Exhalation

Sometimes I hate how easily and how fast I cry. On Monday, while driving back to Davis from San Jose, I heard a

Morning Edition piece

on how crying might be an evolutionary trait. Supposedly humans are the only species to cry for emotional reasons, but the interesting thing about tears is that they are a demonstrative way to show distress, but only to those close enough to see our faces. It makes sense: if we were out hunting for food and were suddenly surprised by a predator, we wouldn't want them to know we were feeling vulnerable, but we would want our allies to know immediately that we need help.

And yet...do I really need help when I'm cutting an onion? When I'm tired or my blood sugar dips ever so slightly or I stub my toe or I am suddenly, momentarily pissed off? Perhaps what bothers me the most about when I cry is not the fact that I'm crying, but rather the way that it's interpreted. I tend to cry more often out of sheer (momentary) frustration than I do out of honest-to-god sadness. Real grief inspires stunned silence, and a desire for action or response. But my evolutionary response seems less to do with incoming predators and more to do with incomprehension. Misinformation. Brief and inconsequential bullshit. That's the stuff that raises my hackles and I always wish that my tears wouldn't betray me so quickly.

The irony is that when I cry (at least out of frustration), the last thing I tend to want is for someone else to approach me and try to make it better. Because that's when tears multiply, not because the feeling has grown, but because by simply acknowledging that what I'm doing is out of the ordinary, whatever it is I'm feeling is likewise extraordinary. As if it's silly to be feeling anything in the first place.

I had a long day today, and it was my fault. I agreed to work a total of 12 hours between two different gigs, and was already low on steam. On my way home, I stopped by a house I've agreed to sit to water the plants and air out the upstairs. This house has a great huge fan that is turned on by a single switch. I've been given careful instruction to open the upstairs windows before turning on the fan, which sucks out the air and circulates fresh air all over the house. It emits a loud, resonant whir as it goes. For some reason, when I turned on the fan tonight in that big, personless home, it sucked the tears out of me too. It was as if the entire house was sucking out my excess carbon dioxide, as if it were giving me permission to relax my shoulders and lean back and just let the feeling circulate. It made more noise than I ever could, and that was refreshing. Best of all, when I turned the fan off, it was as if I had turned off a switch in my own brain. Moment noticed, moment experienced, moment done.

I wonder if, every time I make a mistake or misinterpret directions or accidentally take too much insulin or hurt someone's feelings, instead of shedding real tears I could just imagine a giant fan opening up in my brain, filtering the feeling down through my body, until whatever it was had sufficiently circulated before I could turn it off.

Three Things to Love

The following three things represent three different parts of my brain that need to be fed and watered on a regular basis:

1.

Stuff You Missed in History Class

. This podcast and

blog

(produced by HowStuffWorks.com and narrated by the lovely Katie Lambert and Sarah Dowdey) covers everything from the Medici murders to Lord Byron to Dracula to the Voodoo Queen of New Orleans. The two editors who voice the episodes have accomplished a great feat: they make history a series of entertaining stories that you can listen to whenever and however you want.

2.

Battlestar Galactica

. In the tradition of Julia discovering television hits several years after they end, this SyFy series is one of the only sci-fi adventures I can truly sink my teeth into. My nerd-hormones (yes, I have them, and so does everybody) take over whenever I see Edward James Olmos fight back yet another cylon attack. At its heart, it is a truly well-written show.

3.

Salt-N-Pepa

. I bought a used copy of "Very Necessary" at a record store today for two dollars and it was well spent. Anyone who can make a hit out of the word "shoop" is a winner. I love their attitude. If I were a diva, this is the kind I'd be:

So real. So fresh. There really isn't any other way to be, is there? I'd say more, but I've got to find out what happens after the former president is executed on BSG before downloading more history for my ears.

Found Poem



Ask me how old this box is next time we speak

In a twist of serendipitous fortune, I found this post-it lying face-up on the street while moving out of San Francisco yesterday. I'd like to say that it came from one of my boxes--some lost note or thought that lay forgotten for three years, until it came time to move again. But I think it is more likely that the handwriting belongs to some other person, living a parallel life on this, the beautiful and hilly street that has been my base while I worked my first real job, started grad school, fell in love, made friends, saw presidents and politics change in America. Someone else who likely has traveled far and expects to travel again. Someone who hopes, just as I do, that they do speak again, and when they do, they'll remember the day they packed the box.

