Happy New Year From Out Here

Simpson Hotel in Duncan, Arizona

Happy New Year, and welcome to 2024. I took up my place in the first sunlight of the day while Clayton was busy in the kitchen making coffee and presenting us with a parfait breakfast starter.  Caroline is on the phone with her mom in Germany, and I try basking in the warm sunshine while writing, but enjoying the ambiance of the Simpson Hotel is a powerful distraction.

Karthik and Lakshmi at the Simpson Hotel in Duncan, Arizona

A newly married young couple who arrived last night joined us for our morning meal: Lakshmi and Karthik, who also live in the Phoenix area. They’ve been out wandering around the area for the past week, trying to get more of the Southwest into their senses before Karthik takes off for India to deal with some of the beaurocracy involving working on an H1B visa. While he’s gone, Lakshmi will be dealing with their move up to the Portland area. When they told us about their travels from the Petrified Forest to Gallup, over to Santa Fe and Albuquerque in New Mexico, and various points between before finally landing in Duncan, Arizona, it was nice to see a mirror image of Caroline’s and my enthusiasm for sharing time together exploring our world. In the popular vernacular of the day, they are vibing. Over breakfast, sumptuous as always, we discussed the drive home, in which all four of us were traveling in the same direction but talked of a detour through Virden, New Mexico, to try catching sight of some sandhill cranes.

Sandhill Cranes in Virden, New Mexico

These large birds were in short supply, and the ones we did spot were quite distant from where we could observe them. We’d brought binoculars, but even so, nobody got a great view of the cranes. No matter, we’d seen wildlife and were able to share some enthusiasm with Lakshmi and Karthik about how incredible these opportunities are.

Cow sign in Virden, New Mexico

With nothing left to do, and instead of trying to wedge something else into the last minutes of our getaway, we accepted that our long weekend was coming to a close and that by focusing on the drive west, we’d be able to go further into In Search of Lost Time.

On a final note, Clayton left us with a quote from historian Charles A. Beard to ponder: “The bee fertilizes the flower it robs.”

Into The Shadows With 2023

At the Simpson Hotel in Duncan, Arizona

Now, here we are in the early sunrise of the final day of the year, perched in our respective comfy spots in a room about to turn 110 years old. Not the oldest place we’ve ever taken up, but a cozy location nonetheless. As for the other side of the windows, it’s a wintery freezing morning out there where the warming cup of coffee would quickly lose its potential, followed by turning cold, too.

At the Simpson Hotel in Duncan, Arizona

Before any thoughts of finding the bravery to venture beyond our lazy comfort arise, the clinking and clatter of kitchen sounds clue us in that to head out for a walk at this time would be nothing short of rude as the symphony from that side of the hotel could only signal one thing: we were soon to find ourselves feasting.

At the Simpson Hotel in Duncan, Arizona

Meanwhile, we, too, bask in the warm indoors to avoid the bitter cold that is ushering out the year that was. This guy is Crocket, the trust fund kitty I’ve mentioned before. Through the cosmetic surgery available in Photoshop, I tried cleaning up the worst of his lung condition, which is the reason why, in the early part of the day, he’s a snotty, mucusy mess of a cat. Yet aside from trying to bite me if I attempt to pet him, he seems nice enough.

At the Simpson Hotel in Duncan, Arizona

This is beyond eating. Eating is too vulgar a word: all who pull up to a table this day will eat. Instead, we dine on a feast of flavors and textures that conspire to punctuate the end of 2023 with a duel in which this final breakfast takes up a sword and, with a challenge, says en garde! to the 364 morning meals that came before it.

This wicked concoction from the genius imagination of the artist in front of the stove can be described as a perfect mystery demanding that we forge a way to decipher where our taste buds are traveling. Flavors arrive from numerous points on the globe, maybe Oaxaca, a little bit of Persia, and the American Southwest, while the other locations must remain offshore in the chef’s repertoire of tools and brushes he used to craft this canvas.

Mystery must remain a part of this extraordinary beginning of the day because revealing precisely what went into our breakfast might chase away some of the enchantment. With my own imagination swirling around just what was on this plate, what Chef Don Carlos brought to our senses, and how it will flavor the experience of this last day of the year, I am allowed to savor what has been presented as though I were gazing into a culinary diorama.

Entering New Mexico between Duncan, Arizona and Lordsburg, New Mexico

With the proverbial one thing leading to another combined with the knowledge of proximity due to this weekend’s destination, Caroline had already coordinated a meeting with a friend we’d not seen in more than ten years on Sunday, that’s today. The couple we are visiting are Sandy and Tom, who now live in Silver City, New Mexico, following an extended stay in Sharjah, United Arab Emirates, where Tom was teaching engineering. Well, here we are, crossing the desert into New Mexico for the 75-mile drive to our destination, thus violating what I wrote earlier about trying to accomplish nothing on a lazy close of the year.

As isolated as they could find, up in the hills and quite similar to where they used to live in Prescott, Arizona, we found Tom and Sandy awaiting our arrival. While Caroline and Sandy have kept in touch over the years, this was the first time they were seeing each other face-to-face in the intervening years. Over coffee and about three hours of the afternoon, we chatted and chatted before making a date to visit again on April 6th, when we’d be passing through the area again on our way to the total solar eclipse on April 8th. This time spent with old friends added a nice punctuation to the last day of the year.

