Yosemite National Forest

My bike seat got stolen today. This is disconcerting. I mean, I've had stuff get stolen off the green Kona before. One time, somebody with absolutely no regard for my personal safety took my front and back lights in Portland while I was inside Hungry Tiger on SE 12th during dollar beer night. Low visibility + probable inebriation = dirty, dirty thief. Still, my seat? That's the keeper of precious cargo. Congratulations, you've seriously impeded my ability to cruise.

San Francisco; it's a jungle out there. I'm by no means down and out, but in regards to the whole "job hunt" thing I will say that the only people thus far that are willing to pay me in monetary funds for my services is a chicken and waffle counter in SoMa. Apparently when it comes to organizations better suited to utilizing my wide-reaching, literacy-oriented skill set, the unpaid internship is the new entry level position.

Which is probably why our camping trip to Yosemite National Park this weekend felt so palate-cleansing. Totally worth the nominally interesting (almond farms! rural traffic jams!) five hour drive out there. Kudos to our crazy rock climbing buddies for suggesting the sojourn.

For those of you who haven't been out there hear me this: go now. Yosemite is the quintessential American Outdoors. It's breath-taking and huge- huge like you can explore it for 40 years and there still will be corners and peaks and glades you haven't seen.

There's a lot in Yosemite to gawk at, but it's rocks are pretty high up on the list. Our party engaged them in different ways. By day, the vertical diversion set was mounting 900 foot pitches while the rest of us entertained ourselves with hiking mountains more suitable for foot traffic.

Like this one. Made halfway up Mt. Dana in my slip-on Vans and a tank top, so extreme.

But by night, we all snuggled together at the totally bootleg campsite Marcello found. Now don't tell them who sent you, but here's directions: you drive through Tioga Pass and take a hard right at the sign for the "Senior Citizens' Summer Camp." Set your tent up by that post that says "No Camping." No one's gonna bother you. Seriously, have you heard about California's budget situation? You think Inyo County is paying rangers to patrol it's far nooks and crannies?

The answer's no. Here's a map. Go to the right of the little people.

So being the Smokey the Bear conscious children of the 80's we are, we totally were not going to have a fire. Dry brush? July in California? Not a good idea, no way... but then we chatted up some fly fishers from Southern Cali, who, charmed by our banter, thoughtfully donated a slew of trout to our cause. What to do? Couple hours later, Team Yosemite was assembled around a cheerful flame, passing nacho pots, fish nuggets and that ever-loving campsite accessory, Vitamin W (that's whiskey, for the non-medically inclined).

Two rules around the campfire:

1. You must take a little of whatever is passed to you.

2. You must pass everything.

Follow these guidelines and you will make fast friends. I met a bunch of fine souls around that flame, all San Franciscans, all transplants from different parts of the world. And none of them had a job on arrival to the big, bad city. Most were sleeping on their sister's friend's neighbor's couch, or some such place. I didn't ask them, but I'll wager at least one of them has had their bike seat stolen.

Come check me at the chicken shack! Limited time only... maybe.

love,
cd

Oregon

And so it goes. A mad dash (or so it felt) through that Oregon, over and done. Certainly, it was not without it's memories. Surprising no one, I've lost my camera again, so the photos that follow are all borrowed shots and throwbacks. Highlights of the life in the green:

1. My 'welcome home' backyard barbeque- a week before I left again. A gentle outside, fed drunkeness with friends that begin to turn into family.

Similar happenings in 2007. Meghann Miller: she's got hot gams and the cutest blog ever

2. Monday night in Colonel Summers Park on 20th and Belmont drinking those new Session Blacks (watch out for them- and I mean that in every sense of the world) on short grass with Sunny and my lovely bearded boy. It was near enough to overwhelm a girl with the nouveau-Portland of it all. Phalanxs of double-decker art bikes, ironic grandma/hillbilly outfits and pet ferrets- a true hipster parade. Where do these people come from? (Answer: Iowa. And Beaverton.)

3. A rapturous, bittersweet road trip with Erik bound in a circuitous route to Cali, with stops at strange metal sculpture shops in McKenzie and at Sahalie Falls in the Willamette National Forest. If the United States has one thing to be bullishly, opaquely proud of, it can be it's national park system. Not only were we the first to designate national parks, with the incorporation of Yellowstone Park in 1872, but in no other country in the world can senior citizens pull their trailer into a parking lot right off the highway and stroll 100 meters to this. Bravo, leaders of the free world:

Clearly, I did not take this picture. But I'm thankful to those who don't have the same issue with property retention. Thanks, Michael Hatten!

4. We made another stop off in the crunchy enclave of Eugene, for my first "peer group" wedding. If it had to be somebody joining that crazy institution called marriage, at least it was Dain and Wakan. They rock. Since we are big on the solemnities of the ritual of love, we bought Mr. and Mrs. Alferes a race car pinata from Woodburn and filled it with plastic dollar store swag, Mexican candies, peanuts and "nips." Felicidades, D and W. Your party actually left me less terrified of matrimony. And I dug the poi dancer that had his "fire stick" on a yo-yo. Eugene, Oregon: if you are going to hippie, hippie here.

