Only the dead have seen the end of war - Plato

Memorial Day 2011 found me meeting my lady in Boston on a humid summer day. She struggled to find parking, so I went into a cafe & grill for a sandwich after a failed attempt at getting a bagel. I enjoyed a barbecue chicken sandwich which for me is the official sandwich of Summer. I love barbecue chicken year round but on that late day in May, I knew summer had arrived.

She arrived just as I finished my sandwich and we began to stroll through the Commons as many others did. Most people seemed in a daze trying to find some icy oasis from the heat. We stumbled upon a sea of American flags put up all around in memory of the fallen. I jokingly said to my girlfriend 'I would love to have the job of picking these up.' Almost as if on cue, a minute later several trumpet players who had dispersed themselves around the crowd started playing Taps. We all stood in silence, hats over hearts for those that had them. As they finished playing, the people apparently in charge of the flags asked everyone to help gather the flags in bundles of twenty. I leapt at the opportunity, but as I gathered more and more flags I had what I now call an 'existential moment of patriotism'. Each flag was in memory of soldiers who had fought and died most likely on foreign soil for this country that got on generally the same without them. And I here I was happily picking up these little pieces of fabric hanging off small wood dowels. It made me acutely of how easily we can be plucked from this 'mortal coil' and the futility of war. These memorial flags were being rounded up and placed in tupperware and at most required an extra tug to get them out of the dirt. And what is the symbolism behind the ones that would rather break and be trashed than get put in a rubber band with nineteen other 'soldiers'? I was glad to be honoring those who died defending this country that I so love, but at the same time it made me almost depressed.

War is often associated with valor and honor, but if so many soldiers only get twelve inch flags in park for one day a year, where is the honor in that? And I'm not saying the flags should remain year round, they would get ruined and we'd all need bigger parks. There are memorials, plaques, and of course the beautiful Arlington National Cemetery, but I feel the masses need something more than those damn yellow ribbons on the back of so many cars. After rounding up over five hundred flags personally, we were all thanked and went on our way. That was it. I felt proud of the sheen of sweat I had gathered from my honoring our patriots, but they put so much more in than that for something far bigger than them. I don't know the message I'm trying to get across here, war is bad, mortality is scary, take your pick, but just remember how many people sacrifice everything for our freedoms. And think of them more than just one day a year. Pray for them to God, Allah, Flying Spaghetti Monster, or to nothing just send out positive vibes or whatever. Being human is more important than religion and politics. Thats one thing I'm thankful for. Happy Thanksgiving!

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Special Guest Writer!

This post is courtesy of Zac over at tunetheproletariat.com I highly recommend their blog for good music/stories and photos! This story actually helped motivate me to get off my bum and start this blog and the Listener song attached is a great one too. Enjoy!

A little over a year ago I drove up I-5 from Los Angeles to Seattle with the cruise control set at 75. I cranked the music up over the road noise. The incessant vibration and blaring radio jarred me into near senselessness.

I stumbled out of my Civic at a rest stop somewhere in the middle of Oregon and blinked a few times. A happy homeless man bounded up to me.

“Hi, I’m Keith. Can you spare any change? I’ve got to buy a sack of hot dogs for my wife and dogs.” He gestured to a lady chatting to the owners of a van a few spots down the parking lot and at two large dogs tied to the wall near the bathroom.

“Today’s your lucky day,” I said, and dumped well over $5 worth of quarters (a roommate’s idea of a joke in payment for a minor debt) into his outstretched hands. Our fingers brushed; his skin was rough and scarred.

But his face was bright, soft, grinning dumbly like one of his mutts.

“Where ya headed?” he asked.
“Up to Seattle. I’m moving from Cali.”
“You should keep on driving right on up to Everett, get a job with Boeing. That’s what I did after the war. Pays real great and with the benefits.”
“You were in the war?” I asked.
“Yeah, Nam. Me and my buddy Robbie were there before we came here. We camped just across the freeway down there.” He pointed over the highway to a dirt road that led around a hill. “He’s not around anymore.”
“Hey, listen, we can keep talking, but I’ve got to piss something serious.” I usually don’t pull over unless I have to get gas or am about to piss my pants.
“Oh, of course, by all means. You can enjoy my music too. Go right ahead.”

