There were about three hours remaining before Andy and I needed to go back to Keweenaw Mountain Lodge to finalise our clandestine room arrangements. With a sharp eye on the time, we hiked a little way though the woods and climbed down to a cluster of large rocks protruding steeply from the waters of Lake Superior. The toe-numbing temperature of the lake helped us to keep our minds off of the potential disaster that could still ensue regarding our lodging. The sun-warmed rocks were incredibly comfortable by contrast, and we took some time to let the stress of the search evaporate by lying about on them.
But the tension didn't entirely dissipate, and we allowed a significant amount of time to travel back to the car and up the hill to the lodge. We arrived in the parking lot at 8.40, surprisingly nervous. We discussed what our plan would be should our receptionist connection be unable to give us the room she'd promised. Given the unrewarding day we'd spent pursuing a place to sleep and our unwillingness to increase the Sunday drive home by venturing further East, we decided to leave the UP regardless of how we fared at Keweenaw. Duluth sounded alluring, so we set our sights on that for the next day. But we needed to resolve situation at hand before making further plans.
At 8.45, we walked into the reception area. Our receptionist was still there, and she seemed to recognise us. As soon as she was through helping the person who'd been in front of her when we entered, she executed a covert look around the area to make sure her flouting of the rules would not be discovered. She needed no reintroduction to us or our situation. She immediately set a registration card before us, quickly eliminating our fears that something had gone awry in our conspirational plans. When I handed back the completed card, she noted that my name was Nicole and said that was her name, too. "Do you go by Nicole or Nikki?" she asked. I revealed that I went by Nikki, and she exclaimed, "Me, too! How do you spell it?"
"N-I-K-K-I," I recited.
"Me too!" she cried, even more excited. "I'm going to be geeking out about that all night!"
We then made our way to our hard-won lodgings. Despite Nikki's apologetic warning that it was a smoking room, nothing but the ash tray on the dresser hinted at the truth of her statement. We detected only the scent of new carpeting when we went in to dump our belongings. Our investigation of the room's lingering smells was not very thorough, though. We desperately wanted ice cream, and the stated closing time of the place where we'd intended to buy it was fast approaching. As we made our way back to Andy's Subaru, we crossed paths with a woman heading the opposite direction. She must have been able to detect that we were no longer desperate room seekers because she greeted us with a warm smile and friendly hello. Our stigma had vanished. We returned her greeting, but I couldn't help thinking, Where were you three hours ago when all we wanted was someone to be nice to us?
When we came upon a line of cars newly parked along the hill leading to town, we decided to preempt what we guessed would have turned into an intensive search for parking by joining it. "How do you feel about a short jog?" Andy asked when we realised how little time we had to make it to the ice cream shop. We sprinted. It was, thankfully, mostly downhill. A woman coming from the direction of the shop recognised our urgency and guessed our destination. "Going for ice cream?" she called. Our breathless nods prompted her to warn us that it would be at least a twenty minute wait. As the shop came into sight, we saw that she was right and that our effort had been expended needlessly. A line extended beyond the door of the tiny building and well out into the lawn. But we would not be deterred.
We joined the queue, panting. It was a beautiful night, and the only thing that would ruin it for us was if, after spending a prolonged period in line, the shop closed just as we reached the threshold of the entrance. No-one seemed to mind the wait. The promise of sweet, delicious ice cream kept everyone in good spirits, and the atmosphere amongst the queuers was jovial. It seemed a major accomplishment when we finally advanced as far as the wooden porch that extended about 10 feet in front of the entrance. I jumped onto the slightly elevated surface as triumphantly as if I'd just conquered a new land. As we drew ever nearer to the door, I tried to peek through the windows of the shop, now lighted against the dusk, to discern what the promised 36 flavours were and which I would possibly choose. It was an easy decision in the end. Amaretto Cherry Mackinac Island Fudge.
It was well past the closing time chalked on a blackboard outside the establishment, but the proprietors didn't seem to mind in the slightest. They were an elderly couple both dressed in stars-and-stripes themed shirts, and they smiled and chatted happily with the eager ice cream loving hordes as they laboured over their scoops and tills. "This is the busiest we've been all year," the woman said. Despite my worries, Andy and I both had double scoop waffle cones securely in hand long before the shop finally decided to end their impromptu extended hours. And it was well worth the wait. It was, with no exaggeration, the best ice cream I have ever had the fortune to lick. That includes the pieces of chocolate embedded in it. They were not the stale, wax-coated pieces of chocolate that I'm used to finding in ice cream, but chewy, bittersweet chunks.