Legend of the Frenchman Street Raccoon



We saw, in the distance, the rare and mysterious Frenchman Street raccoon, who uttered the simple phrase, "j'accuse," before disappearing into the gutter...

This cartoon was inspired by a taxidermied raccoon perched above a stage at Checkpoint Charlie's bar in New Orleans. It even wore a little bowler hat. Ryan and I were admiring it when the bartender walked up and pointed out the little sign propped against the critter's paw. "J'accuse."

Some things are better left unexplained.

Annie's Puzzle

One of my favorite poems, in honor of Village Homes friend and acclaimed water rights lawyer Anne Jeffrey Schneider, who passed away on July 30th:

"There must have been a time when you entered a room and met someone and after a while you understood that unknown to either of you there was a reason you had met. You had changed the other and he had changed you. By some word or deed or just by your presence the errand had been completed. Then perhaps you were a little bewildered or humbled and grateful. And it was over.

Each lifetime is the pieces of a jigsaw puzzle.
For some there are more pieces.
For others the puzzle is more difficult to assemble.
Some seem to be born with a nearly completed puzzle.

And so it goes.

Souls going this way and that.
Trying to assemble the myriad parts.

But know this. No one has within themselves
All the pieces to their puzzle.
Like before the days when they used to seal
jigsaw puzzles in cellophane. Insuring that
All the pieces were there.

Everyone carries with them at least one and probably
Many pieces to someone else's puzzle.
Sometimes they know it.
Sometimes they don't.

And when you present your piece
Which is worthless to you,
To another, whether you know it or not,
Whether they know it or not,
You are a messenger from the Most High

--Lawrence Kushner

Thanks to this website where I found the text. I first heard the story while traveling in Israel as a teenager, and while I had my doubts about holy messengers, I couldn't help feeling that Rabbi Kushner had a valid point.

Anne had her fair share of puzzle pieces, and I was lucky to witness that, growing up with her boys Charlie and Logan in Village Homes.

Shelly and Ellen

Meet Shelly and Ellen. They have been together more than 30 years. This morning we spotted a photo of them in the middle of Newsweek magazine, taken last week when Judge Walker ruled that Proposition 8 was unconstitutional. You'll see that in this

KALW story

there is yet another photo of Shelly and Ellen.

There's also

this famous photo

, taken that day nearly two years ago when California passed Proposition 8, the controversial ban on gay marriage. Then there's

this one

, taken this past January when the proposition itself went on trial in San Francisco. And

this photo

is perhaps the most poignant: taken back in May 2008 when, for the second brief period in history, gay marriage was a reality in California.

I know Shelly and Ellen. They are longtime residents of my hometown, and have been active in local politics for many years. My parents are good friends with them and share many of their social and political opinions. I've come to realize lately that these women epitomize what should be real celebrity: people who represent an idea, who aren't afraid to react, and who return, time and again, to the values they hold true.

Last week I heard a

lively interview

featuring the plaintiffs of Prop 8, Kristin Perry and her partner Sandy Stier, as well as Jordan Lorence, senior counsel and senior vice president in the Office of Strategic Initiatives at the Alliance Defense Fund. I was listening in the car with my boyfriend as we explored the strawberry fields of central California. It struck me then that here we were witnessing a historic precedent.

This is the civil rights issue of our generation. Racism and sexism are still prevalent but homophobia and its social implications have become the Jim Crow laws of the early twenty-first century. Propositions, trials, marriages and government-regulated "annulments" are our looong way of walking around a fairly simple point: marriage is a civil right that should be granted to consenting adults of any gender. And as absurd as this system sometimes all seems, it is at its heart a democratic process: chock full of bureaucracy, but democratic to the end.

I just hope that, by the time this case gets completely resolved, we as a country can recognize that same-sex marriage is tantamount to interracial or interfaith marriage, all unions that are equally sound. And when that day comes, maybe Shelly and Ellen will be on the cover of Time magazine.

On Happiness



There is a story behind this. In Brooklyn we visited lots of friends, including Ryan's friend Brett. I'd never met Brett but from all accounts he is a fun and lively guy. Apparently just three short weeks before we made it to New York, he was biking through the city when a police car ran a red light, causing a garbage truck to slam on its brakes in the middle of a busy intersection. You might guess where Brett was when that happened.

Needless to say, he split his kneecap, had emergency surgery and now has a full length leg cast. All things considering, he seemed to be doing well when we stopped by his apartment, which is (rather frustratingly) on the second floor. My drawing skills are amateur at best, and so when I showed him the portrait I said, "I didn't mean to make you look so sad. Say something happy and I'll write it down."

