Biker vs. Bender, or: Pedal Adventures in the Finger Lakes, or: Actually Not April Fools Day

I decided the other day, with matters pressing in against all aspects of my life, that I was deficit in elevation change and mileage on bicycle. A ride to Lodi would fulfill this hunger and the need to check out the historical society there in need of a pipe organist to offer a recital.

So there we were, ShortHairedBikinggirl (Biker) and ChefBalletBeau (Bender) meeting in transit, one leaving from Ithaca and the other from Trumansburg for a rendezvous on Route 96, the main artery between lakes. A SAT math problem, if you will: if Bender leaves at 4pm going 15mph and carrying 2 cookies and if Biker leaves at 3:30pm going 13mph with a 5mph headwind, what time will they intersect, what speed will they be going in knots at the time of intersection, and what color will Biker’s hair be?

In fact the town where we turned to aim for Lodi is called Interlaken, German meaning "between lakes."  It's this amazing area that at once you look upon it and see a glimmer of a lake, but being that you are higher above where the glaciers clawed out ditches to be filled with melt that we call Seneca and Cayuga, you see mostly hills and farms.

But the meet-up.  

I was pedaling slowly, anticipating that I had left before my ridemate crossed my entrance to 96.  I noticed the red-and-white splotched Croc sandal, sitting solitary as though tossed from a window (a prank a friend pulled on another?) and set it as a flag for further trips (I'm passing the Solitary Red Croc now!). On a bicycle you can take in details that would otherwise be missed in a car. Not long after this croc, I heard "UN OEUF!  UN OEUF" from behind and immediately bursting into laughter we met, cycling along, remembering a terrible joke Bender told Biker the day before. (“How many eggs are in chef’s omelette? Un oeuf! (Enough)”)

Good to be with each other, to have a chat and joke, poking fun at how people get locked into poor speech habits of "Ummm" and "sooo".  When you begin to realize you have these linguistic crutches, you get a bit self-conscious about how you appear to one another.  I suppose in this way a single unifying ride helped peel back a layer, to show how we see our flaws and can laugh, and maybe individually evaluate ourselves a bit more.  Call it Shared Perspective or maybe Shared Self-awareness.  Either way, as we pressed up hill and slope, air whooshed and pushed softly around us, as we sliced through to atop between the lakes.

Not far from Lodi, the competitive streak started to settle in both of us.  "On step," which is Cruising Gear, is the basecoat for this streak. In this, I feel like I am taking steps, and as I grow in rhythm I simply apply more pressure and thus stronger steps.  But its more than a physical feeling; it's a mental state that ignores fatigue or pain of pushing.  Instead there are endorphins and the need to fly, and with the cars buzzing by I want to hug closer to catch a ride from their down drafts.  You get comfortable and suddenly you want to poke a little bit.  At first Biker pulled ahead, only to be shortly overtaken.  It was just a little test of each other, seeing how fast we could pick up from cruising speed.  For me it felt like a little tap of the gas and feeling the power of the engine, and wanting to draw from the raw power of it.  Bender, being a bit cocky, commented "I mean, you've got more than that right?"  

And thus the real race began!

Biker, striding hard, pulled ahead by maybe 25 yards, her green helmet just inches above the bar, decreasing the profile and becoming a bright green dart.  Bender sat back a bit, giving her the benefit of the lead.  Having been a ballet dancer he reasoned, meant that he could out perform her in the short runs but not the long game.  Best to let her lead and overtake her and let her wear down.  So it went, with Bender flexing his many plie'd legs and applying maximal effort, flying past Biker.  

In this race it was more about the fun of opening up on the country road after climbing so many hills to suddenly feel as though you are going so fast that you are bending time.  If you pull back to the existential part of this scene, we did bend time.  The time spent with this other person usually results in not caring about what time it actually is anyway.

So there we arrived at the Lodi Historical Society where the aforementioned organ had been sitting for nearly two yeas of non-use and forget.  We were greeted by Harry, 71 (which he eagerly announced), with hair that suggested he wanted to hold on to what he could as the top was very bald and the sides and back had a length that fell over the ears, almost like a monk who had not trimmed in some time.  We enquired about bringing our bikes into the building for safety. “This is Lodi,” he said, “There’s nobody here.”

In that indulgent and timeless way that some older men have, Harry regaled us of the history of the 150 year old church.  To put in perspective our timeline, bikes weren't really around this area when the Lodidians settled here.  When General Sullivan's troops came through the area bikes were most certainly not around, and neither was Harry.  But, he spoke about the history of the church, the town, his home and farm, as though he had been there the entire time, curating the various nooks and details, knowing the families that brought the town to being, and seeking endlessly for the precise dates when so and so left Lodi for the Big City, or whatever tidbit he could remember.

