Tag: travel

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Möchtegern Musings

“Are you German?,” asks the incidental guide.

“Not yet” my internal voice declares.

My most important hobby right now is “walking around and looking at things.” And while doing this in Cologne, Germany, a random citizen, Uli, directed to something really cool too look at around a corner. Spoiler alert, this doesn’t end with me waking in an ice bath down one kidney.

Instead, when the corner rounded, the modern building revealed pristinely preserved Roman ruins. A passerby would have never known it was there so I was instantly appreciative (albeit suspicious) of Uli.

My default setting leans towards conspiracy, so I assumed Uli may be like people who try to sell you thing or emotionally terrorize you into supporting a side hustle of bottled water sales. ‘Twas not the case though. However, if anyone IS looking to swindle me in the future, know that  Uli’s tactic of “my kids would be so embarrassed if they knew I was talking this much to strangers” works well to convince me of trueness of character.

Uli’s daughter was on her honeymoon, by the way. Allegedly.

Anyways, I know it’s unfair to try to categorize a county based on a week of tourist activities, but the people and county that I did see, fit my little hamster wheel spirit like a glove.

Stereotypes I’d heard of Germany were that it’s efficient, orderly, and no nonsense. Aside from Instagram dirndl photo shoots at opening day of Oktoberfest by other tourists, I saw nothing to evaporate the Deutschland typecasts.

For example, the tour of Neuschwanstein Castle. In a very orderly fashion the English speaking tour headed in exactly at our appointed time and rounded the corner to see our guide in his Alfred Pennyworth aesthetic and pin straight posture unemotionally waiting for his group.

The whole tour  spoke to my soul with the baritone tour guide in his accented precise English quickly moving us from room to room. “In this next room, you’ll see a chandelier made to replicate a Byzantine crown. There’s not a lot space, move quickly.” And everyone did. And we still saw everything there was to see. Go. Do. Move on. Almost makes me tear up to remember it.

There seemed to be a flow and vibe in all I visited that was devoid of things that are unnecessary. Be it colors other than black and gray, or greeting those you pass on a walking trail. It’s not to say that people weren’t nice, there just seemed to be a refreshing level of authenticity in their interactions. Whether it was the man with the standard poodle was asking me if I needed help finding my train, or the post surgical retired steel worker lady who called us Hollywood, if seemed like it was all more genuine than what happens here.

My experience could be unique. And for all I know, I could have been invisible or violating all the cultural norms, but I liked it.

Grocery store clerks sit down behind the registers and they don’t tell you to have a nice day. My take on Germany is that you’re responsible for yourself. All my days were nice and it was also really nice to know that I didn’t need someone to tell me they needed to be. There seems to be a greater emphasis on autonomy. The trains are “honor system” and still everyone pays. Everything I saw was clean, everywhere I went I felt safe.

To further define the orderliness, think of the Shasta District Fair. Stay there any length of time and you are guaranteed to see a fight of some fashion. Estimates for daily attendance at Munich’s Oktoberfest are 300,000 people. IN A DAY! Not only did I see zero fights at this free event, I had no waits in line to get my sausage (and then later my pretzel) and my coke zeros. Also, I ditched my beer superfan there and he too showed back up still with 2 kidneys.

So no, Random Citizen, Uli. According to 23 and Me, I’m only 7.6% German. I’m pretty sure that an assessment of my whole biology. However, yesterday I was in a meeting that started with “would you like to talk about…” and without permission my German heart made be blurt “No.” before I even heard what the proposed subject was.  

However, when I see how many words I’ve typed to say just the following “Germany was truly great” I realize I’m maybe not so German after all.

Thanks for reading, and go see some cool shit in Germany.

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Quasi Granola Girl Meets Mt. Eddy

I didn’t plan to make this a granola girl summer, but I’ve done a lot more hiking than ever before. So much so that “I’m going to go walk around and eat peanuts” was an entire description of a plan.

Yesterday’s trail mix justifier was Mt. Eddy. It’s another one of those beautiful sites right here in our backyard that I’m ashamed I haven’t appreciated before now. It’s about an hour and a half north of Redding. Thankfully for my little non-subaru grocery getter, the road to is it nice and paved. It’s probably not a great road for people who don’t like to look straight down off a roadway to tree tops hundreds of feet below them, but if you’re good with that, the drive alone is stunning enough without any hike involved.