Leaving Silver City, New Mexico

Leaving when we did offered us all the fireworks we’d need to usher in 2024 because the sunset delivered a performance that sang to our senses. As the sky brought a song, our dinner with Clayton and Deborah, owners of the Simpson Hotel, would be a symphony performed in the Philharmonic de Paris, only better.

Caroline Wise in New Mexico

Caroline and I have shared very few New Year’s celebrations with others and to be invited, unexpectedly, to the table of our hosts to note the arrival of the new year over a sumptuous meal and a bottle of sparkling Riesling wine from Wiesbaden, Germany, well, that surpassed everything we might have otherwise considered as a potential celebration of the change from one year to the next.

Dusk in Arizona and the end of the sunset

There are so many parts that lend themselves to what is experienced. It is not simply food or alcohol, not only the ambiance of this 110-year-old art hotel. Our remote location in a beautiful corner of the sparsely populated Southwest also factors in, but the real front of the orchestra is the chemistry between the quartet and a passion for the aesthetic found in the love of time and what these participants in life are able to bring to it.

Dithering in Duncan Arizona

Breakfast at the Simpson Hotel in Duncan, Arizona

Before we know it, we are waking in a bed not our own, just before sunrise. This being a lazy closure of the year that was 2023, we are in no hurry to discover anything that hasn’t already been collected this year. Okay, that is mostly true. Last night, upon reaching Pima, Arizona, Taylor Freeze was luring us in to accentuate our state of fullness by offering us a chocolate malted that might be our favorite anywhere, but that and Guayo’s was really it.

Now, it is time to linger once again in the parlor of the Simpson Hotel, awaiting the warming rays of the rising sun. A cup of coffee from our hosts, who woke much earlier than expected, arrives, and based on the sounds emanating from the kitchen, we can anticipate breakfast will be coming up soon. Lord Chef Don Carlos, under a different hat, is the renowned artist of the same name, sans the beneficial title Lord Chef. True to my perception, another of his famous vegetarian repasts is in the works. We have come to understand that these creations rival any other early-day meals we’ve taken from Stockholm to Santa Monica or Portland to Vienna. World Class eating of the gourmet variety right here, miles from the New Mexico border in the middle of nowhere, Arizona.

Duncan, Arizona

From there, we did what anyone else would do who was trying to escape the year that had been, we merged into a transitional state where little was allowed to happen. This type of being is often referred to as vegging, and we were practicing hard to enhance our mastery of this skill. Caroline was back at the window, you know, the one with the cushy seat where the cats tend to congregate due to the slightly closer proximity to the sun spilling into the front window of the Simpson. My place in the parlor is at the same spot I was last night, where I took coffee and was served that amazing frittata, breakfast bruschetta, and sauteed veggies. Seems that by neglecting to include a photo, I might have otherwise missed that prior to the savory, we were offered a sweet in the form of a Crème fraîche-topped hearty pastry studded with a rainbow of various colored fruit. Lethargy was obviously the third course, but the cold, hardwood of my chair meant my butt would pay for it.

West of Duncan, Arizona

While my heart was into accomplishing little, my bottom insisted I get up and move as it’s been hours in the parlor, although time seemed to be standing still. Ah, coffee and maybe some lunch could be in our future? Heck, we can also get into some more Proust on a drive over to Safford.

Starbucks in Safford, Arizona

At Starbucks, we were able to duplicate our efforts and much of the positioning we’d taken at the Simpson. Sitting down, we got busy doing what needed to be done. But then, just as a new routine of being in place was finding comfort, we’re informed that they must close for unexplained reasons at 4:00, which is only 15 minutes away. Even had we known the reasons, our need to depart would have remained the same.

Undeterred, we took the opportunity to finish volume six of In Search of Lost Time and finally put The Fugitive behind us. Our speed of return to Duncan was adjusted in order to best facilitate our goal. And guess what? We won. Volume six has been vanquished.

Of the details that followed, nothing of import is noted as simple things one might do in the front parlor of an Old West hotel from 1914 were actively engaged. The quiet, warm lighting, purring cats, and wonderful setting carried us into the evening, and that was that.

Into the Duncan Portal

Miami, Arizona

The end of the year is rolling around and also our final journey of 2023. We are heading to the opposite of extravaganza by taking ourselves east to Duncan, Arizona. Do not pity us or insinuate that we will be deprived in this town of under 700 people because as soon as we get out of Phoenix, we are escaping illegal fireworks and gunfire. It’s not just from New Year’s celebrations: this noise has been going on since just before Christmas. Combined with the proliferation of “Slammed Trucks” (lowered to the ground and super loud) and the usual Harley Davidson Wolfpack morons whose modified vehicles often produce up to 125db of sound, living in Phoenix becomes more and more depressing.

Caroline Wise in Miami, Arizona

Knowing that we’d be going east on the 60, we packed a healthy appetite as Guayo’s El Rey in Miami was on our path. One does not drive by this town where the best steak smothered in green chili and cheese is found. On our drive to Miami, Caroline was busy reading aloud Marcel Proust’s In Search of Lost Time in the belief that we were about to finish the sixth volume and could start the seventh and final volume titled Time Regained, meaning we are likely under 225,000 words remaining in this 1.2 million word super novel. But no, we are not about to crack volume seven, as volume six has a fourth chapter. Well, at least we are past page 3,000. Rest assured, we’ll miss Proust when this comes to an end.

