Stina's Trip » ocean

Children and animals

admin — Thu, 06 Oct 2011 10:45:53 +0000

This post is for my friend and Mountaineer columnist, Paul Viau. Before I left, he joked that I shouldn’t only take pictures of little kids and animals, as that’s kind of my thing at the paper where I work. The funny thing is that I feel even more of a desire to take photos of these subjects here. There’s some sort of familiar safety in making a baby smile for my camera, and I’ve been loving it. Pretty much everything else is new and challenging here, but little kids wanting their picture taken is one thing I understand.

So long, Nha Trang. It's been good to know you.

I’m in Nha Trang right now, but I’m just about to head out to Hoi An on a “sleeper bus,” which will be an adventure in itself. The bus will consist of maybe 30 “beds” — seats that look like a hybrid of a plush bus seat and a poolside lounge chair. For about 10 hours, I’ll be almost completely horizontal, except for a slight incline against my back, and I’ll see the dark Vietnamese countryside go by until (hopefully) I squeeze in a couple hours of fitful sleep. I’ve chosen a bed on the upper level of the bus, which kind of adds to the excitement, especially since Vietnamese bus drivers seem to look at pot holes as more of a challenge than something to avoid.

In the last few days, I’ve had so many experiences, from being bitten by a dog (the rabies vaccine is surprisingly easy to come by in Nha Trang) to snorkeling in a murky section of the ocean, to drinking 45¢ beer with a lovely, young British couple. I don’t know how to distill all this, how to boil it down and come up with cool little anecdotes. Everything is happening so fast, and I’m constantly fearful that I’m not doing enough or that I’ll run out of time. There is so much to take in that I don’t know where to start, but I suppose trying to figure that out is part of the fun and challenge of being somewhere new. I love traveling, but it’s humbling and perhaps perfect to know that it’s not always easy for me. Not at all.

But, at least I know how to do one thing, and that’s snapping pictures of children and animals (well, as long as the latter don’t attack my ankles again).

Paul, these are for you.

Jessica's dad is Australian, and her mom is Vietnamese. I met her right before a fateful run in with a dog.

I know ... this one's a little hard to take.

A place called Apalach

admin — Wed, 24 Feb 2010 20:00:12 +0000

(AUSTIN, Texas) — I don’t know what I want.

I can write that and know I’m in no way embellishing my feelings or being overly simplistic. Up until this point, all my choices have felt fairly straight-forward to me, even if they didn’t look that way to the outside world. Go to college, graduate. Move to Portland, move away. Live in New Mexico, live in Colorado. Move to Utah and love it. Travel across the country alone in a trailer. And now, and now…Austin? I just don’t know. I kind of hate it here, and I kind of love it, and I’m far too intrigued to leave. Right now, I’m sitting in a hip, dimly-lit café/bar/cool kid hangout somewhere in the city, and 25-ish folks are laughing and drinking and sitting in front of their laptops all around me. The music in here continually shifts from obscure indie rock to old school country and more, and the menu ranges from vegan cake to meaty Frito pie. I am intrigued, and I am repelled, and I can’t help but want more. This town is like a cut on my gums — it kind of hurts, and it kind of feels good, and no matter what, I can’t stop touching it.

A million things have changed since I last wrote, and I am now gainfully employed, thank God. I’m a hostess at Magnolia Café South, a hip Austin institution on South Congress Avenue. I feel luckier than I can say, though the work is hard and fast and definitely not my strong suit. A little Austin existence is shaping up around me, and I even have a couple of friends, I think. I’m shocked and pleased. The world feels wide open.

In honor of all this and of my trip (which I do not consider over yet), I’m beginning a series of photo essays of places I’ve been to recently but for some reason didn’t get around to posting about. I don’t know where I’m going right now, but I know where I have been, and hopefully showing some of these images will bring some clarity about all of this. Even if it doesn’t, the photographer part of me is still itching to show off some of my stuff.

This first set is of Apalachicola, Florida, a little town I visited not so long ago. The reason I wanted to start with it is that I seriously considered moving there. I envisioned doing there exactly what I’m doing here (getting a job and a place to stay, etc.), though I understand now how dramatically impractical that would have been. Sure, it was a nice town, a fine town, with wide streets and old buildings and a river and a bay nearby. But there was no way to make a living there, not for me. I would have been out of my element so completely that disaster would have pretty much been my only option. It scares me now how willing I was to overlook that.