The trail from Deadfall Lake trailhead, was NOT hard to locate. Which foreshadowed my adventure when I initially couldn’t find it. There is a lot of babbling brook, falling water, cooling meadows, and serene lake front. Even before the alpine section of the trail, it became my favorite adventure of the summer.

The trail took me 2 and 10 minutes to get to the top. Roughly 2 hours and 9 minutes of that is completely west facing side of the mountain. The view captivates with layer after layer of rugged blue peaks. The backside of Castle Craggs was visible in the distance and all I could think of was the Disney Jungle Cruise joke “the back side of water.”

As noted. I was already impressed.

Then, that very last minute.

Alone and weird, I literally gasped out loud when in the course of about 6 steps, the summit is crested and Mt. Shasta becomes visible smacking you in the face with its prominence and majesty. I knew it was over there the whole hike, but it seemingly appears out of nowhere with a suddenness that made my eyes leak. Granola girls.

I didn’t stay up top long. I had a grocery order to pick up. I stayed long enough to take some pictures. One of a ladybug I decided to call Olive. Allegedly the mountain is named after Olive Eddy. The first woman to summit. It’s not typical for me to get too angry about things like this, and no disrespect to Olive, but c’mon man. I walked up this in 2 hours. You can’t tell me there was no reason for any indigenous woman in the epochs of time to walk up there. Probably laden with children and perhaps a bear carcass. But okay Olive. Credit to you. Luckily the mountain was so beautiful it could be called poop pile and I still would have chosen this as my favorite hike of the year.

I headed down, still very excited about the view.

Things were going great. Until they weren’t.

At a saddle before the summit push, there was a group of 7 ish young men taking pictures with the lake behind them. I can’t tell age, but I’m thinking teens. Clean cut, well-mannered kids that made my boy mom heart smile. They asked me to take their picture. As I did, I noticed things like sheathed large knives, bear spray hanging from their backpacks in the ready position. All things that I didn’t have. I took trail mix and water. We parted and I thought about how I should probably better prepare for things like solo walkabouts.

And that’s when the wheels fell off.

I blame being in my head for the directional fail that happened at that point. I turned left. I should have gone right. When I hike, I listen to music and try not to focus too much on surroundings on the uphill. I don’t like to keep looking up and get discouraged at how much more there is to cover. This is a poor plan. I pressed on in the wrong direction not being sure if the trail was the same. The cell signal was non-existent so I had to rely on other means to know if I was actually lost. I knew that the whole loop was 7.9 miles. Accounting for goofing off walking around, I figured that if I hit nine miles and no Honda, I was certain I was lost.

I was.

The good news is, I’ve put some miles on the Pacific Crest Trail and am now wondering if that can be a goal for me. The bad news is, that 4 miles in the wrong direction was downhill. Which means to correct I had to go 4 miles uphill just to get back to the error point. In total yesterday

If I could have found a way to quit, I would have. I was out of peanuts. I was mad everytime the Garmin watch chirped that I’d gone over my elevation gain goal again. I was listening to nature because somewhere on the trail I lost my earbuds. Granola girls shouldn’t leave electronic waste on the PCT, but there was NO way I was going to walk the 4 miles again to reclaim them. Sorry planet and my grandkids grandkids!

In total I hiked 16 miles of a 7.9 mile hike. 2 hours and 10 minutes to the summit, 5 hours and 10 minutes from the top back to the car. I was tired and hungry and thankful to be back in the car. Maybe not surprisingly, there was an absence of matched sense of urgency from the staff at the McDonalds in WEED. Not making assumptions, but,…Weed.

This will probably be the last hike of the year. Even though I’m trashed today, I’m incredibly thankful I did it. 6 out of 5 stars, even with getting so lost.

Thanks for reading and please let me know if there are other wonders of the local world I’ve missed.

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Worth It

Yesterday I learned a valuable lesson, there are specific classifications for hiking trails that expand beyond the scope of “easy, moderate, challenging” ect. I’ve put some miles on my hikers this year. I’d hoped to have my feet be places they’d never been. Living where we do, there is a bounty of beautiful trails to find yourself in moving meditation. Sometimes I’m lucky to chill with some epic and like minded humans on these adventures, but also being out there alone has been an unexpected treat. Turns out I mind my own company a lot less when I’m doing things. Busy body, quiet mind (or whatever the guy said).

