that we also went to Memphis? We were there for a couple a days and we’re seeing some themes across the board. I think you should know: Graceland sucks.

  Graceland, or the land of Elvis, as you have come to know it, is over the top. If I ever hear a slightly overweight, thick, arrogant voice singing, “I’m All Shook Up” ever again, I will probably break a ninja in half and throw the ninja bits like blazing stars into the eyes of the singer until he is all shook up. Permanently. That means you, Elvis —since you’re still ‘alive’ to receive this threat. I will gladly take the chiming candor of Tom Waits any day.

  Now, here’s how it goes. You show up to Graceland. It’s a dump. Seven weird fast food restaurants squat down Elvis Presley Boulevard. One example of these heinous joints is Chicken & Fish, boasting a sign that looks like a cock (not the animal). Avoid these. Marlowe’s is the only real option. Their polite drivers pick you up in a pink cadillac so you can eat pulled pork. Try it!

  Anyhow, book your stay at Heartbreak Hotel for $120 bucks a night. Expect yawn inducing furniture, and NO mirrors on the ceiling in this standard room (Elvis would be so disappointed). But, here’s the good news! You get free tour tickets with your stay (saving you a whopping $68 for two adult tickets). Bring on the everything-Elvis-till-you-think-you’ll-throw-up experience: the mansion, the jet plane tour, the car showcase, and gift shop after gift shop touting Elvis sunglasses and bejeweled purses, all disguised as ‘exhibits.’ I personally was intrigued by the fashion exhibit. Did you know Elvis pioneered the unitard? Well, it was more of a jump suit really, but it prevented his pants from going up (or coming down near the fans) and his belly from hanging out from all those cheeseburgers.

  Funny, the exhibits didn’t really tell the true story. You know, the one where he got addicted to Demerol, cheated multiple times on his wife and estranged his poor, untalented daughter all while singing in sweaty jumpsuits till he overdosed on the bathroom floor in August 1977? Yeah. I hate when they leave out the important bits.

  I have to confess, my favourite part of the whole Elvis ordeal was the rescue horses at the mansion. Lisa Marie Presley adopted them and lets them run around the pasture (did I mention it’s a 13 acre property?). Max and Bandit came right up to me when I clucked at them (not like a chicken, but like a horse).  Bandit has a blue eye. He’s the smarter one. We’re best friends now.

  Do Graceland at least once. That’s all you’ll need in your lifetime unless you are a raving Elvis fan. We saw some. They were elderly ladies with jet black hair, leaking mascara, and drug induced ticks, hanging outside the gift shops for four hours.

  PS- You’ll want to know….

  Why Elvis Got Fat: Fried Peanut Butter Banana Sandwiches

  1 ripe banana

  3 drops lemon juice

  2 pieces white bread

  2 tbsp peanut butter

  1 pinch cinnamon

  1 pinch brown sugar

  smattering of butter

  These were Elvis’ favourite. Mash up your banana in a bowl; add cinnamon, brown sugar and lemon squeeze. Spread peanut butter onto one side of bread. Layer banana mixture over peanut butter. Lay piece of bread over top. Butter outsides of bread. Fry. Shove into your face with a glass of milk. They’re actually pretty tasty.

  Check out more tasty recipes on www.Forkinit.com. Our buddy Christian is the pioneer of this one. And it’s awesome.

  Tagged: Tennessee, Memphis Graceland Elvis Cheese banana sandwhich

  Posted on March 25, 2010

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• Blazing Austin Saddles

  

  Day 155

  A little recap: I said I’d fill you in about Austin, so even though we’re in Nashville, I’m going to pretend we’re not. I’ve glossed over lots of little booger towns; little holes in the wall not worth mentioning. Folks, Austin is most definitely NOT one of these places. You know how every province or state has a place that changes your opinion of the greater whole? Well, that’s what Austin did for us. Trav has been here three times already. He bragged about the city, and to be honest, after driving through the rest of Texas —see El Paso (shit town), Stockton (we will not talk about it), San Antonio (meh, it was alright), and Houston (Houston can f#ck a duck), I thought he was a big fat liar. Turns out, he wasn’t lying after all.

  Austin has a vibe that sort of catches you off guard. It’s green, lush, and full of rivers, dog parks, independent food stands, and charming southern accents. We spent about ten days in Austin during this year’s South By Southwest and the dudes overran the place. Yet the dudes did not detract from the actual aura of the city.

  At every turn, locals spread this funky vibe while playing Frisbee & soccer, drinking on the patio, and sweating through bootcamp. We happened to be there for the Kite Festival, and although some dumb kids were flying them onto power lines, it looked like jazzy crayon doodles in the sky. Dogs even seem chummier here.

  Now the food: it will melt you to a puddle of satisfied goop. There are no chain restaurants here. There are no disgusting tacos, no disgruntled grey hot dogs, no deep fried catfish. What you’ll find in the heart of this delicious little city of 1.7 million is simply face melting food. Iron Cactus (fantastic Mexican), Frank (glorious hot dogs), Uchi (absolutely orgasmic sushi), Halcyon (smoothies, cocktails, paninis) to name a few.

  Then there’s the beer: Ginger Man (wall to wall taps), Buffalo Billiards (for the ambiance & cheap beer), Cedar Door (margaritas). I could go on, but really you just have to suck it up, buy a plane ticket and go to here.

  This place is, in fact, so awesome that I have been devising ways to transplant the entire city right on top of Calgary (my home town). I would, of course, give locals time to escape before plopping down the better architecture, actual design and music culture, and ‘gasp’ friendly service. But I would do it quick enough to tamp out the rude girl at the shoe store in Marlborough mall last year who actually asked me if I would be ‘buying the shoes’ because they were ‘behind some boxes’ and she ‘really didn’t feel like getting them out unless I was serious.’ Die, little teenage slum queen.

  Anyway, you should definitely be attentively and passionately committed to everything I just told you. I never lie. Except when you’re really boring and I pretend I’m actually having a good time. Which never happened at SXSW. Well, maybe once, but you’ll never know.

  Tagged: Austin South by Southwest SXSW 2010 Food city

  Posted on March 24, 2010

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