The Roads Oft Travelled: SD Highway 14A

September 30, 2007


Highway 14ARoads like this – Highway 14A between Deadwood and Sturgis, South Dakota – are a prime example of why vehicles can be fun.

It’s a chilly windy day. My Jetta, after slumbering for two days in a parking ramp, is prepared to face the marathon of South Dakota Interstate that separates Sturgis and Sioux Falls, sucking in and blasting cold mountain-like air into my face like a runner downing in a power bar. The car is fun to drive – small, well handled and gutsy, like a scrappy fighter no one is giving a chance to.

I begin winding through the hills. From Deadwood, the road seems to deliver a driver back into the real world. It’s a wake-up call from the excesses of Deadwood, a letting down, a gradual release of whatever you experienced, a preparation for your stories and memories, a time allowing for a mental checklist and gentle remembrance before facing the monotony of 80 mile-per-hour hell.

The sides of the road are red, rocky and clay-like. Speeding past, it looks as if the road settled into place like hot steel melting through an ice cream cake, the layers of earth, eons in the making, standing in stark contrast to the grey asphalt. The sides of the road are littered with a river of rocks, a shallow representation of what once held water, flowing, always turning and moving, never leaving the winding path. Stones stand in like understudies, trying hard to recreate the water, ultimately failing.

It’s officially autumn and the trees are slowly changing accordingly – a background of conifer green splashed with deciduous yellow, red and orange; delicate trunks holding tightly to small fragile leaves until they’re forced to let go, allowing the leaves to fall back into the earth from which they came.

This is the perfect time to drive this stretch, in the autumn, in the morning. It’s just cold enough to recognize the bite of western trailblazing, windy enough to bring whiffs of pine and smoke, as if the settlers were still in the hills, among the trees, searching for a new life in a new land. It’s this combination – the cold, the wind, the smell – that delivers me back in time, to Jackson, Wyoming, to times I never even had a chance to experience, my life still decades in the future.

I roll down the window to breathe in the experience.

I’m too focused to even change the radio station, barely recognizing Gwen Stefani’s voice urging me to go to the back of the bar. The final turn disappears and I arrive in Sturgis, the road leveling out and turning back into the endless ribbon I’m used to. I pull over to catch one last breath, staring at the landscape, marveling at the beauty.

I get back in the car. The morning sun is bright, covering the windshield like a blanket. I look in the rear view window, silently wondering why the hell I continue to live on flat land.

Tags: The Roads Oft Traveled, Travel |

1 Comment

The roads oft travelled: Northgate

February 18, 2007


CanterburyBeing introduced to a new culture can be frightening, even if that culture mirrors the usual in nearly every way. It’s not the overall picture that strikes fear into one’s heart – it’s the subtle differences; the accent, the way the money feels, the cobblestone streets and old world feel.

This was the feeling in England. It was clandestine – hidden just below the conscience, a fear arose that helped drive each discovery. I went into every situation expecting everything to be completely different. And when it wasn’t, I was more open to the subtle changes therein. I learned to love that accent, that money, those streets.

One experience did move me into a different realm – an eating experience, actually. And it occurred in Canterbury, England, just blocks from Canterbury Cathedral, where my favorite story of British history occurred – the two-faced, pious and frustrating friendship between Archbishop Thomas Becket and King Henry Plantagenet, the second.

It occurred on Northgate.

It occurred at Gandhi Tandoori Classic Restaurant. It was my first Indian meal.

Northgate is one of many names for a major traffic/pedestrian road through the center of Canterbury. It is by no means a wide, multi-lane street - instead, it is more like a quiet path through the center of town. It is the backbone of Canterbury – the white line through the town’s Underground-Logo-shaped middle.

NorthgateNorthgate begins in the northeast, right where the north gate of Canterbury’s medieval wall still stands. As it travels southwest, it turns into The Borough, where it splits in two. One branch leads to King Street, which turns into Best Lane, which ends at Stour Street. The other branch turns into Palace Street, which turns into Burgate and curves to the east. It sounds complicated, but its not – imagine a tuning fork with one tong bent. That’s the layout. The multiple names confuse things, but it’s still the same path. I promise.

We traveled this path almost exclusively while perusing the middle part of Canterbury. This middle part was a circle of old England that touched upon every part of English village life.

Every stereotype was covered. Green gardens and river paths led to park bridges that held duck houses and swaying reeds. These bridges led to nearly abandoned graveyards, complete with thin crumbling tombstones aching to stay upright and grassy knolls that held Canterburians from centuries in the past. Cobbled streets turned around decaying walls, and buildings seemed placed almost at random, with no regard for direction or style.