Simpson Hotel in Duncan, Arizona

Barely a week after the solstice, the days are still short, which is nothing to complain about when one finds oneself deep in the big dark desert on a cloudless, moonless night with the Milky Way directly overhead, motioning for us to pull over for some proper gawking. A resounding “whoa!” wasn’t only offered to the celestial display as at 3,500 feet of elevation (over 1,000 meters) in December, we also found the air outside of our car very cold and were reminded that we were driving into freezing weather. Being tough, we held out for nearly two full minutes before jumping back into our warm car.

Simpson Hotel in Duncan, Arizona

Once in Duncan, we were greeted by nobody and nothing, as our hosts had already informed us that they’d be in late. The other guests were out visiting family nearby while the cats were upstairs, where it was warmer than in the parlor where we set up to spend the early evening before retiring to the Library Room, our old favorite. It wasn’t long before the curious cats had to investigate us and our not-so-familiar voices. After all the snuggles that could be had from us visitors, the cats let us know they wanted out, and as they left via the backdoor, two others came in from the cold.

Simpson Hotel in Duncan, Arizona

After a bite to eat, they joined us in the parlor for further inspection. First up was Dimitri, a.k.a. Pizza Boy, who, as a stray kitten some years ago, warmed up to me while I was sitting curbside eating a pizza, which appealed to the hungry little guy, hence the nickname. Being cute, cold, and alone were the only conditions required for him to be adopted for an extended stay here at the Simpson Hotel.

Simpson Hotel in Duncan, Arizona

The other cat, Crocket, approached me but I apparently misread his signals as when I reached down, his sharp little teeth said, “Not so fast.” Instead, he headed over to Caroline. He crawled into her lap and made himself warm and cozy. It turns out that Crocket is a recent addition. He was adopted after his previous caretakers passed away, but not only that, he arrived as a trust fund kitty who receives a monthly inheritance check to care for him.

In a plush chair by the window, Caroline and Crocket kept vigil, Caroline knitting, Crocket purring. I had taken up my usual spot at the same table we’d be eating breakfast at in the morning, and with my computer open, I continued with some preparatory work that had been eating the majority of my time and would keep me occupied for the duration of our stay out here in Duncan, Arizona.

Dreams of Scandinavia

Norwegian hot dogs a.k.a., Pølse

Two weeks since we left Europe, and not an evening has gone by yet where Caroline and I haven’t been retracing or reinterpreting our vacation in Scandinavia through dreams. Sometimes, our travels while sleeping are strange tasks that require working through labyrinths of peculiar constructs taken from fragments of something our minds have assigned to a hybridized version of a place. Still, there’s no mistaking that they are created from elements of Denmark, Sweden, Norway, or a combination of all three.

On one hand, it’s great that our brains are still processing our trip of a million impressions but at other times, the nocturnal chores being performed in our skulls become disruptive of finding a relaxing sleep. I feel that we are likely contributing to these repetitions of experiences and creating new ones because, after two weeks of being home, I’m working on the 6th day of our trip at this point, with 22 more days still to go. The idea that I will likely have another month and a half of writing and processing photos ahead of me means that Caroline and I will continue to be immersed in our memories of Scandinavia and enrich our dreams with the intensity of processing the experiences during our waking hours.

Two more weeks later, in the middle of October and a full month after our return, our dreams are still dwelling in Sweden. Repetitive pattern matching with maps and objects from Stockholm accompany my sleep just as waking thoughts of our travels guide my blog posts. I wonder if our dreams will shift to Norway in the next couple of days as I start documenting our time in Oslo and beyond.

Sixty days of writing about a nearly 30-day trip had the effect of keeping the two of us deeply immersed in the details of our lengthy vacation on an almost constant basis. Subsequently, we took it all to sleep. Waking over these months was to fragments of travels I believe we both hope are the work of cementing the beautiful moments we shared into our experiential memory in order to never forget another perfect vacation.

As for the photo, nothing says dreams like thoughts of Norwegian hot dogs, a.k.a. Pølser.

Blam, You are Home

Bags packed and ready to go in Frankfurt, Germany

Bags are packed, time is short, and before we know it, we’ll be moving through the airport to take our seats for the long flight home. As I finally get around to writing this post on November 13, 2023, I have ten pages of handwritten notes to transcribe, meaning that for a post with so few photos, there will be a lot to say without me needing to add anything “from the hip.” And there’s a good reason for that: with nearly 11 hours of flight time and my intense desire to stay awake, not watch movies, and use the time to start digesting the previous month, I tried keeping my pen in touch with my notebook for the duration in the air. This was important because after we got home, we had one day to recover before hitting the treadmill, with Caroline returning to work and me starting to document our very lengthy excursion into discovery. So, without further ado, we’ll get right to the notebook, and I’ll hope my first words don’t emanate from a place where they would be better suited to be flushed into the object in the next photo.

Leaving things in Germany I won't need in the United States

We’re on the plane, but my heart and brain are trying to stay in Europe. Instead, I must face my inevitable return to Botox, yoga pants, military haircuts, guns, fanaticism, and monosyllabic vocabularies. Not even an hour up here and half the flight is already asleep.