But I was romanced by the town, and I have little barrier against this specific kind of seduction. I am so susceptible to quirky, friendly, scrappy communities that it’s not even funny. I’m always looking for the next cute, strange place to take me in. This town had those qualities in spades. Within a matter of hours of my arrival, I had met a large handful of friendly, cool people, from my host, Emily, to Tamara, the boisterous and welcoming Latin lady of a certain age who owns a coffee shop in town. It all felt right in some strange way. My second day, I went out to look for a potential job and met more folks — store owners, mostly, all of whom seemed open and happy to help however they could. Yet no one had a job for me. It didn’t matter, though, because for some reason I was determined, locked-in on the idea that this was going to work, as though the shear power of me arbitrarily deciding to move somewhere would spin the universe in my favor.

I guess, in a way it did, but not in the fashion I wanted at the time.

Downtown Apalach, as I heard it called.

I’m not sure when the shift happened exactly, but when it did, it was dramatic. It could have been that drunken party I attended on someone’s boat that did it, but I don’t know. Apalachicola, a water-surrounded town of a 3,000 and change, seemed so sweet and warm for two or so days, and then, suddenly, it was stifling. It’s not that anyone in it had changed. Emily, a waitress and artist about my age, was still low-key and friendly and casual in that specific way that people in the restaurant culture can be. Tamara was still fiery and motherly and happy to have me park my trailer outside her home. But I just couldn’t anymore. A veil had been lifted, and I suddenly found myself relieved to be moving on into the unknown. Before I left, I stopped by a yarn/book shop downtown and chatted with its owner, an earthy and soft-spoken woman a couple of decades older than I. I bought some variegated, pink yarn and told Dale my thought process and conclusion. She smiled and sighed and nodded in a way that let me know she understood. So many people, she told me, come to this town and have a great first weekend. They meet cool residents and have cool experiences and then up and buy a home here. It’s only after they move in that they realize what they had experienced during that first visit was as good as it gets.

Run-down old buildings like this are the kind of images I love — yet felt a need to escape after some time Apalachicola.

Now, I know that’s not always the case, and as does Dale. I’m not knocking this Florida hamlet, and neither was she. I just think, in that moment, we both understood that this was not the place for me. It was so lovely to have someone echo that feeling. As I drove off from Apalach, there was a cinematic amount of rain pouring down, and perhaps it would have been safer to wait it out. But I couldn’t. I had to get out of there. I don’t know when it has ever felt so good to hit the road. I don’t even remember the specifics of the scenery, just that it was very green and very wet, and I was one of the only vehicles around. I took Highway 98 an hour west to military-infused Panama City and while that town wasn’t much to write home about, it was a great relief. I knew I wasn’t going to move there, and that was enough to make my stay a joy.

I can’t believe that was less than two months ago. As I look back on this recent history, I’ll admit I’m a little jealous. What a joy it would be to still be mobile, to drive away whenever anything got rough. But that’s not how it is these days. Staying in one spot is all about accountability. Holding down jobs, keeping friends, knowing neighbors. When my Austin world is good, all of these weighty responsibilities seem appropriate and enjoyable. When my life here feels a little dark, those needs and relationships seem surprisingly difficult, and I yearn for the simplicity of the road.

No matter my mood, however, I try not to lose sight of something: I am damn lucky to be here. Austin may be easy to mock and congested as can be. It may be big and impersonal at times. Its idea of itself occasionally drives me crazy. But it is alive here. Events and art and opportunity are everywhere, and it still shocks me that I get to be so close to all this live music, good cinema and plentiful improv. No, this is not what I’m used to. It doesn’t have the comfort and warmth of the small towns I have loved, but it has other qualities are perhaps just as important. This is not a place to write off. Anyway, I feel I have to be malleable and able to exist in cities that are fast and competitive. I have to be able to be in a spot where I’m not considered special and important just for choosing it. Here, I am anonymous. And I kind of like that.

A shout out to my Moab friends. I saw this on the streets of Apalach.

The hope is that if I do return to the small town thing that I do so with a degree of power. I can’t simply retreat to the small-town world because I couldn’t hack it in the city. I want to move back because small towns feel right to me, and I think I understand them. I want to move back because I like the idea of an intimate, rural place being my destination. My future family, my possible chickens and my theoretical piece of land somewhere in the desert float through my mind just often enough to remind me of that.

Ah, I feel I’m just escaping into my head now, coming up with cerebral ideas of the future. I don’t really know what I want or where I’m going, and that isn’t going to be changed by a bunch of statements. So enough.