This jumbled, charming mess of architecture is a fond memory. City planners were either non-existent or remarkably lax, allowing streets to wind without reason, perhaps leading to the random naming and haphazardly placed storefronts. A map is necessary in these small English towns. You could get lost easily. It’s not a horrible thing – after all, the center of Canterbury is rather small, and you’d end up at a recognizable landmark before too long – but there is no time to waste when experiencing the daily wonders of Canterburian life.

Canterbury CastleThe southwest end of this road (Stour Street) is just a half-block away from a crumbling Norman castle – Canterbury Castle, namely – and was found nearly by surprise. This hulking relic, a forgotten building from centuries past, is in horrible shape, the victim of erosion, weather, war and indifference.

When I think of the buildings that once occupied these spaces – the monstrous protective outposts – and think of everything that happened in and around the blocks that still remain, I’m amazed that I’m allowed to stand so close – with nothing but time separating me from the inner turmoil of Norman England.

Further up the road, where the split occurs, is Canterbury Cathedral (on Palace Street). This was the main attraction, obviously, and serves as a larger than life history lesson for most visitors. The Becket/Henry II story is one of the biggest in all of British history, but until a person stands in the corner where Becket was slain, peers upon the alter that once held Becket’s bones (before they were destroyed by Henry VIII) and considers the millions of people over hundreds of years that have made Canterbury their pilgrimage destination, the story seems unreal and fake. It’s that proximity that makes it real. I stood where the blood was shed – where Becket’s skull was cleaved. It was real. I could nearly see it.

Canterbury CathedralIt was getting to be dusk when we finally came upon Gandhi Tandoori. Kerrie made a point to remember its location, and even though I wasn’t necessarily up for trying anything new – it had been a long day (Chunnel to London, bus to Canterbury) and I was looking forward to our beautiful bed and breakfast room at London Guest House on London Road – I followed Kerrie back to what would become my first Indian meal.

We were seated near the back of the restaurant, next to a partition and close to the kitchen. We were far enough back from the front entrance to benefit from a lack of distraction, and we quickly ordered wine and dinner. The specialty was Balti sauce, a special mixture of Indian spices that is uncommon in most Indian restaurants.

I ordered a spinach Balti and waited, not knowing what to expect. I’d like to think I soaked up the sounds – in my mind, it’s a CD of classic Indian music, accented with the smells of curry and other spices. I imagine our wine was good, and I imagine we spoke about our day, what we would do next, how we would make it to Alnwick, England in a few days – where Kerrie would remain as I trooped back to London and, from there, back to the States. I imagine everything was perfect.

I can’t remember, though. My mind remembers just one thing from that night – the food. It arrived on some of the most beautiful metal cookware I’ve ever seen – small silver/copper colored bowls with flames underneath for the sauce, a larger bowl for our rice. The sauce was amazing – cooked with enough spice to deliver a shock to my palate while creamy enough to continue eating without aplomb, oblivious to the rest of the world, uncaring of manners or speech.

Balti, dish, etc.So this is Indian food, I thought. This is what I’ve been missing. Our small Minnesotan city didn’t offer this to us, and the idea of seeking out Indian food in Minneapolis was as foreign as the food itself. It was amazing, it was edgy, and I loved it.

The rest of Canterbury was a blur after that night. We may have left with food in Styrofoam boxes, but to this day I can’t imagine we left anything to waste. The gentle buzz of a half-bottle of wine sent us floating through the now dark streets, and the winding roads welcomed us back. We giggled and marveled at the small-town-at-night feeling we were suddenly sucked into, and by the time we made it back to the B&B, we were ready to watch some basic BBC and call it a night, filled with some of the best food ever cooked and prepared to travel, yet again.

My time in Canterbury was spent learning and loving everything about small town England. And even though the town itself is widely known and more touristy than most small towns, it still gave a great contrast when compared to Paris or London.

My time in Canterbury also taught me about the beauty of ethnic food – of eating things that don’t come naturally. I try to eat Indian whenever I can. But try as I may, I’ve never been able to find any restaurant that serves Indian the same way they did in Canterbury that day.

That’s the thing. When we imagine a perfect night, we drop out anything that proves the contrary. Of course I’m never going to find a Balti dish just like the one at Gandhi Tandoori. And I’m not really supposed to. Otherwise, what else would make that first meal so special?

Tags: The Roads Oft Traveled, Travel |

4 Comments

The roads oft travelled: Boulevard du Montparnasse

December 21, 2006


Montparnasse (credit leol30, Flickr)For decades – centuries, even – the Boulevard du Montparnasse was an intellectual hotspot, a solid line of cafes and restaurants, each packed with its fair share of writers, artists, and other revolutionary personalities. Throughout Montparnasse you could expect to run into a veritable roundup of the world’s most important thinkers, including Lenin, Trotsky, Hemingway, Fitzgerald, Eliot, Matisse, and Toklas; Jean-Paul Sartre, Josephine Baker, Roman Polanski, and Gertrude Stein.