I was completely absorbed in the delicious endeavor of catching the streaks of melted ice cream dribbling down the cone as we walked to the site of the legendary fireworks that were soon to begin. The charmed nature of the day held out, and we found ample space on a dock that extended into the lake directly across from where the fireworks were to be launched. As we were waiting for it to start, Andy began to muse about how the officials of the UP had spread the word about the expanded fireworks display. They would have needed to be careful not to incite undue commotion amongst the residents of Copper Harbor. A code was essential for seeding the information amongst key members of the hospitality industry, who could discreetly spread the word as they saw fit. Andy recited what he imagined the Copper Harbor code had been: "Albatross is bringing a bigger sandwich this year! Pastrami on rye. With mustard on one side. OK, maybe two sides. But don't say anything."
After much anticipation, the first rocket whistled into the air and exploded into arms of light and colour that radiated outward in bright shimmers. Sharp cracks and deep booms shook the air, and I could feel the sonic reverberations in the deck beneath me. Copper Harbor had a right to be proud of the show they produced. The display drew collective shouts and sounds of awed wonder from the gathered crowd. And it was a crowd. We were certain that the population of the town had at least quadrupled that day. The thunderous finale drew an equally noisy response of applause and cheers from the ground as everyone demonstrated their appreciation for this even longer celebration of the country's independence.
But as soon as the fireworks ended, so did the festive atmosphere. Whereas before everyone had enjoyed sharing the collective experience of watching the fireworks, families quickly turned against each other as they turned their attentions to reaching their cars before everyone else. Spectators folded up their canvas camping chairs with an efficient and hurried snap. Parents herded and towed their children in the necessary direction. The dock emptied within minutes. Andy and I watched. We were in no hurry. With our tummies full of ice cream and a room secured and waiting for us, nothing could bother us. We definitely didn't win the race back to our vehicle and faced some traffic as a consequence. But we made it back eventually, extremely content with the outcome of the day and excited to see what the next would hold for us in Duluth.
15 July, 2008
The War for Independent Lodging, Part I: The Search
Andy and I are idiots. We went to Upper Peninsula of Michigan on the 4th of July with no accommodation reservations. Well, we'd booked a room in Iron River for the night of the 3rd. No problem, we figured. We'll just go from there and see where we end up. After a fitful night of sleep interrupted by fuzzily remembered morning shouts about six-cylinders, we faced the day with optimism and heaping bowls of Count Chocula. We did a quick search on Google maps and wrote down the number for every hotel and motel that appeared within 15 miles of our destination, Copper Harbo(u)r. Things seemed promising enough at first. The woman who answered at King Copper Motel was quite friendly and, though they did not have any rooms available, took my number and promised, "I'll give you a call if something breaks." This was much more reassuring before my mobile lost reception about a half hour later.
But the situation began to look bleak as I dialed down the list. We quickly discovered that there seemed to be a stigma against late bookers. My naive inquiries were greeted with suspicion and distrust, as if the person on the other end of the phone wanted to keep anyone crazy enough not to have advance reservations at arm's length. We arrived at the end of our list of prospects quickly. One woman's crisp answer to my inquiry as to whether they had rooms available that night, "No, we don't, and I don't know anyone in the area who does," still rang in my ears. Perhaps our original plan to plan as we went had been reckless. But we decided to carry it out. After all, there were bound to be accommodations that weren't listed on Google. One of them would surely have a room open.
We began stopping at every hotel and motel that wasn't displaying a "No Vacancy" sign once we reached Eagle River. As part of this venture, we decided to try our luck at the Shoreline Resort. We rang the bell as a sign taped to the door directed. After waiting an inordinate amount of time without response, we opened the door and stepped into a completely deserted dining area. Our voices echoed in the rafters as we discussed what to do. Andy thought we should go around to the lakefront side of the resort to see if we could find the proprietors.
A row of lucky lodgers stood in swimsuits on the shore, watching as their similarly accommodated compatriots splashed about in Lake Superior. When we approached, the people on the shore turned to stare at us. Their glances registered confusion tinged with hostility. "You're not from one of the same families that's stayed at this same resort every year for 30 years," their eyes seemed to say. Andy asked one of the visitors where he could find the owner. "She'll be right back," the woman answered. "Or, he's right there," she smiled a second later, pointing at a man emerging from the lake in cut-off denim shorts. "These two are looking for you," she explained as he scrutinised us quizzically. Andy explained that we were wondering if he had any rooms available. "No, not tonight. Sorry," he replied, quickly veering off with one last curious and wary look back.
