I love being an expat. I think. I’m not so sure at this point of my antipodean adventure. I forgot all the hard work and stress involved in establishing myself in a different country. I forgot how much of a confidence-shaker having no job and no home really is. I forgot the boredom and the loneliness.
This initial shock reminds me of my first few weeks in London. How I’m feeling now mirrors that experience nearly exactly. It involved frantically searching for jobs and flats and panicking at the prospect of not finding one or the other soon enough. That was combined with the boredom of not having a job to go to and not wanting to spend money I’m not earning on going out. That gave me a lot of time to dwell on missing people back home.
My experience in Sydney so far is pretty much the same. Except this time there are additional factors thrown in. I knew London. I had connections there. I had a friend there who met me at the airport and let me stay with her for two weeks. The same was true in Dublin. Here, I know no one and I’ve never even visited Australia before. And now I have a boyfriend on the other side of the world.
The last bit has proven more difficult than I anticipated. My communications with Andy have been uncertain. We are both having Internet troubles. The free wireless my hostel promised has only worked one day out of the seven I’ve been there. Andy has found Skype and gchat blocked in most places where he can access the Internet. But we’ve both bought our own wireless services now and should be able to talk more easily. And when we can talk, Andy has been a great source of encouragement.
This is, I hope, the worst stretch. Though it seems slow, I have made progress. I found a flat this week and will move in on 9 October. This is the first time that my flat search has gone so smoothly. It’s never been particularly hard; I’ve never had to look at more than three places before finding something suitable. But this time I loved the very first place I saw. The room I will have is huge and extends to my own private deck.
And, Sydney is awesome. Once I become fully settled I think I will absolutely love it here. On my first day I went to the Opera House. That was not the earth-moving experience I thought it would be, but the neighbouring Royal Botanic Gardens were. All the plants and wildlife are so new and interesting to me. I’ve yet to see any kangaroos, koalas, wallabies or platypi, but the cockatoos, small parrots and gigantic fruit bats flying around are amazing to see.
If I forgot how difficult it was to start over in a new country, I also forgot the full extent of the thrill I get from doing just that. I forgot the excitement of seeing a place that is entirely new. I forgot the sense of possibility that comes from getting lost. I forgot how fulfilling it is to meet new people and new friends. These are the things that will make this uncomfortable time worthwhile. They will also make me sure: I love being an expat.
06 October, 2008
29 September, 2008
Already Jet Lagged
The most dreaded part is over. I dropped Andy off at the airport on Tuesday morning. I was not as inconsolable as I was hoping I wouldn’t be. But it was ridiculously difficult to break the hug and walk away. I couldn’t look back, fearing that if I did I would break down beyond the tears I’d already shed. I was able to make it to the bathroom and lock myself away in a stall before doing that. I stayed in the confined space long enough to pull myself together and walk back to where Andy was just about to go through security. I drew as near as I dared to a TSA official, who looked up warily when I called Andy’s name from his side. All I could do under such an ominous gaze was wave, but it helped a great deal.
Despite all of the preparations I needed to undertake for my own departure, I’ve felt empty this week. Empty and a little lonely. Luckily, my friends have helped to alleviate, or at least suspend, my longing for Andy. Phone calls and face-to-face chats over pints and coffee have kept me in fairly high spirits. So have a few strangers in the medical profession, who gave me reduced-price dental exams and free contact solution when they learnt of my upcoming travel. It makes the transition a lot easier knowing that I have so much support from…well, everyone.
What did NOT make leaving easier was my mom’s decision to buy a new puppy two days before I left. I needed to go to a particular mall in order to visit an eyewear store that could complete a new pair of glasses on time. Mom decided to come along and suggested we go to the pet store after I’d finished picking out my new frames. We always go to the pet store, but we usually don’t come home with a dog. The fact that we did this time was due to a combination of circumstances. He’s a Shih-Tzu, the same breed as the two dogs we already have. He has the colouring my mom likes. He was half-price. And, probably most importantly, Noelle moved to Dinkytown and I’m moving to Australia. The dog is our replacement. And he’s a pretty cute replacement.