In 2000, these people were no longer haunting the establishments. Instead, a congregation of regular, everyday Parisians filled the sidewalks on either side of Montparnasse. It looked no different than any other busy street in Paris – by day, traffic and the people who drove it were king, by night it was spectacularly lit up by neon and illuminated store fronts, each one beckoning to the crowd, asking it to kindly step inside and have a drink, a meal, or a little bit of enjoyment.

Outside ChevreuseTo me, Boulevard du Montparnasse was the lifeline of our 2000 Paris vacation – my first trip out of the country, spent with my future wife as she took her Study Abroad mid-term break. Our hotel, the appropriately named Hotel de Chevreuse on Rue de Chevreuse, was located just off of the main drag. We entered and exited by Montparnasse every single day, either on our way to the Vavin Metro stop or on our way back from secret, late night crepe consumption.

Every day we were flanked by what seemed like hundreds of cafes – the same cafes that the heavyweights frequented in earlier times. It became the main vein of our travels – the initial path that led us from our humble hotel every morning, where we could spot the Eiffel Tower just over the tops of Montparnasse’s buildings, to the history and culture we sought out almost religiously. It was our beginning and ending, the only exceptions being our entrance and exit from the country itself.

I vividly remember gazing at the red awnings, still attempting to wake up and finding myself somewhat lost in a foreign country, struggling with the language barrier and ultimately choosing something to eat that was familiar – a chocolate éclair or cheese and tomato baguette. We were under a constant barrage of people. After all, this was a very busy part of town – a cross roads in the center of one of the world’s most important cities.

We ate all the time, from baked pasta and cheese to quick snatches of food along the way to our Metro stop. We often found ourselves contemplating the culture barrier while watching a public that felt no need to hurry. True to form, we were never hurried ourselves. We were left to consume whatever we wanted for however long we wished. I suspect a few times we were given the most expensive wine without asking, but this was a product of our tourist-ness that we didn’t mind one bit.

We sat and watched the sun go down over a culture that had learned to take intellect and pair it with need. Sitting there on the Boulevard de Montparnasse, I discovered that I really did like wine, and that I couldn’t imagine being with anyone else in life. I also discovered that I was quickly taking my trip for granted, and I remember wishing the entire vacation would slow down a bit. It never did slow down, though.

So much happened in Paris that I barely remember any of it. It is a blurred existence of places I imagine we sat at, food I imagine we ate, a rosy-glassed version of a city filled with culture and wine-induced haze. The specifics have all been lost. I can’t remember the name of any establishment we ate in, or even whether or not they were along the Montparnasse in the first place.

Near TourBut I remember the feelings – the overall ease of Parisian life once I hit the boulevard’s long, straight path. I know I sat across from the Tour Montparnasse as Kerrie spotted a Bastille Day celebration sign, asked for a picture, and became forever immortalized under the revolution date that shared her birthday. I remember the wine. The crepes. The dark as we searched for Rue de Chevreuse – our safe haven in a foreign land. I remember the wave of content I felt each evening, drinking a bottle of wine with my best friend, considering the years of change that had turned Montparnasse into a bustling center of attention.

It’s amazing how strongly I feel about Montparnasse in general, enough that even the most wide reaching feelings become incredibly pointed and specific, like I’d lived on that street my whole life instead of a mere four days. Overall, we spent much more time on other roads – walking along the Seine or traveling around the crowded streets next to Cathedral de Notre Dame, for instance – but I have a connection with Montparnasse as a safe haven. A welcome respite from a long day of traveling and a bright wake-up call to start the promise of another day.

Regardless of the sites I saw in Paris, very few have the connection of that boulevard. For that I am thankful. It makes me feel less touristy; more appreciative. And it helps keep the feeling alive that I actually did get to experience Paris while I was there, even if only by its most pedestrian of boulevards.

Tags: The Roads Oft Traveled, Travel |

Comment

The roads oft travelled

December 12, 2006


I’ve got a great idea. At least, it’s a great idea if you’re into reading about someone’s travel thoughts and experiences.

What is the one constant to every traveler? It’s not the experiences, and it’s not the sights (which change and evolve with consumer needs, are closed at night, and are seasonably run). It’s the roads. We might not see or feel the same things, but we travel the same paths to get there.

So I thought it would be fun to, periodically, travel down those roads again. I will take one road – Champs Elysees, Pike Street, Franklin Avenue, Whitehall – and break it down, remembering my experiences, the great spots, the anecdotes, etc. It will be a way to connect an entire lifetime of experience into something structurally solid – a single road, serving as a line between two points of interest.

This is more of an announcement of future posts. These will be coming soon. One a month? Whenever I feel like it? Yes. Something like that. Look for them soon.

Tags: Blogging, Meta, The Roads Oft Traveled, Travel |

1 Comment