The organ however, was another story.  Much like our talk on language crutches, Biker began to plod away at the keys and pedals.  Instead of the decadent and resonant ring of organ pipes what was brought forth was more like an "uhhmmmmm" and "soooooo" from this old device. No exuberant and well pronounced notes rang forth but still the sound of an organ in an old church brings out parallel emotions, though they are more like whispers.  Hopefully, after the Curator Harry has a chance to meet with the Lodidians who oversee the Historical Society we will see its return to a champion of proper proportion, capable of speaking on Bach, Mozart, or maybe even Saint Saens.

With all this happening in my life, the new adventures, the daily grind, the people leaving us, this time warp was exactly what I was looking for.  A time out of place situation, in a place unto itself. 

And then, post organ and Historical Harry, we continued into the golden glow of the Finger Lakes on towards Two Goats Brewery, a perhaps unwise decision given the distance, but it is summer and we are alive.  Two food trucks (count them, 2!) were there, one with pizza (Pi Truck) from a wood-fire oven, run on wind and solar power, indeed we’re not in Kansas.  The other is an impressive taco truck (Global Taco) and both of them are becoming local institutions.  Then Biker gleefully ran into long lost friends, residents at a local artist’s commune, making this stop at the brewery seem meant to be. Given the scenery and the delicious food and beverage offerings, it could be Patagonia, or Northern Italy here, but it isn't.  It's the Finger Lakes.  The own corner of the world full of realities of beauty and life.

Sunset on Seneca Lake was a glory, but then the reality of returning to the other lake and home. And so we pedaled off, bright lights blinking, with the sun dipping below the range opposite us that traces up the west shores of Seneca.  Thus begins our next phase of the trip wherein things begin to fall apart.  Biker, with her many miles of experience and Green Gary with his fancy shifting could approach upward climbs with grace and poise.  Bender with his legs and Blue Lotus had all the power, but literally nowhere to put it, with older style gears and shifting. Without too much clinical explanation here, the chain derailed again and again.  Eventually the hill was met, and cruising picked up again but not without a steady stream of expletives (Chefs use those like they do salt) before then.  At this point the sun is down and the headlights are up, the temperature has dropped and the desire to fly has picked up.  Not because the open road calls us but because the warmth of home.

Finally the chain fouled as though some gnome had pulled it from its place, twisting under the pedal, the occasional car whizzing by as the two of us tried in vain to understand the mystical workings.  Eventually a truck-traveler pulled over to offer us assistance.  As it turns out, Truck Clayton lived just "up there" (we’re in the boonies, mind) and could give us a ride to a better scene for chain repair, resplendent with light.  Not long after that his brother Truck Chris joined us as well, and there were had two bearded brothers who by their back-and-forth you could tell they were kin. 

Totally bemused by the problem of a twisted chain and flipped derailleur—that if only we had better bike knowledge we could have fixed—we began thinking about Plan B. Which ended up being a younger Truck sister driving one of the trucks, Truck Chris in the cab to keep her company, with us and bikes back to Ithaca. We were beside ourselves with gratitude for these strangers taking pity on us, people from a very different way of living.

The Truck Siblings were keenly interested in our passion for cycling while not being interested whatsoever in taking it up.  At one point they marveled at Biker’s ability to ride at night alone up hills.  Bender explained, "Yeah sure, but she also just biked through part of the Andes." Truck Chris responded, spitting tobacco into his plastic water bottle, "The Dandy's? What's that?"  We explained, both of them laughed: “You guys are two fit people talkin’ to two rednecks.”

Again, a place unto itself.  From lakes to hills, from old churches to new breweries, from older men with vast knowledge to young men with so little, this area is a magical and mysterious place.  Finally, the startling truth here dear reader, is that I am not Biker writing this entry.  I'm Bender, ChefBalletBeau, and just like you I'm discovering this place for the first time, again, en biciclette, and loving all of it.  Bumbling chains and verbal crutches and all. (Granted, some editing help provided by the pedantic Sandra)

The play's the thing

When I was a child I kept imaginary horses, no more than three at a time. 

Any more than three and the time investment was too hefty and I couldn’t keep track of everybody. I had one white Arabian mare, who was the most stalwart of all the horses, and it is a great sadness that I cannot remember her name. I remember deliberating over her name; it needed to be graceful and romantic. Genevieve or Tara maybe.  Gwendolyn.

I usually also kept two young black horses, faster than my Arabian mare, but feisty and harder to handle. They probably had names like Black Diamond or Velvet. These horses would run behind my father’s car when we went on road trips, which offered me a sense of comfort, that something awesome of mine was also coming with us.

I kept the horses in the garage, in small transparent stalls between my mother’s gardening supplies and my father’s motorboat. These are full size horses, mind you; somehow they all managed to fit in that space. But someone was always moving the wheelbarrow in the way of my horse system. Writing this right now, I can hear the scrape of the wheelbarrow as I moved it aside to get through to my horses.

While I was going through this horse period (before I started taking riding lessons on visible horses), I could be found every morning opening up the garage door, then walking calmly with my two hands in the air, leading two horses at once out to the front yard. This yard was most conveniently fenced in electric and had a nice gate, and I was satisfied that my horses were content and healthy there. In the evening, the reverse happened: hands in the air, leading horses back to the safety of the garage. I would usually also ride in the evening too, trying to get my sister to join me. Then we would slap our thighs with a thin stick and prance and run around the driveway.

