Miles, my friend.

Miles was the first one I met when I came to look at my prospective US residence. Drenched in August sun, his eyes closed in feline pleasure, he welcomed me to the neighborhood with a purr and a stretch. I liked him immediately.

Thirteen years ago, my roommate’s neighbors in Santa Barbara asked him if he’d like a kitten. “Sorry, I’m allergic, and not really a cat person anyway” he answered.

But they knew him well, apparently, and added “We found him in a dumpster, but our pitbull keeps trying to eat him. He can’t stay here.”

So Miles came home for a day or two while they looked for something else. But Miles had found his home, and moved with it to Nevada, then here to Oakland. He acquired two canine family members along the way, and welcomed them magnanimously. My roommate’s nephews and nieces would come over, too young to realize they’d gotten his name wrong, and immediately ask “Where’s Smiles?”

Roommates brought their own animals over the years, the last of which was a dinosaur of a dog who was entirely too interested in Miles, in his inestimable feline opinion. So Miles basically lived on the porch.

He enjoyed his outdoor life. He’d curl up on a sunny rock, stalk the block, and greet me with a squawk when I came up the walk. (Sorry that got a little out of hand.) His little blue food bowl sat just outside the door, with a water dish on the other side. Across was a scratch post which he’d use to graciously provide us the chance to rub his magnificent feline belly, where the fur was a bit nappy. At first I thought him a grungy little dude, but over time I noticed just how elegant he was.

Once it was clear the behemoth had moved on to other pastures, Miles made his way back inside. He’d kick the dogs off their bed and plop right in the middle with a satisfied smirk while they looked on morosely from the hardwood. Often I’d be at my desk and hear the tinkle of his collar as he’d rouse himself from sleeping on my old backpack in the closet. He’d emerge into the light, squint up with feline affection, stretch, and wander out to find the day.

If I got home late, or got up early, we’d hang out on the porch together, watching the quiet neighborhood go about its modest business. When I ate lunch in the front yard with the dogs, he’d cruise up and take a place on the warm stone walkway. Passing the dogs, he’d usually pause to give them a little sniff-kiss on the nose.

When I found myself alone on Christmas Eve, Miles was here. He nestled in my lap to watch a movie. He kept me company.

.

I’ve been using the past tense for Miles.

On my last trip I got a message from my roommate. Miles, after years of peaceful coexistence with everything on Earth, had gotten caught on the side of the house by raccoons. I still don’t understand what happened. Why now?

They hurt him too badly, and we had to put him to sleep. There was nothing else to do.

One day to the next, no warning, and he was gone. I hate the thought that his last moments were so full of pain, fear. I loved that cat.

In his text, my normally understated roommate could only say “I wasn’t a cat person. He made me one. I miss him.”

I miss him too.

Back to Belgium, aka What's the Atomium?

I went to Belgium for one reason. One destination: one town, one street, one house, one woman. Describing K, attempting to summarize our past, present...and future...would take a book. And this is only a blog.

So I’ll hoard the emotional geography, the plateau, erosion, collapse, darkness, renewal, ascent, comprehension, acceptance, construction, optimism, and final mountainside with a very nice view.

But what I can share is the last day. A great afternoon to finish a great week.

How much French do you hear at the Eiffel Tower? How much Italian at the Coliseum? English at Buckingham Palace...okay, I’ll give you that one. But it’s an often (and halfheartedly...quarterheartedly?) lamented fact that people rarely visit their own country’s postcard landmarks. In Belgium, this is true of the Atomium.

Have you heard of it? Has anyone sent you a postcard from Brussels lately?

The Atomium, as the Eiffel Tower and Seattle’s Space Needle, was built for a World’s Fair, but was just so darn pretty that they kept it afterwards. A model of an iron molecule increased 165 billion times, the structure is 335 feet tall, and was originally designed to stand on its molecular links alone (“Quantum whatnow?” asked the 1958 scientist). Luckily, those trusty Belgians test things before they build them, and noticed that the whole thing would have tipped in 80 kph winds. Belgian winds gets up to about 140 kph. They added some supports.

