Stina's Trip » summer

Running through the void

admin — Wed, 22 Jun 2011 01:17:37 +0000

(Note: I wrote this hot off a breakup. I feel like, perhaps, it would be wiser and at least more political in this small town, to keep it to myself. But, oh well, here we go.)

I know it’s not attractive for someone to admit his or her hunger, but I’m not going to whitewash the fog of loneliness I was in Friday night. All I wanted to do was break through it. For some people, I think camping or heavy drinking or adopting a kitten is the attempted solution, but for me running has nearly always been the best thing. I’ve been doing it since I was 9, and nothing gives me a sense of accomplishment and perspective like a good run does.

I went online and found that the Rhododendron 10K (6.2 miles) was slated for the next day in Bakersville. Never mind that it was more than 90 minutes away and started at 8:30 a.m and that I hadn’t run more than 3 miles in a shot in the last three years. It sounded perfect.

The next morning, I escaped my Waynesville reality around 6 a.m. and headed east, then north, following winding back roads, thick with trees. Even while only driving and listening to terribly addictive pop music, I already felt accomplished, having stepped off the grid of my own patterns and expectations, and heading toward something that felt right. Growing up, running was a huge part of my life, and my father and I would run together five days a week, pretty much without fail. We also did somewhere around 20 or so races, from 5 milers to half marathons. When I moved away from home, however, my running became spotty, and my speed (which was never much to shout home about, anyway), went downhill.

The Rhododendron Run was going to be my first race in six years.

By the time I arrived in Bakersville, a tiny place by the Tennessee border, I was feeling blindly confident. I chatted happily with the folks at the check-in and walked around the starting line area as I soaked in the pre-race excitement and jitters. In the midst of all the people stretching and generally psyching themselves up, I met a nice man, originally from Liberia, who was about to watch the race with his three little children. His wife, he explained, was running. We talked for a couple of minutes, and as I left, he told me they’d cheer for me too.

Shortly after, I was one of about 100 people lining up, listening to the race master’s instructions and bowing their heads for a prayer. A bullhorn sounded, and we were off.

Breathing heavily and trying like crazy not to tucker myself out prematurely, I smiled as I realized that I’d forgotten how humbling it is to have a flood of racers pass you. That day, the group included a boy who looked around 9 and a hunched-over woman who must have been in her late 70s. Try as I might, I never could catch her.

As I ran, a strange new reality settled into me. I realized that I had gone from being a slow runner to being an extremely slow runner. I’m used to doing about 10-minute miles, but my first mile was just shy of 12 minutes, and none of the following ones were any better. Often, I could pretend I was running the race, which circled through the small town and its surrounding hills, alone, as there were only three or four people chugging along behind me. When I did encounter other souls, such as the extremely friendly volunteers handing out water and giving times, they were unfailingly supportive. I even had fellow runners cheering me on as they ran past after reaching the turn-around point. I must have looked in a bad way, because they kept telling me that I was doing really well and that I shouldn’t give up.

What they didn’t know was that there was no way I was letting this race get the best of me. I was going to cross that finish line — having not walked a step — no matter how long it took.

Though I never became faster, the race did get easier toward the end. After five miles, I was feeling upbeat, actually, and even fancied trying to catch up with some of the runners in front of me. I managed to stave off the guy behind me, as every time I heard the sound of his snot rockets being expelled and his shoes hitting the pavement, my pride made me pick up speed. This little game kept me distracted until finally I was at the 6-mile marker.

A few seconds later, I saw that friendly man from earlier with his young family. They had waited long after his wife had finished to root for me.

It was right about then, with less than a quarter of a mile to go, that I broke down and cried. I was still moving forward, gulping for air, and tears were trickling down my face. I think it was due to that man’s surprising support, but also because I was amazed that I was about to finish something that I realized was so important to me. I’m sure the loneliness had something to do with it, too. I was overtaken with conflicting emotion — so much so that I missed the final turn toward the finish line.

Within a few minutes, I reached the end of a blocked-off road, where an old man stood directing traffic. I asked him where the finish was, but he couldn’t hear me. I started crying harder and he just stood there, smiling awkwardly and not knowing what to do. I ran around in circles for a moment and finally flagged down someone who had long-since finished the race. She directed me to the end, and suddenly I started running faster than I had in the last hour and 15 minutes. Finally, I felt free to give it my all. With what must have looked like a great gust of aggression, I sprinted past a running woman who was probably 30 feet from the end. Gasping and dry heaving, I pushed myself across the finish. I then promptly puked and crumpled to the ground. I hadn’t felt that vulnerable or that powerful in a long time.