We continued on towards Copper Harbor, feeling quite discouraged. We looked intently for lodging signs along the road, but a "No vacancy" message was appended to each. With few options left, we took a sudden sharp turn when we saw a sign that announced Keweenaw Mountain Lodge was 1 mile down the road. We felt a glimmer of hope as we drove down the freshly tarred pavement. Perhaps other potential lodgers had missed the place. Our hopes were confirmed when we pulled up and saw the word "Vacancy" hanging vertically from the end of the resort's sign. "Yay!" we cheered. But I was suspicious. "Now we'll get up there and find out they just forgot to change the sign," I remarked pessimistically.
We drove up a hill past rustic cabins and finally found the reception in a large log building at the crest. We entered and waited for the couple ahead of us to finish checking in. "Hi," the slightly spacey receptionist smiled. She was appropriately dressed for the holiday in a blue shirt and white trousers with red strands of crepe paper strung jauntily through the belt loops.
"We were just driving by and saw that your sign said you had vacancy," Andy said.
"Ahh, no, we never change that sign. It's a pain in the butt," she said, dismissing our last hopes of finding a bed for the night with a wave of her hand. "We're all full."
We disappointedly thanked her and started to turn away, but our crestfallen faces pulled on her heartstrings. She quickly craned her neck in the direction of the bar to make sure no-one was within earshot.
"C'mere," she whispered, leaning conspiratorially over the counter. We drew closer, intrigued by this secret she was about to relate to us. "The deal was," she confided in a low voice, "if someone came late, I could give away our last room. It's set aside for maintenance problems in the other rooms. I'm done at 9. Check in Copper Harbor. If you don't find anything, come back at ten to 9. If it's still available I'll give you the room."
We were stunned and grateful at the prospect of sleeping comfortably that night. She answered our stammered thanks with the explanation for her action: "You just looked so sad."
No longer. We drove back down the hill towards town, laughing incredulously about how our luck had changed. Rather than doomed, the day now seemed charmed. It reminded me of my experience at Anfield when I arrived without a ticket. The Keweenaw Mountain Lodge receptionist was my female, American Tony.
Having sacrificed lunch to work on finding a room, we finally conceded to our rumbling stomachs and stopped to eat. In the course of some conversation we'd tried to strike up with our bored-looking waitress, we learned about a fireworks display that would be happening later. She let us in on what seemed to be another Copper Harbor confidentiality when she said, "The finale's supposed to be twice as long this year." The woman running the register confirmed her story when Andy told her we'd heard about the fireworks. "Biggest in the UP," she said, somehow conveying pride and tedium simultaneously. Whether or not we would be able to stay for this pyrotechnic spectacular all depended on our rather shaky room deal coming through.
But the situation began to look bleak as I dialed down the list. We quickly discovered that there seemed to be a stigma against late bookers. My naive inquiries were greeted with suspicion and distrust, as if the person on the other end of the phone wanted to keep anyone crazy enough not to have advance reservations at arm's length. We arrived at the end of our list of prospects quickly. One woman's crisp answer to my inquiry as to whether they had rooms available that night, "No, we don't, and I don't know anyone in the area who does," still rang in my ears. Perhaps our original plan to plan as we went had been reckless. But we decided to carry it out. After all, there were bound to be accommodations that weren't listed on Google. One of them would surely have a room open.
We began stopping at every hotel and motel that wasn't displaying a "No Vacancy" sign once we reached Eagle River. As part of this venture, we decided to try our luck at the Shoreline Resort. We rang the bell as a sign taped to the door directed. After waiting an inordinate amount of time without response, we opened the door and stepped into a completely deserted dining area. Our voices echoed in the rafters as we discussed what to do. Andy thought we should go around to the lakefront side of the resort to see if we could find the proprietors.
A row of lucky lodgers stood in swimsuits on the shore, watching as their similarly accommodated compatriots splashed about in Lake Superior. When we approached, the people on the shore turned to stare at us. Their glances registered confusion tinged with hostility. "You're not from one of the same families that's stayed at this same resort every year for 30 years," their eyes seemed to say. Andy asked one of the visitors where he could find the owner. "She'll be right back," the woman answered. "Or, he's right there," she smiled a second later, pointing at a man emerging from the lake in cut-off denim shorts. "These two are looking for you," she explained as he scrutinised us quizzically. Andy explained that we were wondering if he had any rooms available. "No, not tonight. Sorry," he replied, quickly veering off with one last curious and wary look back.
We continued on towards Copper Harbor, feeling quite discouraged. We looked intently for lodging signs along the road, but a "No vacancy" message was appended to each. With few options left, we took a sudden sharp turn when we saw a sign that announced Keweenaw Mountain Lodge was 1 mile down the road. We felt a glimmer of hope as we drove down the freshly tarred pavement. Perhaps other potential lodgers had missed the place. Our hopes were confirmed when we pulled up and saw the word "Vacancy" hanging vertically from the end of the resort's sign. "Yay!" we cheered. But I was suspicious. "Now we'll get up there and find out they just forgot to change the sign," I remarked pessimistically.