Keith had the male restroom door propped open with a jukebox which blared AC/DC. I kicked it aside to let the door close, filling the bathroom with tinny guitars and thin vocals as I held my dick in my hand and peed into a toilet millions of men had peed into before.

I propped the door back open and went to see the two dogs. They sniffed and licked my hand; their fur was gorgeous and lush, not the fur of a homeless man’s dog. I think they were half Boxer.

“What are their names?” I asked when Keith came over.
“The mom, this one, she’s Nance. This one’s named Robbie. I was going to give my friend Robbie one, but I can’t, so I named it after him instead. He died on that highway right out there. Little Robbie’s the only one of the litter left.”
“Oh yeah? How many did you have?”

Keith told me a convoluted story about how the policeman who came around the rest stop had threatened to take his dogs away, but eventually Keith had talked the officer into buying one for his niece. Keith seemed especially proud of that one.

We slowly meandered back to my car, chatting. He sometimes spit chunks out when he talked, and I could see the back of his mouth. It dawned on me that Keith wasn’t completely there, but he seemed good natured enough. I asked him where he was headed that night.

“Oh me and the wife are camped out across the highway, same place me and Robbie found a while back. Robbie, he was my best friend. He saved my life, you know. We were in Nam, and I got shot in the ass. They got me right here,” he turned around and pointed to his butt cheek. “But Robbie, he carried me out of there. Slung me right on over his shoulder and carried my ass to safety. I wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for him.

“He died right over there. We were headed back to camp after dark, and I made it across alright, but Robbie didn’t make it. A car hit him wham! and then drove off. And he was dead. Robbie, he saved my life, but I couldn’t save his.” Keith was openly weeping now, all tears and spit and distorted face. “I cut back across the highway and I dragged him to the shoulder, but he was already dead, man. Nam couldn’t get him, but a minivan did.”

I wiped some snot off my upper lip. I could see it: the pitch black, Keith – driven half insane by war and menial jobs and America – holding his only friend in his arms, as Robbie’s body cooled and stiffened with death.

Keith quickly moved on, telling me the story about the cop and the puppy again. I smiled, and put my hand on his shoulder and said it was nice to meet him, but I had to get going, a life was calling up north. And I drove on off up the freeway where Robbie died.

-Zac

A French Connection.

Sitting through four stops on the number two line was a final short stretch in my hour long commute. I used it to sit and appreciate how soon I could sit down in my room for an hour before dinner. I used it to watch hundreds of people everyday whom I didn’t know and who didn’t know me. Then there were the days when I didn’t watch the other people, just let my mind wander. That’s what I must have been doing on this particular day when someone actually spoke to me. I was sitting in my preferred seat, one of the ones which folds out next to the door but you have to stand up if it gets too crowded, she clambered through the door at the Alexandre Dumas stop and sat down next to me. She was not unlike many people I saw on the number 2 line which goes through the north east corner of Paris. She had gray, flyaway hair, few teeth and lots of layers, the sort of woman who probably isn’t nearly as large as she seems simply because of her mannerisms. I paid very little attention but at some point I must have laughed at something I was thinking about. I don’t mean a riotous laugh, just a little smile and inward chuckle, but she jumped on it. She cackled outright and exclaimed, “You saw it too didn’t you?” I looked at her startled but she went on cackling. “Can you believe it?! Some people! No one else saw it. Just us two!” I had absolutely no idea what she was talking about but nodded and forced a bit of a smile. “We’re alike, you and I.” I could not really see what it was that made us alike, even if I had seen whatever it was that she was on about but I continued nodding and then turned to gaze out the window. She continued talking to me, and as I was still new and she spoke quickly I only understood about half of what she was saying. She asked where I was getting off. “Ménilmontant.” She looked surprised and asked why and what I was doing there. I told her I lived there. She told me she was getting off at Belleville. She kept laughing at whatever it was she had seen and telling me that we were alike, that we were both wise and observant. I began to feel that perhaps she was a kindred spirit and enjoyed watching and laughing subtly at the little things people do when they have a moment to themselves on the subway. This made me start to feel guilty that I hadn’t been living up to my claim that I did in fact enjoy people watching on the subway, as I had missed such an apparently fabulous event. And then we arrived at my stop and I got off, leaving her laughing to herself.