Two hours in, and lunch is finished. [Notice that this is the two-hour mark, and I’d only written three sentences: sad.]

Our trip to Europe is on one hand over, but on the other, it is awaiting transformation in the days to come as I’ll be working to take it out of our impressions to share on my blog in as best a presentation as I can bring forth. The minor inconvenience of flying nearly a dozen hours each way seems a trifling cost considering that we were able to go so far and gather so much. Except, this foray produced a lot of material that must now be ruminated on. I’ll likely be spending the next month regurgitating our adventure while I’d like to get busy on my next project. [It turned out that I required two months to get to this point where our trip was about to be put behind us.]

While I love many of the blog posts I’ve written, there’s a nagging thought that I’ve said what I can about our travels and need to rise to a new challenge. But while I entertain this horrid idea that I’m feeling stranded on the Island of Nothing to Say, maybe this is a proper indicator that I need to take a break from leaving these messages for random people. I have, after all, absolutely neglected my synth for over a year because between, I felt I had more important things to tend to.

What is there in the meaning of our experiences? Not just the aesthetic, historical, or entertaining aspects of the palette of stuff we consumed but the possible personal legacy, the process so far, and what we’ll offer ourselves aside from the silly recognition that we were somehow occupied doing anything of particular note that should be captured for posterity? I must write about this journey into Scandinavia and visiting friends and family in Germany because I know all too well the ultimate value of these spilled words can only be known at a time that’s not yet arrived.

Just in case on Condor Airlines in Frankfurt, Germany

Now, four hours into this leg of our adventure, the vast majority of passengers are asleep at the time they would otherwise be eating dinner, having a drink, and enjoying the company of others. It is Saturday night, after all, and these travelers are likely well adjusted to the time zone we have left, but instead of occupying themselves, they’ve shown who they are and bailed on being present. Those not lost in slumber by and large watch videos, but in any case, the majority of people have decided to kill time. I instead subscribe to the school of Why kill time when you can kill yourself? [Thank Cabaret Voltaire for this last reference, which can happen while listening to music as I write.]

This has me asking the question, what do these sleepers do while traveling in Europe? Is their sightseeing and investigations akin to a visit to a kind of Ikea? Realizing I am presumptuous, I should ask myself if I experience anything in any different manner. I might try to answer this, but my first thought is that I’m a pompous ass for expecting more from others who might in some way benefit my desires and enable me to indulge my hostility to malign those who I find to be inane. I should consider showing gratitude for the hundreds onboard right now who feed me the fodder I dull my writing axe with, as certainly there are more important subjects to write of than this constant refrain of indignation. Then again, when I’m attending a musical performance, I’m among others appreciating what’s being created and are attentive to the experience, but right now, I feel like I’m in a can of dolts.

I make this denigrating assumption based on the demographic information the airlines must have about their passengers because the flight attendants have asked everyone to close their window shades to mimic an early nightfall. This gets people to go to sleep or watch their little screens to get sucked in by the dumbest fare that could only appeal to the lowest common denominator of sub-intelligent people that somehow are also able to afford international travel. Otherwise, why would they create this atmosphere?

It’s intensely bright outside with a uniform white blanket of clouds layered over the ocean below and a solid blue sky above here at 38,000 feet of elevation. Within this jet, from my observations here in the economy section, there are no conversations reliving experiences; not a single other person is journaling. Maybe in business class, people are writing, working, sorting travel photos, or reading books, but sitting in row 27 here amongst my fellow peasants, there’s only this woman next to me knitting and then a large void. This method of ignoring one’s self by turning to sleep outside of normal sleeping routines or lazily tuning in to watch whatever shite they have streaming to their seat is an admission of their boredom and inability to be with themselves when they are responsible for the content.

It’s easy to have been in Rome, Berlin, or Stockholm and take in the sights; it’s quite the other to try to contextualize experiences beyond the guttural utterance of wow and amazing. At this point in their travels, they’ve collected the trophies, they’ve bought the right souvenirs, and taken selfies that they used to put themselves on display in famous locations that gave them nothing more than bragging rights.

Over the Western United States

Let’s return to Ystad, Sweden, and the idea of why we went there and what we gained: We went in order to balance the obvious trophy visits to capital cities by investing in experiences that would bring us intimately into the surrounding environment allowing for a chance encounter with a local or a stop along the path to pick an apple, pet a horse, check out an old home, or negotiate a small shop for a random bite of mystery food. Once at a place such as Ales Stenar, we get to consider the logistics of how these rather large stones got here, what the shape of the layout meant to the people who grouped them here thousands of years ago, and did they require shaping the stones so there’d be a uniformity? Now, I have a choice to either read and believe the speculation of others to come up with answers or I could attempt my own translation of potential meaning, although that is rendered difficult in an age where everything can be explained. The disappearance of mystery is quickly erasing our ability to imagine.

We were at the edge of the sea without definitive signs or carvings on the stones to decipher what the structure could mean and so we were left with the opportunity to consider what they meant to us. Did we have any reference points in our knowledge that could offer hints regarding meaning? Once finished touching each stone, walking clockwise and counter-clockwise around the monument, and finally strolling along the edge of the cliff, we continued our ride into a place where we couldn’t express what it was we were searching for within ourselves. In Loderup, Sweden, we visited the Valleberga Church, looking at the names of those buried in its cemetery, stepping inside to smell the old church, live a moment in its history, and maybe find a runestone that was hinted as being nearby.