We drove up a hill past rustic cabins and finally found the reception in a large log building at the crest. We entered and waited for the couple ahead of us to finish checking in. "Hi," the slightly spacey receptionist smiled. She was appropriately dressed for the holiday in a blue shirt and white trousers with red strands of crepe paper strung jauntily through the belt loops.
"We were just driving by and saw that your sign said you had vacancy," Andy said.
"Ahh, no, we never change that sign. It's a pain in the butt," she said, dismissing our last hopes of finding a bed for the night with a wave of her hand. "We're all full."
We disappointedly thanked her and started to turn away, but our crestfallen faces pulled on her heartstrings. She quickly craned her neck in the direction of the bar to make sure no-one was within earshot.
"C'mere," she whispered, leaning conspiratorially over the counter. We drew closer, intrigued by this secret she was about to relate to us. "The deal was," she confided in a low voice, "if someone came late, I could give away our last room. It's set aside for maintenance problems in the other rooms. I'm done at 9. Check in Copper Harbor. If you don't find anything, come back at ten to 9. If it's still available I'll give you the room."
We were stunned and grateful at the prospect of sleeping comfortably that night. She answered our stammered thanks with the explanation for her action: "You just looked so sad."
No longer. We drove back down the hill towards town, laughing incredulously about how our luck had changed. Rather than doomed, the day now seemed charmed. It reminded me of my experience at Anfield when I arrived without a ticket. The Keweenaw Mountain Lodge receptionist was my female, American Tony.
Having sacrificed lunch to work on finding a room, we finally conceded to our rumbling stomachs and stopped to eat. In the course of some conversation we'd tried to strike up with our bored-looking waitress, we learned about a fireworks display that would be happening later. She let us in on what seemed to be another Copper Harbor confidentiality when she said, "The finale's supposed to be twice as long this year." The woman running the register confirmed her story when Andy told her we'd heard about the fireworks. "Biggest in the UP," she said, somehow conveying pride and tedium simultaneously. Whether or not we would be able to stay for this pyrotechnic spectacular all depended on our rather shaky room deal coming through.
10 July, 2008
We're All About Each Other
My blog disappeared for while before this recent flurry of activity. For a long time I simply didn't know what to write. While I was, and still am, having an adventure, it was of a wholly different sort than those I usually include in my posts. In fact, it largely runs counter to those I usually include in my posts. Rather than cultivating my independence, it's been an adventure in allowing myself to become more dependent on anyone than I've been in a long time. In balancing wanderlust and continuity. And in being honest with my writing. Sharing this particular adventure in this forum involves deviating from my usual style and persona. That makes it harder for me. But I'm going to do it anyway, because the subject is important.
The adventure is being in love. I'm in love with Andy Ford. I've mentioned him in the blog before, but he's not yet received a proper introduction. We met at a Guerrilla Blue show in January. Jackie told me she was going to see her friend Nick Williams' band play at Big V's and urged me to come along. I did, and found myself in the dankest, sleaziest dive bar I'd ever entered. I already wrote about the craziness that ensued that evening in my The Twin Cities Music/Crazy Scene post. But I skipped over the most significant part of the evening. As we watched the band's set, I felt an uncomfortably vague sense of recognition. "The violin player looks really familiar," I commented to Jackie. "I think he might have been in some of my poli sci classes or something."
Jackie will likely tease me about this forever, but I decided to explore this suspicion when Andy came over to chat with us later that night. "I feel like I know you from somewhere," I said, unwittingly dusting off and offering the oldest pick-up line in history (I still maintain that I was being sincere). "I know, I feel the same way," Andy answered, thankfully making my clumsy stab at conversation plausible. We soon eliminated every possible way our paths could have crossed prior to that night, and moved on to the present and the future. I was still a recent repat, so I was talking about coming home and how I thought it should feel like home. What initially sparked my interest was Andy's response to this comment. "Oh, I don't think it should," he contradicted. This rare understanding of my situation caught my attention. As did his intention to go teach English in France.
We actually worked up the nerve to go on a date about a month later. After that, our relationship unfolded, I think, very quickly. But it also unfolded very naturally, with both of us seeming to mutually agree on the direction it should take without any prior arrangement or discussion. Anything that I'd been hesitant to say because I thought it was too soon proved to be a voiced reflection of something Andy was already thinking. The best example of this occurred a few months ago. I noticed I'd been silently adding "I love you" in my head whenever we said goodbye to each other, and I decided it was time to say it aloud. The first time I did, however, it was met with what seemed like an interminable and excruciating silence. My stomach dropped, and my heart started banging from anxiety rather than anticipation. When he finally returned what may have been the most significant thing I've ever said, I cried, "Why did you hesitate?!?" He explained, "I just wanted to save the moment. Because I was soooo happy you said it."