Wakan had to grab a Tanqueray nip from a youngster shortly after we bashed her race car to festive, boozey bits

5. Rounding out the grown up panorama was a stop off in Bend to see Gena's new(ly purchased!) home. My little homeowner has set herself up grand in the land of dramatic mountains and lazy day tubing. The house is fab, but her primary accomplishment is the purchase of a fat orange cat with one eye. His name is Captain Uno. After she reads this she will send me a picture of him, preferably with his bowtie on.

Arrrrr! Thanks, Gen. You are a prize peach.

Oregon. The Beaver State. Stumptown, Tracktown, Nutrias, Craft Beers, Big Trees, Bigger Ideas. Hicks, Hippies and Hipsters. Your daughter will be back someday soon. Save some rain for me.

Flopping about in wipeout waves of adoration,
Caitlin

Bethesda, Maryland

It feels good to be back. In the States, that is. Hung in San Fran for a few days, but was way too excited with flush toilets and feather mattresses to blog to you right away. And in short order, I was scooped up by Peter Donohue himself to go on a truly luxurious East Coast foray to visit Grandma and Aunt Sara.

We flew Virgin Airlines cross country, in the first class cabin. The sensuous pleasure of this experience is beyond my powers of articulation. Let it be known that there were free Bloody Mary’s consumed and extreme levels of reclination.

I woke up in my own hotel room in Bethesda, the embodiment of “New Urban,” a place where corporate America can walk from office to lunch hour jewelry shopping and after-work drinks. All the architecture is post 9/11- downtown is a little like a mall turned inside out. On my rambles through this be-suited, tastefully highlighted reimagination of a city, I get asked a lot if I’m on my way to the beach. Barely free of the load of my backpack, I have little in the way of “polished outfits.” I feel clumsily subversive.

Maryland, or at least the Maryland immediately adjacent to our nation’s capital, is a upper class suburban sprawl of the highest order. Towns like Bethesda run into Chevy Chase runs into Rockville runs into inappropriately clogged highways and monolithically remote office parks. We drive from Grandma’s senior home, where we witness odd series of conversational fragments between stroke victims to my Aunt Sara’s lovely three story house, where my seven year old triplet cousins rule the roost with their Bermese mountain dog. Kisses are exchanged in on intergenerational cheeks and there is much catching up to be done.

Every once in awhile I sneak out to hang with my peer group- Jess and Jay, dear friends from the college years that are making a go of it in Washington, DC proper. Jay works for Bill Clinton and Jess is a defense contractor. They both live in wonderful apartments, easily affording tickets to baseball games and rounds at the bar. I am a hobo. We booze heavily and reflect wisely on the different paths that life can take you. They pay, mostly, for the drinks. I’d like to take this opportunity to thank them.

I’m back in the country, sure, but there’s still plenty of journey to be had. Planning on continuing ‘Pura Caitlin’ until that settles down a little so no worries, my pet, because at least for the next few weeks I am

Yours!

CD

Miami

You can´t get much farther from Oregon than Miami without leaving the country. Its not just a distance on the map, either, but a very real gut change.

We zoomed in straight from Bogota, so you better believe there was some airport security to be encountered. Erik and I, at this point in our lives, look like some dirty hippies and that, coupled with the fact we were containing a sarong-cum-hobo-bag full of illegal South American produce, we must have been patted down at three different points in the journey by swine flu-bemasked airport officials. By the end, after three days of travel and a whole bunch of cultural profiling, we were ready for four days of Stateside R & R.


Miami kicks ass. Its hot like the tropics, to begin with. You spend most of your time zooming down freeways with water on all sides of you, giant white yachts and mansions not acessible to the average proletarian on mythic private islands.

They dig on conspicuous consumption out there. We chilled on South Beach this weekend, where I came down with a big, shiny, pleasurable case of culture shock. I have never in all my life seen so many moms with fake boobs. Or monokinis. Or their glitzy-trashy friends, the G-strings. Or designer sun dresses to (almost) cover them up with, or waxed pectorals and half-buttoned linen shirts.

We re not in Ecuador anymore. Even though theres a hell of a lot of Spanish going down.

So I dug on people watching, freaked out when restaurants had Rogue Ale on tap, ate Goldfish crackers, threw my toilet paper in the toilet (Latin America has a strict, no-foreign-objects policy) and socialized on the most pristine city beaches I´ve ever known existed. Do these people not litter?

Plus, I got to meet the coolest group of people ever- so shout out to the Erik Anderson crew, family and friends. You guys absolutely spoiled us this weekend, it was love to hang with you all. And thanks for lending me your boy for a little while.



And now we´re back kinging of the roading. Guatemala, to be exact, Antigua to be exacter. Antigua is the old, old capital of the country, until 1770-something when yet another earthquake leveled the place. All the buildings are pastel-to-bright, one story, be-patioed beauty and the streets rock the cobble stone look. It´s located in a triangle of active volcanoes- these people like to live on the edge, tectonically speaking. Basically, its gorgeous. Unfortunately, the gringos know it- there´s about one million Spanish schools here and we actually ate bagels and cream cheese for breakfast. This is not okay. So we´re making like bananas and splitting out to Lake Atitlan in about... twenty minutes. Born to ramble, ya know?

Love to you all,
your still swine flu-free friend,
Cait