I realized as soon as I'd said it how annoying that request must seem -- hey, be chipper! -- and to his eternal credit, Brett's response was "I have nothing happy to say."

Happily, he seems to be recovering well.

What I think of, when I think of the Americans with Disabilities Act

This week marks the twentieth anniversary of the passage of the Americans with Disabilities Act, a landmark law that afforded people with disabilities the same civil liberties as everyone else. In the past two decades, many building codes have been reformed to improve accessibility and be mindful of physical obstacles. However, recent polls indicate that the disabled are still at a significant disadvantage in the job market. I heard a great interview with Sid Wolinsky, co-founder and director of litigation for Disability Rights Advocates, and Judy Heumann, special adviser for international disability rights with the U.S. Department of State, on Forum this week. Let me put this in perspective.

The first job interview I ever had was for an organic kitchen. I was to work as a dishwasher and cashier. Prior to this job I had worked mostly for people that I already knew. Before my interview, I reviewed the Americans with Disabilities Act to remind myself that I had no obligation to explain my insulin pump or excuse the fact that I was diabetic because it had no pertinence to how well I'd do the job. It seems like such a small detail now that I've worked several different workplaces and interviewed for hundreds more positions, but back then I was barely 19 and was still a relatively new diabetic. What exactly were my obligations to my employer? And, conversely, what were their obligations to me?

These are important questions for anybody to ask. One of the best things about living in the United States is that these are questions we are allowed to ask, if not expected to. If there's anything I've learned, it's that part of being a healthy human is knowing your rights and asserting them.

And there is one right I'd like to assert here, now: that students with diabetes in California schools have the right to authorize another responsible person to administer their insulin. As of last month, the Third District Court of Appeals in Sacramento has officially prohibited non-nurse personnel from helping students take insulin on campus. What does this mean? This means that schools are worried about the liability of having other staff members (or, heaven forbid, the students themselves) give the incorrect dosage and risk harming the kid. This also means that many fully capable type 1 diabetics must wait for an available nurse (which, in this county at least, means one or two personnel per district) or for one of his or her parents to leave their work and come to school to administer their shots. All this, so the kid can eat his or her lunch and have a "normal" day.

I understand the risks that miscalculated insulin has on diabetics, which is why I think the more the individual understands about his or her body, and the more they educate their friends, family, classmates and educators, the less they risk when treating themselves. This is a lot harder to do for a five-year-old than it is for a seventeen-year-old, and the fact remains that insulin is a potent substance. There is no easy fix for an issue this complex. I don't offer a solution, nor do I agree with what's been suggested so far. I just hope that kids of all ages are aware of their rights to understand their own bodies, and ask the people they trust to help them when they need it. The state needs to recognize that sometimes those very people (school nurses, parents, the child's doctor) can't be available every day at lunchtime when a kid needs a shot. That's why the kid and his or her family should be able to train and appoint a responsible administrator or friend--as backup, at least.

The ADA has achieved a lot in its twenty years, and it is projected to achieve much more. The path to civil rights seems always to be checkered, but at least along the way we can see the value in our experiences and create a platform for discussion.

End of an Era: the Cardinal Lounge



The funny thing was that she'd never heard of catnip! How outrageous!

This is in honor of the Cardinal Coffee Shop & Lounge in San Jose, a 24-hour diner decorated in red vinyl that has been serving coffee, pancakes, shakes and bloody marys for many years. I went for the first time on Valentine's Day 2009, when my (now) boyfriend insisted that this family-friendly diner, all lit up in neon, was the single best place to be. He pointed out the bullet hole in one of the taller windows, a blemish in the otherwise well-groomed parlor. We later returned with friends on my birthday, and one of them explained that the secret to his academic success was their all-night coffee service.

At the entrance to the restaurant are the statues of two black leopards, their paws meeting mid-air. It oozes of Reagan-era cheese in a way that makes the watercolors of waitresses look historic. I stopped before a big painting today, one of a smiling waitress with a platter on one hand, her nametag reading "Lucy."

"I wonder who that is," I said.

"Oh, it's nobody," a waitress laughed. "Although they say she looks like the owner."