-N. Maldari

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Good Ole Fashion Soul Cleansin'

Sweat lodges have an interesting history evolving from ceremonial cleansing experiences into rooms built off of pools in spas and mansions. The Inipi is a ceremony established by the Lakota tribe using a dome frame made of saplings and covered with hides or blankets. Rocks are heated over a fire and then brought inside the shelter where they have water poured over them creating tons of steam. Off of Halfmoon Pond in New Hampshire, there is a place called the Peninsula, one of the only places where I can always find myself at peace. It was here that I had the pleasure of having an inipi with several of my friends on a cool summer night.

We sat around the crackling fire, they sipped beer out of their nalgenes and being only nineteen or twenty at the time they were hesitant to let me have any since we could get fired. Most of the time I wouldn't care about alcohol when I was underaged, but this night had awoken that adolescent rebelliousness of doing something just because I shouldn't. I wanted to have a sip and fit in, so that it could be that time I drank with twenty-somethings around a fire in the woods. I've always liked the culture of drinking and what it does to social interactions. It can be a peacemaker between guys after a fight, or a way of showing romantic or rather sexual interest in a stranger at a bar. Once we got the rocks heated we took to our duties to get the inipi running. Due to lack of animal pelts available we had to use a tarp which worked just fine for us. I was in charge of carrying the heavy hot rocks on a shovel into the inipi which I enjoyed because I felt it proved my worth, not just some scrawny kid but a worker.

The steam was so thick we could hardly see our neighbors under the polyethlene tarp, sitting in just our undies sweating out of every pore. Bringing the burning rocks in grew harder as we had to avoid the half-naked people while crouching through a small door frame into the fog. After around forty five minutes the last two of our group showed up having missed the turn in the woods travelling by the light of one headlamp. I felt like an amphibian from the even glaze of sweat covering me, but once they had enjoyed it enough, we went out into the fresh air and waded into the pond. Usually I am hesitant about such things because the pool is always freezing after the hot tub, but this was cleansing beyond belief. Mother Nature had given me a second baptism and I was born again. I felt so purely cleansed and new. Then as the ultimate cherry on top, my friend started singing Down in the river to pray from the O Brother Where Art Thou? Soundtrack, which happens to be one of my favorite songs of all times. I joined in with a low mumble just getting lost in the moment. This was a moment that summers are made of. The kind of memory I cherish and will fondly think back on when I get older and summer loses the magic of being youthful.

If you don't know the song I'm talking about take a listen here:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pgVL-rBq9Fw

And if you have a better story, you can one up me by emailing it to thegettingthere@gmail.com

A Princess Diary

“Are you a princess?” The speaker was a boy who couldn’t have been more than four, whose family was cashing out at my register. Children say many things to me at the register, things such as, “No,” when I ask if I can see their toy for a second to get the price, and “um, hold on a sec,” when I tell them I need another dollar. It’s sad to admit, but I can honestly say this is something I’ve always wanted to hear but never thought I would, like, “You’ve just won a million dollars!” or “You got a gnome AND a pith-helmet for your 21^st birthday?” (Guess which one of these really happened.)

I do have somewhat of a background with insecurities around children, which probably feeds into it. In high school, I was one of four assistant directors for a local children’s production of Cinderella. In between the two performances, a five-year-old girl (who happened to be one of my favorite Pumpkins – all the little kids in this production were pumpkins) came up to me, and offered me a sticker, out of the blue (or out of the orange, as it were), proclaiming, “Here’s a sticker! Because you’re great!” I thanked her sincerely, then looked at the sticker and saw that it read “Natalie” while the giver’s name was Maya. But I didn’t care, because she’d told me, unprovoked, that I was great. And she was five, so she couldn’t lie. Touched, I watched her waddle away in her cumbersome fluffy pumpkin costume, right up to a second assistant director, saying, “Here’s a sticker! Because you’re beautiful!”

(When I later told my first boyfriend this story, he told me it was his favorite of all my stories because it summed me up perfectly.)