As my year progressed, the list of trails I visited has grown. Living in the golden internet age, it’s been great to plan ahead with trail maps and descriptions. I’ve found the information to be both very helpful and to be taken as a personal challenge. The National Park Service says Mt. Lassen summit is “strenuous” and takes 4-5 hours. They say Brokeoff Moutain is 6 hours and is “considered one of the toughest in the park.”

Since I handily made both of those hikes my proverbial bitch, I didn’t give a second thought to walking up Black Butte. Black Butte is 60 ish miles north of Redding and sits right along I-5 like a solitary geological sentinel. It’s an isolated hiccup in the landscape that has probably made more folks than me wonder what the view from the top is like.

My buddy Google said that I would expect to take 3 hours to complete this “moderately difficult” walk. The distance is 5 miles. This was shorter than the last week’s hike of 7 at Brokeoff. The height of Black Butte is 6,300 ish feet. This is less than Brokeoff at 9,200 and Lassen at 10,400.

With confidence, I put in my Walmart grocery order for 11 am pick up, put some water in my backpack, and headed north.

When I’m getting ready to go somewhere new, I enjoy spending time listening to podcasts about my destination. I didn’t find any Black Butte specific pos casts and I chose not to listen to all that Spotify had to offer about Black Butte’s neighbor, Mt. Shasta. Titles such as “Mount Shasta” A History of High Strangeness” “Don’t Be Fooled…Mt. Shasta is EXTREMELY Dangerous”  and “These Missing People Cases on Mt. Shasta Don’t Make Sense” didn’t really seem like a good plan before a solo hike.

So with my trashy music instead, I plowed ahead. My Civic just begging me to trade it in for a stereotypical outdoorsy person car as it kicks up dust in to a road whose difficultly to locate does not at all match the ease with which you can see the odd mountain from the freeway.

For not the first time on one of these adventures, I had an “oh thank gawd!” when I found the signs and the other 2 vehicles at the “trailhead.” I blame Spotify for my fully held belief that these 2 vehicles were driven there by blood-thirsty ne’er-do-wells. Soon after I started the hike though, I learned that there’s far too much energy expelled to do much of anything, ne’er or otherwise.

I grossly underestimated the trail. I probably shouldn’t have been there. And probably shouldn’t have been alone.

As I contemplated turning around, insult was added to injury. A doggo met me from the uphill side. A voice called him doggo and said “he’s showing you how it’s done.” The kindly woman accompanying the dog appeared close to my vintage. I know she wasn’t wearing pajamas, but they could have been. She wasn’t cussing or panting. “But she was coming down hill.” Yah, well this trail sucked in both directions sooooo,….

I told her I was happy to see her dog and told her it picked up my spirits so that I may keep going on. “It’s worth it.” She chimed as she bounded past. Clearly she was a cyborg.

As it turned out. The trip took 2 hours 59 minutes and 18 seconds. I technically got it done in the time prescribed. But it pointed out that I am someone who clearly has only done hikes with inflated marketing about their difficulty.

When my beat down ass and my groceries got home (not at 11 at all), I promptly started to look up more about this hike. Turns out there are classifications for hikes similar to rapids; class one etc. They take into consideration things such as if a “climber” (which I am not) has to “scramble.” This hike was like my morning eggs, full of scramble. The hike overall is described as class 2 and 3. Mt. Shasta Summit is also 2-3.

Thanks to people who believe in me more than I believe in myself, Shasta is on my list of already done hikes. And gloriously, I was able to stare at Shasta’s majesty on yesterday’s hike. When I was able to look around instead of looking for the least treacherous steps, I was stunned with what I saw. Also luckily the trail was lightly traveled. That means there weren’t a lot of people to hear me loudly declare repeatedly “fuck you, rock!” Communing with nature isn’t always filled with spiritual fulfillment.

But like doggo owning pajama ladies often are, she was right; incredible experiences after putting in work are “worth it.”

Thanks for reading!

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Graveyard Cake

“It’s getting harder to believe this isn’t personal” I scoffed as a came back in from an unsuccessful search for a CR1320 battery.