This story takes a sad turn, however: the Cardinal Lounge is closing this month. Ryan and I were on the road when a friend back home gave him the news, and I'll never forget his reaction. We might have been watching a World Cup game, or perhaps planning our next destination, when out of nowhere he lowered the cell phone from his ear and said slowly, "They're closing the Cardinal Lounge."

A seminal moment, I'm sure. Allegedly the owners are hosting an auction next week. I won't be around but I half expect a crowd of twentysomething skateboarders to show up and bid on all those vinyl barstools or the cardinal mugs. I didn't grow up with this place, and thus don't have quite as visceral a reaction, but we all have places that represent as much of ourselves and our adolescence that I understand as well as any. You can't help feeling that once the place is gone, so then is a part of you.

Bathroom Stall Series, #5


marriage
Originally uploaded by Julia_h_j

I don't know what's sadder about this: the fact that someone young enough to be in college is so worried about loneliness, or the fact that she was worried enough to write it on a bathroom wall.

Marriage has been in the air these days, although it might be more appropriate to say weddings are in full bloom. Even without the social crutch that is Facebook I can tell that so many of my peers and classmates are getting hitched. Don't get me wrong: I love weddings and am all for stopping to celebrate healthy, long-lasting relationships. I hope to marry someday too, but for reasons different than the ones captured here. But there was something about this particular piece of accidental poetry that pinned down my internal skeptic when it comes to marrying young.

"I don't want to get married but I don't want to be alone for the rest of my life."

I wonder who she meant to read this, who she might consider marrying, and how soon she thinks she should settle. More than anything, I wonder if a few years from now, she'll find herself in a different place, maybe with a different partner, realizing that whatever race she thinks she's losing is not really a race at all.

The musician at Checkpoint Charlie



This is the drawing that made us friends at the Frenchman Street bar Checkpoint Charlie's, in New Orleans. This skinny bearded singer was the first to take the stage. He kept beating his narrow little cowboy boots against the floor, and sang with an intense, Southern twang, but when I went to ask him to autograph my drawing, he was calm and demure. The bartender loved the little sketch, but added that he needed more hair. At one point she even wandered over with a bottle of White-Out, which she dabbed across the beard, insisting that I draw it darker and curlier. I did my best.

Kabbalah, Air Conditioning: Same Thing, Right?


Kabbalah, on the side of an AC van
Originally uploaded by Julia_h_j

I spotted this Hebrew genome on the side of a van advertising air conditioning services outside a tapas restaurant in Chelsea, New York City. I won't lie; it warmed my heart. There's a certain magic in witnessing that hybrid of business and personal belief painted on the side of an otherwise nondescript white van. A different approach from the Christians who lined Bourbon Street in New Orleans, passing out literature on how to save your soul printed on what looked deceptively like drink tickets. But both actions sum up an essentially American experience: the freedom of expression, hidden in the guise of a business enterprise.

Williamsburg is evenly split between Hasidic Jews, Puerto Ricans and Dominicans, and bonafide, tight-pants-wearing, fixie-riding hipsters. I couldn't help remembering the cheer of "There are NO CATS in AMERICA" from Fieval Goes West, wondering if each one of these disparate groups came to New York with a different city in mind.

On the way home, we crossed Nevada from Zion National Park en route to Yosemite. Bathrooms are few and far between on Nevada freeways, and so we were grateful to find a rest stop in a tiny, seemingly nameless town. The building was oddly familiar, and a memory came to me as we drove past the saloon doors to its other entrance, one advertising cherries and women. I'd been here before as an eight year old girl on a family trip, desperate for the bathroom. The door to the restaurant was locked, and so I walked around to the other little building, where fancy looking people waved from the windows. I had just reached for the door handle when my father pulled me back to the car.

"Julia, you can't go in there," he said.

"I've got to pee!" I wailed.

"Squat by the car," he said. "Nobody'll look."

Confused, but with no other option, I acquiesced, and it wasn't until we'd driven another sixty or seventy miles til my parents agreed to tell me why I couldn't just use the bathroom with the pretty ladies in it.

This time, the saloon was open, and we went in. While in the bathroom, I found a small comic book entitled "The Assignment." Intrigued, I pocketed it, and as we drove away, I was reminded again of the American desire to infiltrate personal beliefs into the greater world. The little flip book told the story of a man who didn't believe in Jesus, and his gnarly end. It ended with a short prayer to help newcomers enter Jesus into their lives, an act which, its authors promised, would be a matter of heaven or hell. The little notebook was strategically placed in the bathroom of a saloon-come-brothel, and I, a traveling agnostic Jew-at-best, took it home with me as a souvenir of the insistence of American expression.