A few hours after, I found myself at nearby Roan Mountain State Park, with its famous rhododendron gardens. As I perused the thousands of flowers, it began to rain heavily. It was one of those unrelenting, cinematic downpours, and as I ran the half mile or so back to my car, I became completely soaked. Strangely, perfectly, I felt like I was being baptized. I felt no hint of the loneliness I had started my day with, though I knew it would come back, as loneliness loves to do.

I was in such a moment of euphoria that I even saw the beauty in being lonesome, as I knew that was what had brought me out to run that day. I sat still in my car for a few minutes and tried to hold on to that clarity. I still am.

End of the line, start of a new one

admin — Wed, 07 Jul 2010 02:55:46 +0000

(NOTE: I am sorry to everyone who reads this blog that I simply dropped off away for so many months. I was stuck in some sort of quagmire that was Austin, and I was too embarrassed or perhaps too lazy to work it out in words. In case you’re curious, in case you’d like to know more about me and my trip, I am going to spend the next few months re-creating the last little bit of it. Please stay tuned for more stories as well as some pictures. And thanks. )

(WAYNESVILLE, N.C.) — Last weekend, as I sat in an artsy movie theater in Asheville, I had this random thought that actually scared me for a split second. Perhaps it was due to my sleepiness, or maybe it was that beer I was drinking, but I imagined waking up one morning and being right back in Austin. I felt an immediate sense of loss.

Right now, I honestly can’t tell you what feels more like a dream, the fact that I live in North Carolina or that I lived in Austin for five months. They both seem equally improbable and foreign to me. I think I know what suits me better, though. It’s here.

OK, let me explain. I am now a writer and photographer at The Mountaineer, a thrice-weekly newspaper in the small town of Waynesville, one of the many little places tucked into North Carolina’s swath of the Smoky Mountains. I’ve officially been on the job three weeks, and it already feels like my life. For the first time in so long, I feel like digging my heels into what’s around me. I want to do everything here. I want to hike and explore and take photos and do long drives on the Blue Ridge Parkway. I want to learn to do my job well. Of course I’m still thinking peripherally about my next big adventure — New Zealand is always my favorite fantasy — but I don’t feel a need to leave this place any time soon.

I haven’t felt that in so long.

If this all sounds random and sudden, that’s because it is. Two months ago, I was still deep in Magnolia Land, and I was still coming to work every day at that restaurant without any real dream for my future. Most everyone there was so generous with me, and I loved the human interaction and the money. I was so lucky to have that job, but I always felt like it wasn’t my real life. That’s why I was able to volunteer for so many doubles and extra shifts, because no matter what happened, that person who was so desperately trying to do that job well wasn’t really me. That person was the part of me that wants to apologize for everything. That person knew that she was not in her element, and I think everyone around me knew it too, though most at Magnolia were unfailingly nice about it. I tried really hard, I promise, and I think I did get better at the end. But I’ll tell you, the mixture of trying to be socially adept, confident and coordinated for eight to nine hours a shift very often kicked my ass.

All of this is why, when I stumbled upon the listing for this job in Waynesville, I went for it. I had actually flown out here to try out for a job once, back when I was 23 and in another life. I didn’t get the job then, which of course was perfect in its own way. But the editor remembered me, and this time, when I showed her my clips and references, she chose me. I still can’t really believe it.

Now I’m doing a job I want and know, and so I care so much that everything feels difficult. I spent most of the other day writing and re-writing the first few sentences of an 800-word article about a man and his gluten-free business. It was so painful and frustrating that I felt practically worthless during the process. But then I broke through something, and the story took shape, and I remembered how damn lucky I am to be here.

This is my first job in a year-and-a-half with strict hours and expectations. Part of me wants to run away, but the bigger part of me wants to embrace it. I guess, in all practical ways, this means my trip is over. I think that’s why I have been putting off writing this posting for so long. I didn’t really want to internalize that. Even writing it now feels like the death of something small and precious. At the same time, I am yearning for the this life. I want the structure. I want the difficulty and the pressure. I want to have to perform. Tame me, please, I find myself thinking.

I kind of feel like screaming. I also feel like I’m exactly where I should be.

Lawn gnomes, country-style

admin — Thu, 10 Sep 2009 13:50:19 +0000

(LA PECHE, Québec) —In the movie Six Degrees of Separation, Stockard Channing’s fed-up character proclaims that she doesn’t want to turn her life into anecdotes anymore. She wants to hold on to her experiences and protect them from punch lines. The longer I’m on this trip, the more I feel the same. But sometimes I can’t help myself. In the land of anecdotes, my Labor Day was pretty good.

Thick, green beauty near La Peche, Québec.

I spent a great deal of it either talking about or actively looking for a racist lawn ornament. You probably haven’t seen one of these things in years — the little, ceramic, black boys fishing or holding lanterns — but they’re still around in the rural, rolling farmlands of this province. My recent host, Diana, told me so and immediately suggested that she take me on a safari to see them. Like I (and probably most people), she finds that kind of blatant and unconscious racism alarming. But it’s also fascinating, from a sociological standpoint. She was itching to show me one of these disturbing figurines, and I was dying to see one.