Now this was just my imaginary horses. I could write likewise about the town of Lego people and dry beans we had (“Beanville”), or the extensive village of rocks by the lake where we made seaweed cakes to sell (we were enamored with the suffix “-ville”, apparently, so this was “Rockville”), the American girl dolls and the living room carpet floods they survived in their laundry basket lifeboats, the plastic horses and their world travels chosen by spinning the globe with eyes closed and a finger poked down, the huge families of barbies and their dramas and infidelities and love lives, or the space ships on the couch manned by an expert crew of beanie babies.

I would play tirelessly, endlessly, with no thought of hunger or time or the importance of setting the table. There are no words to describe how delicious this was, one of those incredibly satisfying drives that needs to be expressed as a young human. I can say with utmost clarity that my boundless opportunity to be allowed to create my own worlds of play was the greatest benefit of homeschooling.

My first greatest heartbreak came when my younger sister sat by the beanie babies in their spaceship and called me over (I was worlds away with a book on the couch), “Let’s play! Come on!”  And I couldn’t.  I couldn’t play.  It no longer felt “true” to craft the imaginary stories and take the figures in my hands and move them across the couch.  I was surprised and sad and felt that something was wrong with me, that I couldn’t muster this anymore. But I was taken away by someone else’s story now, the books, and I had less of a need to craft my own stories. And I was putting my energy towards horse riding lessons, planning for horse shows, getting excited about systems that were outside of my head.

What is play, really? Can adults play? What is different between adult play and child play?

I think play is where importance and whimsy meet. As a child, it is critical and necessary of energy that your horses survive the tsunami on the carpet—there’s the importance—but also whimsical and safe. For instance, at any time you could stop the game or Daddy comes home after work all comfort and safety, and these things are the foundation of feeling not actually in danger, of not actually being in a tsunami.

I think play is also about creating something from within yourself. As a child, it’s writing an intricate story about your barbies or caring for your imaginary horses. As an adult, on good days, this can come from making music on the pipe organ or finding just the apt word to describe an experience. In a much broader sense, I suppose all of life can be playful, provided you’re in a period when things are not troubling, and where living, and being aware of living, the intricate story of a human experience comes as self expression.

As an adult I feel that sense of time stopping, about something being important and whimsical when I’m crafting in my kitchen, for instance. Not following a recipe, which would be just plain adult, but puzzling over what’s in my fridge and then imagining up something to create from it. What about curry powder and chocolate! On soy nuts? Yes! It’s whimsical because of the strange combinations, a little bit of self expression. And it’s important because this is taking care of my health and well-being.

A sense of play happened during field work the other day. Monsieur Visiting French Scholar, who is a wonderful combination of analytically brilliant and very silly, and I were working in neighboring plots of cover crops. The setting: something important (we’re doing science) but also whimsical, because as I’m bent over I feel a light tap on my butt. Looking up I see Mr Scholar grinning ghoulishly from his plot and that he had excellent aim with a grass weed arrow he had flown at my butt (root ball acting as weighted arrowhead, stems serving as feathered shaft). We laughed and of course there was no danger in any of this. Later I found him bent over, curve of lower back exposed, and so I planted a dandelion down the back of his pants.  The basal rosette of the plant popped perkily from that place, a novel flower pot design.

I believe that without the setting of importance (we were all out there being productive and scientific), there would be less of a life spark to beget creativity and see grass weeds as arrows and behinds as flower pots.

Let me describe for you a scene of play that is not of a child, that happened recently, and that brought happiness and whimsy mixed with that sense of drive and importance. If you told my ten year old self that this would bring me so such giddy glee, I would have disbelieved you indeed. 

I went grocery shopping with a friend.

The farm store was mostly empty that evening and my sweet friend Tall Bri (“lets be tall happy dancing woman together!” we’ll say before a Friday night) and I gathered carts and rolled into the dreamy land of local, minimally-packaged, and impossibly inexpensive food. You don’t get prices like this in Wegmans or at the Ithaca coop. It takes a Mennonite Grocery Shop in the small town of Seneca Falls.

“Jams!” Tall Bri crowed, “cheese!” I called, and we giddily rolled into the separate lands. For me this was a jubilant unfettered conquering of good food, where I didn’t have to sigh wearily about how expensive fresh ground peanut butter was, and where I could buy a simple plastic bag with walnuts in it, not some glossy colored cardboard-plastic-structured container with a small essay of labeling on it.  I bought two containers of peanut butter, a giant glugging pillar each, with that self-satisfied understanding of I’m Stocking Up For the Future While The Gettin’s Good.  “The Asparagus is so CHEAP!” I could hear Tall Bri from the land of fresh vegetables. I hooked my right foot up into my cart and skate-boarded gleefully to join her. Grapefruits and apples and eggplant, again, the cornucopia of plenty.

