San Francisco, California. United States.

Six days in San Francisco. In the past, I’ve always taken side trips to Half Moon Bay, Napa, or Yosemite. Not this time. This time, it was six consecutive days in the city. H joined me from Oregon; together, we must have walked close to 50 miles and seen almost every neighborhood on the bay peninsula. We made repeat trips to the Ferry Building, to Golden Gate Park, and to Tartine Bakery to get our fill. But, since we rented an apartment in the city, we mostly behaved like locals: shopping for food during the day, cooking at night, and maybe heading out to the bars in the evening for a brew or a glass of wine.

Fort Mason and the Marina. H., G. and I walked from Embarcadero to Fort Mason, watching the sun go down and the fog build up on the bay. After a stop at Greens to Go in the old barracks for a beer, we walked towards the Bridge, only to turn back as the sun disappeared.

A stroll down the Marina pier with a view of Alcatraz and the Marin Headlands (in the distance).

Sunset near Golden Gate Bridge. You can see the joggers come out in spades as they get off of work.

No caption necessary.

Near Pacific and Leavenworth. Nearby, we would stumble onto the Macondray steps, which were the basis of Armistead Maupin's Tales of the City, one of my favorite West Coast literary works (after Steinbeck, Ginsberg, and Kerouac).

A trip to City Lights Books is always on the books when I visit SFO. The best area is the Beat reading room. Hidden on the second floor, behind two rooms, the room houses books by all the Beat poets that made the bookstore famous and a hotspot of rebellious literature.

H. and I spent an evening belting out tunes in a random Japanese karaoke bar in Japantown. Later, when the gin and tonics sank in, we took a walk around the peace pagoda. In a slurry haze, I looked up at the tower.

Walking the terraces (Vulcan, Saturn, etc.) on our way to Haight Ashbury.

H during an afternoon at the de Young Museum. The rain was coming down hard but we took refuge in the galleries.

The Pacific from Land's End, one of the many amazing views from the Coastal Trail.

Sun poking through the trees on the Coast Trail. Poor woman, I dragged H from Ocean Beach all the way to The Presidio with sand in our shoes and nary a cup of coffee.

We came to the end of the Coastal Trail and as the sun went down, we headed back to the apartment in Hayes Valley for our last meal together in SFO.

Coast Starlight, California. United States.

I left Los Angeles early on Sunday morning. Instead of taking a quick, one hour flight from LAX, I opted for a slow, eleven hour train ride on the Coast Starlight from Los Angeles Union Station to Jack London Station in Oakland. Far from boring, the train rambled along the coast with views of Santa Barbara, the valleys around San Luis Obispo, the fisheries near Salinas (Steinbeck country!), and cut through the fog around the Bay and Oakland. I spent most of my time in the observation car but I returned to my seat for lunch, a nap, and dinner. I don’t usually post videos, but I recorded a short clip from my seat to give you an idea of what I got to see the whole way up north.

Los Angeles, California. United States.

I took a trip to California to visit a bunch of friends, hike along the coast, and drink in some sunshine before the winter blues settled on Massachusetts. My first stop: Los Angeles. I’ve always claimed to hate Los Angeles: too much sun, too many tans, and too much health food. I don’t trust a city that serves salad dressing on the side. But, in honesty, I haven’t visited it enough to make these judgments.

What I found, after hanging out with A. for a couple of days, is that I LOVE L.A. I love the Pacific Palisades, the food (all fresh and light in a way that still leaves you satisfied, the clarity of the sunshine, and the hysteria in Hollywood. Everything we did – hiking Topanga Canyon State Park, walking along Hollywood Boulevard, dining in Santa Monica, staying in Culver City, and dancing at the House of Blues – all of it was a blast. I’m already planning my trip back.

What started as a 2 mile hike ended up being a 10 mile loop around Topanga Canyon State Park. From the summit, we saw the beaches of LA splayed out in a crescent. And, the characters on the trail: women with floppy hats and lipstick, burly men on their mountain bikes, and young women running around in sports bras and wayfarers. It was a microcosm of LA in Santa Monica.

Danville/Chicago, Illinois. United States.

Rarely, in my nine years living in Chicago, did I head south of Hyde Park. Once, on a road trip to Austin, I drove by the corn fields lining Rt. 57. The landscape and the people seemed, at that time, to be unremarkable. In my typically cavalier manner, I disregarded rural Illinois as a mass of rednecks sloughing through their fields in rusty pickups.