This was not how I pictured my first trip to Québec. No, thanks to her and her partner, James, my stay was far more fun and fascinating than I had imagined.

I originally met Diana, a young Costa Rican woman, on couchsurfing.com. I put up a note about needing some Ottawa digs for a few nights, and she messaged me and welcomed me to park my little house near her property, about half hour north of the nation’s capital. We met up at a large, country grocery store outside of her town, and from the very beginning, I knew this was going to be good. She gave me a hug, and immediately started talking enthusiastically. We went into the downtown area of the hippie, touristy burg of Wakefield, and we bought some bread and looked at shoes. Within half an hour, I felt like I had known her for a long while. I deeply enjoy people who are boisterous and happy and unapologetic about what pisses them off. I’m afraid to be so open, so every time I’m around someone that spontaneous, it warms my heart.

On the hunt for a lawn ornament.

“There is no color in this country!” she would say at times, bemoaning the lack of Canadian clothing choices in her rolling accent.

Having just returned from a yearlong stint as an au pair in France, she was still adjusting to being in Canada, where she has lived for the last eight years. It wasn’t that she was complaining as much as she was speaking her mind. It was great.

To me, her thoughts about the differences between Québec residents and the rest of Canadians were the best. I even wrote them down on an old receipt in the moment.

“They scream. They’re messy. They’re disorganized,” she said, of the Québeckers. “And so I’m like, I have to move here.”

She and James seemed very much in love, and their kindness both to each other and to me was a sweet hearth to hover by for a few days. We learned all about each other and ate dinner together each of the four nights I was there. On the last evening, in an effort to show my appreciation, I baked a key lime pie, and thankfully it went over well. As James ate, he praised it with a string of delighted expletives, and somehow, those were some of the best compliments I have received about my baking in ages. I was in an ephemeral bubble of positivity and support, and damn, I felt lucky.

Diana and James, looking at pictures of us in 3-D glasses. I promise to upload them as soon as Diana sends them to me.

And I loved that politically incorrect field trip, to boot. Although it took us about half an hour to find him that Tuesday, eventually Diana and I came across a small, dark boy dressed in white with a red vest and hat. He was standing on someone’s porch, and he was leaning forward, his arm outstretched and fist clenched, as though he should be holding a horse’s reins. I snuck onto the stranger’s front lawn to get a shot, but my distance and the afternoon light made the picture mostly a bust. Too bad, as that would have been a great image to have, despite the lengthy disclaimer I would have had to issue each time I showed it to anyone.

The day I left Diana and James, I knew it was time. I liked being there, in the very green, lightly European countryside, but the push to be somewhere new had fire to it. Not to mention that the fear of overstaying my welcome is always in me.

Chosen consciously or not, it took me almost all of Tuesday to get out of there. There were articles to be written and hikes to take, and by the time my truck was hooked to my trailer, it was late afternoon. James was at work, and so Diana and I did our goodbyes with just the two of us. We hugged and walked away from each other and shouted back and fourth the kind of things you say when you’re parting with someone you like. It was something to the effect of “Thank you so much for everything” and “I’ll definitely write” and “Thanks for showing me the black man.”

I stepped into my truck, pulled away, and immediately burst into tears.

I could feel my fragility and vulnerability hit me again as I drove into the unknown. I both hate and love the sense of yanking myself continually out of security, and that mix of emotions was stronger then than it has ever been on this trip. I know that kind of thing is bound to happen a lot as I travel, and in way, I hope I never do get used to it. It’s a reminder of something — something good. Oh, I’m sure I’ll find a word for it sometime soon.

It takes a mess of help to stand alone

admin — Thu, 27 Aug 2009 18:02:52 +0000

(ANCASTER, Ont.) — When things become good for a while, it’s easy to get complacent. While I was in London, Ont., I was parked in the driveway of an amazing, friendly woman, and I got used to having to someone to care about my day and to joke with. Here, in the village of Ancaster (near big, scruffy Hamilton), I’m parked outside a home belonging to Paul, the editor of a Canadian naturist magazine. He is a sweetheart. He’s letting me stick around for a while until I get some of my writing done, and he is very much concerned with whether I get enough to eat and have a good place to work. This kind of caring and help floors me. I don’t expect it, but my God, it is great to have.

Kerri-Anne and her daughter, Emma, were my awesome, sweet and warm hosts in London.

This represents a new way of thinking for me. When I left on this trip, I kind of imagined myself as a cowboy, being on my own, facing the tough world and pushing through my fear of it. Now, that’s only part of it for me. I feel lucky now, not embarrassed, when someone is willing to help me out. It is rare and special, and I might just finally feel comfortable enjoying it.