So when this little boy smiled at me charmingly, looked me right in the eye, and inquired whether I were royalty, part of me thought, “ha HA! Take that, Maya/Natalie! He not only thinks I’m beautiful, but enough to be a PRINCESS!” This is incredibly creepy now that I’ve written it out, even moreso because Maya-Natalie is probably a tween today, OMGing her way through the trials and tribulations of middle school. I smiled back at him and laughed in my best lilting, princessly way (well, more like a lady who pretends to be a princess at kids’ parties, anyway.) This probably scared the crap out of his mother and grandmother, who I tossed a glance at as I answered no, a glance that said, “where on earth would he get such a charming idea?” I think I expected them to say, “why, because you’re so beautiful and sweet!” or “Your voice and laughter are so melodic and winning, and isn’t that a cartoon bluebird I see perched upon your shoulder?” but they said nothing, and I realized that the boy was now pointing at the pins I have on my work apron. One is a giant, rhinestone pin of the word “Sparkle” (which, indeed, sparkles) that came free with a shipment we got in, which I now wear kind of as a joke. That was why he thought I was a princess; he probably thought that was my name. I thought he was asking me what it said, but then he pointed at the female clown face I have pinned near it (another pin I got for free and wear as a joke), asking me who that was. My name in sparkles AND a likeness of a jester –I must have looked like the real deal to him.

The little boy, in fitting with the fairytale theme, was buying a toy frog. Our friendship had been established, so I asked my new buddy if he liked frogs. He answered affirmatively, and I told him that I LOVE frogs and collect them (which is true. I do. But that’s something I only tell real friends… like the whole internet.) I handed him back the frog (he didn’t even get upset when I had to take it away for a second to look at the price – fine upstanding specimen of a kid, indeed!), and he grinned and shouted, “Ribbit! Ribbit, ribbit!” It would have been cute and charming had he not made it jump right onto my hip. His hand was under the apron by now, and that is a boundary. I can’t explain the sacredness of the apron within the confines of the store for me, but for whatever reason, I tend to view it as a customer forcefield. Let’s just say that anything under it is, for lack of better term, a VIP zone. As if that wasn’t enough, he was making it go north. The objective was probably my pins, but you honestly never know with little boys. And he thought I was a princess! “Do you think Kate Middleton would put up with this malarkey?” I wanted to ask him, but I couldn’t, not only because he was five, but because I’d established a nice friendly repartee with him, and I couldn’t suddenly become the Miss Trunchbull of sexual harassment. I also couldn’t say what I was really thinking to his relatives, which was, “hey ladies, stop chatting and make your creepy little pervling take his Liliputian grubby paws off me!” So I did what I always do at work: I laughed, not melodically, but in that “I am attempting to veil my horror” way as I looked to his relatives for help. The grandmother realized just in time and reacted in a way that called to mind Broomhilda walking in on Robin Hood trying to undo Maid Marion’s chastity belt before they’re married (it’s from the Mel Brooks masterpiece (it is. Dave Chapelle is in it) Men In Tights, for those of you who aren’t complete nerds. I know that’s not how the real story happens. Or maybe it is. I haven’t read it, but I’m pretty sure there’s no Broomhilda. Eyes widening, almost slow motion darting across the other child in the stroller and her daughter, yelling “NOOO!” (not in slow motion, but still with an admirable fervor.) She grabbed his hand away, saying, “that’s not something we do. That’s not something we do to people we don’t know.” Good Grandma. Then, “You can do that to grandma, but not to strangers.” To wax present-day-Mayaly, WTF? “That’s not appropriate to do to young ladies, but feel free to grope grandma with your toy frog, young Norman. Now be a good boy and remember to make me a nice lamp pull out of your first victim’s lips someday.”

Do I really think this little boy will be the next Ed Gein? No. That was a joke. I think he’s more likely to become a very creative pick-up artist, spotting women in bars and asking them if they’re princesses, then pulling out a battered old squeaky frog toy. “’cause my friend here thinks so.” Then a sudden hop, bypassing the hip route entirely, to the opportune area, “So how about kissing him and turning him into a prince?”

- M. Vidler

Life, death and renaissance festivals.