Rolling along, admiring left and right down every aisle, as if in Disney Land, simply so pleased by everything. Blue AND red popcorn, just because they both existed, went into my cart. I saw Tall Bri’s head skimming along a few aisles over. “I found the nuts!” she sang and, in a pang of leaving the many varieties of bulk flour I was studying, I rolled to join her with the pecans. The pang of leaving something good for something else good cannot actually be a pang, it is in fact a celebration.

We had the dose of importance from the nature of buying food for oneself and the dose of whimsical because the food was so simple and pleasing and local and nearly half the price of things at Wegmans.

A Mennonite grocery store offers not only a highly economical shopping experience but a cultural one as well, the products that you don’t find in your middle America grocery store.  For instance, I bought a LOG of butter. “Amish butter roll” said its name tag. I passed a bag of breakfast cereal the size of a small child, disconcertingly pastel circles and squares and stars made from wheat and corn syrup, whimsical indeed, “Happy Shapes” it read on the bag, by a company called comfortingly “Hospitality”.

The manufacturer of cheese curds, some tiny brand that was local to upstate NY, Stoltzfus Dairy Cheese.  Stoltzfus. Of course I took a packet home, just to enjoy that sneeze name each time I opened my fridge. 

Two women in blue and green dresses, white aprons, and little bonnets rang us up. I just about pranced each item onto the belt and fluttered with urgency to deploy my battalion of reusable bags for the haul. “I’m so excited about these spices!” I said as I topped the 8^th container on the stack I was creating; it shuttered its way balanced on the belt toward Miss Bonnet Cashier. She was totally unfazed by my giddy enthusiasm and with complete composure scanned each item for me. The sum came to more than I have ever spent on groceries in one swipe, but with that much peanut butter and popcorn and maple syrup I won’t step into a florescent grocery store for anything besides soy milk for months.

Whatever it may be, grocery shopping or goofing around in the field, I never want to lose that whimsical importance I used to feel leading my imaginary horses to the front yard.

Reflections on Writing, and, a Fingerlakes Experience

One of my mothers (you garner multitudes of mothers when you grow up homeschooled among wonderful people) said to me yesterday that she still checks my blog for updates. I felt honored by this but also slumped, as I haven't been posting in ages. It's not that my life isn't word-worthy; I do have a lot going on. But I remember back to my "younger years", back in college, my first jobs, my graduate school, and how I would unabashedly post any little story. Reading back on these, I had a delightful shameless exuberance in writing and processing my experiences, without stopping to worry that no one would read (your mothers will always read), finding my experiences so noteworthy that they had to be written about. Being so much in love with life that I couldn't help but share it. If you're not David Sedaris who unfailingly entertains when he writes, it takes a certain amount of innocence to write stories of your life all the time, because mine for certain will not unfailingly entertain.

What my mother said yesterday really got me thinking. Even if I don't write a post three times a week like I did in college, even if I write infrequently, I still want to capture word birds when I'm inspired, and write. When I write, sitting there tailoring words to capture an experience, my life feels richer, even if just for the tautological mental reason to justify writing about it. 

"You should be a writer" people would tell me, after laughing about a story about the dining hall, or after following an entire bicycle trip through a rugged land. Instead I am an agricultural science research technician and an organist. But I write. Which makes me a writer. More and more, my job at Cornell has begun to encompass writing: grants, editing other's papers, putting together reports for farmers, recently submitting a scientific journal article. Maybe I'm good at it, even if writing about soil organic carbon won't be entertaining for most of you. 

So here's a little post of something from a few weeks ago. It's about the joys of living in a specific place, a place with a character unto itself. In Seattle I lived the character of soft rain showers and bicycle lanes, in Colombia it was the unstoppable heat and the unstoppable good nature of the people, in New Orleans it was the jazz and the spicy food and the young ambition. These places where you're in them, they're full of little signals and distinct markers that tell how they are most decidedly themselves. 

I live now in the Fingerlakes. A place of glacier carved landscapes, vineyards, wineries. A love of local food and farming. Small towns rich with creative young ventures involving food and wine, camaraderie among all these people who work the land and the wineries. I cannot imagine anything more infused with the Fingerlakes Experience than being courted by a local foods chef here. 

I got to step into a different world recently. This chef, Chef Kevin, had worked with a local wine-maker and bed and breakfast owner to put on a fingerlakes wine pairing dinner. Candle light, fancy dress, each course paired with a wine to match flavor to flavor. Dinner tickets were magnificently expensive and I could not imagine spending that much money on one single meal. It was also on the other side of the hulking hump of land between Cayuga and Seneca lakes, and no buses went there, so this meant a hilly crawl of 22 miles. I told him I wanted to support his efforts, but I was having trouble justifying the money. And then he explained why, exactly, he wanted me to be there. Not to support him, either monetarily or emotionally. But instead because he wanted me to see this beloved world of his that I’ve never experienced: exquisitely crafted food, paired thoughtfully with local wines. High concept; basically, food as art and presentation. Like going to hear a symphony is much more expensive than listening to it on a CD, but a rich intentional experience. (In which Sandra gleefully experiences a surprise benefit of dating this chef: in the end, they wouldn't let me pay for a ticket anyway.) 

