A Letter To My Younger Self

I was reminded of you recently, you were an asshole, hell I still am in some ways. But recently, I listened to music I hadn't heard since you were around. It was the soundtrack to Into The Wild. All Eddie Vedder. Remember how our Roommate would play it almost to the point of exhaustion? Like that one Lord of the Rings scene we caught him watching over and over? But hearing that music. I was back in the freshman dorm room. Heartbroken, embracing my pseudo-independence from my parents who were paying for that expensive tuition. Going crazy with a new social life at our first co-ed school in about 6 years. Having classmates we actually enjoyed being around after the social oblivion that was high school. We tried dating, we fucked it up, casual hook ups, drinking, diner runs and walks through woods. This was the best entire year of my life, and while the me you were then might not have deserved it as much as I might now, you needed it more. Your fuck ups and friendships and amazing memories have made me into who I am. And hearing Hard Sun and Rise Up made me miss all that in a way I've never felt nostalgia before. I wanted that heart-ache from being just out of our best relationship to date, to have so much still ahead of me, leaving hte country alone for the first time, being an almost real adult. Which is not to say I'm at the end of my line, no, we still have so much ahead of us at the ripe age of twenty-five don't worry. But I miss having that restless, unrealized, unbridled potential that came with adolescence. Pretty soon you'll go to England for the first time, it'll be your first time off the continent and you'll have a great time. Romance will come and go, and you will drop out of school for a while, travel more, and have a really hard time for a while. And I appreciate you doing all that, because it has made my life into the wonderful thing it is today even with all the little struggles I am still dealing with. I can handle them with ease thanks to you. And I hope to see you again soon.
-J. Moran
Have any travel stories about amazing people you've met or places you've been to even if it is as close as your own city feel free to email them to thegettingthere@gmail.com I am accepting all submissions.

Lockdown

      The whole world knows the events that began April 15^th 2013, from California to Syria, Boston has received the hope and support of millions for peace and justice. And with such global interest in this little town, the internet is ripe with accounts of people's experiences from the bombings to the Friday Lockdown. This story is no different other than the fact that is mine. The bombings happened, and everyone took to the internet, clicking refresh rapidly. What usually detaches us from the emotion of people's expression, was full of prayers, pictures, and as is the tragic norm angry cries many of which were racist. These behaviors, for better or worse continued all week. I haven't always been the most emotionally expressive, but this shook me. Sure, I am from a suburb but Boston is my home. I am a Patriot and home is one of my biggest ideals and things I believe in. I wanted justice, swift and blind. No wars, no bombings, no death, no glory. Reality brings complexity that will slow down this process, but now that the media has done it's job and then some with wild accusations harming innocent people's reputation (Shame on you, New York Post), I don't want Tsarnaev's trial to be widely broadcast until a verdict is given.

      I was hoping things would die down as the legal and police forces handled the investigation. Then Thursday night came, I had heard there was a shooting nearby at MIT, but was hungry and wanted to be out enjoying the nice weather so I went with a friend to get some late night cookies at Insomnia Bakery. This is when I was hit the hardest, we heard snippets of conversations from the people we passed with the latest details but the night sky was burning with sirens, surrounding us. And when you are trained your whole life to believe that these noises mean dangr and get out of the way, when they circle around you like buzzards, it gets to you. My cookie was still good but we got back to our dorms with shaky legs and watering eyes. My bedtime story that night was updates from the streaming police scanner I found online. A week went by and I still had to fall asleep in a city of fear.

     Friday was the lockdown. Our school was closed, no one could leave and food was brought to one of the dorms to feed everyone so we didn't have to head to the dining hall. Buzzfeed and photo sites were loaded with pictures of empty Boston streets. They displayed a serenity I did not want to know. TVs stayed on, and students gathered around. It was stifling and uncomfortable, the air felt more recycled than the 'updates' the networks were providing us. Our spirits were strained with nothing to do. More shots were fired, and I was just waiting for more bad news. But then, he was caught. Justice had finally been done, and he was rushed to the hospital. And this was only the beginning of my happiness.

     The work of all the people, and not just the exemplary Boston Police Department, that kept my people safe was astonishing. After the Thursday night firefight, the BPD did not fire a single shot, and the final shots were from a scared 19 year, bleeding out under a tarp. I feel for this kid, I do. But I still want him to sit forgotten in a jail. But even more impressive, was in a historical fashion, an entire damn city shut down. To reiterate our latest motto 'You messed with the wrong city' because Boston has been training for emergencies like this and has been drilled twice in the last few years with 11 million dollars invested in responding to threats like this. We are one of the most prepared cities to handle this, and handle it we did. Respect to all police officers, mbta employees and even Dunkin Donuts employees who worked in our temporary ghost-town, to keep our Boston safe and running. We wish no ill will towards Chechnya or the muslims, save our few more ignorant people. But it was their equivalent hate-filled lost souls that did this to us. We are not perfect, but we are Boston Strong.