Further along, we considered the mill that once operated in a building next to a stream where the millworks appeared missing, with only the diverted water still running under the house. We must capture all of the impressions we can as there’s some likelihood that the people of these southern Sweden communities know little of these places around them because they are boring and consequently cannot share much about them. Most people, or at least many, would prefer to visit Stonehenge, Notre Dame, or the Vatican as these are the perceived feathers in the cap of experience. This situation is the same in Arizona, where, at times, it feels as though few have visited the Grand Canyon, though it is so near.

We were in the weeds, off the beaten path, feeling the sea air and sting of the bright sun. While we would still have famous historic sights ahead of us in the days to come, we were enchanted to be among the farms, watching cows being moved from pasture to barn and observing our solitary track alone in a corner of the countryside that only we would discover today.

Not beyond reproach, we too could fail to discover moments away from the bustle of capital city centers where quick consumption of cultural history is given easy access (often outside of context), but we make the extra effort to capture the little things. Treasure, art, and architectural wonders make for great photo souvenirs, allowing us to believe everything’s been seen, but there’s an untold story and unseen surroundings that glue things together. Do these experiences open a channel of curiosity that drives us into further study, or are we content with low-effort trophies?

Before and after visiting a city such as Prague, do we understand anything more about Bohemia, the role the Habsburgs played there, or the 30 Years War? Have we cracked open a book from Franz Kafka or known of the influence of Charles University, where Einstein taught and Tesla studied? How about learning that Rainer Maria Rilke was born and studied here? Of course, many don’t and won’t care because sports, MCU, cars, guns, and game trivia play exceedingly large roles in lives uninterested in feeding imaginations to dream and create for themselves.

I get it; just because one wants to go sightseeing in Egypt doesn’t imply they must become experts on the lives of pharaohs or the construction of pyramids. Maybe the person is satisfying a childhood dream they cultivated when wanting to live vicariously through the hero’s journey, and this pilgrimage becomes a moment of realization for reasons that might be lost to time. But isn’t this, then, an admission that our dreams haven’t matured and evolved with us as we move further into life? The very nature of our humanity encourages us to build upon our knowledge before and after experiencing stories and the novelty of being exposed to cultures that came before us and to which we could be making contributions. Instead, we eschew our continuing education, and, acting like adult children; we go through the motions, collect the selfie, and move on ultimately without direction or real purpose.

Why all this heavy axe grinding, John? I profoundly dislike our empty instant-gratification-consumption culture and desire more dialog, more music, more poetry, and more study of our world by the common person because it is the common person who also denies science, falls for conspiracies, and believes in magic thinking. I do not care a lick about their economic contribution when their intellectual failings threaten our security, lives, progress, and culture itself.

I’ve looked to philosophy, theology, history, psychology, and sociology in an attempt to understand at least a modicum of what inspires us humans. I visit more churches on average than the most devout as I seek an understanding of why we accept a mediocrity among us that seems to want to turn away from the arrow of enlightenment. By not demanding more of each other, we consent to our base archetypes propagating a generalized stupidity unseen by those who believe that their version of normal is the standard bearer. I, on the other hand believe I’m closer to a troglodyte than here I wish to be. I do not read Latin, I’m stupid when it comes to chemistry, I’ve not played with trigonometry in nearly 40 years, I paint like a four-year-old, and my sieve-like memory has seemingly forgotten 93% of everything I’ve ever taken in. In essence, I feel that I don’t know shit, and so I struggle to discover where the gaps exist while others delude themselves into believing they know all they will ever need to know.

But I do have a strong opinion that we should offer the skills of discovery to our children because adults, by and large, are a lost cause with ugly habits that exacerbate their propensity to dive into the deep end of their ignorance. Rote memorization and recital of trivia, movie lines, and obedience only act to dumb us down and harm our desire to know the world. All that remains are shadows of dreams that seem to be unfulfilled by mindless consumption, the parading of belligerence, and desultory travels. And all the while, unhappiness remains part and parcel of an unsatisfying existence that struggles to find meaning. I’m convinced that greater meaning was better understood when the heavy arm of the lord pulled the masses in and demanded their obedience to the Kingdom of God and Heaven.

Over the Western United States

We were five hours from Phoenix when the lights partially brightened to wake the herd that could be woken. Later, as we get home, I’ll feel further alienated from those whose lives are ground into the earth below our feet. The deep civility and ability to converse found in Scandinavian countries further illuminated the tragic landscape of the dark cave we are dwelling in called America. Almost 200 years ago, Alexis De Tocqueville saw the character that would define the spirit of the people of the United States. Today, the traits that should have evolved out of those humble beginnings have been vulgarized to the point of pushing the lemmings to the edge of the abyss. We are an angry horde bent on personal aggrandizement, having lost our collective way. We no longer forge exemplary people; we kill children for entertainment, ensure an adequate malaise for those suffering in a rotten existence of addiction, price people out of a minimal amount of shelter, offer a pitiful education that supports our hate and contempt, and then call it freedom.

As long as there’s a flag draped over it, we can pray and believe we’re doing God’s work for the betterment of society. We are a joke, but cannot see an iota of how sick the humor is due to our economic heft and incredible ability to market anything. We somehow make it all look good, and the world follows.