I’d seen the thing, hulking in molecular mystery on the horizon as I caught the IR train between Brussels and Antwerp, but it never occurred to me to visit the dern thing. But what better way to cap off a visit you never expected to make, than visiting a place you never expected to go?

It was built in the dashing days of 1958, gals and gents in comic-book “The Future Is Now!” smiles and wardrobes. The Space Race was just underway, War was over, and the future was so bright, they had to wear shades. (Nuclear overtones included.) You can see exhibits of those days, their furniture, architecture, and dental hygiene, in the various rooms of the metal marvel.

Then get on an escalator between Dutch kids and German adults, and ride through the psychedelic tube to the next ball. There is a restaurant where you can eat and gaze, plenty of port-holes with views over Brussels, and the sort of bemused tourist shuffle that puts a smile on most faces.

As long as there’s no line for the bathroom.

In the end, I’m glad we went to the Atomium.

But not nearly as glad as I am to have gone back to Belgium. Love still lives there.

Sam has issues

“I’m not sure if Sammy did something really bad in a previous life, which is why he is the way he is, or if he did something really good, which is why he has the owner he does.”

So pondered Charly, my friend and the previous occupant of my room, as we walked the dogs around Oakland prior to the tenancy transfer. Her massive donkey of a dog was smiling at the world, Lucy was monitoring the shadows, and Sam? Sam was nervous and happy and adorable and disgusting and oh-so-concerned.

This is Sam.

Sam has issues.

The first thing I noticed about Sam was his grin, then his brown eyes, followed by his enthusiasm, earnestness, and charm. Then I noted the big bleeding patches of oozing flesh on his paws.

Sam has allergies. Specifically, he’s off-the-charts allergic to dust mites. His owner bought a big air-purifier that runs in the hallway 24/7, and we clean the hardwood floors at least once a week, no carpet here, but there is no escaping dust mites.

It probably doesn’t help that Sam’s kind of nuts. He’s an anxious pup and a determined one. Bandages last a few minutes, and that bitter spray that’s supposed to keep animals from chewing? He puts that stuff on his breakfast. And the sores go bleeding on.

So Samwise wears the cone when his spots get bad. As good natured as he is, he seems to actually kind of like it. Sometimes when we take it off, he’ll go over and lay by, or even on it, as if asking to have it back on. The bad news is that after years of doggy yoga, he can get his knee inside the cone, and soon the skin there is raw and dripping. It gives his paws a chance to heal, but just relocates the problem to his knee. And after a while, even with daily removals and frequent washing, he gets a yeast infection on his neck from it. Poor little guy.

The cone doesn’t solve the problem, so Gamgee is also one medicated little pup. He gets allergy medicine twice daily, plus a steroid. These help with the wounds, but allergies and anxiety are as close in dear Sammy as they are in the dictionary, and the pill that makes the biggest difference is his serotonin reuptake inhibitor.

Yes, when his sores get really bad, Samster pops puppy Prozac, and the mellow blossoms.

That stuff ain’t cheap, and we want as naturally happy a Sampler as possible, so his wardrobe includes a Thunder Shirt. Have you seen these things? A compression vest, you put it on, and the constant hug mellows the animal out considerably. When you first put it on him, he’ll stand in the middle of the room, Zen and peaceful. Just kind of stares at the wall, in love with the world, observing the flow of the universe. But one can grow accustomed to all things, and the effect diminishes over time.

So to alternate, Samwise’s current attire is a soft cone, made of fabric instead of the familiar hard white plastic. It’s supposed to restrict less and breathe more than the plastic one, though I’m not sure if the Emperor Palpatine vibe is an asset or not. It also limits his peripheral vision more, giving him a habit of running into people (he knows where the walls are, but your location is anybody’s guess) and pushing doors closed when he tries to squeeze through them.

Walk Sam past a bus stop, and he’ll try to get on the bus. No one knows where he’s trying to go.

Samson loves Animal Planet, watching intently while the show is on, getting bored during commercials, and perking up again when the animals come back. His favorites are dogs (of course), cats, and meerkats.

When you get home he'll bring you a shoe, but that day
he chose a sock, for some reason.

I got home yesterday and Samwise was nowhere to be found. Just as I was starting to freak out, I noticed the bathroom door was closed. I opened it to find a very relieved Sammypants, chilling in the bathtub.