I’m not a person who erroneously believes the universe cares enough to be out to get them. I do however believe that moping begats moping and if you want to have the kind of day where your belt loop gets caught on the door handle, you can 100% generate that kind of negativity. So even though I try to spawn positive energy, the batteries tested me.

 How did I provoke the cosmos?

Well, it was a day just like today. I was in beautiful coastal Ferndale, California getting in some steps in the community cemetery. It’s not as weird as it sounds. Or maybe it and there’s just an increasingly large group of weirdos who do the same. This cemetery has great tales to share dating back to the1800’s. The hills are steep and the views are glorious. Paired with coastal weather of perfection, there was really nothing else needed to ice the day.

Then I saw the Hammils.

According to the front of their marble headstones engraved with sensible font, they are both still with us. They are also hilarious (BTW: anyone ever seen a comic sans serif font headstone?)

Mr. Hammil’s marker says “Oops, I should have listened to my wife,” hers, “Yeah. Look where we ended up.”

The fact that they did this was already chef’s kiss. Add to that the fact that they did it while still alive so they could know people’s reaction is priceless.

I grinned from ear to ear, took a picture, and wandered on. Unbeknownst to me, Mrs. Hammil’s headstone was like an infomercial baiting, “But, wait….! There’s more!” It wasn’t until exiting the cemetery that I saw the back of the headstone where the same sensible font caught my eye with a recipe for “A Good Carrot Cake.”

Fuck yeah, Christine! In one swoop call awareness to the temporariness of human existence and the permanence of legacy. Her essence will not stay forever on the earth, but her Good Carrot Cake will. In an age when most of my recipes are channeled to me in 15 second increments by the gods of algorithms, Mrs. Hammil made sure to etch her directions in stone for all to enjoy.  

Naturally, I was going to make that recipe. I was excited to do so and to share with my co-workers. How often does one get to eat something from a headstone recipe?!

Also, naturally, I had to channel my inner goth/Miss. Frizzle and wear something befitting a graveyard dessert. Luckily, I just happen to have a dress with Ouija board print perfect for the occasion.

And that’s where I believe I invited the universe to fuck with me.

The cupcakes were delicious. There was nothing wrong there. I mean, REALLY yummy. Like, to die for. *eyeroll

However, let me present a list of things that were jacked up that day.

  1. My FULL cup of coffee spilled in a place like my office (but not at all near my computer, thank Jeebuz!)
  2. My State computer port ceased working, completely hobbling my work progress (legitimately not at all related to the coffee)
  3. My Starlink/Internet fully died with no anticipated fix for 7-10 days (reminder: I have ZERO cell signal at my house no internet means no ANYTHING!)
    1. Trying to get this fixed caused it’s own level of frustration when The Almighty Elon’s phone service closed at 4 pm CST and redirected me to try to address the issue ON THE WEB!
  4. My car’s key fob battery died
  5. A small parchment paper related fire started in my air fryer
  6. A slightly less small bacon grease related fired started in my oven

In the midst of all this shenanigan, I was eager to have something get successfully completed in my adventures. This led me to 2 different stores in 2 separate towns to at least try to buy a battery. How hard could that be, right?

So anyways, after being skunked on even the most basic of tasks, even a non-believer has to wonder if they’ve angered the gods in some way. I really like that dress. It will get worn again to test any hypothesis of its unnatural power. I also really liked Christine’s recipe. And before I incinerate a cute outfit, I’ll have to retest making her deliciousness to see if something there was the cause of debauchery. Perhaps this time I’ll follow the direction of using 3 9-inch cake pans instead of making cupcakes. Maybe that will keep her from turning over in her grave (whilst still alive) and keep my mojo in check.

Thanks for reading!

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Conversational Analysis/Ear Hustling

Last night found me watching the Burney Basin fireworks show completely by happy accident. Driving back from a hay ranch wedding gave reason to wonder why at nearly 10 pm everyone was lining the roads in backs of their pick-ups. Which led to “I wonder if there’s fireworks here tonight” and further, “I wonder if you can see the fireworks from (ironically) the Fountain Fire Lookout.”

The answer is not only “yes” but also “you’re not the only one to think of this.”