And so, I squirreled out of work early, wadded a dress into my bicycle pannier, and then crawled those hills between the lakes, reflecting on how completely I would earn this gorgeous meal. The ride was a spread of tall clouds in resplendent shades of grey, the climb from one lake to reach the pinnacle between them, to fly down towards the other. I arrived early, to find Chef Kevin quietly swearing at a succession of buckwheat crepes folding over on themselves, sun pouring into the kitchen of the bed and breakfast. The “edible flowers” he had on his menu for a course (atop a Szechuan-sweet potato bisque with falafels) he had been planning on harvesting from my grandparent’s backyard (oh, the hilarious folds of life!) but sadly they had just been mowed with the grass, so no wild viola available. So when I arrived off the bike, he enquired if the purple flowers in the yard of the bed and breakfast would suite. They were in fact Purple Deadnettle (no joy there) but I did bring him little white clusters of Garlic Mustard florets.

So then when he introduced that course I got to speak up from my place in the dining room and joke about eating invasive plants as conservation control measure.

I was entering a world of schmoozing; small talk, all these people (all couples) coming for this feast, introducing themselves, open and friendly. None of the couples knew any of the others, and I knew no one; but by the end it was like a big old house party, all of us along one big long table. I wondered what type of people come to a splendid wine dinner. One couple owned a local brewery, another was from New Jersey on a romantic Fingerlakes weekend, another were also bed and breakfast owners and enjoyers of wine. I chatted with everyone, and found myself perhaps to be charming even, joking about forgetting names (“but the next time when I ask you, you have to give me a different name”), and conspiratorially, with happy pride, leaned in and said I was dating the chef. I felt so pleased to see all these people with their eyes rolled back in their heads, really enjoying his food.  About the duck (free-range local) and buckwheat crepe course: “This is delicious and pairs so well with this chardonnay,” commented Mr. Brewery Owner. “I mean, well, it would pair well with pond water”, I replied.   

After the dinner, there happened to be a late-night hyper jazz pianist dance show (how’s that for descriptors!) at a rural bar, sweet mint cocktails, stars visible outside the lights of Ithaca, rows upon rows of grape vineyards on the drive there, bearded men in plaid who work the local farms. Most of the wine-dinner party progressed there, and I found myself in a set of couples going in, on the arm of Kevin. I met a dozen people I’ll never recognize again, and felt like an outsider in this star-gazed, weed-infused dancing crowd. I was poignantly aware that I was not there under my own transportation, reliant instead upon Mr. Winemaker who had driven us. I was doing my best to reflect on how it seems to be the highest achievement to craft all your systems to have everything under your control, but really, it may be even higher achievement to be flexible and at peace when you can’t have everything under your own control. Like not being able to leave when you’re tired. 

Since Kevin had cheffed at the bed and breakfast, it was part of the deal that we would stay there the night, since home was far and the party was late. But the bed and breakfast had an over-booking; there was no room at the inn. Instead, a creative adjustment was made. So, I got to add to my list of strange places slept: in the tasting room of Mr. Winemaker. On an air mattress. With a box of grape vines waiting to be planted, stacks of wine books, bottles and boxes of wine. A very fingerlakes experience indeed. 

 

Everyone was rather apologetic about that situation, but I thought it hilarious, and somehow perfectly fitting for my fingerlakes adventure (already comprising a wildly hilly bike ride, high-concept local food, a dance show, and getting to know the standards of the area: the wine makers and business owners and brewers). “For there was no room in the inn,” I joked to Mr. Winemaker as I walked under the stars to the tasting room, "maybe you’ll find baby Jesus tomorrow."

 

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Fried Pies and Healthy Treat

I went to Virginia this weekend.

It was far enough away I got to slip out of Daily Same Place Mode and into Traveler Mind. Which makes me want to write again. I feel full of eagerness to describe a place and a way of life that is different than mine, and this is even within the United States. But with that comes the self-consciousness that my experience is only a tiny moment within a huge and expansive culture and I have no way of representing what may be empirical truth about a place. So I only offer my observations.

I was in Lynchburg Virginia, a town about the size of Ithaca approximately, accompanying a Mr. Tall Ballet Chef to his art school reunion. I have spent very little of my life as a plus-one at events, so that was like an adventurous experience too. Except, with a brashly striped dress and my silver spiked hair at the soirée, everyone was asking me what year I had graduated the art school. "Ha, I work with dirt," I responded. I had wine and cheese and listened to ballet dancers talk about their old eccentric teachers. And about pain in their metatarsals. I was a little out of my element so I got to bring out people-watching and listener mode. Because it was all ballet dancers nobody touched the tiered display of cupcakes, but I walked out with pockets burgeoning with truffle cheese. I rescued it from the forgotten catered display at the end of the night, and remembered my days in college where I'd take full trays of food like this down to the women's shelter, that had been out and thus would have to be thrown away. 