I know when the shift came. It was almost a week ago, back when I was in London. I met a guy and was immediately intrigued by him. He was at a pub and was tall and lanky and wearing 3D glasses. It turned out that he is friends with seemingly all of my host’s friends, and a plan was devised that he should come to her house soon and hang out with her, me and another guy and watch movies. The next night, he arrived with homemade profiteroles, and the four of us went through Once and Before Sunrise, both of which make spontaneity and creativity look like utter magic. Those are the kind of films that make you fall in love, and so I did, in a way, with him. After the TV was turned off, it was past 3 a.m., and he and I started a conversation that lasted until the morning. I won’t go through the details because some of them are embarrassingly raw to me, but the end result was a real dialogue that touched my heart. Our interaction was completely platonic, but we did fall asleep together on the floor, and he did hold me for what felt like hours. I had no idea how much I needed that.

Yet I did. I needed someone to hold me without expectation on either of our parts. I loved hearing his stories. Unbeknownst to me, I needed someone to tell me what it was like to own a house, to have been married once, to bike around Italy and not talk to anyone for days. It was weirdly perfect, and I can’t imagine my trip without him.

A spot of forest at London's University of Western Ontario.

So, the idea that this journey is truly about solitude really is silly. Being lonesome and being able to be by myself is all part of it, of course, but so is every human interaction I have along the way. From this aforementioned fellow to the Macedonian lady working in an A&W who gave me directions yesterday, I’m beginning to realize how much everyone I meet matters. I’d like to believe that I have always known this, but now it’s crystal clear. They are as much a part of my trip as I am. It feels good to finally put that to words.

(Note: I’d like to give a special thanks to Stephane, Kerri-Anne, Stephanie, Paul, Dave, James, Sookie, Michael, Richard, Melanie and Nicky, among so many others)

Say Canandaigua five times fast

admin — Sat, 15 Aug 2009 18:04:54 +0000

(CANANDAIGUA, N.Y.) — Before I write anything else, I must write this: Wegman’s. I have seen the light and it is the miles of food aisles in this regional grocery store chain. Trying to explain the beauty of this place, I can only think of anecdotes, such as the entire beer section dedicated to Pacific Northwest micro brews and the displays of food grown by local farmers. In Marin County, where I was mostly raised, I think chains are seen as a little dirty. The IKEAs and Krispy Kremes and Safeways are historically wedged in far-off parts of the Bay Area or are simply kind of grungy. At any rate, many don’t seem prized, but here, people LOVE Wegman’s. They celebrate it. What a different mentality. I have no idea what state of mind I prefer. I do enjoy the food palace’s opulence but also feel like a slight tool because of that.

This is definitely the cutest thing I saw in Canandaigua. This little family was right by the lake.

It’s nice in Canandaigua. This is the kind of town that people are proud to be from, the kind of spot that people stay in or return to, or at least that’s my sense of it. I’m not sure how big it is, but it’s large enough to have a community college, Panera Bread Co. (which, thankfully, has fast, free internet) and hefty amount of traffic. The downtown is cute, and the jewel of this place is really the lake, which shares the town’s name. It’s big, filled with bright, white sailboats and lined with tons of people on blankets, park benches and bikes. Today and tomorrow, there are a few festivals going on at the water’s edge, and of course I’ll check them out. I always like stuff such as that, community efforts that I’m not actually emotionally involved in. My lack of attachment gives me free reign to just enjoy them — and then leave whenever I want.

By the way, I suppose I wouldn’t be jumping into writing this morning if I didn’t feel so sober. Recently, an old man I’ve been friendly with sexually harassed me in a sad way. He asked me to kiss him, and I said no, and it’s no big deal, except that it reminded me how damn vulnerable I am out here. It made me lonely. What I really want to do is call up a certain friend and have him talk to me, about anything, but I think that would be uncouth. If I can’t deal with these sorts of things on my own, then what’s the point of the trip? Self-reliance is the idea — though a big bear hug from someone I care about would be lovely right now.

It’s weird to have to find your comfort wherever you can, preferably without coming into contact with anyone. When I’m lonely, that’s the time I absolutely don’t want to strike up a conversation with a soul. I don’t trust myself enough right then. So, I try to shut up, wake up and look around me. Last night, when I was in that state, I ended up downtown, in front of a free concert hosted by a trio of string-playing middle-aged guys. They were working a banjo, guitar and fiddle, and the music was sweet. There was a large, pastel-wearing crowd of older people and families, and they were clapping and smiling at all the recognizable folk offerings. By the time the group played some kid songs while wearing Muppet masks, I was in love with all the musicians. When they closed their set with “This Land is Your Land,” I was grinning, trying to hold on to the innocence of the moment in my mind.

As I already wrote, I do love those kinds of community things.