08)16(05 its 138pm

Kate is boiling the coffee on the propane stove, and now pouring it into our black and white specked camp mugs, the indestructable kind that could be hanging from a hook in our ne house for years and years. Yesterday we nearly lost the mugs and everything else in the back of the truck when we drove from our campsite to Lowell, MA, about a thirty minute drive, with the tailgate open. It had fallen open somewhere right as we were exiting the campground, and almost everything fell out along the road, our oil lantern (flattened), our candle lantern (in the middle of the freeway), our cooler (disappeared), our food container with all the spices and a stock of wine (disappeared, someone’s lucky day I imagine) all flopped out the back of the truck. Of all the cars behind us, only one, person, all the way in the town of lowell, bothered to try and signal to us in some way that we were fast losing everything we owned. Thanks to that man, very much. When I pulled into the new car lot and walked around to the back of the truck, our two chairs, propane stove and sleeping bags, not to mention fishing poles, ropes, guitar and other lanterns (propane and electric) were hanging close to the edge.

We retraced our steps and managed to thankfully, so good really, recover the laundry basket that housed all of our utensils, pots, pans, plates, soap, sponges, et cetera. So not having lost that was a lifesaver, that would have been the kicker, rendered us somewhat archaic on our trip, and made it so that we would have to restock everything all over again, as we reluctantly shelled out to do at the beginning of the trip.

And so we are still outside of Lowell, camping on the banks of a quiet Massachusetts pond, with lily pads and flowers in bloom. Its our first week back from theinsanity of our lives that was Portland and New York and two weddings, back into the swing of camping out.

We’ve been camped purposefully or not on the edge of ponds the entire time we’ve been in Mass, there seems to be no end to the abundance of pond life here, something I wasn’t aware of. Ponds are ideal in many ways, warm, peaceful, fed by creeks, not full of things like alligators and generally tranquil. Which makes Massachusetts generally tranquil, and indeed, a nice state.

To track back what feels like an eternity, but in reality is only a week ago, we left Portland on a jet plane. The week and a few days was, to say the least, packed full.

When we arrived on a Thursday, I was just in time to make it to my friend Mark’s bachelor party. Our 6am departure of New York left us in awe to be striding down the purple and green corridors of Portland’s airport in any kind of shape whatsoever. Portland feels so very tranquil after New York City, it feels, at first glance, like the ideal small city, and everyone Oregonian seems deflated of pressure, utterly calm. The skyline is clean, and so are the streets. The hot air is dry, and a breeze blows over everything in a fresh pine scent kind of way.

So I got a ride over to Mark’s bachelor party that night, we had parked our posessions in my friend Keith’s apartment, where we would be staying for the week. That night went by fast and blurry, the way that bachelor parties seem like they should, but not awful or raunchy, not worty of regret. In fact, the crew of six or so dudes ended up at a newish rock club in Portland (every club in Portland can be designated as newish, as they all close soon enough) and saw some amazing live music. The new deco architecture cooled by full blast air conditioning and a smokeless room of 20 somethings wearing raggedy clothes and bored like nodding their heads felt so like countless nights past for me, save for the air conditioning and smoke free ness. Every once in a while one person in the crowd of 50 or 60 would actually kind of dance timidly, and it matched the energy of the musicians on stage, fiery, potent, and yet, reserved in a insecure/cool kind of way. Typical my generatioin music, but exciting nonetheless, and perfect for Mark, who kind of just wanted a simple night out, with the passion of a good band or two behind it. Speaking of Mark, I spent the evening with Maker’s mark and ended up walking three or four miles home in the early early morning, not because I was so bachelor that I couldn’t possibly be expected to procure a more intelligent way of getting home, but simply because I had no idea how far Keith’s apartment was from everything, and stubbornly pushed myself home, to collapse at 3:45 am. The day had started almost 24 hours earlier, waking in Sarah and Richelle’s apartment, to catch a cab to the airport.

The week in our former home base kind of followed this theme of unplanned drunkenness mixed in with more formal get togethers such as weddings. It was surreal for both of us I think to be back in the city that we met in, watching our best friends get married and settle down.