I haven’t had time to form a strong attachment to Yet-to-be-Named, so his presence did not outweigh my excitement to get out of here. Andy’s been doing quite well in France, and I can’t wait to go and begin my own adventures. They’ll made being away from him easier, and, of course, they’ll be incredible in their own right. They’d better be, as I’m writing this in the San Francisco airport. I left Minneapolis at 2.55pm, landed in Chicago at 4 something, left from there at 6.45 and arrived at San Francisco at 11pm Central/9pm Pacific. I’m sick of airports. I’m exhausted. And I still have a 13-hour flight ahead of me. For all this, Sydney better be pretty bloody amazing.
Despite all of the preparations I needed to undertake for my own departure, I’ve felt empty this week. Empty and a little lonely. Luckily, my friends have helped to alleviate, or at least suspend, my longing for Andy. Phone calls and face-to-face chats over pints and coffee have kept me in fairly high spirits. So have a few strangers in the medical profession, who gave me reduced-price dental exams and free contact solution when they learnt of my upcoming travel. It makes the transition a lot easier knowing that I have so much support from…well, everyone.
What did NOT make leaving easier was my mom’s decision to buy a new puppy two days before I left. I needed to go to a particular mall in order to visit an eyewear store that could complete a new pair of glasses on time. Mom decided to come along and suggested we go to the pet store after I’d finished picking out my new frames. We always go to the pet store, but we usually don’t come home with a dog. The fact that we did this time was due to a combination of circumstances. He’s a Shih-Tzu, the same breed as the two dogs we already have. He has the colouring my mom likes. He was half-price. And, probably most importantly, Noelle moved to Dinkytown and I’m moving to Australia. The dog is our replacement. And he’s a pretty cute replacement.
I haven’t had time to form a strong attachment to Yet-to-be-Named, so his presence did not outweigh my excitement to get out of here. Andy’s been doing quite well in France, and I can’t wait to go and begin my own adventures. They’ll made being away from him easier, and, of course, they’ll be incredible in their own right. They’d better be, as I’m writing this in the San Francisco airport. I left Minneapolis at 2.55pm, landed in Chicago at 4 something, left from there at 6.45 and arrived at San Francisco at 11pm Central/9pm Pacific. I’m sick of airports. I’m exhausted. And I still have a 13-hour flight ahead of me. For all this, Sydney better be pretty bloody amazing.
01 August, 2008
Duluth, Australia
Finding accommodations in Duluth was eerily easy. It required only one phone call as we were driving out of Copper Harbour on Saturday morning. The only difficult part about it was me trying to remember how to drive a manual through the maze of Houghton streets that suddenly emerged while Andy was on the phone making the reservation. He resumed the wheel after we'd stopped for lunch, and we arrived at our hotel early in the evening.
And what a hotel it was. It was gigantic and included a couch, a table and a proliferation of downy pillows such that I'd never seen before (the table and couch proved to be quite useful in eating the waffle Andy made the next morning). After taking in our luxurious settings, Andy went down to the front desk to retrieve an Ethernet cable (old school) so we could research our dinner options. He returned with a pair of surprise gin & tonics, and we unwound from the drive. I tried my best to forget lingering images of the hokey lawn decoration I'd seen just before we crossed the border from Wisconsin into Minnesota. A plot of flowers had been planted between an iron headboard and footrest, and a sign affixed to the headboard had proclaimed, "Yes, this is a flowerbed!"