What the hell? With four hours to go, the lights were turned down again. This means that in less than two hours, at about 12:30 in the middle of the night, the crew will wake the cabin and serve us dinner. While I’m hungry, I fail to understand the enforced dark/light cycle, and considering that it’s midday across America, I feel like I should regulate the relationship to sleep myself. On the other hand, to have 300 people mostly asleep means less attention must be given to the passengers, which could be a tactic to reduce stress on the crew.

For this month of travel, I’ve not intentionally listened to music or read a book. I’ve checked the news while on the toilet and looked at but a few minutes of social media just before sleep. I’ve not intentionally used an American brand outside of my Verizon phone plan or Microsoft Windows when transferring photos. In a few hours, I’ll begin to fall into old routines unless I’m frustrated enough to try to avoid some of the old stomping grounds. There’s nobody I want to share the trip with as the impressions are not resolved yet, and I’d likely have a laundry list of places and recommendations to visit that most will never be able to explore.

It’s 11:00 p.m. in Europe; we almost certainly would have been sleeping by now, except the last two nights we were out with friends and family, which had us not seeing sleep until about midnight. While it will be 3:00 a.m. European time when we land, I’m hoping the busy hand of writing will keep me awake for the duration of the flight, allowing me to sleep better through Arizona’s Saturday night.

Sometime later, I ran out of stuff to write. Caroline has finally given in to taking a nap, and my momentum is fading. With the window shade open a couple of inches, I’m hoping that the light of day propels me. I’m reminded of one of my first encounters with a drill sergeant on day one of basic training in Kentucky on a very cold April morning in 1985 when he emerged from the shadows to see a bunch of young men shivering and barked at us, asking what we were doing. A collective voice of the group rose in the darkness of the early day, “It’s cold!” With rising ferocity in his voice, he roared at us, “Who gave you permission to be cold?” This had me laugh out loud and reconsider the idea of inherent laziness and the necessity for comfort, and so here I am asking myself, “Who gave me permission to be tired?”

Arriving in Phoenix, Arizona

Conditioning, pandering, exploitation, I’m just now figuring out how the airlines are programming the herd to follow their expectations of how the masses should fall into step. A passenger in the row in front of us has been on a Rocky movie marathon. I had noticed after boarding that the entertainment offerings featured both Avatar films, all the Harry Potter movies, and five of the Pirates of the Caribbean films, but I lost count of how many of the eight Rocky films were available. When I was younger, I wouldn’t have found this nefarious, but let’s look at what’s happening here: recognizing people’s propensity to binge-watch things, these people are returning to routines within minutes of ending a vacation by allowing their minds to go fallow. Following such immersive experiences with this stream of banality feels to me as if one is fertilizing their mind with the shit of the mundane, thus covering up what they just spent thousands to acquire.

Endurance: we are approaching a spot on the planet where we’ll be under three hours remaining in flight near the border between Canada and North Dakota. Going nowhere in your seat while being thrust over the earth at 550 mph doesn’t have the same compelling effect as dragging oneself over the street of discovery where so much is to be found. I struggle to latch onto moments where wakefulness remains within grasp. After 28 days of constant go, I will indulge for one day on Sunday when nothing will be demanded of our time, but on Monday, the next cycle of non-stop endurance will be re-embraced.

The desperation that I will fail to make the final 1,500 miles of our trip awake taunts me. I negotiate small milestones, telling myself that dinner will be served in less than an hour or that if I pay attention, maybe I’ll see something spectacular out of my tiny window. I should open the shade wide to have the flash of the harshly brilliant atmosphere at 40,000 feet better communicate with my pineal gland, shocking the melatonin to stay in submission until later.

At least the blank page had lines on it for the time I was staring at it while my brain didn’t even have that. Noise is coming from the galley, but the lights remain off. We land in two hours and twenty minutes, yet most passengers are still asleep. We left Germany at 3:00 in the afternoon on Saturday, and here we are at about 3:00 in the afternoon on Saturday, except we are 5,000 miles from where we began and just under 1,000 miles from touching down. Our adventure of endurance and exploration that touched all of our senses, never allowing us to catch up with how far we were going is getting ever closer to ending.

To be relentless and able to embrace/tap our enthusiasm, heading directly into constant stimulation, is a reassurance that we are still alive in ways that are appreciated and never taken for granted by these people still seated in the 27th row.

Another hour has passed, and I’m done, but the flight isn’t. Once landed, we’ll likely wait for what will feel like an eternity or 20 minutes before getting our two checked bags from the carousel, followed by stepping into what will likely be over 100 degrees (38 Celsius) of desert heat. We’ll grab a taxi and 30 minutes later arrive at home to begin the post-vacation quick unpacking, start laundry, turn down the air-conditioning, consider shopping, or just drop down in front of our computers to start catching up with all the dumb shit we’ve missed out on.

Seriously, We Leave Frankfurt Tomorrow!

Brötchen from Café Dillenburg in Heddernheim, Germany

Caroline had this nutty idea that I should collage the first five photos of this post into a single shot. Is she crazy or what? We are quickly approaching the final 24 hours of our time in Europe this year, and while we’ll be eating Brötchen for breakfast tomorrow, too, I can’t know if I’ll have time to spare to lovingly photograph the final German rolls of our trip.

