New York City

 

 

Life among the monoliths in the extra dimensional city is full of existential graffiti. “Existence is fiction,” “sweet sorrow” and “whatever.” So on and so forth. Self-depricating hieroglyphs color the urban sprawl. They almost have an effect on my mood, almost.

Despite the inward focused graffiti, this city must have been created with an outward perspective. The buildings are tall, the expanse wide, and the inner city ideal is exported.

And all the fleeting eye contact. Conversations like pollution. Expansion and contraction of time and dimension. Each place like a new world, each street a new wing of an old galaxy. Aliens on the avenue. Pigeons like people. People like birds of paradise

Road Trip South

In the shower stalls of the hostel I was staying are signs that read, “do not leave item’s in shower, it isn’t yours.” And on the kitchen sink, “wash your dishes, this isn’t your mother’s house.” It’s these types of signs that are everywhere now, it seems. Is the average person so careless or so insidious with their dirty dishes, a smug sign is warranted? I suppose so, because I left my things in the shower (they’re still there now, I presume) and my dish in the sink, because I, a walking, talking and somewhat respectable human will not be talked down to by a sign.

Of course, I just perpetuated this vicious cycle, and I suspect those signs are warranted in a hostel environment ¹; they suffer from what hotels do: the “it’s not mine, so I don’t care attitude.” At any rate, I checked out of the demeaning, yet well-decorated hostel around 9:30 after feeding the parking meter and headed down North Lexington for something to wake me up. I found Izzy’s, where I had mate (pronounced ma-tay) in a way that I haven’t had before, but all around still tasted like it should:  grass, but the kind that has recently been through the digestive system of a cow. Something strange about Izzy’s though: couldn’t find a proper newspaper anywhere in the place. I planned on scouring the morning edition for the general vibe of the town. I suppose that very vibe was evident by the lack of a newspaper.

I had several hours to kill before a friend I was meeting east in Mooresville got off work, so I hopped in the car and headed for Pisgah National Forest about 45 minutes south. Pisgah is quite big, over 500,000 acres and contains Mt. Mitchell, the 6,000 footer and largest mountain east of the Mississippi. I pulled into the parking lot of the fish hatchery. There were a handful of fly-fisherman, either readying their equipment or already fishing in the stream between the lot and the road downstream from hatchery water pipe. This, I thought, was a bit strange. Was it cheating to fish by a hatchery? What I choose to believe is that this was a fisherman rehabilitation center, for those who have gone so long without a catch, they are descending into madness. A place for a pity catch, so to speak. Just by the placard explaining the types of trout found there was another one explaining that the Organization of Concerned Fisherman constructed this hatchery and stream access for those very trout-less bastards. Poor guys.

I took the John Rock trail, named after a apparently revered horse that fell of the cliff face at the precipice of the trail. Small streams crisscrossed the path as it side-winded up the mountain between patches of rhododendron. By the streams, the temperature would drop suddenly, before warming up as the each stream faded behind. And then, after only a moderate 1.5-mile climb, small paths –bushwhacked, as they are called—jut out from the main trail, and on those you will reach the vista of John Rock.

If you follow those hills up to Tennessee you may find a forgotten people called the Melungeons. Now, besides having an unseemly name, the Melungeons are an interesting group of people. I originally read about them in the great travel book by Bill Bryson, The Lost Continent: Travels in Small-Town America. Our history books detail the first English colony disappearing from Roanoke shortly after they arrived in 1587, but how or why has remained one of the more interesting mysteries in American history. One theory is they moved into to the hills of Appalachia. Fifty years after the disappearance of the colony, an English expedition got reports from Cherokee Indians of a strange group of pale people living in the hills. Alas, the group was never found. And no one really remembers where the Melungeons come from, including the Melungeons themselves. Thus it has been hypothesized that they are the missing part of the puzzle. Either way, they are fascinating: they have the general build, names, eyes and facial hair of English descent, but have dark complexion. They’ve been described, rather obviously, as “black white people.” And they mostly just stay up in the mountains. This is, needless to say, a quirk of Appalachia.