Pockets aside, I enjoyed being in the town of Lynchburg and observing what felt different compared with my towns  in New York State. One of my friends warned me, "Lynchburg, prepare yourself. It's pretty red down there." But I found a town that was a lot more than Ted Cruz signs and pickup trucks and countless churches.

The covered indoor market illustrated the juxtaposition I was seeing existing in this Virginia town: fried southern charm with Locavore organic existing side by side. I found this dynamic fascinating and utterly charming. Live jazz grooving away filling the indoor market building, old couples and families sitting with biscuits and gravy and strawberry cream crepes on styrofoam plates, vendors of handmade knitted hats, wire jewelry, and a cheese shop. Pound cake and also grass fed bison meat. Kitchy horse knickknacks and also organic lavender soap. Fried Pies next to Healthy Treats next to each other in little plastic bins. (If I had to represent my Lynchburg experience with one thing, it would be that.)

Overheard: (apply thick drawl)
"There's a lot going on today: that steam engine comin' in and all that" (never did find out what that was all about though)

What people say about southern friendliness and politeness I found to be completely true. Take the black man in a black coat and cane passing me on the street, nub of cigarette hanging from his mouth, greeting me with a friendly, "Windy dis mornin!" This one simple statement was so much and left me grinning, feeling acknowledged as a human, a simple hello of sorts, commenting on the shared experience of the wind. I feel this so rarely happens in my northern cities.

Also, I feel like my hair, currently in its distinctive way, has never been so well received as in Lynchburg. "Your hair is SO striking! All of us at my table were like, look at that girl's hair!", "Your hair is beautiful!", etc.  My theory is that hair like this is likely more rare in a small southern town, but also that people in general are more outgoing and friendly and thus I'm more likely to hear about it. My little follicle egos were happy.

I was ma'am'ed many times, each time taking me by surprise. I had so many doors opened for me, gentlemen waiting for me to enter an elevator first, even though they were carrying suitcases and I was further steps away. When there was a pause where I realized that they wouldn't enter that elevator until I had crossed the hall and gone in myself, thus I created a little hiccup in the natural southern rhythm of women moving around gracious men, because I am mostly unaccustomed to it.

I love moments like these, where little expectations about a place ("oh the south, people are friendlier and things move slower") do actually have evidence to be true, that this country has not succumbed into a giant homogenous stew.

Other observations: tree blossoms! I was in colorful-plant infused giddiness because of the pansies in flower boxes and puffy pastel flowering trees all amongst the brick of the city. Going south was like going forward in time, into spring. And even though it was only a small town there was an expansive marble staircase monument, feeling presidential and commemorative.  Also --Burg's: so many of the towns in Virginia were Thisburg or Thatburg.

Finally: many many churches. Grand historic churches, little store front churches in faded plazas ("Back to Eden Commandment Church"), wide and low churches with a tiny steeple, the kind where you could practically hear the praise band just by seeing the building. I could feel poignantly the Bible belt. There was a beer on tap at the hotel, a chocolate peanut butter porter that was named, I kid you not, Sweet Baby Jesus. "Let's go drink us some sweet baby Jesus!" I felt surprised to see this beer, it seemed like it could come off as irreverent, but religion just seems so seamlessly a part of life here that it might be naturally a part of the rest of it all without note. Also the hotdog stand: Hot Dogs For Jesus. Billboards about how to find the way to heaven, church placards: "Taking Jesus Seriously".

And in Virginia we visited my sister, big hugs and screeches and laughs to be reunited. Teasing her about the very high stack of un-nested egg cartons atop the fridge, and our two boys now having a fellow to do Waymanism Eye Rolls with (efficiency and knowing exactly how much something cost were prime examples).

Going south meant going into spring.

I did try a sip of brewed baby Jesus. Tasted just like a peanut butter cup, which was actually a little alarming.

Fried Pies and Healthy Treat.

Sisters!

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A truly enormous bag, gratitude, and reflections on Colombia

Buenos dias!

6am: Medellin.
I started my day at 4am, after only managing to fall asleep 3 hours earlier (that fascinating phenomenon where I normally can sleep to music loud enough to dance to, but on a Night of Import the gateway to sleep is somehow barricaded) and then a g-force taxi ride up the edge of the valley to airport 1 of 5 today. I focused dutifully on retaining my stomach during this ride, Mr Taxi whipping and zipping through the wee hours. At the tollbooth, "buenas dias" he said to the attendant, and then as thank you for his change, "mi amore".

[Side note: I love how people address each other here, friends and strangers alike. I get called "mamì" and "niña" and "mi amore" by older women, "chica" and "gringa" and "amiga" by the men. All of these are totally respectful but affectionate and playful terms. "Mamì" and "papi" sound the most endearing to me, I hear groups of girlfriends arm in arm, "Mamì!", and a mother calling to her little boy: "ai papi!" I heard a man address his dog affectionately as "papi" once, and an old woman to her husband, "papi".]