How about some pictures instead? Here are some more images of Apalachicola, the town that nearly had me. I wish everyone I met there the best, from afar.

Tamara in her coffee shop/gift store/gallery. It was nice and warm and colorful in there.

Emily, right before I left town.

LaVerne, a local store owner. She loved to talk and gave me all kinds of advice and anecdotes and directions. No job, though. In the end, it was most definitely better that way, however.

Sisters Lydia and Adelaide Perr. I met them at Tamara's as they rested for a day in the midst of an ambitious, cross-country bicycle trip. The original plan was to cycle from Charleston, S.C. to California then to Alaska, all the while raising money for the literacy charity Room to Read. In the weeks since this picture, they have actually gotten side-tracked in Colorado (thanks to intense weather, mostly). But their accomplishment of biking more than 1,000 miles is still amazing. You can read about their travels at their blog, http://nokeysrequired.com.

Looking through the I Ching, about which Tamara is passionate.

One of Tamara's many friends, hanging out at her shop.

Dad and daughter in Apalachicola.

A golden oldie

admin — Sun, 17 Jan 2010 14:36:41 +0000

(APALACHICOLA, Fla.) — I’m sitting on a large porch, near a wide street, in a small, rainy Florida town. I am leaving today, but I seriously considered moving here. When I arrived a few days ago, it felt like the town opened up its arms to me, and almost immediately I met tons of cool small-town people. I could get a job here, I thought, I could make this work for a while. But I can’t. Maybe I’m not ready to really settle down quite yet or maybe the idea of not working for a newspaper again is just too sad.

Or perhaps my old homes of Silver City, N.M. and Moab, Utah still have their hooks in me so deep that moving briefly to any other tiny town would feel like cheating.

Anyway, as I get ready to depart, to drive off to Panama City, I leave you with some images from my last Florida stop, St. Augustine. This city, the oldest continuously inhabited in America, wasn’t what I had expected. It was far funkier, more down-to-earth and weirder than I had imagined. Before I arrived, I was worried that I would feel swallowed up by a corporate beach community mentality, but instead I felt comfortable there. This was thanks to my couch surfing hosts, April and Conrad, but also to a delicate friendliness in the air. I can’t exactly explain it, but perhaps I can illustrate. One afternoon while running downtown, I realized I was seriously dehydrated. Nothing felt right in my body, so I quit my run and immediately felt like a slacker. My guilt led me to knock on the door of some elaborately decorated mansion, one that now serves as a $10/a pop tourist attraction. I asked the older, well-put-together woman selling tickets if she knew of any nearby drinking fountains. She said no — and handed me a bottle of cold water. Then I finished the remaining 25 minutes of my run.

I think there must be a law written in stone somewhere that you will always have a soft spot in your heart for towns where you have those kind of moments.

St. Augustine to me: the fort , a palm tree, the highway. Castilo de San Marcos is very old, I mean 17th century old.

A hard day's work at the fort. Outside Castilo de San Marcos in St. Augustine, Fla.

Happy Festivus. Outside Potter's Wax Museum in St. Augustine, Fla.

Outside the Pirate Haus Inn, which my gracious hosts own.

And inside the Pirate Haus Inn.

Old town St. Augustine, Fla.

This old lady was spunky and British, and she was delighting the young military guy who stood guard outside his base. Coast guard? Marines? I have no idea what service he was in. I only know he enjoyed laughing with her.

In case you were wondering — yes, it still is really cold in the South. Old town St. Augustine.

Smoking section. Old town St. Augustine.

Falling in love again

admin — Sun, 10 Jan 2010 12:35:17 +0000

(SAVANNAH, Ga.) — You know that moment when you meet someone, and you feel a spark of electricity? You two are introduced, and you shake hands, and you look into that person’s face and you know, just know, that there is something important going on. This simply feels right, and you’re smitten. Minutes or hours or days later, you may find out this person is dating someone else or is not attracted to your gender or is a little racist. But the memory of your first interaction is still there, still pure, and I think, still important. It’s that first second of surprise and delight in which anything seems possible. You’re transported from the real world, and you love it.

I haven’t felt that way about anyone in a long time. But that was my experience of Charleston.

I had my little dalliance with South Carolina the other day, when I was feeling antsy and decided to run up the coast. I was tired and had very little time to spare, but I had this sense that I was going to like Charleston. Or maybe I just decided to. At any rate, by the time I arrived in that old, Southern city, I was ready for something magical.

