Stina's Trip » rain

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.

Wow. I’m actually on my way.

admin — Tue, 11 Aug 2009 02:37:20 +0000

I’ve never experienced rain like this. I’m outside Moravia, N.Y., and I’m cleaning up my trailer as water pounds hard against the aluminum frame. It’s unending. The lightning must be striking close, because immediate, dramatic booms accompany each flash. It’s 4 p.m., which somehow makes me feel safe, but last night, in the throes of the same thing, I was genuinely scared. But I’m extra vulnerable these days. Now that I’m finally traveling, I feel completely out of my element. I haven’t ever done something as risky as this trip, and the result is both exhilarating and frightening. Just as long as it’s not debilitating, however, I think I’m in good shape.

Let me back up, explain. My name is Stina Sieg. I’m 26, and I have just left on a solo journey around America and Canada in a silver, Boles Aero trailer, vintage 1969. I want to explore these countries, and myself, over the course of at least a year. I don’t know what I’m looking for, exactly, just that I have to go. As I’ve been working at newspapers and magazines for the last five years, a big part of this experience will be paying my way by getting writing and photography gigs as I go along. This thing of procuring jobs is one of the scariest parts of the trip to me, but it’s also one of the most necessary. I love hearing and telling people’s stories. My pen and camera get me outside myself and into the world, and I feel such gratitude to them for that.

Plus, I’m a terrible barista and a spotty waitress, which makes me all the more grateful for finding my vocation.

I’m a Californian, but in the last few years, I’ve also lived in Oregon, New Mexico and Colorado. Three weeks ago, I left my most recent home of Moab, Utah. After pausing in the northern section of the state to do some writing work, I sprinted across the country in four days, eventually arriving at a country town, north of Toronto, where I did some stories for a few small magazines on either side of the border. Really, I should have been writing my blog weeks ago, but my world was so new and jostled that I didn’t feel I had time to describe my impressions of things.

In lieu of this blog, I have tried to commit to memory certain moments since I left Moab on July 15. In Vernal, Utah, I ran through silvery blades of rain along the downtown strip and smiled because the wet felt so nice. In Cheyenne, Wyo., I took pictures of the baby rabbits hopping around the visitor center’s lawn. I remember how good Iowa’s green, rolling hills looked after Nebraska’s flatness. At a parking lot somewhere in Illinois, I think, my truck slipped out of gear, and my trailer almost slammed into someone’s fifth wheel rig. Here, in upstate New York, I fell in love with banjo player Old Man Ludecke while driving and listening to the radio. Later that day, a friendly guy in Batavia helped me out when my tire blew. More recently, in Moravia, I smiled wide as a slightly drunk, lusciously effeminate, energy worker boy told me that I’d be “all powerful” in four years.

I’m not pretending that all these experiences add up to anything specific. I have no conclusions to draw, and I guess that makes sense. I’m only at the very beginning of this trip, and I’m gently opening myself up to it. I’m excited. I’m scared. God, I want to explore.

I am that mix of emotions and more as I sit in this New York campground. The rain is dying down, and I’m contemplating my next move. I’m thinking Québec and then Maine, but who knows? I’ll let it unfold. Without sounding too presumptuous, I invite you to follow me. I don’t know what form this blog will take yet. I just know that I want to share this trip, wherever it goes.

Thank you for reading. I’m honored. I promise much more to come.