Travel

I am a traveler. Whether I travel for its own sake or whether I am in search of something and will stop where I find it, I do not know. I simply seem to find myself galavanting across the Northern Hemisphere from time to time. One year I traveled through six foreign nations and I've managed to live many places in the states from Juneau to Atlanta and from Chicago to LA.

The list goes on and on, and I haven't included trips to see family members in Chicago, St. Louis, Kansas, Seattle, San Francisco, and Ann Arbor.

Travel diaries

Budapest

In August 1999 I traveled around Eastern Europe with my friend Barbara. Inadvertently we arrived in Hungary for their national holiday, St. Stephen's Day. Here is a passage where I look back at our trip and remember one unforgettable moment:

8/22/99: "On St. Stephen's Day we reached the castle district somewhat late, around 10:30am. I could see something was going on at St. Matthias' so we made our way through the crowds into the dark warmth of the church. The walls of the church were richly painted in reds and golds. I know little of architecture, but I'd describe the interior as having gothic columns with romanesque arches along the balcony. The room was fairly dark, except for the number of ecclesiastical men in white near the altar, but it gave a feeling of warmth and safety. I felt I was in the womb of God, not trespassing in his house.

We entered and an excitement arose within me. Here we were, experiencing a foreign ritual: at the front the men in white robes, the incense, at the back, unseen, a choir and orchestra. The man at the altar sang in a clear voice a simple chain of notes. A hundred voices and more returned the prayer. The melody was slightly different this time, but all knew their part and there was not a hymn book to be seen.

Barbara and I sat among the believers to hear out the ceremony. And then the choir! Such tones as I have never felt! No single voice, but dozens curling in utterly beautiful harmony, rising up, swelling in my heart and in this temple until both had burst and the tears ran down from my eyes. Such exquisite beauty!

I have never felt such music. I felt it within me, filling me. I was not just a listener. I could hear the souls of the choir, the singing violin, the years of love and work that went into such mastery.

I could only gaze in awe about me. I wondered if Barbara had felt what I felt, if anyone had. And I thought to myself that I too would attend such rituals regularly, even religiously, if I could feel the same again.

Washington, DC

For the last half of 1998 I was an intern in Washington, DC. This was perhaps the worst time to do so considering the scandal raging through the country, but it did lead to some interesting times. Here is a sketch of one such day:

12/20/98: "Yesterday was a bewildering day. The president was impeached in the House, the new Speaker (or rather the Speaker-elect)resigned because of his affairs, and a war ended. Well, the "war" with Iraq only lasted a little over 70 hours, and it coincided uncomfortably with the impeachment debate. Also, the partisan nature of the voting belies an unhealthy political climate. When we declared war it was without UNSCOM's approval, and Russia withdrew its diplomatic officers from Washington. The President announced he would not resign, would work until "the last hour of the last day" of his term.

This feels amiss. We feel unstable, vulnerable. I wish I knew more of the details...."

...and on US policy:

11/5/98: "Just reading the world news. The Russians are ill-prepared for a particularly harsh winter. We send them 31 million metric tons of food. Hurricane Mitch has left a swath of destruction in its wake. The most devastating was a mudslide which roared down a volcano's slope killing thousands. Corpses, half-buried in mud, are the only food for wild dogs and pigs, and villagers must subsist on these same dogs and pigs to survive. I cannot even imagine... The U.S. is committed to sending $20 million worth of food in assistance. Tonight on television people gathered to collect clothes and food to send towards Honduras and Guatemala.

Suddenly an image came to me of famine and tithes. The U.S. draws its livelihood at the expense of other nations: sweatshops, natural resources. Then we redistribute the wealth as monetary aid and food for those in need, keeping the majority for ourselves as any monarch of old would. The French may supply the men for our wars (the UN Peacekeeping troops), but we supply the purse strings. They are knights, we divine rulers.

I truly wonder how history will look upon our time. Are we the greediest misers, worse than any King John, or are we as benevolent as we assume we are?"

San Nicholas Island

I traveled to this military installation whose precise position is not public information in order to collect pure marine air for my air pollution research project. What I didn't anticipate was the pristine nature of parts of this mostly barren island, protected as it was from hordes of tourists. My fellow researcher and I stayed in the old bomb shelter by the beach.

8/15/96: "As I was walking the beach today I looked back upon my foot prints in the sand. The broad sole, the well-formed arch, the rounded toes, each as like to one another as eggs in a basket. The prints I had made intermingled with those of gulls and pelicans, fox and cat, in a picture that could have been ten thousand years old. And in my hand, I held those shells that had turned countless heads before mine."

Navajo Reservation

I went to the Navajo Reservation as part of the Alternative Spring Break sponsored by the Caltech Y. It was an opportunity to do volunteer work. But somehow in all of it I came away feeling that I had received more than I gave.

One of the things I remember most vividly was the sweat lodge. Sweat lodges were traditionally for men only, but in recent years women have built their own. Separate but equal, I suppose you would say. The ceremony was divided into four distinct segments between which those who needed to could leave the heavy cedar laden air for a moment without interrupting the flow of things.

The third phase was devoted to giving thanks. The Navajo woman who was leading the ceremony told us a little of what the Navajo people would be saying, and suggested we thank who we felt we needed to thank in the same manner. All bowed heads and began speaking. While I spoke, I do not remember what others said. I was totally within myself. But after I had thanked Fate or Luck or whatever it is I use as a surrogate for God or the Entirety of Being I was done. Family, friends, I included too, but think about the Oscars; they thank everyone they can and still only approach thirty seconds. When I was done I stopped speaking and became aware of those around me. One by one my college friends stopped speaking and we were left listening to the alien tones of the Navajo language, filling the thick air. It seemed to go on forever. Minutes went by until I was no longer sure of how much time had passed in this artificial womb, closed off from the outside world. Then I remembered what the woman had said. They thank their family, their friends, no doubt, but they also thank the mesas, the valleys, the sage and the cedar. They thank every plant and animal that they use for so graciously giving of itself for the lives of the Navajo. They thank the moon and the sun and the heavens, the wind and the rain. And it seemed so fitting. I was proud to think that some among the human race remembered what to be thankful for. That is, not just to be thankful, but to thank these things directly. Sure, it's the thought that counts, but doesn't gratitude carry so much further when it is supported by the simple words we are capable of? One by one the women stopped, time regained its hold on the congregation, and we left the makeshift sweat lodge gratefully gulping in the cold sweet air we had left an eternity before.