As I came back down the mountain, some passerby wished me a “happy first of the year hike.” I looked at my watch and realized it was nine days into the New Year and I’ve already hiked. And up to that view. Guess I have the whole year to top it.  The rest of my trip was both short and short on anything interesting worth talking about ², because I had to come back home for some things that needed my attention.

After a few days in Mooresville, I took I-77 all the way back, cutting of Tennessee in the process. Somewhere around the Jefferson National Forest, there was a humorous incident where I mistakenly stayed in the right lane while approaching a semi that had pulled over for repairs. For my injustice, the trucker, who was walking down the length of the trailer, gave what I will call the “international jerk-off” gesture. Quite funny, and I deserved it; got to follow the rules of the road. Which brings me to my lesson from the trip, and it is a valuable rule of the road: proper planning prevents poor performance. The allure of random travel is irresistible, but there must be some general structure for a trip or a theme, something to give the trip some semblance of organization. Or you’ll end up being the gesture that trucker gave.

¹No, I didn’t really leave my things in the shower and my dishes in the sink. But I wanted to.

² It’s arguable that nothing here was worth talking about.

Asheville, NC

From West Virginia, I77 winds, rise and falls in such spontaneity ramps have been strategically placed along the edge of the highway to catch “runaway” trucks as they barrel down the mountain. I brought a friend from the Midwest through here once and, because she has spent most her life in the vast emptiness of that area, she immediately unholstered her camera to document something so novel. “Nobody is going to believe this back home,” she exclaimed. I’ve taken this road often because we have family in the Charlotte area and I always remember getting excited for the tunnels that have been blasted through the mountain. The madness of that, driving through a mountain. We’re great, if not invasive, builders.

From I81 on it seems like the mountains get even bigger, but as the valleys between open up, the undulations of the road smooth and my car seemed to drive itself. Once in Tennessee on I26 it seemed I had the road to myself and was one of the first times I’ve truly desired to be on a motorcycle. Golden evening sunlight, cool not cold air, and a perfect road; like being a Terrence Malick film.

I drove through West Virginia, Virginia, Tennessee and North Carolina today and I feel like everyone is armed around here. I check out at the gas station and I just know the clerk is packing more heat than Dirty Harry. Billboards advertising guns come before the “Welcome” state signs around here. If you look at the state by state breakdown of the most recent election you can see that most of these are red states (with the exception of Virginia, but let’s be honest, everything south of Fairfax is conservative) and red states typically love their guns. Which is why Asheville is such a strange place.

It’s a small island of blue in a sea of red. When I checked into the hostel I am staying, the guy at the counter informed of a cheaper rate for a different type of room and said, “you can spend the money you saved on a locally owned business;” an appropriate statement given the pattern on his shirt and length of his facial hair. “Oh, no, I’m going to Walmart to buy fifteen pounds of lunch meat but thanks for the idea,” I said, only half-joking. He gave me a strange stare and showed me to my bed before returning to his video of Allen Ginsburg reciting poetry(not joking).

Evidence of liberalism abound outside as well. The word “organic” permeating through every menu and a whole store strictly devoted to only hookah supplies. You’re never more than two blocks from a bookstore or pub, which is surprising given the size of the town. Count me in! I found the nearest place to eat, which happened to be Tupelo Honey, famous for it’s brunch, but also has a good dinner menu. I felt ashamed to take a pictures of my food (not really, they turned out dark) so I haven’t posted any. Because it’s the dead of winter, and even worse, a Monday most of the hippies have brought their drum circles indoors tonight. But tomorrow, I plan to use the whole day for explorin’ before I head to High Point to see a friend.

Impulse: Road Trip South

It’s 11:22 PM EST at the time of this writing and I’m almost ready to hit the road tomorrow on one of my patented “throw your stuff in a bag and go” trips. This time around I’m heading south from Charleston, West Virginia with only a general idea of where I’ll end up. First stop: Asheville, North Carolina at the foot of the Smokey Mountains.The Smokies are just one part of the long Appalachian mountain chain that snakes up through the Mid-Atalantic into the Northeast. Asheville has identified itself as the “Gateway” to these mountains; something my home town of Charleston has tried to replicate. And if anything I’ve heard is true, what a gateway it must be: great hiking, rafting, climbing, food, and…and microbreweries. Can’t wait.