Now all I need to do is find a van that advertises comics for Jesus, but in reality sells insurance.

America: Consider Yourself Discovered



In the past week, we've outrun a tornado, met the latest and greatest of the Jackson family clan (Jolee, daughter to Greg and Carolee), watched the sunrise over Mesa Arch in Canyonlands National Park, and climbed both Angel's Landing and the Narrows in Zion National Park in Utah. Okay, so technically neither of us wanted to risk that final half-mile death march on Angel's Landing, but we made it all the way to Scout's lookout, and were back down at the base by 9 am this morning. Not too shabby.

It is hard to believe how far we have gone in one month. We plan to be home by Sunday night, which means we can change our clothes and unpack our bags and sleep in our own beds, but it also means that this little mini reality we've been daydreaming through is coming to a close. We'd say it would be hard to pinpoint favorite places, foods or experiences, but in the end the same things stand out: the jazz in New Orleans, the rivers in Tennessee and North Carolina, the happy and fun Pittsburghers and their Pittsburghese, the fried artichoke salad at Tia Pol in New York City, where Mr. Dave Peterson works...

Our trip back west has been a bit of a hustle, with its own unexpected adventures. We zipped in and out of Iowa's ugly Lake Manawa, where the water had rumors of E. Coli and it appeared that whomever didn't live in Omaha proper came to live in the park. Nebraska was surprisingly beautiful and about as chock full of historic sites and places as one could imagine, including the Pony Express Station. We had hoped to camp at Wildcat Recreation Area, about 30 miles outside Sidney, and the park was stunning, but about half an hour after we'd parked the car, we saw the clouds brewing overhead and overheard tornado warnings on the radio. So instead of visiting Chimney Rock, we drove north through Wyoming in the driving rain, and spent the night with Julia's cousins in Colorado. From there we have zigzagged through Utah's five phenomenal national parks, and are now staying at Julia's fifth grade buddy Sarah's house about two miles outside Zion National Park. The view from her backyard is easily worth as much as whatever it is they pay in San Francisco's Pacific Heights or Malibu. With a lot less people, and a lot more wildlife.

Tomorrow we make the long drive to Yosemite, for one final night in our trusty tent before heading home on Sunday. Home--where is that again?

Many thanks to Team HJ, the Alpers, Pat & Dale Bibee, Rim Vilgalys & family, Allie & Toya, Jes Consiglio & family, Cleve & Lindsay, Adam Taylor & Dave Peterson, Coleman Hamilton, Greg & Carolee, Zion expert Sarah, and everyone else who made this trip and its subsequent excursions possible.

Happy summer...

Dateline: Chicago, on America's Birthday

Well, it's official. We proved Ryan's mechanic wrong. We made it to New York City, and after driving through Ohio and Indiana, are now enjoying a quiet evening with Mr. Coleman Hamilton in Chicago.

We have traveled through about 19 states so far, and reckon that by the time we make it home, we'll have seen at least half of the United States.

We started last week in Pittsburgh with Mr. Cleveland Motley IV, where we visited Fallingwater, the Frank Lloyd Wright house, as well as the Andy Warhol Museum and Trader Jack's flea market. Our final evening in Pittsburgh we went to an awesome tiki bar located on Neville Island on the Ohio River. There were fake neon palm trees and a parking lot full of vintage cars out front. Waterskiiers criss-crossed before us on the beach. It felt like home.

Ryan's birthday was Wednesday, and we spent most of the day driving to New York City. On his request, we blasted Frank Sinatra's song, "New York, New York." We met up with Adam Taylor in Brooklyn, and are happy to say that we are the first successful New York City campers. We set up tent on their back patio after a rousing birthday barbeque. During our three days in New York, we went to MOMA, saw three World Cup soccer games, ate delicious food with the darling Angie McKee and Ryan Schrock, visited the AAA store by the Lincoln Center, and picnicked at Prospect Park for a reggae concert. Ryan also got his haircut by Alberto, an Italian barber at Astor Place.

Our only mistake in visiting New York was trying to depart Brooklyn on Saturday afternoon. It took us well over an hour to get from Dave Peterson's apartment to the Holland Tunnel, but that had the added advantage of making New Jersey look amazing in comparison. We made it as far as Richfield, Ohio, before settling down for the night.