I've worked summer camps for many summers now. Getting only two hours off a day over 2 week cycles can be very tiring. But between sessions we had thirty-six hours to relax and get ourselves ready for the next wave of campers to arrive. My first summer working at sleep away camp, I was only seventeen years old and as a minor was not allowed to be on camp during those thirty-six with no guardian. And my parents had their own travels to tend to and did not wish to spend four out of thirty-six hours driving me to and from New Hampshire. Because of this, I was forced to find places to stay nearby. One such weekend I stayed with a friend in town (Peterborough, NH the on which Thornton Wilder's Our Town is based) who I had befriended three summers previous when I was still a camper. Friday night was a calm casual night of rental movies and video games which made the next day all the more surreal. I awoke to the arrival of her grandmother who had come to plant blueberry bushes in their garden. I was a little less than stoked at this wake up preferring to sleep more or do anything more suited to my interests. I was an annoying seventeen year old exhausted after a long week but it was an interesting start to the day. We made plans to go to the Vermont Renaissance Festival later but had to wait for her boyfriend to show up and he was busy with other engagements. We passed the time playing with their dogs and watching more television. Shortly after he arrived we found out the tragic news that his father had run over one of the small dogs as he backed out of the winding uphill driveway. The two dogs had the crazy habit of running along side any of the cars coming and going, usually keeping a mere foot away. This time proved to be fatal. The three of us were tasked with taking the corpse in a plastic bag off into the woods and burying. We walked about fifteen minutes jokingly worried that some horror movie was about to start. Three teens wandering into the woods with a corpse and a shovel, one of us in tie dye, camo pants, and big combat boots. Surreal for reality but basically a cliché opener to some slasher flick. We said a few words after the burial and headed back to the house to depart for Vermont. After an hour or two drive, during which I was admittedly cranky from hunger and fatigue we made it to the town the fair was supposedly in. Navigating through side streets we pull up to the address. It was a small house in a knight-free neighborhood. You can imagine our confusion, but upon a closer examination of the flyer we found that this house was just the office and the fair was being held in Massachusetts. We were all less than pleased as we moved with haste to Northfield hoping to make the last few hours of the festival. Just shy of four we pulled the big van into the parking lot excited to finally be there and relieved to be off the road in time to enjoy ourselves. Most things had started winding down to be done by 5, but my friends were nice enough to buy me a dagger to match the one that he had bought making us dagger brothers. It made me feel much better and ashamed about how I had treated them the whole day. This concluded my crazy weekend as we headed back to New Hampshire tired and content. Never have I had a more bizarre weekend bringing things to life, and burying the dead then traveling all over New England. Now 5 years later, after enduring a strange weekend with me they are getting married and I wish the best for both of them. DuCiel and Ben, this post is for you.

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Russian for a haircut

I've started listening to my "Learn Russian" tapes in the car on my way to work. They were originally bought two years ago when my family took a trip to the Motherland, and everyone but my mother and me refused to attempt any of the native tongue. My grandmother, of course, was moderately fluent, owing to the Soviet occupation of her Estonian homeland (or "Russian times," as she calls it), and so she didn't need a posh-sounding British narrator to tell her how to identify the KGB. These days I am lucky if I can avoid confusing "pleased to meet you" with "how much do you cost?" But there are only so many songs on my iPod, and so many CDs in my car, and the British narrator on the tapes is, undeniably, very posh-sounding.

In an attempt to justify and validate this recent habit, I envisioned scenarios in which my knowing Russian would come in handy. Perhaps a young Russian couple on their first trip to America would stumble timidly into Sins of the Skin, the tattoo parlor where I work, and ask for directions. Recognizing their accent, I would greet them in Russian and employ some of the longer, fancier phrases I had learned from my tapes: "Ah, yes, my grandfather is Russian. What are your names? I would like two kilos of apples." The young couple would, of course, only use words and phrases that were familiar to me, and I would impress them with my practiced accent, and my coworkers with my knowledge of a foreign language. After a lively conversation, they would leave the shop with a spring in their step and an improved impression of Americans.

These are, of course, very silly fantasies, as I work at a tattoo parlor in Essex, and there is nothing in Essex that would be of any interest to anyone from a foreign country, and no reason that any person looking for directions would pick a tattoo parlor to ask for them.

Which is why I was surprised when, this afternoon, a young man timidly poked his head in the door and said in a thick Russian accent, "Hello--you open? You know of a place where I can get my hairs cut?" My boss, standing closer to the door, informed him that there was a barber shop nearby that you couldn't miss if you continued down the street. He nodded and turned to leave, and I--not wanting to miss an opportunity--chirped, "Do svidanija."

Already mostly out the door, he had to swing around to come back in, which he did immediately. "You speak Russian?" he asked in a pleasantly incredulous tone. "A little," I said. "You know, useful phrases." I shrugged in what I hoped was a humble way. "Good morning, good night, have you any Pepsi-cola? I would like to exchange my American dollars for rubles." He laughed in an open, rewarding way, sharing my humor and confirming my accent was at least somewhat intelligible. Perhaps I don't have a firm command of the Russian language. But I am pleased to say he left with a spring in his step.