There’s one other advantage to the soft cone over the hard one. Sam’s not one for fetch, but take him outside in the sun, and you will be treated to one of my favorite things on Earth. The Sammysault. This is a ninja dog, who takes a few loping steps, lowers his head, rolls over a shoulder, then breakdances his exultation on his back before jumping up and grinning at you. Repeat.

Good boy, Samwise.

How does one describe an ice cave?

Gravel moraine left by the retreating glacier

“The cave I was going to take you to is filled with water today, so you might die if we went there. Instead, have you heard of Crystal Cave?” Our guide, looking ruthlessly Icelandic with his ice blue eyes far over my head, seemed to be asking a rhetorical question.

“Yes!” Answered Ben, the member of my little trio who had done all the research.

“We go there.” Answered our guide. Excess verbiage does not survive the climate, perhaps, where the garrulous are prone to frostbitten tongues.

This raft was tied up at the entrance for days when the
river was running to high to enter on foot

My two friends and I joined the guy who runs the Arctic Arts Project and his Icelandic guide/coworker/friend on the benches of a familiar family-roadtrip bulky van from the 1970s, with one significant difference: this thing was lifted five feet off the ground on monster truck tires. I thought it a tourism affectation...until we hit the gravel moraine left by the retreating Breiðamerkurjökull glacier. Then the timpani of tires, the artillery of airtubes, the titans of tread, all made sense.

“Think the Dacia could make this?” asked Oshyan, the third member of our traveler trio, referring to our funky little white rental SUV.

“That's why the rental companies hate you,” answered the Icelandic photographer from the Arctic Arts team. (Hastening to assure us that he was joking, Icelanders don't actually hate anyone.) The dashboard of the Dacia featured a prominent sticker warning us that river crossings and off-road terrain were not covered by the insurance policy, and we would be liable for all damage.

The five of us bounced around the benches like lotto numbers, attempting conversation in short intervals, whenever clavicles weren't hitting the roof or sternums smacking seat-backs. They told us of a film crew from Outside magazine who had taken two jeeps into the highlands, and in their bravado and foolish showmanship, gotten hopelessly stuck.

“They had sunk all the way past the tires. People had to go pull them out. They were all thrown in prison, for damaging the land.” A country that imprisons people for damaging the land? Add this to Iceland's criminal prosecution of bankers for their roles in the financial collapse, and I think I've found the nation of my heart.

Our guide wasn't listening, peering instead into the white abyss. “This is the hard part” he confessed. “Finding a small hole in the glacier, all this gray and white, can be hard. And it moves. Ah.” Such is the Icelandic version of “Eureka!”

The opening looked mysterious. Welcoming, promising and forbidding. The sort of place that inspires troll legends.

“We are the first here, but there will be more. Make the most of your time.” More taciturn advice from our guide. I was lifting my camera as we went inside, but it froze halfway up, and my jaw dropped, breath caught, eyes wide. How do you describe an ice cave?

Blue.

Blueblueblueblue. Cold. Crystaline. Motionless and mobile. Water overhead and water passing your ankles. Snow in cones under shoots. Icicles grow in the corners, but the ceiling is a reverse bubble, faceted but smooth. Eternal and ephemeral, ice from millennia ago in a cave that will be gone within weeks. Ancient and newborn. Blue. White. Gravel. Such stillness.

I had hoped to let the images speak for themselves, but to my frustration, the files I brought back do not match the corresponding memories of their creation. I had hopes of digital editing salvation, but here I am, laundry almost done, last leftovers disappearing off my plate, and a plane to catch in not so many hours, and the answer to that riddle still escapes me.

They're still not too shabby, though.

But for further ice cave images I recommend my friend and co-traveler Ben's flickr stream here, and the Arctic Arts project on facebook.

Cathedrals of stone (made by men) are impressive. Cathedrals of redwood trees (made by gods) ache with the divine. And now, cathedrals of ice (made by Time) are repositories of chronology, libraries of geologic potency.

There is much to see in this world.

(And a couple more pics on the other version of the blog, here.)