Now that we've taken that step, and many others, it's hard to believe our relationship was ever so fragile that saying something at the wrong time could have broken it. But it did start out that way. When I was perplexed about how to handle a relationship I was trying to start in England, my good friend Raf wrote to me, "New relationships are soap bubbles. Any input can and usually does pop them." Luckily Andy and I were able to avoid such fateful input. This is actually miraculous, considering all the mishaps that happened on our second date. The night was so disastrous that we were completely unable to accomplish the planned event of the evening, which was ice skating. Instead, we got lost multiple times, hit a keypad box of some sort while reversing out of an uncooperative parking ramp, lost the Subaru in a different ramp for at least 15 minutes, and struggled with a couple unexpectedly locked doors. But we survived, and even enjoyed, all that. Now it would take something very significant to rupture the bubble in which I've been living since February.
This is because of how unabashedly happy I am to be with Andy and how fortunate I feel to have met him. This is where words start to fail. Being unable to describe something in print is very odd for me, since text is usually where I am best able to say exactly what I mean. But there aren't words enough to sum up how I feel. In this instance, a glance, an expression, a vocal inflection impart so much more than anything I can type. Basically, everything seems to have a greater significance. Cooking. Driving. Sitting in silence. Going to sleep and waking up. No matter where we are or what's going on, we simply take great joy in being together. At first I worried that being in a relationship would hamper my future plans as a nomadic expat. But now I know that Andy will only encourage my adventures and enhance the wonder I see in the world.
It turns out my two types of adventures are not as disparate as I'd thought.
The adventure is being in love. I'm in love with Andy Ford. I've mentioned him in the blog before, but he's not yet received a proper introduction. We met at a Guerrilla Blue show in January. Jackie told me she was going to see her friend Nick Williams' band play at Big V's and urged me to come along. I did, and found myself in the dankest, sleaziest dive bar I'd ever entered. I already wrote about the craziness that ensued that evening in my The Twin Cities Music/Crazy Scene post. But I skipped over the most significant part of the evening. As we watched the band's set, I felt an uncomfortably vague sense of recognition. "The violin player looks really familiar," I commented to Jackie. "I think he might have been in some of my poli sci classes or something."
Jackie will likely tease me about this forever, but I decided to explore this suspicion when Andy came over to chat with us later that night. "I feel like I know you from somewhere," I said, unwittingly dusting off and offering the oldest pick-up line in history (I still maintain that I was being sincere). "I know, I feel the same way," Andy answered, thankfully making my clumsy stab at conversation plausible. We soon eliminated every possible way our paths could have crossed prior to that night, and moved on to the present and the future. I was still a recent repat, so I was talking about coming home and how I thought it should feel like home. What initially sparked my interest was Andy's response to this comment. "Oh, I don't think it should," he contradicted. This rare understanding of my situation caught my attention. As did his intention to go teach English in France.
We actually worked up the nerve to go on a date about a month later. After that, our relationship unfolded, I think, very quickly. But it also unfolded very naturally, with both of us seeming to mutually agree on the direction it should take without any prior arrangement or discussion. Anything that I'd been hesitant to say because I thought it was too soon proved to be a voiced reflection of something Andy was already thinking. The best example of this occurred a few months ago. I noticed I'd been silently adding "I love you" in my head whenever we said goodbye to each other, and I decided it was time to say it aloud. The first time I did, however, it was met with what seemed like an interminable and excruciating silence. My stomach dropped, and my heart started banging from anxiety rather than anticipation. When he finally returned what may have been the most significant thing I've ever said, I cried, "Why did you hesitate?!?" He explained, "I just wanted to save the moment. Because I was soooo happy you said it."
Now that we've taken that step, and many others, it's hard to believe our relationship was ever so fragile that saying something at the wrong time could have broken it. But it did start out that way. When I was perplexed about how to handle a relationship I was trying to start in England, my good friend Raf wrote to me, "New relationships are soap bubbles. Any input can and usually does pop them." Luckily Andy and I were able to avoid such fateful input. This is actually miraculous, considering all the mishaps that happened on our second date. The night was so disastrous that we were completely unable to accomplish the planned event of the evening, which was ice skating. Instead, we got lost multiple times, hit a keypad box of some sort while reversing out of an uncooperative parking ramp, lost the Subaru in a different ramp for at least 15 minutes, and struggled with a couple unexpectedly locked doors. But we survived, and even enjoyed, all that. Now it would take something very significant to rupture the bubble in which I've been living since February.