The timing was laser precise. There’s no way I could have planned that to have occurred like it did, so it was already a banger of an experience. After wedging the civic amongst RVs, trucks with chairs in the beds, and thank Gawd a fire truck, a couple steps was all it took to see something pretty cool.

The stars were bright and the night was calm. The only noise was the distant mortars and some chat that I didn’t plan to listen to. “Plan.”

There in the perfectness of the night were 3 people sitting on the ledge appreciating the show. It was about the time that I heard the words “father squatch” that my attention was wrangled.

There was nothing in the tellings that led me to believe that anything I heard was intended to be ironic. To be clear, I like sasquatch memorabilia and I’d like to think that our universe has mysteries we’ve yet to understand. But I don’t believe in sasquatch.

That being said, I’m not in a position to make light of the beliefs of others. We all have our own personal understandings that drive our perspectives on our worlds. And so in the vein of immersion of alternative viewpoints, I ear hustled the fuck out of the conversation that unfolded before me.

The person sharing their story talked about sasquatch meetings in such a way that they sounded like spiritual encounters right out of the bible. They’d met squatch more than once (allegedly) and had been cautioned by others that if they’d ever helped a squatch they’d find more squatches coming to them for help. It sounded like the narrator had been given the ol’ “don’t feed strays” speech. Only the Bigfoot version.

They talked about how a mother sqautch radiated peace and understanding and that she essentially prophesied that our narrator would have a life that was blessed with harmony. As much as I wanted to whip my head around and see if I was being punked, it’s hard to want to harsh that kind of vibe of positivity.

The narrator gave great detail about the visual experience in which the bigfoot has revealed itself. Maybe not coincidentally it sounded like what I’ve heard a hallucinogenic experience is like. I kept waiting for someone to call “bullshit!,” but that never occurred.

Maybe it was because the orator had provided excellent detail. At one point the statement was made that a later measuring of the tree showed that father sqautch was “around 10’3” or 10’4”.’ That added questionable inch means the story must be true, right!? Maybe the speechmaker was someone’s beloved uncle who had a little too much hooch or Burney herb and they were just letting him spin yarn. Maybe they were punking people. Or maybe, just maybe, it all really did happen.

As the simulcast of “God Bless the USA” wound down, I toddled back to the grocery getter ready to take my poor sight and white knuckle down the mountain. I kept my bi-focaled eyes peeled looking for Sqautch. I saw deer, coyotes and carnival trucks; but no 10’3” (or 10’4”) Wildman.

However, thinking about the way in which all the events unfolded gave me a lot to smile about. Real or not, Squatch did spread peace and happiness on an already amazing day.

Thanks Squatch, and thanks for reading!

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What A Pizza Work

I don’t know if you know, but I went to Europe. Every time I mention it I still feel like I’m play-acting as someone who is a lot cooler than I really am. But it actually happened. The food was great enough that I questioned my culinary existence. Before I even unpacked my backpack, I googled cooking classes in Redding. Chef Pam was the first entry. Chef Pam was having pizza night in few weeks. Non-Chef Crystal immediately signed up.

True cooking is a culture unto itself. A culture to I am as much a tourist as I am when visiting countries abroad.

Having never done anything like this before, I had no idea what to expect. But there I awkwardly meandered into the Sizzle Kitchen after work yesterday to see what’s up. I was worried about admitting at 54 that I don’t cook great.

Initially I cursed myself for being comfortable enough to just wander in to a situation where I was a stranger who was 3rd wheeling on a date night for about 7 couples. But, Chef Pam knows recipes for social success too. With a plate of nosh and some gentle nudge, I was in chat with some great folks.

The industrial kitchen allows for all the folks to get in the middle of the dirty work. More self-cursing as tasks were assigned. I wondered if everyone else had figured out kitchen things that I never had and steered clear of volunteering. But as the million item prep went on, it was comforting to see that everyone was there to learn.

The tattooed chef would say something like “do we all know that we don’t put the basil on the pizza until after it’s out of the oven?” When someone would say, “I had no idea” I was washed in relief. I had a moment of “whew!” because the playing field was more level than I thought.

I learned about ingredients, how to choose proper eggplants, what an eggplant tastes like, how to good blackberry and ricotta can be on a pizza, how to properly sauté, and the importance of adding ingredients in specific orders. There were other things that YouTube videos about how to make Napoli style pizza at home don’t show you such as, if you know yeast you don’t need a proof run or that instead of buying dough raising boxes off amazon you can use a Ziploc bag with oil. Maybe those things are common knowledge to everyone, but they weren’t to me.