As far as its restaurant selection, Duluth surprised me by resembling a mini Minneapolis. Restaurants that I thought only existed in Minneapolis, such as Pizza Luce and Hell's Kitchen, also had a location in Duluth. We opted for neither of these, instead choosing to try the Lake Ave Cafe. It was a short walk down the lake shore from our hotel, and the menu online looked delicious. We were initially put off by the emptiness of the place. Only one or two other checker-tableclothed tables were occupied when we entered. But we quickly decided it was everyone else's loss. The food was fantastic, especially after the Pringles and suspiciously-smothered-in-sauce whitefish we'd consumed the previous few days. Our waitress was charmingly unrehearsed with the night's specials, but provided us with warm, fuzzy feelings and some good suggestions for touring Duluth.
We attempted to settle our disgustingly full stomachs by taking a walk to the Aerial Bridge after dinner. It was growing dark, and we stood for a long time marvelling at the bridge from a pair of lighthouses that glowed red and green. We were able to admire the lift element of the bridge up close as we were about to cross it on our way back to the hotel. A device that resembled an old school bell began to clang above our heads and a warning sign blinked red. A disembodied voice told us to clear the bridge, and a section of it slowly started to rise into the air. Like the cogs that powered Split Rock lighthouse, this mechanical miracle absolutely fascinated me. I was stupefied at the enormous counterbalance and the slightly disturbing sight of a bridge that dropped off suddenly and perilously into the water. That event was the extent of the excitement in Duluth that night. But I was so happy to be able to relax with Andy in a beautiful setting.
That somehow translated into a very melancholy Sunday. Not only was the long weekend coming to a close, but it fully hit me that my time back in the US is quickly coming to a close as well. This is a good thing overall, but it's never easy to move country. And this time I have a new factor to consider. I've never before been in a relationship when facing a prolonged period abroad. In fact, the thing that largely spurred me into going abroad the first time was a desire to escape the aftereffects of a relationship that had ended. This is going to be hard. I'm trying not to dwell on it too far in advance, but it's inevitable for me at times. Everything has had a bittersweet quality about it recently. Somber waves often follow in the wake of a carefree moment because I suddenly remember that the time we have left for such moments is short.
I've had an especially difficult time which this element of my departure the past week. Since coming home from our trip, I've had my work visa approved and Andy and I have booked our flights. He leaves for France 23 September, and I leave for Australia 27 September. Having a final, definite date attached to the beginning of my adventure makes it suddenly concrete. It had been a comfortably vague plan up until then. Now I have less than two months to pull all the pieces together and see everyone I care about, including Andy, as much as I can before I leave. It's stressful and it's scary. Sometimes I wonder why I put myself through this.
Then I remember how wonderful it is to travel and how rewarding it is to find your niche in a new place. Nothing worthwhile is ever easy or safe. All the unique experiences and adventures that I had in England and Ireland made everything that went into creating those moments entirely worthwhile. The downs while abroad can be dismal, and there will be no exception this time. I won't see Andy for a year. I don't know anyone in Australia. I've never even visited before. I don't have anywhere to stay. I have no idea where I might work. But the ups are incredibly exhilarating. I'll see kangaroos. I can learn how to scuba dive. It will be summer in winter. The water drains in the opposite direction. I'll invent several excuses for avoiding Vegemite. And it's quite likely I'll muddle my accent again.
I will make it. Andy will make it. We will both make the absolute most of our time abroad. And then we can come back and use what we know when we travel together, whether we're scrounging for lodgings in the UP, luxuriating in Duluth or adventuring somewhere else entirely. It's amazingly scary, but, regardless of what happens, it will be amazing.
And what a hotel it was. It was gigantic and included a couch, a table and a proliferation of downy pillows such that I'd never seen before (the table and couch proved to be quite useful in eating the waffle Andy made the next morning). After taking in our luxurious settings, Andy went down to the front desk to retrieve an Ethernet cable (old school) so we could research our dinner options. He returned with a pair of surprise gin & tonics, and we unwound from the drive. I tried my best to forget lingering images of the hokey lawn decoration I'd seen just before we crossed the border from Wisconsin into Minnesota. A plot of flowers had been planted between an iron headboard and footrest, and a sign affixed to the headboard had proclaimed, "Yes, this is a flowerbed!"