This is because of how unabashedly happy I am to be with Andy and how fortunate I feel to have met him. This is where words start to fail. Being unable to describe something in print is very odd for me, since text is usually where I am best able to say exactly what I mean. But there aren't words enough to sum up how I feel. In this instance, a glance, an expression, a vocal inflection impart so much more than anything I can type. Basically, everything seems to have a greater significance. Cooking. Driving. Sitting in silence. Going to sleep and waking up. No matter where we are or what's going on, we simply take great joy in being together. At first I worried that being in a relationship would hamper my future plans as a nomadic expat. But now I know that Andy will only encourage my adventures and enhance the wonder I see in the world.
It turns out my two types of adventures are not as disparate as I'd thought.
01 July, 2008
A Synonym for Guerrilla Blue
Dating a member of a band has turned me into a groupie by default. I have attended all but one Guerrilla Blue show since they starting playing live again in April. This stunning attendance record includes accompanying the band on a road trip to the Synonym Toast Festival in Wisconsin this past Friday. Technically my function was to poke Andy in the ribs periodically to keep him from falling asleep behind the wheel. But I've also enjoyed watching the band evolve over the past few months, and playing a festival seemed like an exciting new venture for the band that I wanted to witness.
When I hear 'festival,' I picture something on the order of Glastonbury, SxSW or Lollapalooza. I wasn't expecting the Synonym Toast festival to be quite of that size and caliber, but assumed it would be at least similar to the Hennepin Avenue Block Party. A winding drive down Wisconsin's desolate and difficult-to-locate County Road F should have tipped me off to the reality of the situation, but it wasn't until we arrived at the destination that I realised my expectations had been extremely lofty.
"Yay, New Auburn!" Andy exclaimed as a campground sign came into view. We'd repeatedly lost and found the route and Nick Williams with the aid of Google maps, Mapquest and frequent mobile conferences. We pulled into the parking lot of a bar to regroup before going to the actual site of the festival--or so we thought.
"This can't be it," I said.
"What's the address?" Andy asked. The address on the Google map matched that of the street sign right in front of us.
"This is it," Andy said, laughing incredulously.
"Where's Williams, then?" I protested. As if on cue, Nick's Chevy Impala appeared from behind the bar and pulled past us. I could see the expression of disbelief on Wingate's face as Paul's Dodge followed the Chevy. I began laughing hysterically. The Synonym Toast Festival was a dive bar in Middle-of-Nowhere Wisconsin.
The group of us walked in to find an open, high-ceilinged room with long tables arranged in a cafeteria design. A small group of people crowded around the bar, which occupied one end of the hall. They seemed to be locals who convened at this spot nightly. The conversation indicated that everyone felt very comfortable around each other. Just after walking in, I heard one of the younger men crow, "I've got one on my penis!" I've still no idea what he had on his penis, which is a shame. A row of mounted deer heads stared glassily at the stage from the wall behind the bar, guaranteeing at least some form of attentive audience for the band.
After the lads and I had hauled the equipment in from the various vehicles, Andy and I struck up a conversation with one of the locals smoking at the bar. He was a younger man dressed in shorts, a Boston Red Sox baseball cap and a button-down short-sleeved shirt over a wife beater. He spoke passionately about how well a sit-down restaurant would do in the area. The town was overrun with bars and bar food, he explained, and a place offering good, fresh food was sorely wanting. His talk of the Southern-style Waffle House, along with the slight Southern drawl that carried through his passionate discourse, prompted me to doubtfully ask if he was from the area. He answered that he had grown up there but had worked at various restaurants in the South for several years.
"You have a little bit of a drawl," I pointed out.
"Y'know, everyone here thinks I sound like I'm from the South," he said. "When I'm in the South everyone thinks I sound like I'm from the North. I remember when I went down there, the first thing someone said to me was, 'Hey, d'yeeew know y'ave an ac-cehhhnt?' I was like, 'Excuse me?'" he laughed. "No matter where I go, I sound like I'm from somewhere else."
I could identify with that completely. In Ireland, everyone thought I sounded American. But when I came back to America, everyone thought I sounded Irish.
It was now growing late, and the audience was tiring of watching the first band set up. One particularly sodden person slipped behind the bar and activated the tornado siren that outfitted the rafters above. He then set about furiously clanging a massive bell, creating optimum noise conditions. Andy and I went to join the rest of the band at one of the long tables in the middle of the room. After waiting a while longer, the underaged, long-haired group burst into what seemed to be an emo version of Pink Floyd's "Time." From there, they continued on with a string of various covers. Perhaps the ear-bleeding volume of the music drew my attention to the sound guy. I nudged Andy and nodded over to where he was reassuringly using his cell phone to light the various controls on the soundboard.