I also learned that Chef Pam is in the market for a man. A smart one who likes to eat well would sign up immediately. A 4 pack of 30 ish year olds suggested she try their gym at 9 am. Whomever is snagged doesn’t need to have a bike for her to ride on the back of. She’s got her own chopper. Obviously.

I got over myself about being nervous and got my hands dirty making a pizza Bianca while I chatted with people I would have never met otherwise while we snacked on some truly fantastic grub that we’d all built together at Chef Pam’s unquestionable direction.

The aftermath of food prep was it’s own kind of awesome. Whoever Jen is doesn’t allow you to help clean up. “You’ll mess with my kitchen feng shui, but thanks.” Arms are stacked with plates to take home. If you’re thinking it’s an option to take some, you’re wrong. Folks bask in the aftermath of deliciousness and talk about what’s coming next month. It’s Sicilian street food. Chef Pam hugs everyone goodbye like they’re family leaving on a long trip. Also not offered so much as an option, but welcomed.

So with my hands full of recipes and leftovers, and my face full of cheesy grin; I headed out feeling silly that I’d been nervous to be there and excited to go again.

Thanks for reading!   

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The Food!!!

You know that thing where the food server comes to your table (typically when you’ve just taken a full bite) and asks how your meal is?

They don’t do that in Italy, Spain, and Portugal.

And I’ve decided it’s because; they know.

Your meal is amazing. They don’t need your opinion on it to gel that fact for them.

Everybody tried to prep me for what I would experience food wise on our trip. Despite their best efforts, I was not at all ready.

I would say that the two weeks spoiled me, but honestly it was set in stone on day one.

We got up early in Madrid and made our way to the train station for our 4 hour train ride to the start of our pilgrimage walk. It had been a long day of travel from little ol’ Cottonwood the day before and we were hungry. A kiosk in the train station was selling something I’d never tried before (but have now eaten a million times since) Napolitana and coffee for $1.50. Napolitana is a breakfast pastry with chocolate. And the random coffee was sincerely better than any I’d had before.

In a train station kiosk.

Before instantly deleting my Dutch Bros app, I tried the vending machine coffee to see if maybe I was just caffine depraved and the coffee wasn’t that different. The vending machine coffee was also mind blowing!

The whole two weeks was one culinary life altering experience after another. There was not a bad meal anywhere; whether it was out of the grocery store cold case or in a picturequse side walk café, every single bit of it was amazing.

The only food pitfall was the Roman incident, where to be fair, I share some blame.

The sun seems hotter in Rome, and that should be considered when slowly eating creamy meals outside. The bulk of my carbonara dish was perfect. And though the last few bites seemed “off,” I persisted. Yadda yadda yadda, the next few hours of my life were scary. 35 million people visit Rome annually. And as mentioned previously, no bathrooms.

All I could imagine was me violently throwing up in some corner of historical significance and being an instant viral social media mockery. Instead, I was cussed in more languages that I could decipher as a pushed my way past 20 people to get in a restroom in McDonald’s. I felt horrible for doing so, but I realized I was going to negatively impact their day in one way or another and this seemed slightly less traumatizing for them all.

But aside from that, the foods and coffees were so good it was perplexing. I ate every single thing I could. One day I had pistachio icecream in a surreal “food court” one floor above hardware in a department store. Then after maybe 30 minutes of meandering, I had a serving of fresh churros and dipping chocolate. This may surprise you, but none of that is on my food plan.

 I have no ragrets (not even one letter). But there has been some aftermath.

“Oh, are you that guy now?” the gravely voice of Dirty asks as I’m forcing he and Gus to participate in my effort at Neapolitan pizza. “Yes. Yes, I am” I say as I trim basil off of the first basil plant I’ve ever owned.

Don’t get me wrong. I can feed people. The fact that the boys made it to adulthood are proof of that. But actually cooking is something different. Food tours reaffirms that.

The day we got back, I looked for a cooking class in town. It has to be more than luck that I immediately found one very close to work that is “of traditional Neapolitan and Sicilian cooking.” I’m signed up. Obviously.