Well, I made another trip down south this weekend. S. and I were invited to the wedding of our good friend in Danville. We drove down in S.’s car, listening to Chaka Khan. And, to my surprise, the area is pretty built up. Once you veer off the main highways, the towns are quaint, with the fields interrupted here and there by a Dairy Queen or Steak ‘n’ Shake. My time in the south was lovely and although I wouldn’t live there, it was endearing to see friends and family gather to celebrate the wedding in a country club set among the fields.

Sidenote: I also spent a couple of days in Chicago meeting friends and folks from the University of Chicago. Highlights:

- A fabulous exhibit on Japanese kimonos at the Art Institute. The website does little justice to the caliber of textiles in this exhibit.

-Cooking up a storm at V’s cozy apartment in the suburbs which included this yummer.

A view of the corn fields outside Danville. Miles and miles and miles...

New York, New York. United States.

In what has become an annual tradition, S. and  I took a trip to New York City for my 28th birthday. We took the bus down early Friday morning but really didn’t have plans beyond that. Our goal was really as simple as three days of aimless wandering. The plan paid off. We took a slow stroll through each neighborhood in Lower Manhattan – Gramercy, Diamond District, Chinatown, Lower East Side, Battery Park, Chelsea, SoHo, NoHo, Nolita, Financial District – and we saw it all. Something about traversing each neighborhood’s border gives you a sense of how the city evolved and is evolving. We even stumbled across the protesters whipped up in a lather of defiance on Wall Street. We read the protest signs, listened to the drummers beating on plastic bins, and watched pizza boys handing out slices to hippies sleeping in pup tents.

We walked a lot. We saw a lot. We capped off the weekend with my birthday dinner at Umi Nom, a new city-wide favorite.

We ended our stroll at Battery Park, where we saw the sun set on Jersey City. While not the most popular view in NYC, I like it here: the kids playing in the park, the workers gathered on the riverside pubs, and the runners and cyclists whizzing by. It's a respite from the sirens and traffic in the middle of Manhattan.

My third protest in the past six months. Being there, you can sense something is happening, as ill-defined as it may be.

Concise yet effective.

Woodstock, Vermont. United States.

On a whim, I decided to spend a weekend with a friend attending business school at Dartmouth. On a whim, we decided to drive over to Woodstock, Vermont – a neighboring town right across the VT-NH border- and spend the day hiking and hopping from vintage store to bookstores. Woodstock really is a symbol of idyllic New England: charming Main Street surrounded by aging grand colonials and brick-and-mortar municipal buildings. Luckily, we avoided the fall foliage crowds by coming early in the season. In three weeks, this place is going to be overrun with leaf-peeping New Yorkers and Bostonians.

As a rejoinder to my Mt. Tom excursion in Massachusetts, I decided to scramble up Mt. Tom in Vermont. While less taxing, the view from Mt. Tom in Woodstock is still pretty spectacular.

I tried to get B. to try on the vintage prom dresses to no avail. But, seriously, I'd be proud to take any lady wearing one of these to the prom.

 

Northampton, Massachusetts. United States.

After being gone from the US for such a long time, I decided to reacquainted with a hike through Mt. Tom Reservation in Northampton. While there were a few easy trails (all less than 3 miles round trip), I opted to drag my parents on a 7 miler. While they both made it, they looked a little worse for the wear when we got back to the car. Above, a view from the cliff-side Monadnock Trail. Spread out like a quilt blanket: the Pioneer Valley looking westward. The haze is from the oppressive humidity lingering on weeks after Hurricane Irene.A view of the glacier-carved cliffs (taconite, I think?) of Mt. Tom. And, yes, I did drag my parents up and around these cliffs. My mothers, needless to say, was not a happy camper, especially since I told her we were almost there every 2 minutes (we weren't).As we walked back to the car, we noticed a prime picnic spot jutting into the reservation's pond. A tranquil spot to stretch out and hoover down some food and water.

A view of the glacier-carved cliffs (taconite, I think?) of Mt. Tom. And, yes, I did drag my parents up and around these cliffs. My mothers, needless to say, was not a happy camper, especially since I told her we were almost there every 2 minutes (we weren't).