Brötchen from Café Dillenburg in Heddernheim, Germany

While at Café Dillenburg fetching breakfast, we put in an order for tomorrow’s Brötchen, some of which will be traveling home with us. Why hadn’t we thought of this on previous visits? Once home, we’ll toss them into the freezer and likely forget about them until they are freezer-burned, but no matter because they are echte Deutsche Brötchen (real German rolls), and if you don’t know what that can mean, you haven’t indulged yourself and learned how to appreciate something that is like nowhere else.

Brötchen from Café Dillenburg in Heddernheim, Germany

Pictured are the five types of Brötchen we are taking home, two of each. Sadly, I can’t now tell you what each is anymore, but I do know we have a mix of potato, carrot, rye, spelt, and whole-grain rolls. The choices were based on a sampling of the no fewer than a dozen types they carry at Café Dillenburg (formerly known as Brot & Freunde). While there are only twelve or so varieties on weekdays, the weekends can see as many as nineteen on offer.

Brötchen from Café Dillenburg in Heddernheim, Germany

Okay, I’ve got this one; it is a potato Brötchen with sesame and poppy seeds. Guide for eating my favorite rolls: cut in half and then slice width-wise, creating four equal quarters. Slather a heart-stopping amount of butter on a quarter; don’t pay attention to the German example where you can hardly tell they’ve smeared anything on the bread. Then, using a separate spoon, take the perfect amount of homemade vanilla-apricot jam (it’s important to stay away from all other jams) and be judicious as you don’t want to put the entire jar on a single quarter, else you might have to turn to a plum, rhubarb, or orange marmalade that will ruin the Brötchen experience. Someone like Caroline would likely beg to differ, but she’s a noob compared to her gourmet husband, who seriously knows everything better than everyone else.

Brötchen from Café Dillenburg in Heddernheim, Germany

I know why Caroline suggested the collage; she could have never guessed that I could write so much about the beloved Brötchen, and even if I had run out of meaningful banter, having the full-size photo of each allows me to indulge in the fantasy of the Brötchen being right in front of me here in America where I’m absolutely deprived of real bread. Don’t try telling me that Dave’s Killer Bread is pretty good; else, I’ll present you with another gold floor decoration you can lick, as you are obviously gullible enough to believe anything.

Caroline Wise, Jutta Engelhardt, and Stephanie Engelhardt in Frankfurt, Germany

Guten Morgen Frau Engelhardt! I followed along with Caroline and Stephanie to Lebenshaus before bringing Jutta over to Cafe Einstein for a mid-morning treat and to say goodbye because tomorrow, we really do fly away, even if you started thinking we were going to be here forever after so many blog posts from Europe. Mom and her two daughters will spend a bit more time over their coffees after I leave before they, too, will say their goodbyes. From here, Caroline and Stephanie will have a sisters’ day out in Mainz. Caroline might add another blog entry about their adventure in the future.

This old lady, closer to the end of her life than the beginning, is all about love. This idea was nearly lost on her as she drifted near the pit of relative unhappiness (abject acceptance) right up to the age of retirement. Sadly, my mother-in-law, in her first decades on earth, only knew a kind of sterile, cold, matter-of-fact type of love. Today, she enjoys laughter that comes from within instead of a superficial, perfunctory chuckle that fails the authenticity test.

We are keenly aware that each visit with Jutta could be the last, and I believe that Caroline, Jutta, and I are okay with that; Stephanie, I’m not so sure of. I’m fairly certain that my sister-in-law will experience profound loss at Jutta’s passing as something feels unresolved, but I’m not at ease to inquire as I think I’d risk opening an avenue of hurt.

And so we’ll share a hug and offer hope for another brief visit in the morning, but time is short in those brief hours before we fly and so my goodbye for another year or two has to be memorable as I take in her smile. I have to wonder how many goodbyes are shared between people after they’ve accepted the limited time remaining for one of them though that limitation effectively hovers over all of us?

Bad Soden tram stop near Frankfurt, Germany

Klaus wasn’t with us this morning as he had to attend a conference call for work. While the women had their own ideas, Klaus had made plans that had him and me meeting up at Hauptwache so we could catch a train to Bad Soden. From there, we’d board a bus over to Königstein im Taunus, not too far outside of Frankfurt.

Currywurst in Königstein im Taunus near Frankfurt, Germany

We were heading into the mountains to experience the best currywurst known to humankind while the plain white Kaiserbrötchen should be considered a travesty to the German culinary experience and banned in Europe.

3 Burgen Weg in Königstein im Taunus near Frankfurt, Germany

Just kidding, we are out for a hike on the 3 Burgenweg, which ideally would have been a 13.5 kilometers (8.4 miles) hike, but we dawdled. Phew, good to get that out of the way, but what would one expect when two guys armed with cameras hit the trail on a warm, blue-sky day? Klaus assured me that this is a well-marked trail due to the hiking club that maintains the signage. Well, that might have been an overstatement.

3 Burgen Weg in Königstein im Taunus near Frankfurt, Germany

The evidence of suboptimal route marking is seen right here: Our hike was supposed to lead us right over to the Burgruine Königstein (Königstein Castle Ruin), which is the first part of the “3 Castles Trail” we are hiking today. We decided to forego that castle at this time and catch it at the end of the loop since we had no idea that we would leave the trail in Kronberg to make our dinner reservations at a favorite Portuguese restaurant of Klaus and Stephanie.