I’ve also lost all manners in my search for how to resolve my coffee grief. So far as to ask some poor woman who let slip she’d lived in Italy for 5 years how much she spent on coffee maker. I don’t know much about social graces, but I’m pretty sure that’s a bad thing to do.

I hear the longing for food that good will last. I’m kind of hoping it won’t since so far I’m in to this with a new Kitchen Aid and several bonus pounds. And I’m saddened that I hadn’t been there to taste all the food goodness sooner. But we’ll see where all this goes.

In the meantime, if you want to help prevent me from poor manners in social settings, please share with me the ways you make “some serious gourmet shit” in the way of coffee.

Thanks for reading! Go to Italy/Spain/Portugal!

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What do 35 Million People Know

They say that travel changes you. And by “they” I mean people who 3 weeks ago I would have scoffed at.

But either I’m still completely loopy from yesterday’s 26 hours of travel to get home, or perhaps travel does have an impact on a person’s existence.

When this plan was loosely hatched, I had no idea if it would turn out okay. But on the other side of it, I KNOW that I can wander around foreign places for nearly 3 weeks with only what I can carry on my back. And even though I can’t pretend that I was any sort of pioneer, everyday was an adventure of trying to learn how to navigate a million unplanned puzzles.

I knew I was in for some battle when I tried to use my debit card on day one and realized that life is easier when you can read what the pin pad is saying. We learned how to negotiate metro systems in 3 countries. They’re well organized, but the way my brain reads “Canilljas” and the way it’s said on the PA are two very different things. This lead to going the wrong way on a train, getting off too early on a bus, getting off too late on a bus, and irritating enough bus drivers I may never be allowed back in Spain. I was scolded for improprieties in no less than 4 languages. I wished for a shirt that said in Spanish, Italian, and Portuguese, “I’m not trying to be rude or dumb, I really just can’t understand a thing that’s happening.” I didn’t know how restaurants worked (sounds basic, but they’re different), I didn’t know when I was being called to a cashier in grocery stores, I had to learn new bathroom things, new things about hostels, and so much more it makes my head spin.

But we did it.

And with the knowledge that we can comes a level of confidence and self-reliance that is welcomed beyond measure.

Add to this the feeling that comes with a healthy dose of understanding one’s own insignificance, and you get a recipe better than Napoli pizza sauce.

Hang with me. Feeling insignificant is not a bad thing. It’s a needed perspective shift.

On this trip, there were a million and one ways to remind yourself of what a blip on the radar we all are. For instance, we rode the train from a stop near our hotel to “Piazza del Colosseo” which is (you guessed it) near the Colosseum. This was on our 2nd day in Rome. By this time, we’d seen a staggering amount of ancient architecture in Spain, Portugal, and Rome.

“There’s this thing” we would gesture to some splendor as our comedic attempt at creating our own walking tour. Each corner you turn in any of the places we were was littered with historical beauty. It was far too much to take in appropriately. So we were already at a level of saturation for being wowed. But then,…

At the Piazza del Colosseo, you walk upstairs from the train directly across the street from a engineering miracle.

The scale of it all can’t properly be understood until it smacks you in the face. If there are words to describe how it feels, I have no idea what they are.

Don’t get me wrong, I know it’s bad that Romans used slaves to build it and that killing in the name of entertainment are bad. I’m not endorsing either of those things. What I am saying is that it’s incredibly impressive that 2000 years ago some sandal wearing dudes decided how to put rocks together in a way that would hold 65,000 people, as many as the new Allegiant stadium in Vegas. Two. THOUSAND. years ago And it’s still standing!

It boggles the mind to think that in 10 years’ time they built something that far outlasted their civilization. For comparative purposes, the courthouse in Shasta County took 6 years to build. And that’s with computers and tools and such.

Overall on our trip, Rome was not my favorite place. The amount of people and absence of spatial awareness only led to me stiff arming one lady though many others had it coming. Despite the city getting 35 million visitors per year, we only found one public bathroom. Even if you’re a train ticket holder, you still have to pay about $1.70 to use a toilet at the station. Regardless, seeing that structure was completely worth it.

I will remember the way it felt to see that magnificent landmark for the rest of my life. However, time will not remember that I was there. And that’s where the healthy level of insignificance comes into play.