As we walked back to the car, we noticed a prime picnic spot jutting into the reservation's pond. A tranquil spot to stretch out and hoover down some food and water.

Summer Reading List.

{Summer travel photos will be posted soon!}

But first..

I like to think I read books without an agenda. But, while traveling, it seems I’ve been searching for an answer to the question: What does it mean to be a traveler? What changes when you hit the road and eschew home, family, and friends?  I’ve been wandering for a year now and I’m only just starting to answer the question myself.

With this question in mind, I decided to read essays and novels focusing on the traveler. The books I chose this summer focus on the traveler as a person vs. the particular place the traveler visits. Some of the books were difficult if only because the psychological journey often overwhelmed the physical journey for the writer. Some of the books (i.e. Chatwin) were revelatory: in his view, travel is an opportunity to create truths. I’m learning from these other writers/travelers. The question I’m trying to answer when I read these books, in other words, hasn’t changed. How does the individual change (if he/she actually does) when they’re traveling?

Apart from a few light reads (candy fiction is my vice), most of the books below are by travel essayists:

1. Great Plains; Ian Frazier
2. In Patagonia; Bruce Chatwin
3. What Am I Doing Here?; Bruce Chatwin
4. Union Atlantic; Adam Haslett
5. The Writing Life; Annie Dillard
6. To A Mountain in Tibet; Colin Thurbron
7. Alexis; Marguerite Yourcenar
8. Life on the Mississippi; Mark Twain
9. A Life Apart; Neel Mukherjee
10. The Sheltering Sky; Paul Bowles
11. Leaving Tangier; Tahar Ben Jelloun
12. Queer; William Burroughs
13. South Wind; Norman Douglas
14. When Wanderers Cease to Roam; Vivian Swift

Seattle, Washington. United States.

I’m convinced each person has a city, a town, a village, etc. that they like to explore alone. Seattle is mine: an urban playground where I don’t have to plan, compromise, share, or analyze. I get to make it my own. I always travel here with someone but I end up breaking off with my companions to walk the streets by myself. I just wander.

And, with two days in Seattle, wander I did. I wandered to my favorite haunts: Elliott Bay Book Company, Zeitgeist Cafe, The Ace Hotel, Blackbird Ballard, the Ballard Locks, Olympic Sculpture Park, and Lake Union (along the western bank near the houseboats). I always have a dinner companion when I visit but dinners in Seattle end up being silent affairs. I usually end up tracing the route I took during the day in my head while pushing food around my plate.

I return to Seattle every two to three years. Next time: I explore the Fremont and  Capitol Hill neighborhoods.

The sun shined all day during Day 1 in Seattle. I went to Pike Place market in search of roasted corn on the cob. Finding some, I settled down with a book near the piers on Alaska Way. This was the cityscape in front of me. Miles of sea in the Puget Sound behind me.

Portland & Eugene, Oregon. United States.

Returning to the United States, I thought I would have a couple of days to rest – a break from the relentless momentum of traveling. No such luck. In the first three weeks being back, my itinerary led me up and down the Northeast for weddings and reunions. I even flew to the Pacific Northwest for six days. A snapshot:

Boston > New York City > Connecticut > Philadelphia > New York City > Boston > Philadelphia > Portland (OR) > Eugene (OR) > Seattle > Provincetown (MA) > Boston

Now, with Argentina on the horizon, I am starting to think more about why I didn’t (or couldn’t) take a rest. The reason? The momentum of travel is truly overwhelming. Until you’re completely exhausted, travel momentum takes you place to place without stop. In retrospect, it’s clear that my schedule was contrived; I didn’t really want to stay in one place. I didn’t want to take a rest. And, heading to Argentina, I can feel that momentum pushing me forward, further, and farther.

One of the highlights of being back: My friend H. and I spent a couple of days in Eugene at her homestead. I borrowed a mountain bike and we set off on the cycling trails around Eugene. At one point, we came to a wooden bridge crossing the Willamette River. We stopped and found a couple lounging in a rowboat in the middle of the river. Inside the boat? You guessed it: a mountain bike. How Oregonian.

Beer and conversation is a way of life in Oregon. The number of pubs, cafes, and bars we stopped by are too many to count. But, one thing is clear: they brew it right in Oregon.