Finally Guerrilla Blue was up. I talked to Paul while the rest of the band hauled their equipment onto the stage. He summed up the feeling of the bar pretty well when he said, "I feel like I'm in a bar in Tennessee decorated like a cabin in Wisconsin." One glance at the skates, skis and hornet nests decorating the rafters confirmed this description. Such surroundings created great potential for disorientation. But Guerrilla Blue still played an incredible set. All the members of the group delivered a high-energy performance from the first notes of "Fluorescent Fuzz." In fact, the strange setting seemed to be a spawning ground for innovation. Nick Williams felt inspired early on to accentuate the dueling mandolin and guitar solos on "Sometime After Midnight" by shuffling back and forth between Andy and Wingate while playing a driving bass riff.
Aside from a few occasional dancers, the audience largely stayed clumped at the opposite end of the room from the band. That's where the bar was. But they reacted well to the music, yelling, clapping and setting off the tornado siren. A few women in leis came up to dance and called up to Andy between songs.
"I like your guitar!" one of them cried.
"It's a mini guitar," Paul informed her.
"Like a ukulele!" she exclaimed.
Andy smiled and explained, "It's a mandolin."
"Oooh, a mandolin," she repeated.
"A ukulele," her friend scoffed, mocking the woman's instrument confusion.
The energy continued to build throughout the night, becoming particularly palpable on "Kobe." I'd appointed myself band photographer for the evening, and I desperately wished my point-and-shoot were more adequate in low-light situations. I wanted to capture the intensity with which everyone was playing, but I largely captured blurs. I gave up before the band launched into "Taken." It was the last song on the set list, despite my hopeful penning of "DNC" beneath it on a few of the copies. Paul and Andy left the stage for a bit in order to leave more of the spotlight to Wingate, Williams and Wiersma. They headed towards the back of the room and had a few words with Chris, the organiser of the festival. He asked, "You're doing one more song, right?" That left them no other choice but to play "DNC." The change from trippy maudlin' to 60s beach beats and back went without a hitch. After the last verse, Paul again abandoned the stage to the instrumentalists. But this time Todd stepped out from behind the drums and followed. Williams then played one last riff and unplugged, leaving the song to finish with just violin and guitar.
While Synonym Toast was no Bonnaroo, the gentlemen of Guerrilla Blue treated it as though it was. The band's cohesive performance definitely set a precedent for the festival to become more well-known in the future. The excitement of the show kept Andy and me alert all the way back down County Road F and WI-29, but couldn't compensate for the lack of sleep and the increasingly wee hours of the morning. I'm happy to say I fulfilled my assigned duty of keeping Andy awake, and passably driving his manual Subaru Forester when he stubbornly started nodding off and swerving. And though the venue was not a milestone in itself, I had a great time watching what I think was a milestone performance.
When I hear 'festival,' I picture something on the order of Glastonbury, SxSW or Lollapalooza. I wasn't expecting the Synonym Toast festival to be quite of that size and caliber, but assumed it would be at least similar to the Hennepin Avenue Block Party. A winding drive down Wisconsin's desolate and difficult-to-locate County Road F should have tipped me off to the reality of the situation, but it wasn't until we arrived at the destination that I realised my expectations had been extremely lofty.
"Yay, New Auburn!" Andy exclaimed as a campground sign came into view. We'd repeatedly lost and found the route and Nick Williams with the aid of Google maps, Mapquest and frequent mobile conferences. We pulled into the parking lot of a bar to regroup before going to the actual site of the festival--or so we thought.
"This can't be it," I said.
"What's the address?" Andy asked. The address on the Google map matched that of the street sign right in front of us.
"This is it," Andy said, laughing incredulously.
"Where's Williams, then?" I protested. As if on cue, Nick's Chevy Impala appeared from behind the bar and pulled past us. I could see the expression of disbelief on Wingate's face as Paul's Dodge followed the Chevy. I began laughing hysterically. The Synonym Toast Festival was a dive bar in Middle-of-Nowhere Wisconsin.
The group of us walked in to find an open, high-ceilinged room with long tables arranged in a cafeteria design. A small group of people crowded around the bar, which occupied one end of the hall. They seemed to be locals who convened at this spot nightly. The conversation indicated that everyone felt very comfortable around each other. Just after walking in, I heard one of the younger men crow, "I've got one on my penis!" I've still no idea what he had on his penis, which is a shame. A row of mounted deer heads stared glassily at the stage from the wall behind the bar, guaranteeing at least some form of attentive audience for the band.