Today we left bright and early for the beautiful Windy City. We had no idea how large Lake Michigan is! In a few short hours, we managed to enjoy some pretty solid deep-dish pizza, walk through Wrigleyville to Wrigley Field, and enjoy the fireworks over Montrose Harbor.

Tomorrow we start the long drive through Iowa, with later stops in Nebraska, Colorado, and Utah. We've got a lot of miles to cover. Luckily, we like to cover them. ;)

Discovering America, Part Four: Pittsburgh, PA



Two weeks into our trip, we find ourselves in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania. I find myself wanting to write things down journalistically, recording the who where why when how of every single day on the road, the names of funny roads and the ingredients to family recipes, and yet, at the end of the day it's hard to narrow down just what made each day so extraordinary.

We left off in Durham, North Carolina, home to Duke University, deserted tobacco factories now renovated as hip bars and music venues, and the wonderful and fun Vilgalys family. Rim went to school with us in Santa Barbara, and was happy to show us around his hometown, where we discovered the wonders of cigar bars and "the taqueria with the cow on top of it." We were put up in the amazing Vilgalys home with his parents Rytas and Liz, their dogs Mona and Lulu, and a small harem of wonderful cats. Walking outside their house was akin to wandering straight into the forest. Bullfrogs, chickens, hawks; it was amazing.

My favorite part of our stay in Durham was the hike down the Eno River to a stone quarry which had since been converted into a small lake. There were salamanders, frogs of all sizes, birds, and an amazing diversity of mushrooms. Ryan's highlight was probably our late night trip to Bo Jangles, one of Durham's many fried food joints, and the subsequent revelry with Rim, his brother Gabe, and some of their friends.



After Durham we made our way northward through Virginia and suffered through Washington D.C. traffic at rush hour in time to arrive at Allie and LaToya's apartment in Baltimore. Allie was the first friend I made in college (at summer orientation), an amazing writer, jazz musician and educator. LaToya also lived in Santa Barbara for a year and is one hell of a fine artist--we're talking paintings, sculpture, and she has just started work on her first commissioned mural. So basically their apartment just south of Patterson Park is a homage to good art, books, and happy pets. While in Baltimore, we checked out the Baltimore Museum of Art and took a small detour to the Apple Store because (um) Ryan's computer has decided it needs its own vacation.

From Baltimore we drove through the first of several turnpikes (ask us later how much we love paying for them, state by state--ick) en route to visit Jes Consiglio in South Jersey. Jes and I lived together for five months in Granada, and as anyone who has lived abroad can tell you, the people you meet traveling are the kind of people to whom you are intimately connected thereafter. Jes now teaches Spanish in New Jersey, and so she was happy to give us a tour of Philadelphia, where we saw the Independence Hall, the Liberty Bell, and LOVE park, before heading to a Phillies baseball game. Our stay in Philly was a very culinary experience, too: first there were the AMAZING soft pretzels and water ice from the South Jersey Pretzel and Water Ice Company, (where Jes' fabulous mother works), then there were the famous Philly Cheese Steak Sandwiches from Tony Luke's, and finally there were the crab fries from Chickie's that we bought at the ball game right when the Phillies started really kicking the Toronto Blue Jays' collective ass. And then, of course, more soft pretzels.



Oh, soft pretzels. Jes gave us 12 more when we left on Saturday morning, but they were gone by late that evening, when we had arrived at Cleveland Motley IV's house in beautiful Pittsburgh, PA. Cleve is also a former Gaucho and one of Ryan's good friends (when they both lived in San Francisco, they spent the better half of a year building a playground that generated electricity). We were treated to a pretty special barbeque dinner out on their porch, which is draped in hanging green vines and frequented by fireflies. Pittsburgh is divided by a few rivers and is home to a few major universities, but more than anything I've been amazed at how beautiful and leafy it is. This feels like the kind of place that Raymond Carver wrote about. A place where, in the stillness of late afternoon, characters come and go, and things happen. Thanks, Cleve. :)

We've reached our halfway mark of the trip in remarkable time and with no major hiccups. More than anything, we've soaked up a tiny bit of local culture in each place we've driven through, whether it be Lithuanian liqueur (thanks Rim), to free art in Baltimore, to greens sandwiches in Philly, to Vietnamese sandwiches at the Pittsburgh Strip. From here we will eventually make it to New York before turning our wheels homeward.

Thank you to all our friends and hosts who have been so kind as to let us drive in and out of your daily lives. It has been one hell of a trip.