My bicycle is in an enormous bolsa. I found this bolsa at a little bike shop in the crevices of Medellin, and the grinny man even took the bike apart and put it in the bag for me; the work ticket attached to the bag had my total at $60 for everything, with simply "Gringa" written on the nombrè line. I got a kick out of that, and was thrilled to see that Mr Grinny even cleaned the bike, winking at me as Elise and I carried it out between the two of us.

My first flight is with a Colombian domestic company, Medellin to Bogotá. So far this has been relatively effortless: Senora Desk looked completely apologetic for charging me extra for the bicycle bag (but they took it!) and security took less time than to unfasten my sandals (which I didn't have to). A line of us walked amicably outside in the dark towards the plane, and seating was open, as if on a bus. "Buenas dias", politely, was heard all throughout the cabin.

The seats next to me are occupied by two Colombian women, in tandem applying an entrancingly varied array of makeup. They have been at this task for the entire time I have been writing so far, peering into little mirrors and bringing out container after container of different products. The detail and time is astounding: they are perfectly beautiful.

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So I look at the hats of clouds and reflect on my time in Colombia. 

"Why would you go THERE?" my parents had asked in horror, when I told them I'd be coming here. The way they spoke of it--and how it must have been portrayed in the media-- I could see a country with bandits waiting at every corner ready to push us off our bikes, streets rife with cocaine, pick-pockets sneaking behind us at the bakeries, people evaluating us with cold greedy stares to rob us.

Instead we have been met with welcome, friendliness, and curiosity. I believe it is possible to FEEL goodwill, and it is palpable in the air here. It comes out in Señor Watermelon inventorying his entire display to hand me the biggest slice, in how the truckers give us as much room as they can, tooting gentle tips on their horns instead of deafening blasts. Thumbs ups and waves. People stare, certainly in the country, but it is a simple regarding, a checking-out. It feels different than the unchecked ceaseless stares of Southeast Asia.

This country is a true success story in our world of poverty, drugs, and violence. Granted, there is a long way to go still, but the reduction of violence and poverty here has been astronomical since the 1990s. The new paved roads, the Bicycle Sunday Events, the metro system....these little supports for the people, along with some major political changes, can go a long way towards peace and happiness.

Por supreso, we stayed out of the very rural departments and areas still under Farc influence, and were smart about being out alone at night. But this is normal caution, necessary as in any American city.

On our daily rides we passed through at least two or three police checkpoints on the road. We were never stopped, but waved on with polite nods. I wasn't able to figure out the system for who was chosen to be stopped, but I watched quite a few motorcyclists being patted down, showing documents. Much of the time the officers looked thoroughly bored, standing there in a group of three roadside, all of them bent over their cell phones.

The first week of the trip I was in high-alert mode, being suspicious of anyone approaching me. But I soon learned that people were only trying to tell me I had dropped something, or ask if I needed help, or just to say "hello!".

Never once did I feel that cold piercing of true fear. An amazing blessing.

I am truly impressed and enchanted by this country. And it is largely unexplored by tourists. We bicycled through so many country towns that would have been front-page guide book material ("after checking out the ornate church on the hill, meander down to the local pizza shop for an economical and delicious meal; then enjoy the youths as they pop wheelies in the town plaza") if they had been discovered. As it was: we were the only ones.

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Later: 9am, in Airport 2 of 5. Bogotá.

I had my loins tightly girded for a tumultuous morning through the Bogotá airport, having the many puzzle pieces of: arriving from domestic flight, transitioning to international, getting my bicycle in its enormous bolsa through security, heck: getting it into an airplane at all (remember the hell I went through to get it here). My experiences in Puerto Rico and Costa Rica airports had been nothing less than severe sandle-sweating experiences, and I expected a mess in Bogotá airport.

But the entire experience in this airport has been as pleasing and happy as the rest of my experiences with the people of Colombia.

Also the JetBlue people in Colombia charged me nothing for the enormous bicycle bag. God bless them. I grinned all the way to security.

But I should add that Colombians are decidedly THE MOST leisurely walkers-through-airports I have ever experienced. None of this hurried passing and pushing I'm used to. Amicably sauntering along. Like watching a popular film, just in slow motion.

There are insufficient adjectives to say how amazing and mind-stretching this month was. I am so happy and grateful I used my February in this manner. Also I cannot express enough how much I enjoyed the people of Colombia. They somehow manage the amazing combination of polite without being reserved, playful without being disrespectful, happy, loving, beautiful people.

They know how to live.

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Let the bicycles have a turn

This morning was bicycle magic. Every Sunday in the city of Medellin (likewise Bogotá), a subset of highways are closed to car traffic on Sundays. Open instead for cyclists, runners, walkers, boys popping wheelies. Ciclovia it is called.

It's like having a Streets Alive in Ithaca every Sunday, and 20 times bigger. Or maybe like the AIDS ride around Cayuga or the STP in Seattle. Over a hundred kilometers of road are closed for this.

The support infrastructure was astounding. There were good-humored crossing guards at every intersection wearing green uniforms, orange cones and barricades set up along the whole route, police officers overlooking all of it. Vendors sold orange juice and sugar cane water along route, and there were piles of bike parts for sale. 