-M. Tillery
If you would like to contribute simply email thegettingthere@gmail.com After all a story of a thousand miles begins with a single word.

Graceland

“California?” I asked

“No, too far.” She told me

“Yeah... How about, Colorado?”

“I think that's too far too babe.”

“Well then I don't know. Where do you want to go?”

“Don't know. Someplace fun.”

“Graceland?”

“We can't go there?”

“Why not?”

“Well, I don't know. We've only got a week. Can we get there and back? What would we do there for a whole week?”

“Let's look at the map.”

We sat there in the dim light of my girlfriends apartment in Saint Johnsbury. The blue glow of the Tv illuminated the map that was laid out on the floor. In silence we looked at the map as if it would tell us what to do. We sat hoping that a plan for our spring break would suddenly jump off the page and take us by the hand as and lead us away.

“The smokies! We could drive down and camp in the smokies for a couple nights, then drive west across Tennessee to Memphis. We can find some cheap hotel for a couple nights and then hit up Graceland!”

“You seriously want to do this?”

“Babe, Consider it my gift to you. I'll bring you down to visit the home of the King.”

The next week flew by and before we were prepared for the trip we were on the road. Two twenty-somethings, their tax returns, and fifteen-hundred miles of US interstate. We drove non stop for twenty six hours before we finally arrived at the Great Smokey National Park. We promptly bought a cheap $20 tent and took a nap.

It was beautiful. Sprawling valleys, Old mountains, and wildlife everywhere. We hiked to a waterfall. We rode horses. My horses name was Ted, a Percheron, he was larger and heavier than my car. He honestly scared the shit out of me. I had never in my life seen a horse as large as Ted. He loved it when I scratched his ears. I loved Ted.

It was eighty degrees that day I rode Ted through the woods of Tennessee. We went to bed that night shivering. By morning there was three inches of snow coating the ground. We both laughed as we crawled out of our tiny, cheap, soaking wet tent. We quickly packed the car and left one of the most beautiful parts of the country I had ever seen. Driving down the mountains we came across a park ranger. He was parked in the road blocking traffic.

“Roads closed due to heavy snow!” He told us.

“Look at my license plate. There's more than four feet of snow in my front yard back in Vermont. This small dusting isn't going to stop me.”

With a bit of hesitation he let us through.

Two hours later we were cruising down I-40. We pulled over at a rest stop to stretch our legs and find a Hotel saver booklet. It was here we ran into a woman. I never got her name. She noticed we were from Vermont.

“What are you two doing way down here? Ya lost?” She asked kindly.

“Nah, where on our way to Graceland.” We told her.

“Well I'll be! I live right down the road from there. Follow me, I'll get ya as far as the road Graceland is on, then it's up to you from there.”

“Thanks!”

We followed her and her son in their black Mercedes. At times keeping up with her was tough as southerners tend to travel very fast. Nonetheless about four hours later she waved goodbye to us at a stop light in the outskirts of Memphis. We had finally made it to Graceland. We'll, we did the next day. First we found a hotel across the Mississippi in West Memphis and got a good, warm, nights sleep. Then, we went to Graceland.

• K. DuBreuil

The Big Easy

      I have been privileged with the ability to travel often. And while not always far or to many different places, I try to be out on the road as much as I can. None of these travels however have lead me to a place as truly amazing as New Orleans. As a Masshole and a faux Bostonian, I have a lot of pride and affection for Boston. But I humbly admit a lot of Boston Pride is Masshole arrogance. New Orleans had such spirit and culture. I was only there for about a week but in that little time it just became clear to me how strong they were. Not even in the 'We're not victims, we're survivors' mindset. They'd been hurt but nowhere near broken. The one thing I did notice was how few grocery stores there were since apparently no big chains decided to move back after Katrina. But for the party hard tourists Bourbon Street is a solid mecca of hedonism. It is a street ripe with strip clubs and bars with tacky drinks to attract tourists. For the more cultural tourist, the French Quarter has 'the real' New Orleans with music clubs, world famous Cafe Du Monde, and the French Market. But the city has so much beyond all of these places. It was at the Maple Leaf Bar, a short hike from the downtown area, that I had one of the greatest nights of my life.