Lucy saves the day

Splinters from the weather-worn planks scrape my knees as they thump to the dock. The thud echoes down to where the fires are still burning from my desperate last stand, homemade molotov cocktails and boobytraps with last summer’s fireworks. But it was all for naught.

The setting sun is warm on my back, casting my shadow forward to the evil drug lord who aims his shotgun Uzi at me. He smirks below a sleazy mustache. “It’s over. Put your hands up. Then I kill you.”

I watch my reflection in his aviator sunglasses as my hands rise, then form the letter O in the air. He scoffs, “What are you doing?” He thinks nothing of it as the shadow of my hands creates a circle on his forehead.

Suddenly! A blur of tawny fur as the sleek German shepherd leaps out of nowhere, sails over my head, and pounces on the evil man. She knocks him to the burning dock, where she digs his brains out where the circle had been.

Ha HA, triumph!

That’s the epic conclusion to my brother’s screenplay. Lucy saves the day through her neurotic obsession with shadows, and digging at circles. The first time I came here, hoping to move in a week later, we stood in the kitchen talking, and I watched Lucy staring at the floor, her head tracing from one side to the other.

I thought she’d given away the presence of rats running around below the floorboards. But no, she was watching our shadows. And if you make anything like a circle? Wham! Full-grown shepherd pounce. Think arctic fox, but bigger. We take care not to cast circular shadows anywhere else in the house, since she’d dig through the hardwood floor like stale crackers.

She takes her job very seriously. (Triangles? No deal. Squares? Quit wasting her time.)

Lulu’s a hardworking sort, and is also an expert reflection-chaser (from wine glasses, phone screens, angled knives, or her favorite, the dishwasher door as it opens). Not sure what she thinks the little white pieces of light are. Insolent insects? Alien invaders? Malevolent faeries? She doesn’t know, but she’ll damn well do the diligence to find out.

Few things are as delightful as taking Lou in the front yard for a match on a sunny afternoon. Chip her big blue ball into the air, and she’s got about an 85% chance of catching it on the way down. We have shoot-outs, where I try to get the ball past her to the fence. Final score is often 10-9, but it can go either way.

Last week we had some thunder and lightning, a rare occurrence in this land whose storms normally come down from too-cold-for-such-friction-tomfoolery Alaska. Lookoovore wasn’t super keen on that racket. I calmed her down and she spent the rest of the day within a few yards of my side. I thought I had consoled her, until I told a friend that Loopers brought me one of her bones. “She was taking care of YOU!” she crowed.

Good dog.

And walking her! I had heard that we walk our dogs wrong. You’re not supposed to let them walk ahead of you, much less pull you, or they are walking you. That’s not just a cute joke among dog-walkers, it’s actually a dominance issue. But how to change it? Try walking my parents’ beagles like that? Fuggedaboudit. But Lupinatrix? She stayed right by my side, occasionally sneaking forward, but falling in next to me at a yank on the leash.

In one of his books, Kurt Vonnegut decried training the personality right out of a dog, but that is not the case with Lucifress. Well behaved, but a lover, she has come in twice during the course of typing this blog, just to say hi and see if I’m up for some luvin.

I am.

Now. The sun is warm outside, no sign of rain. I think it’s time for a pbj sandwich, bag of chips, and game of catch with canus Lucious.

Aurora Borealis makin' me crazy

Aaaaaaarggghhh! I am tearing my hair out on this one. Aurora Borealis. A combination of the Roman goddess of the dawn/sunrise and the Greek god of the wind, the name conjures sweeping colors, crackling cold, and the very soul of Odin looking down at you through the ages...and the experience delivers!

But the weird thing about the aurora, it’s the only incidence I can think of where the camera records it better than the human eye. Normally our eyes trumps the living bejeezus out of any equipment (really, they are amazing), but a camera’s ability to withhold perception for thirty seconds comes in handy with the aurora, slow, subtle, and faint as it often is.

So when we spent a few frigid nights watching muted colors caress the underbellies of the stars, and I looked down (with fully night-adjusted eyes) to see beautiful colors on my magic little view screen… I had high hopes.

So today, trying to get them to look the way they did when I was there….

aaaaaaaaaaarrrrgggghhhh! Why you no wanna werk wif me, stoopid image?