From there I have no idea, but lets just say I packed some swimming trunks just in case I end up on a beach in Key West. Savannah, Georgia is in my sites and I’d love to find and Otis Redding memorial somewhere in Macon, where I believe he lived and/or played often. Whatever happens, it will be impulsive. Life is good.

More to follow. Onward!

Industrial Pop-Up: Thurmond, West Virginia

Originally written August 2012

Thurmond sits preserved, and a little proud, along the New River. The river, old and ironically named, blends water with old boulders and eases into Jurassic pause around the river’s elbow. A tipple, an Amtrak station and a string of buildings with flat impending facades stand under the care of the National Park Service. Rafters are the only souls around.

Yet, a small, unassuming stack of PO Boxes sits there in Thurmond; a half-dozen residents still call Thurmond home it turns out.

As a junction, it rivaled Cincinnati and Richmond. On from Richmond was the sea, and from Cincinnati was the Mississippi to the Gulf, by the way of the Ohio. That this small town buried deep in the Appalachians grew more important to the coal boom than those towns gives testament to just how much coal was being pulled from the mountains around it. Because of its location and the quantity of extracted coal, Thurmond functioned as both a mine town and a junction. From it, coal went on in glorious service of the industrial revolution both in the United States and abroad. Smoke stacks rose higher and higher from the round mountains of Fayette County and in the shadow of those dark plumes Thurmond became a thriving town.

Though it is now preserved, Thurmond is nothing West Virginia should be proud of. A popular town for gambling and drinking, its rough reputation spread throughout the state. In spite of its seclusion, it attracted that party crowd. Las Vegas, WV. If they sold magnets, refrigerators would adorn those “one-time coal-era” curios from there onto the ports of Virginia. Do not be mistaken, however, it was a full service town.

A photographer took a record, a dentist took a tooth and a lawyer took everything. And the detective agency never found out anything. Numerous businesses populated Main Street. How those trains must have shook up all their plans. More and more, they ran with diesel. More and more the roads led away. This would be the fate for many of the towns that now dotted the landscape of Southern West Virginia and beyond. Changes in technology made coal both easier to get and less in demand.

I have included pictures of the tipple and what’s left of Main Street. The tipple has not been restored, but the buildings along the street have been maintained and sport placards detailing the history of the town. The rail is still in service and the Amtrak station is fully functional.

Industrial Pop-up: Glen Rogers, West Virginia

Originally written August 2012

Mine disaster is an unfortunate reality in coal country. Glen Rogers suffered numerous disasters, making it one of the most deadly mines in the state. Explosions from methane build-up, roof collapse and falling equipment are just some of the ways a mine can kill and it seems Glen Rogers had a share of them all. Around 160 workers were killed before the mine closed in the 1960s, according to The West Virginia Encyclopedia. Poor enforcement of mining regulations has plagued the industry even with more advocacy for safety.

What’s left of Glen Rogers is a hotel, company store and fueling station. The front porch of the hotel stretches nearly the whole length of the front façade before turning the left corner and ending on the rear side. A pentagram has been spray-painted on the concrete floor. People down the street have stored some of their belongings under the overhang of the porch. The fueling station is merely a husk. Thousands of pieces of glass in a myriad of colors cover the concrete floor. The company store’s floor is covered by pieces of its ceiling.

When I walked back down the road to my car after exploring the area, a man on a four-wheeler stopped and politely asked if I had seen his dog. After describing its color and size, he explained the last time it was loose it killed a neighbor’s goat. I said I had seen several running around but I couldn’t recall the one he was looking for and off he went after he thanking me. He was the only person I saw while in Glen Rogers.

Industrial Pop-Up: Coalwood, West Virginia

Originally written August 2012

Whenever you hear the word “Coalwood,”October Sky is usually mentioned in the same breath. The town has fully embraced its celebrity from the popular film based on Homer Hickum’s book, Rocket Boys. On the first weekend of every October, the town even throws an October Sky themed festival named, you guessed it, October Sky Festival.

Before the release of October Sky brought Coalwood its fleeting fame, it was a good ole fashioned coal town. It is situated in McDowell County, which was one of the most productive counties in the entire a country for coal. But, as it goes with these areas, things changed for the worse as coal came to be less in demand. Coalwood was eventually linked with a neighboring mine, Caretta, which became the main site for all mining operation, effectively cutting the town out of the loop.