I rode for 40 kilometers, grinning nearly the whole time, loving being able to cruise in what would be a 2-lane highway, admiring all the people out for exersize, loving that a city would put so much care into a weekly bike event for its people. There is so much joy to be had in a community of humanity all enjoying movement together.

Men in lycra racing uniforms folded over their handlebars, teen boys riding trick bicycles their knees in their armpits, a young girl rattling along on training wheels, women in bright workout gear roller-blading, an old man and his wife elegantly rolling by on very upright frames. Such a diverse mix, again the theme of Diversity comes out here.

For the first time in this country I rode my bicycle without being whistled at. (Well, except for one of the be-lycra'd gentlemen who did so quietly as he passed me) Granted, I did some passing of the Lycra Gentlemen myself, especially up the little city hills. (Thank you, Andes Mountains, for the excellent training)

Engine-free zone; this highway is for people power!

I pedalled gleefully all over the city, from the tree-lined shaded neighborhoods to the downtown area like this, tall buildings looming.

Views of the city available from the middle of the highway, without worry of being hammered by a truck.

One of the routes led me to the neighborhood of Envigado, where I found an energetic group of women and men dancing to music in a park. Speakers blasted salsa, reggaeton, jovial workout music. A guy with a microphone standing on a platform was calling out moves. I left my bicycle to rest and jumped in with them.

What could be more joyful than dancing along with all these colorfully dressed people! In sandals and sweaty bike shorts, but somehow I still managed to feel sassy and coordinated and dorky-without-caring. A bouncy fit man with a microphone called out moves in Spanish and I could get the gist: one, two, three, four! Four more! To the left! Hands up! Looking great!

Dancing translates into all languages

After the bicycling, I refueled with a very gourmet chocolate-cappucino in the elegant district of El Poblado (relishing the elegance while I can, for cheap, and I have been through enough dusty Hay Nada Pueblos that gourmet is completely exciting for me), and then set off by foot up the edge of the valley.

I walked curvy roads through what would be Rochester's East Ave or Ithaca's Cayuga Heights. A very different picture of Colombia. At one point I dead-ended at a fancy impassable gated community, disappointed that I would have to backtrack down the slope again. However, the security guards must have realized from my idiot Spanish that I was likely no more threatening than an infant and buzzed open the white gate to let me pass through.

Stacking my pleasures: coffee and writing.

Passing through the impassable rich gated world

Near the top of the valley, with an exquisite view of the city, I found the truly enormous El Tesoro Shopping Park. I wandered around, blinking from all the input, country mouse in the gleaming commercialized buzz. Everything from American Eagle (what is that doing here?!) to fried-chicken-with-honey places. Families strolled arm in arm among the bright shops, lovers sat on the provided leather couches in a world of their own, children screeched on rides in the attached amusement park.

El Tesoro Shopping Park, with--get this--a "Snow Magic World" exhibit, complete with a ticket counter.

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An enormous rock

Today I did not ride my bicycle.

Instead I walked, then rode the metro, and then took a bus to the town of Guatape, to climb 649 stairs up a giant rock.

Our bus slowed down slightly for a toll booth, and a Mr Roadside Snacks broke into a run, grabbed the handle of the door, and hoisted himself aboard. "Papas! Papas!" he called up the bus aisle. He had only a little time. Just a bit past the toll-booth, and Mr Driver slows down just enough for Mr Snacks to jump out and hit the pavement running. Talk about a day-job for quick reflexes.

Medellin is a city the size of Chicago, this enormous pile of humanity poured into a valley along the Andes. It is the second largest city in Colombia, and an incredible success story of crime reduction. It is the only city with a metro system, which is pristine: no graffiti, security guards on every platform. I could relax out a metro window and marvel at this huge city.

It was a really good Saturday. Good in the ways of simple pleasures, enjoying life without too much work. I ate a guava-cheese pastry, climbed the hundreds of stairs past heaving and panting people, revelled in a gorgeous breath-taker of a view, acquired a becoming hat, and watched the world go past out a bus window like a contented dog. We wandered around the town of Guatape, the houses painted playful colors and decorated with with paintings of sheep, flowers, horses....  The place was so cute it felt like we were in a doll house; that people actually live in a place so decorated says something about this culture and this country. I love it.

The enormous rock, bizarrely yet perfectly placed among a beautiful cut and curving set of lakes

The view from the top of the rock, El Piñol. It was amazing in a way words cannot express; I spent a long time up there, in the breeze, just feasting my eyes on the expansive and intricate land and water.

When climbing the many stairs up the rock, please don't eat ice creams or mangos. I love that this sign probably exists only in this one place on the planet, such a unique problem. Tropical food slipperiness.

And many stairs there were. I love heights, but even I found it a little dizzying.

The impossibly adorable town of Guatapè, near El Piñol rock. I felt like I was a doll in a dollhouse, being in this town.

All of the houses were decorated in this manner.

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