Mind you, Savannah, the town I ditched for the day, is lovely and comfortable. I have been here for nearly three weeks, and they have been some of the best of my trip. Steve and Cindy Meguiar, the pastor and his wife who have let me park outside their church, are amazing people. They’ve given me more support and love than I ever imagined anyone would on this trip. Here, I have become a small part of the Aldersgate Methodist Church community, and people know me by name. When I go to the church’s nearby gym to take a shower, folks chat me up, and when a recent church breakfast was held, I was invited. Because of this mostly, I have a relationship now with Savannah. I would have never have guessed this was possible, but it feels a little bit like my home.

On Thursday, like so often in my past, I felt like running away from home, if only for a day. I wanted something new and dramatic. I wanted to be swept off my feet. And you know what? I got my wish.

Looking back, it’s hard to even pick out what made Charleston seem so incredibly romantic to me. But when I was there, it was heady stuff. Set on a peninsula, the historic section feels tiny, though it’s actually a decent-sized maze of old, wooden houses, high-end shops and an occasional cobblestone street. Spanish moss drips from everything, which makes the place seem like a movie set. I’ve been in the East so long now that I hardly even notice when I walk past a home with a placard that reads 1802 or something, but it should be noted that Charleston is chock full of those romantic, pastel-colored, antique buildings. For the most part, they’ve got deep porches and working shutters and elegant railings and fences crafted out of iron. Some have opulent gardens behind them, and all are far too rich for my blood. As I rode a tour bus through the area, I said, “Wow,” under my breath at the fanciness, as did many of my white-haired counterparts. As my spry, dry-witted, senior citizen tour guide explained in his drawl, these are antebellum structures. Then I kicked myself for completely forgetting what that meant.

“I hope everyone can understand my accent,” the guide said, grinning. “I do speak it the way God intended around these parts.”

He was a funny, crowd-pleasing, proud Southerner, and while he wasn’t raised in the city, you would never have known it. He talked about Charleston as though it was a family heirloom. To hear him tell it, this wasn’t just the where Stephen Colbert and the Civil War got their start. No, Charleston was basically the birthplace of America. As someone who enjoys a state with a big, healthy ego, I was eating this enthusiasm up.

After the tour, I did what any love struck person would — nothing. I just drank the city in with my eyes and strolled the small, scattered streets while half-heartedly trying to find various landmarks. I took pictures. I wrote down little thoughts in my journal. I people watched. As the sun began to set and the city started to sink into darkness, I stood by the ocean, just happy to be exactly where I was. I felt like I was on vacation, vacation from whatever this trip has become and will turn out to be. My eyes fixed on the pier in front of me, and I saw a guy in his 20s sitting with his dog. Each was looking out to opposite ends of the horizon. The boy had his hand on his pooch, and the tableau was so sweet that it was as though I had fallen into a Norman Rockwell painting. It felt good to have the time to notice it.

Dinner was what you would expect — fatty and meaty and delicious at a soul food place called Jestine’s Kitchen. The only big surprise was my reading material. As soon as I walked in, the manager handed me a copy of skirt!, a Southeastern free women’s newspaper. I had seen this monthly collection of non-fiction essays in stands on the street before but hadn’t yet sat down with one. But as I read and ate, I found myself giving it my complete attention. Taking in those short, deadly honest stories started to make me feel something. This was real stuff. I was internalizing essays about affairs and college admissions and miscarriages, and right there, alone, I nearly started to cry. Was it the subject matter? Maybe. But more so, I think that was my response to seeing people put their vulnerability into words. I kind of like that it made me almost cry.

Pruned trees near the ocean in Charleston.

With this bout of emotion fresh in my body, I walked through the mile of silent stillness back to my truck, parked along the ocean. Feeling a bit solitary in all that quiet, I called a friend, a Coloradoan who used to live in Charleston, in fact. I thanked him for all the tips he had already given me about the city and told him about my day. As he replied, I could hear some softness and affection in his voice. And while I enjoyed it, I don’t think that was for me, really. He was sending out love to his former city.

“God, you’re making me homesick,” he said.

For that moment, as I sat in my car, parked between the Atlantic and a row of beautiful homes probably older than my home state of California, I understood.

If I were to have slept the night in Charleston or stayed a week or tried to find a job there, I’m sure the romance would have rolled right off that sweet little city. But I wasn’t about to. I didn’t have any desire to see Charleston as a layered, textured thing. I didn’t want the reality of it to spoil my enjoyable little crush.

And besides, I didn’t have the time. Onward to Florida.