     Being the music snob with ADHD that I am, I'm always looking for a new sound to get into and enjoy. It's not always new timewise but new to me. Around three years ago now I got into brass bands and swing. Rebirth Brass Band is one of the greatest I've found. They've been around since the eighties but are still kickin' it, hard. The event board at the hostel I was staying at (India House, I recommend to any NOLA bound) informed me they were playing and I gathered up my travel buddies and some of our newfound friends to see them. They delivered a great first set only slightly helped by some delicious local brews when they went on a break for twenty minutes. We stepped outside for some fresh air and a street vendor was selling steak and beef which was mediocre but well enjoyed because everything just had such a great vibe to it that night. And for dessert, we had a chocolate and cake batter snoball from a snoball truck. The young man working the truck joined us as we sat on the curb enjoying our food. Introducing himself as Gary, we started having really pleasant conversations with him and he was truly kind and interested in our stories. We would later joke that Gary was Jesus back on earth because he seemed like the most genuine guy we ever met. We had such a great time out there some of us wound up late returning back to the still awesome performance that Rebirth was delivering. After the show finished up, we returned to the street to talk with Gary some more and two older guys who ran the art gallery across the street joined us. They introduced me to 101 Runners, the Mardi Gras Indian band that is big in New Orleans and told me about the real culture of that whole scene. We spent upwards twenty minutes just hanging out as they played with their dog using toy alligators that were on some funky pizza delivery car. Then we had to use the bathroom and they let us into the gallery. This was my most pinnacle moment of the night and maybe even my life. And that is not an exaggeration. If you've seen Ferris Bueller's Day Off (as all of you should), there is a scene in a museum in Chicago where Cameron is just staring intensely at a Seurat's 'Sunday Afternoon on the Island of La Grande Jatte' (seen here: http://www.ibiblio.org/wm/paint/auth/seurat/grande-jatte/seurat.grande-jatte.jpg ) as if it is speaking to his soul. That happened to me. Just outside the bathroom was this painting of vibrant colors that to me seemed like a misshapen bright orange starfish in an ocean of funky blues. I just had to stand there hardly able to comprehend how much I identified with this painting. I had my camera and was tempted to take a picture but I felt it would do an injustice to the painting and the artist. I just hope the next time I make it down to New Orleans with $2300 to spare it is still waiting for me. Or at least the buyer appreciates it half as much as I did. It was getting quite late, and we had to make our unfortunate goodbyes to some wonderful people finishing up our conversations and heading back to the hostel after such a perfected night.

Welcome (Home)!

Welcome to The Getting There. This will be a blog of travel stories from daytrips downtown to excursions across the globe. If you have a story you would like to contribute email me currently at Jfarrellmoran@gmail.com but that is subject to change depending how big this gets. This is not about places. Its about people and little epiphanies, anecdotes, adventures on the road. I hope you enjoy. This first post however, to be entirely contradicting to everything I just said, is about coming home.


I don't know how or why it even started. It began as just my imagination running wild with some small observation. But then through whatever small neuroses I have, it became constant. A mere chain link fence with a tarp over it became for me a cause of fear and mild anxiety. Every time I would pass this fence on my way home from the T (Boston's Subway system) the tarp would move with me. I joked to myself that some poor monstrous Cujo of a dog was behind there unfit to be seen by the world. But as this little movement became a constant, I got worried some dog truly was there despite the lack of noise and my peeks around the edges being fruitless. It was because of this I would pass this tiny little area with slightly more spring in my step. Then in my nineteenth year of life, I was given tickets to London as a Birthday present. I visited friends there for a week. It was not as satisfying a trip as I hoped being my first time out of the country on my own. I had a good time but having been especially groomed by my obsession with movies to believe I'd have some coming of age experience. When I returned Stateside one wintry January evening, I had to take the T home having no way to reach my parents. I got off the T and found the ground to be lightly blanketed in a freshly fallen snow. And as I passed this tarp, it stayed still. And ever since then I haven't noticed it move any. In recent years even, it has become translucent to reveal a small but well maintained garden with old stone angel bird feeder. It reminds me of a more realistic version of how Gordie felt at the end of Stand By Me. While I'd not ventured with friends to find myself and a dead body, I'd seen the world as it really is. And while this story comes across as dumb I'm sure to most who will read it (if anyone), I feel like it was some minor milestone of growing up for me and being done with all those childish fears that stick with us longer than we might like to admit.
-J. Moran