I know that when I reenter reality here in couple of days, my zen state will be tested and I’ll probably cave at the first inconvenience, but I really shouldn’t. WHEN someone cuts me off on the 44 interchange, it shouldn’t matter. It’s a little thing in the grand scheme of things. No one cares if you haven’t done your hair or worn a proper bra for 3 weeks. It doesn’t matter that the peer said the thing that they knew would get your goat. None of that is what any of this is about.

In short, “they” are right. Travel does change you. Leave it to me to think 35 million people might be wrong.

Sorry for all the words, I have even more to come, but I appreciate this forum (get it, like the Romans!), to catalogue my thoughts on the adventure.

If you’ve read along, thanks for being a part of the trip. I’ve enjoyed writing about it and hope you’ve liked it as well (“Are you not entertained?!” -Maximus Decimus Meridius bwah ha!).

And now to plan the next adventure!

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I’m Going for a Walk

There I was. Having burgers and chat in the beauty of a July night in Rio Dell last summer.

There’s truly something magical about leaving the 100 plus degree heat of the valley of home to do car show things (even with a still smashed Camaro) with old friends in the backyard of their childhood home on the fiercely steep banks of the Eel River.

The friend is Big A. His uncle was there and with very little fanfare, he mentioned he’d taken some walk in France and Spain called “The Way.”

Now, it bears mentioning that it’s not been my forever life that I have to try and do new things. But certainly in the last decade, it’s been a mission of mine. Our time on this rock is too short to not try things. Some of these past things have been marathons, hiking Mt. Shasta, PADDLE triathalons (I swim like a rock), 100 mile bike races, body building competitions, etc. Each one of my little experiments has been really great. But at some point, ye olde body isn’t going to tolerate learning new aggressive activities. So, a walk in a place I’ve never been caught my ear.

“Uncle Mike” took a long walk on his trip. Turns out, there’s a lot of “ways” that are The Way. They all lead to Santiago de Compostela in northwest Spain and go by the general name of The Camino. This cathedral was built in 1211 and is allegedly the final resting place of St. James the Great. Of course, I knew none of this 8 months ago, but it sounded like a cool thing to do.

So yadda yadda yadda, next week we go to Spain and will be walking 72 miles to see an old church. Uncle Mike, and many MANY other “pilgrims” walk much farther than that. Many people take as much as six weeks to walk hundreds of miles. We’re going a shorter but albeit still official pilgrimage distance from Sarria to Santiago. Our chosen route is walked by around 200,000 people each year. Which I predict means it will feel a little bit like walking through Costco for about 6 hours a day.

If you know anything about me, my routines are rigid to say the least. I’ve never been to Europe. I’ve never stayed in a hostel, I’ve never planned on being gone that long and certainly never not known where I’ll stay. I mean, I’m the person who will google a restaurant in town before going so I can look at the menu and plan my meal.

The Camino is intended to be the exact opposite of that. Going with the flow, relying on the kindness of others, and experiencing life on it’s terms instead of on the terms that give the illusion of control are the objectives. Essentially, everything I’m not.

Only time will tell how this will go, but even prep for it has been a series of unexpected gifts.

For example, I didn’t know what rucking is, but because of prep for this adventure it’s now my new identity.

This trip will require that we carry everything we need for 2 weeks on us. Between my food and clothes, I carry more to work on a gym day than I’m planning to carry on this trip. Even though I’m planning for a light pack, I don’t want to be the person who slows Brian and I down by being unaccustomed to backpacking. This led me to walking with my pack on with weight in it (rucking). Since 2/16 I have walked 190 miles with 25 pounds on my back. To use the professional terminology, rucking is “the shit.” It was very hard at first, then with practice became meditative and (if you can believe this) replaced 3 days of gym going/week for me. Just walking around has me feeling stronger than I could have guessed possible. Who knew? I mean aside from the militaries who’ve used it for training for centuries. And I guess outdoorsmen and whatnot. I know I looked like an absolute psychopath wandering around my hood, parking structures, downtown, neighborhoods near the grocery story, County Administration (!) and the like with a pack on, but feeling ready was worth it.

As for some of the other unanticipated side benefits, I’ll save those for later. It’s time to get in one of the last couple rucks before the adventure.

Thanks for reading!