Nikki Hardin founded the newspaper skirt! when she was broke, middle aged and looking for some meaning in her life. Now the paper is all over the Southeast. Amazing. I saw this portrait of Nikki at Jestine's Kitchen, a restaurant in Charleston, S.C.

I wonder how many Laurens walked by this?

When someone grabs you and says, "Let's take a picture in front of this painting," sometimes you do. Charleston, S.C.

All that's left of an old factory. Charleston, S.C.

I ♥ the OBX

admin — Sun, 03 Jan 2010 05:49:47 +0000

(NOTE: This was written on New Year’s Day)

(SAVANNAH, Ga.) — Today I jumped into the Atlantic Ocean along with 100 costumed Georgians. I loved it. That’s the Polar Bear Plunge for you, which happens every year on Tybee Island. Though it hurt to be thrashing in icy water alongside half-naked strangers, it was also beautiful. The temperature was shocking, but we were all in it together, figuratively and actually. I knew hardly anyone there — not the people painted as Smurfs nor the band of Oompa-Loompas nor the various, inevitable cross-dressed men — but I felt I shared something with them. It was just something goofy, something flecked with pleasure and pain, but that is good enough for me. I savor that kind of camaraderie no matter how it comes my way.

It’s six hours later now, and it’s silent where I’m parked, even though I’m not far from downtown Savannah. I am immensely digging the quiet and the dark. As I travel, I am constantly fighting sensory overload. Distraction and new things are everywhere. I thought it was great being in Times Square and standing at the CN Tower in Toronto and seeing the nightlife of Wilmington, N.C. But I also really enjoy solitary nights in my trailer, when I’m free to bake or read a book or perhaps knit while watching a movie I’ve seen before. Sometimes, I fear there’s an old lady lurking inside me. I can’t help how much I like the simple life.

Jockey's Ridge State Park. Nags Head, N.C.

I know that is why I loved the Outer Banks.

I want to apologize to those islands, as I feel I should have written more about them when I was actually there. Yet, while I was staying in Nags Head and Ocracoke, it was so natural and nice that I almost felt I didn’t have to document it. It seemed that much a part of me.

There, I felt like there was room for me. Like so many beach communities on the Atlantic, the towns that dot the skinny island slices of the Outer Banks are extremely seasonal. These places are crawling with people in the summer, but in the winter months, no one is hardly home. I was free to explore the dunes and run on the beach and walk through the empty residential zones without encountering anybody. It’s not that I like to be alone all the time. I swear it isn’t. I love being around people who welcome me — but I also need the feeling of discovering on my own. In Nags Head, where I first stayed, I took a lonesome dune hike at Jockey’s Ridge State Park and couldn’t get enough. The dunes were untouched and golden, and the sky was so big and open and bright blue. Like a kid, I pretended I was lost in some desert-filled country (one that just happens to always have a view of mini golf courses and pirate themed restaurants on the horizon). That freedom to be silly made me buoyant. Another day, I checked out the Wright brothers’ monument and historical site and got my dose of inspirational history for the year. I felt gleeful getting to experience all that solo.

An evening by Corolla, N.C., the upper tip of the Outer Banks.

I had no love for the commercial side of the Outer Banks, from the ubiquitous souvenir shops to the over-priced seafood buffets. Luckily, loving coporate glitz isn’t an OBX requirement. Being there at such an empty time allowed me to have my own experience, away from the neon strip mall quality of the place. And when I did hang around people, it felt, to my surprise, like I had known them for a long while.

Enter Laura and Chris, a brother and sister who invited me to park outside their home in Nags Head for several days. I met Laura through Couchsurfing.com (something that is definitely, completely worth you checking you). I liked her immediately. And we become friends about that fast. Whenever that instant connection happens, it’s strange and rare, and it never fails to shock me. I think it surprised Laura too, but I also got the sense that she creates that wherever she goes. She’s a friendly, gregarious lesbian chick who is bald and has no eyebrows due to a medical condition. She also grew up as a Jehovah’s Witness for the first part of her life, so yeah, she knows a little bit about being different. And she plays it off with style and honesty and not a hint of anger. She and her brother always live together and move a lot, and I got the sense that wherever they go, she becomes a minor celebrity. I was floored by this and kept wanting, but not really asking for, her secret. How does one become so damn dynamic? The 1998 middle school version of me was dying to know and still is.

Chris and Laura and my trailer.