After the lads and I had hauled the equipment in from the various vehicles, Andy and I struck up a conversation with one of the locals smoking at the bar. He was a younger man dressed in shorts, a Boston Red Sox baseball cap and a button-down short-sleeved shirt over a wife beater. He spoke passionately about how well a sit-down restaurant would do in the area. The town was overrun with bars and bar food, he explained, and a place offering good, fresh food was sorely wanting. His talk of the Southern-style Waffle House, along with the slight Southern drawl that carried through his passionate discourse, prompted me to doubtfully ask if he was from the area. He answered that he had grown up there but had worked at various restaurants in the South for several years.
"You have a little bit of a drawl," I pointed out.
"Y'know, everyone here thinks I sound like I'm from the South," he said. "When I'm in the South everyone thinks I sound like I'm from the North. I remember when I went down there, the first thing someone said to me was, 'Hey, d'yeeew know y'ave an ac-cehhhnt?' I was like, 'Excuse me?'" he laughed. "No matter where I go, I sound like I'm from somewhere else."
I could identify with that completely. In Ireland, everyone thought I sounded American. But when I came back to America, everyone thought I sounded Irish.
It was now growing late, and the audience was tiring of watching the first band set up. One particularly sodden person slipped behind the bar and activated the tornado siren that outfitted the rafters above. He then set about furiously clanging a massive bell, creating optimum noise conditions. Andy and I went to join the rest of the band at one of the long tables in the middle of the room. After waiting a while longer, the underaged, long-haired group burst into what seemed to be an emo version of Pink Floyd's "Time." From there, they continued on with a string of various covers. Perhaps the ear-bleeding volume of the music drew my attention to the sound guy. I nudged Andy and nodded over to where he was reassuringly using his cell phone to light the various controls on the soundboard.
Finally Guerrilla Blue was up. I talked to Paul while the rest of the band hauled their equipment onto the stage. He summed up the feeling of the bar pretty well when he said, "I feel like I'm in a bar in Tennessee decorated like a cabin in Wisconsin." One glance at the skates, skis and hornet nests decorating the rafters confirmed this description. Such surroundings created great potential for disorientation. But Guerrilla Blue still played an incredible set. All the members of the group delivered a high-energy performance from the first notes of "Fluorescent Fuzz." In fact, the strange setting seemed to be a spawning ground for innovation. Nick Williams felt inspired early on to accentuate the dueling mandolin and guitar solos on "Sometime After Midnight" by shuffling back and forth between Andy and Wingate while playing a driving bass riff.
Aside from a few occasional dancers, the audience largely stayed clumped at the opposite end of the room from the band. That's where the bar was. But they reacted well to the music, yelling, clapping and setting off the tornado siren. A few women in leis came up to dance and called up to Andy between songs.
"I like your guitar!" one of them cried.
"It's a mini guitar," Paul informed her.
"Like a ukulele!" she exclaimed.
Andy smiled and explained, "It's a mandolin."
"Oooh, a mandolin," she repeated.
"A ukulele," her friend scoffed, mocking the woman's instrument confusion.
The energy continued to build throughout the night, becoming particularly palpable on "Kobe." I'd appointed myself band photographer for the evening, and I desperately wished my point-and-shoot were more adequate in low-light situations. I wanted to capture the intensity with which everyone was playing, but I largely captured blurs. I gave up before the band launched into "Taken." It was the last song on the set list, despite my hopeful penning of "DNC" beneath it on a few of the copies. Paul and Andy left the stage for a bit in order to leave more of the spotlight to Wingate, Williams and Wiersma. They headed towards the back of the room and had a few words with Chris, the organiser of the festival. He asked, "You're doing one more song, right?" That left them no other choice but to play "DNC." The change from trippy maudlin' to 60s beach beats and back went without a hitch. After the last verse, Paul again abandoned the stage to the instrumentalists. But this time Todd stepped out from behind the drums and followed. Williams then played one last riff and unplugged, leaving the song to finish with just violin and guitar.
While Synonym Toast was no Bonnaroo, the gentlemen of Guerrilla Blue treated it as though it was. The band's cohesive performance definitely set a precedent for the festival to become more well-known in the future. The excitement of the show kept Andy and me alert all the way back down County Road F and WI-29, but couldn't compensate for the lack of sleep and the increasingly wee hours of the morning. I'm happy to say I fulfilled my assigned duty of keeping Andy awake, and passably driving his manual Subaru Forester when he stubbornly started nodding off and swerving. And though the venue was not a milestone in itself, I had a great time watching what I think was a milestone performance.
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