Blaming one’s equipment is a lame excuse at best, if not outright verboden, and I can already see at least one setting I should have changed. And if I was better at editing, I’m sure I could enhance these more effectively. But at the end of the day, it was damn fun to be out there, scrambling around in the dark, nabbing what I could. And I’ll take the learning experience.

We had pessimistic forecasts every day, “solid cloud cover and low aurora activity” the screens would declare, but for the first couple nights, and one towards the end, we had enough clarity and enough activity to marvel at the green glow of ionic mysticism.

The first night was crouching on the ice cubes piled up beside the lake in Þingvellir National Park (Thingvellir), where I, being a complete space cadet, had forgotten to bring my tripod, so rested my camera on the ground.

The second night was an improvement in equipment, my tripod splayed by the road back from Akranes, but the wind was being petulant, and even in the relative calm next to the car, a sharp image escaped me.

The last night was spent overlooking Jökulsarlon, the glacial lagoon that anchors my love of Iceland. I clambered down the gravel hillside and sat alone in the dark, listening to the crunch of icebergs, and the occasional splashes and air-blasts of seals close at hand in the darkness.

The images might not look as good as I’d hoped, but the memories are gorgeous.

I have my answer. And my ticket.

I have my answer.

Stranger on a beach, San Blas, Panama

March 2008 I went to Belize. My first international trip (nearly the first time I’d left California) in ten years, it touched off a wanderlust that made me a homeless backpacker by the end of the year.

March 2010, after trying for a couple months to resettle in the US, I gave up and went back to vagabonding abroad.

March 2012, same.

March 2014, would the pattern continue? That was the question. When I moved to Oakland, I asked “Will I cross the ocean in March, 2014?”

Morning on Phewa Lake, Pokhara, Nepal

The answer: yes.

But I came back. It felt good to leave, and it felt good to come home.

Sometimes I feel torn, wanting to be here and wanting to be There. I miss exploring a new place, even as I exult at knowing how to get where I’m going. I remember the simplicity of having three shirts, even as I happily browse my (relatively) massive wardrobe. It’s relaxing to know where I’ll sleep tonight, though I yearn for the days when I don’t.

But as Walt Whitman said, “Do I contradict myself? Very well, then I contradict myself, I am large, I contain multitudes.”

I can encompass it all. And I’m finding the balance.

I can love the air here, the climate that (partially) justifies our exorbitant rents, and smile at skin’s memory of Icelandic glaciers and Malaysian jungle sweat, knowing I will feel the like again. I can practice cooking my mediocre meals, knowing I will again order street food I can neither pronounce nor identify. I can throw a moderately dirty shirt in the washing machine, knowing I’ll be fine hand-washing my own grime someday soon.

I can try to maintain spiderweb friendships made on The Road, but add another layer of cement to the ones here that have already lasted 20 years. And I can marvel at the process as new ones form, hoping they last just as long.

Somewhere in Switzerland, on my 1st big backpack trip 08

I’m doing a rotten job of being around for family birthdays so far this year (with one more to lapse on this next trip), but I’ll be back for belated birthday dinners, and better yet, the random Saturday lunches and movie nights that crop up at a moment’s notice.

And as for travel? I cherish the one-way ticket to a continent of unknown proportions, but now I can shift focus to smaller scales. For now, I will give up the endless wander, and focus on getting to know finite spaces, at home, and abroad.

I look forward to exploring the museums, exhibits, hikes, and niches of the San Francisco Bay Area. And I will spend the rest of this month on an island, learning from and about its people, then come straight home.

Tiny monks in a village near Inle Lake, Myanmar

I wasn’t a complete tourist before, in the most negative interpretation of the word, and have been blessed to meet and know many people. But there’s a layer of insulation that can creep in when your road seems endless; by belonging everywhere and nowhere, you get just that.

Right now, I belong here.

And in a few days, I’ll belong in...another place. (I’ll tell you about There, when I get back Here...)

I’ve scheduled blogs to post every three days for the rest of the month, a mix of travel and Home. I hope you can enjoy them both. The way I do.

Hasta mayo!