3 Burgen Weg in Königstein im Taunus near Frankfurt, Germany

Okay then, off to Castle Falkenstein, which sounded a bit like Castle Frankenstein to me, though I already knew that Frankenstein is over near Darmstadt.

3 Burgen Weg in Königstein im Taunus near Frankfurt, Germany

I tried my best to Photoshop the haze out of this three-image panorama, but this is as good as I got. I can’t say I’ve ever seen a clearer image of the city I called home for so many years from such a distance as today. Off to the right, we could see the planes taking off at the Frankfurt Airport while in the background, about 55 kilometers (35 miles) away, is what I believe to be the Odenwald mountain range.

3 Burgen Weg in Königstein im Taunus near Frankfurt, Germany

And before we knew it, we were at the foot of Castle Falkenstein.

3 Burgen Weg in Königstein im Taunus near Frankfurt, Germany

I think Klaus and I were both surprised that the ruins were open, and not only that…

3 Burgen Weg in Königstein im Taunus near Frankfurt, Germany

…the tower was also open, offering us this view of the northeast corner of Königstein.

3 Burgen Weg in Königstein im Taunus near Frankfurt, Germany

This is the most un-hospital-looking hospital I’ve ever seen.

3 Burgen Weg in Königstein im Taunus near Frankfurt, Germany

Eat these and have a reason to visit the un-hospital-looking hospital.

Klaus Engelhardt on 3 Burgen Weg in Königstein im Taunus near Frankfurt, Germany

Thanks, Klaus, for picking a perfect day and a perfect trail through the Taunus Mountains.

3 Burgen Weg in Königstein im Taunus near Frankfurt, Germany

Maybe because it was only Friday afternoon and not the weekend, but we only encountered a few people, mostly on other trails that bisected our own.

3 Burgen Weg in Königstein im Taunus near Frankfurt, Germany

This was a huge surprise seeing that nobody would fault one for thinking that all Jewish cemeteries in Germany were wiped off the face of the earth during the Nazi reign, but then you come across one and can only scratch your head and wonder, “How did this survive?”

3 Burgen Weg in Königstein im Taunus near Frankfurt, Germany

Following Klaus, as he handles the guidance responsibilities, absolves me of anything more than being present. What an awesome gift on our last day in Germany. No thinking, just wandering.

3 Burgen Weg in Königstein im Taunus near Frankfurt, Germany

This is Bürgelplatte, which appears to be all that remains of what might have been a small castle a long time ago.

3 Burgen Weg in Königstein im Taunus near Frankfurt, Germany

It’s a shame that when I was in my 20s, I thought nightlife was the best life for me and that these places surrounding Frankfurt were for old people. Well, here I am now, an old person proving younger me right.

3 Burgen Weg in Königstein im Taunus near Frankfurt, Germany

I wonder where this giant boulder came from. Is it a glacial erratic, or was it unearthed? I don’t believe it fell off a formerly high cliff landing here before erosion wore away the mountain. I tried learning something about it, but while others have photographed it, I can find no explanation for the mystery boulder.

Kronberg im Taunus near Frankfurt, Germany

We’ve reached Kronberg Castle, which is closing in just a few minutes. No matter, as we need a bite to eat and something to drink before catching a train back to Frankfurt to join Caroline and Stephanie for dinner.

Kronberg im Taunus near Frankfurt, Germany

In the mid-1980s, after arriving in Germany with the U.S. Army, I spent my first six months wandering the Rhein-Main area of Hessen and went to countless villages via anonymous train stops that I kept no record of. I have no recollection if I’ve ever visited the castle herein Kronberg but I want to return with Caroline now that I’ve stopped here.

Kronberg im Taunus near Frankfurt, Germany

These are the Drei Ritter (Three Knights) at Friedrich Ebert Straße in Kronberg. The characters above represent debauchery, and the words below translate to, “Your advice is far too late.”

Kronberg im Taunus near Frankfurt, Germany

This is St. Johann Church, and it’s Protestant, so I can just forget about entering on a Friday.

Kronberg im Taunus near Frankfurt, Germany

Gasthaus Adler has a menu that talks to me, it even screams at me to return for its Austrian-influenced eats.

Main River in Frankfurt, Germany

How I managed to snag this photo from a moving train will always be a surprise, as they so rarely work out. Klaus and I were on our way to Tasquinha da Jacinta to sample some Portuguese cooking at one of Klaus and Stephanie’s favorite restaurants in the Frankfurt area. Sorry, there are no photos of us or our meals but it was so nice to relax and do nothing that I took advantage of the moment to just hang out. Dinner was great, though you’ll wait a good long time for service since the place is popular, packed, and only open Friday, Saturday, and Sunday.

Ginnheim tram stop in Frankfurt, Germany

Passing through the Ginnheim tram stop, look closely; this is a self-portrait.

Zeilweg tram stop in Heddernheim, Germany

If only the day were over! We need to knock out the majority of our packing so we can avoid as much stress in the morning as possible. Talk about using every single moment of vacation to remain busier than we ever are at home: this was quite the endurance test. For all intents and purposes, vacation is over.