As far as its restaurant selection, Duluth surprised me by resembling a mini Minneapolis. Restaurants that I thought only existed in Minneapolis, such as Pizza Luce and Hell's Kitchen, also had a location in Duluth. We opted for neither of these, instead choosing to try the Lake Ave Cafe. It was a short walk down the lake shore from our hotel, and the menu online looked delicious. We were initially put off by the emptiness of the place. Only one or two other checker-tableclothed tables were occupied when we entered. But we quickly decided it was everyone else's loss. The food was fantastic, especially after the Pringles and suspiciously-smothered-in-sauce whitefish we'd consumed the previous few days. Our waitress was charmingly unrehearsed with the night's specials, but provided us with warm, fuzzy feelings and some good suggestions for touring Duluth.
We attempted to settle our disgustingly full stomachs by taking a walk to the Aerial Bridge after dinner. It was growing dark, and we stood for a long time marvelling at the bridge from a pair of lighthouses that glowed red and green. We were able to admire the lift element of the bridge up close as we were about to cross it on our way back to the hotel. A device that resembled an old school bell began to clang above our heads and a warning sign blinked red. A disembodied voice told us to clear the bridge, and a section of it slowly started to rise into the air. Like the cogs that powered Split Rock lighthouse, this mechanical miracle absolutely fascinated me. I was stupefied at the enormous counterbalance and the slightly disturbing sight of a bridge that dropped off suddenly and perilously into the water. That event was the extent of the excitement in Duluth that night. But I was so happy to be able to relax with Andy in a beautiful setting.
That somehow translated into a very melancholy Sunday. Not only was the long weekend coming to a close, but it fully hit me that my time back in the US is quickly coming to a close as well. This is a good thing overall, but it's never easy to move country. And this time I have a new factor to consider. I've never before been in a relationship when facing a prolonged period abroad. In fact, the thing that largely spurred me into going abroad the first time was a desire to escape the aftereffects of a relationship that had ended. This is going to be hard. I'm trying not to dwell on it too far in advance, but it's inevitable for me at times. Everything has had a bittersweet quality about it recently. Somber waves often follow in the wake of a carefree moment because I suddenly remember that the time we have left for such moments is short.
I've had an especially difficult time which this element of my departure the past week. Since coming home from our trip, I've had my work visa approved and Andy and I have booked our flights. He leaves for France 23 September, and I leave for Australia 27 September. Having a final, definite date attached to the beginning of my adventure makes it suddenly concrete. It had been a comfortably vague plan up until then. Now I have less than two months to pull all the pieces together and see everyone I care about, including Andy, as much as I can before I leave. It's stressful and it's scary. Sometimes I wonder why I put myself through this.
Then I remember how wonderful it is to travel and how rewarding it is to find your niche in a new place. Nothing worthwhile is ever easy or safe. All the unique experiences and adventures that I had in England and Ireland made everything that went into creating those moments entirely worthwhile. The downs while abroad can be dismal, and there will be no exception this time. I won't see Andy for a year. I don't know anyone in Australia. I've never even visited before. I don't have anywhere to stay. I have no idea where I might work. But the ups are incredibly exhilarating. I'll see kangaroos. I can learn how to scuba dive. It will be summer in winter. The water drains in the opposite direction. I'll invent several excuses for avoiding Vegemite. And it's quite likely I'll muddle my accent again.
I will make it. Andy will make it. We will both make the absolute most of our time abroad. And then we can come back and use what we know when we travel together, whether we're scrounging for lodgings in the UP, luxuriating in Duluth or adventuring somewhere else entirely. It's amazingly scary, but, regardless of what happens, it will be amazing.
20 July, 2008
The War for Independent Lodging, Part II: The Outcome
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.
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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