Her brother was also a nice, sweet person, and it was hard to leave them both. But like always, I had to keep going. The day I said goodbye to Nags Head the weather was crazy, with rain and storm surges flooding the road that runs north-south on the island. It was only open for a brief time, and I squeezed through that window, though I probably shouldn’t have. I have never experienced anything quite like that drive. I grew up in Northern California, where there are typically cliffs or winding trails separating you from the ocean. But that just isn’t so in the Outer Banks. The only things that weren’t at sea level were the houses on stilts, and even those looked hilariously vulnerable against the power of the waves. The road was terrible, doused with sand and water. Still, I doggedly dragged my trailer down it, at one point going through a 10 mile stretch that was submerged in more than a foot of displaced ocean. In Rodanthe, one of the many closed down beach towns along the way, I pulled over, got out and stood on a dune against the wind. The gusts were so powerful that they could have knocked me over, but I was invigorated. I looked down at all those stilt houses in front of me and couldn’t help but smile. For a moment, I realized what a big adventure I’m on. Then a few people drove by, including a cop, and I got self-conscious and went on my way.

Somewhere in Ocracoke, N.C.

One freezing night and ferry ride later, I arrived on Ocracoke, the Outer Banks’ most remote island. I hear that in the summer it’s completely overrun with people, enough so that many locals try to make their living for the year in those short months. But during my stay it was thankfully, almost completely, deserted. Supposedly, I was sharing the island with 700 year-round Ocracokers, but it felt more like 30 friendly characters taking turns entering whatever scene I happened to be in (Don’t many tiny towns feel like that, really?). Cue the woman working in the general store, whose family has owned that place for decades. Cue that joyous couple, the one that owns Thai Moon, which sells some of the best Thai food I have ever tasted. Cue Robert, the guy who’s working like crazy to get Ocracoke’s first community radio station off the ground. I didn’t feel like one of them, but I was strangely comfortable around nearly every person I met on the island.

The last one I’ll leave you with is Ingrid, the 23-year-old American Swede who invited me to stay with her for those three Ocracoke days (I’m telling you — you must check out CouchSurfing.com). She’s the person I spent the most time around on the island, and though I’m sure she doesn’t know it, she inspired me. She grew up mainly in Sweden but also partially in Ocracoke, and this gave her a comfort with it of which I was almost jealous. She showed me around, pointing out old houses and telling me stories about how the families who founded the town still have descendants there. We went on walks and explored the beaches and the cemeteries. I showed her how to knit. We watched movies. This wasn’t dramatically exciting stuff, but it was great. Probably the lack of drama was what made it so.

Climbing trees with Ingrid, my Ocracoke buddy.

Ingrid was upfront about the fact that she doesn’t know what she is doing with her life, and I took that as a great comfort. It’s nice to be reminded how OK that is. Soon, she’ll leave on a bike ride across America with a few of her friends, but after that, who knows? Maybe she’ll go back to school. Maybe she’ll live for a while in San Diego, where her trip will end. All she was sure of is that she wants to travel. God, I understand that. It’s what to do next that can feel so daunting.

I wish Ingrid the best of luck answering that question for herself in 2010. And I, perhaps selfishly, wish myself luck too. I don’t know how you commit to one spot in the world after being so fluid and traveling for so many months. How do you choose — or does it choose you? I have a sense this is something I’ll have to learn this year. I’m already a bit sad about it. But secretly, I am kind of excited, too.

Happy New Year.

Jockey's Ridge State Park. Nags Head, N.C.

A sand castle — that just happened to be made of chicken wire and plaster. Nags Head, N.C.

Nags Head, N.C.

Orville Wright, in the spot where he and his brother first flew. Kill Devil Hills, N.C.

The Wright brothers' monument. Kill Devil Hills, N.C.

Out by the "lost" colony of Roanoke, near Manteo, N.C.

Little house on the sea. Rodanthe, N.C.

A view from the ferry to Ocracoke from Hatteras, N.C.

Ocracoke, N.C.

What I found on a walk with Ingrid. Ocracoke, N.C.

Feral cats of Ocracoke unite.

No quid were harmed during the making of this picture. I found this little, unfortunate guy on the street in Ocracoke, N.C.

During high tide, this beach is completely submerged. The fellow who started Ocracoke's community radio station was nice enough to take me out to see it. Thanks again, Robert.

Duck crossing. Ocracoke, N.C.

Me. Photo by Ingrid.

Ocracoke's lighthouse. Yes, that's an extension cord.

Abner the chihuahua and historic Howard Street. Ocracoke, N.C.

Ingrid.