Its most notable feature besides the numerous signs designating it as the actual setting for October Sky, is the abandoned high school. The steps that lead up to its entry are steep and overgrown. The roof is completely gone, leaving an open top floor. Shrubs and even trees have grown in every square foot that receives sunlight. It’s hard to imagine prom queens once stood at the top of its front steps or wedgies were given out wholesale throughout the hallways.

It later became an elementary school before being closed in the 1980s. School closings have unfortunately been a common occurrence in rural Appalachia. In response to population exodus many schools within a county or even multiple counties are consolidated in an effort to pool resources. Though it allows schools to deliver a more thorough education, many students have to travel long distances to get to the classroom.

Industrial Pop-Up: Introduction

Originally written August 2012

Industrial Pop-up is a multi-media project focused on the oft-overlooked coal towns of southern West Virginia. In the summer of 2012, I traveled to Coalwood, Thurmond, and Glen Rogers to explore the abandoned buildings which dot these towns for myself. What I found were industrial kiosks; easily discardable towns on the wrong side of industrialization.

What brought me to the lonely rusted edges of coal country is a little beyond the answers I can provide: the idea of seclusion, maybe; a fascination with what I perceived as a lonely area. Heart of Darkness beckons too rough a description to seem appropriate – I don’t believe Marlow had access to a Wal-Mart and I didn’t expect a cloud of spears raining down upon my steamboat Honda. But, it is the edge, it is largely abandoned, both physically and in the hearts of a country built on its coal seams. I just had to see it.

In the state of West Virginia, coal is a loaded word; everyone has an opinion about it. Just like the larger United States, much of the state has developed in correlation with the rise of the industry. Many of the residents are employed within it and depend on coal for their own welfare. What’s so great about coal is its function as a nexus for so many different ways to get rich. But it’s a double edged sword. The environment has suffered, which has had consequences for the local population. Some believe coal has played a significant role in the wide-spread poverty of Appalachia; much goes out and little comes back in. Whatever the case, coal has shaped the identity of West Virginia’s culture and, by extension, affected local and state politics. And through the rise and fall of communities -or “pop-ups”- built for the service of coal, the story of our country is easily visible.

I have included some of the pictures I took, a brief description of each town and some of my experiences.

San Francisco: The Great Photo Round-Up

San Francisco: Drinking or Meandering in a City You Don’t Know, Late into the Night

Originally written June 2012

Less than two decades after the gold rush made San Francisco the cultural and financial hub it is today, but before the Transcontinental Railroad connected Oakland to the far lands of the east coast, Mark Twain arrived as a failed speculator come traveling newspaperman. For $35 a week he would troll the town for story and rumor, often ending up in parlors and saloons, wiping booze from his mustache. Who could blame him? What great town to find a drink in. I felt it necessary to channel my inner Twain, and drink with all these port city ramblers.

My first drink in this drinking town – and this is a drinking town – was in Rogue Ales Public House. Now, for those unfamiliar with the sweet, sweet, nectar brewed at Rogue, check it out. The Dead Guy Ale could be fairly judged as the industry standard for ale. If you are familiar with Rogue, you know it’s brewed in Oregon, not San Francisco, but I couldn’t resist; it’s catnip for me. It’s far wall sports a giant mural, the bar counter is battered down copper, and the bartender speaks of a morning in which he woke up with half a set of handcuffs on his wrist. Order whatever you want – I had the Dead Guy and the Smoke Ale – as long as it’s Rogue; if you value you’re life, do not order a Bud-Light, for the bartender may or may not become angry and show you the strength he used to rip handcuffs off his wrist.

And, well, I went back the next night with a couple guys from Liverpool I met at my hostel and painted the town red. I suppose I’m not much of an authority on bars in San Francisco ‘cause Rogue is all I’ve wiped from my moustache so far. I hear Comstock is a great place to find a good drink. Just look through the window and ask yourself, “Would Twain drink here?” If the answer is yes, swing those doors wide and declare yourself a man or woman in need of some fine elixir.