Long Overdue

“Beer-Induced Van Gogh”

It is a bit hard to recollect this story. The memories are foggy, scattered, and if asked to provide a proper timeline I would doubtlessly fail miserably. I remember a light chill in the air, fair weather, crowded streets, and creaky barroom floors. I also remember a pulled pork sandwich near the end of the night that I still wish I had ordered…

By that account itself, I would have to say that the mission was accomplished. Another Saint Patrick’s Day, and I managed to not have it suck. I think I’m starting to get good at this.

The parts I do remember were some starting drinks in what we (Joe, Myself, and my old flatmate, Gabbi) thought would be a hopping part of town. Maybe it was that most of the locals wanted a change of scenery for the year, or maybe beginning to drink at noon is a bit too early on St Patty’s. At least I think it was noon… regardless, it was dead, and we decided to move on.
We hopped and we hopped. Bar after bar, and in good Irish tradition, the night got better with every emptied pint glass. Thanks to Gabbi, we made ‘friends’ with two gentlemen at the final bar, who decided to buy us all Irish Car bombs. I remember the car bombs, and I remember not paying for a Guinness, but I know I had more. Joe destroyed a pulled pork sandwich, I was envious, and Gabbi was the target of a flirty man attempting to end his holiday the way I’m sure at least half of Boston did that night—with company between the sheets.
Eventually Joe and I decided to call it a day. Gabbi ditched her suitor, and we went our separate ways. Unfortunately we gave no mind to the time and found ourselves in the T with no more trains operating for the night. We began strategizing how to get ourselves back to Joe’s place when a scraggly young man came down the station’s stairs with a violin case. He stood off to the side for a time, standing idly and looking about as Joe and I continued to debate on waking someone to drive us home, or to get a cab. The scraggly man must have eavesdropped, because he soon came up, and asked us if all the trains were gone. He was just as disrupted by the news as we were, and soon pitched the idea of getting a cab with us. It made sense—three people would make it cheaper. We made our introductions, and tried not to give him too much shit when he told us his name was Patrick, and that he had been busking with his violin all day. You can’t really get more cliché than that.
We got up the top of the stairs of the station and ran into another lone wanderer. He asked us if we missed the last train out. We answered in diminishing voices, displaying without any shame that our extravagant nights had carried us away and caused us to lose track of time. There was probably a laugh, but all I heard was his invitation to drive us home.
Looking at the situation in retrospect, yes, we were two drunken men and a skinny Irish fiddler. We didn’t hesitate when offered a ride from a complete stranger. Maybe it was that we all subconsciously thought that the odds were in our favour if he jumped us, or tried to do something fishy. But there are still so many things that could have gone terribly wrong that night. The odd part is, though, that things didn’t go terribly wrong.
Things went terribly epic.

The three of us followed our stranger down the roads to get to his car.
“I know I parked it somewhere around here,” he said a few times as he looked down street after street.
Things were beginning to look a bit sketchy. After a few more ‘wrong streets,’ Joe and I exchanged a look, mentally agreeing that if this guy took us down some alleyway, or to a car that looked like it saw more drug deals than gas stations, we were going to bolt.
Finally, we heard, ‘ah there it is.’
With tensed muscles we turned the corner and looked upon a 1995 BMW 6 (how I remember the make of the car I have no idea. Alcohol is a strange thing). Seeing the mildly ritzy vehicle prompted a sigh of relief. After all, how bad could a guy be if he has a BMW?
The engine roared on, and as the stranger buckles his seatbelt he turns and says, ‘You guys alright listening to Willie Nelson?’

At that point, we pretty much knew that our stranger was a badass we could trust entirely. We all clicked our belts in, and then rode off into the early morning night.
A Joe, a Josh, a Patrick, a stranger with a BMW, and the sounds of Willie Nelson; we cruised down streets I can’t remember, and passed sights I could never claim seeing. The ride had more in common with a surrealist painting than a legitimate memory. The picture stays in the back of my mind, streaked with blurring yellow lights, black and blue shadows—all of them flowing together like a stream out of the frame. Somehow the most memorable part of that night was that car ride, and yet I can’t recall any more details than what I just wrote.
I don’t remember what the names of the bars were, I don’t remember the streets or locations we stumbled through, and I faintly recall falling into bed. But I do remember the people I was with, the colours of driving through Boston’s darkened streets, and I remember that the best part of my Saint Patrick’s Day was how it ended with two strangers being more generous and friendly than some I’ve referred to as ‘friends’.
There is probably some moral in that story, but I don’t know if I want to look for it. I’m not one to advocate ignorance over truth, but sometimes, a memory is just so damn good that one shouldn’t tamper with it. The lack of precise recollection just makes the whole day that much better to me. That painting is complete for me. I’m just going to let it hang on the wall, and ask no questions of technique or process.

But I think that guy’s BMW might have been soaked with pot smoke…

-J. Fensterbush

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!

If you have a good story to share, email us at thegettingthere@gmail.com

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