Mark and (his wife, not my Kate, obviously) Kate’s wedding was on a Saturday, in a wooded setting, an intimate affair that was really affirming, everything about the two of them and the life they were setting out on seemed set and right. Following that, the preparations for Tyler and Katie’s wedding kind of enveloped the whole week. I practiced cello for hours on end, working out the many kinks in Pachelbel’s Canon in D Major and eventually collaborating with Tyler’s uncle Jerry for a processional performance. I spent some time riding around in a limo in the wine growing region of Oregon with Tyler and a bunch of Bud Light chugging bachelors, touring wineries, sampling wines, and eventually pouring wine on Tyler. I spent time at rehearsal dinners and pre rehearsal dinners again drinking and chatting and seeing old friends. I spent a lot of time with my best friends and I spent a lot of time on busses, getting to and fro to all these events, and mooching rides off of everyone. It was hard to not have any real freedom, no place to call my own, no truck, which was stranded in New Jersey, no sense of being somewhere for very long. It was good and bad that way. But the week was amazing, topping itself off with Tyler and Katie’s well planned and emotional wedding, where everyone, including grandmas and aunts and kids dancing to hip hop at a rooftop bar in downtown Portland. At then end of that night, our sober driver piled seven non sober people into her tiny car (thank you Mari) and drove us all home, in our now wrinkled suits, to settle back into the somewhat ordinary existence.

I had the pleasure of catching up with Mark for a good long while at a bar around the corner from his house, where a former cello student friend worked and supplied us with still more beer. We talked of change and love and life, and it was very good indeed, no time to be tired out by it all, just time to experience the joy of being in my twenties, with my girl, across the continent again.

We caught a ride with Mark and Kate the next day to the Portland airport, and boarded a 6:30pm flight to Salt Lake City, sat in Utah for an hour or two, and boarded another plane to New York, where after sleepless turning in a miniature seat we were again in the sultry heat of the east coast. The flight ended up in NYC at 5:30am, and we were exhausted. We tried sleeping on the concrete benches that sit around the food courts to no avail, and eventually abandoned the airport at around 8:30, having passed time over coffee and staring blankly into space. The airport train connected to the subway, which connected to Brooklyn, where we hiked around with our heavy load of stuff bearing down on our backs. Whatever hostility is present in the city’s harsh environs is eventually smoothed over by the sometimes overwhelming niceness, which is unexpected, of its citizens. When we were lost it was as if people could sense it, and they would approach us unsolicited, asking where we needed to go. We were the only white people on our subway car, burdened with huge backpacks and looking haggard, and no one seemed to notice. Anything goes in New York, and its ok by everyone.

We stumbled over to Kate’s cousin Suzannah’s apartment, where she graciously invited us to sleep right then and there on the futon in her spare room. I have never felt so relieved to not be invited to go out to eat or go to museums or do all that fun visiting stuff. We just slept, until 4pm, and groggily entered reality again. We had dinner in Brooklyn and talked the night away atop their brownstone’s rooftop, watching as the Empire State Building turned its lights off at precisely midnight. Suzannah’s husband Rolando regaled us with tales of New York’s old school gangs, the mafia, and life in general in NYC. It was brilliant, and it was stark contrast to the life we had just left in Portland the night before.

And it was time for us to go again. We’ve spent so much time in the protection and comfort of our friends’ and families’ homes that we were basically needing to set off on our own again, rebelliously exploring the US of A.

We said goodbye to Richel and Sarah, gathered the truck from New Jersey, (Stephanie’s family was so cool and so welcoming to us when they were doing us a huge favor, so many thanks to them), and headed out of the city as it prepared for another day of barely reasonable heat and humidity.

We wound up having one of the worst nights of the trip that first night, when it turned out that the entire states of Connecticut and Rhode Island were booked up for camping, leaving us stranded. At one park, we were rudely told by disgruntled and testosterone fueled Rhode Island folks that we had to pay for a campsite before we could look at it. And that there were no refunds. And that there was a $6 surcharge for non Rhode Island residents. So we went and looked at the campsites anyway, and then were told that we couldn’t stay there. It was embarassingly dumb on all sides. No one was feeling compassionate or even understanding, and on top of it all, Kate had come down with a terrible cold/fever she apparently caught on the airplane back east. It was such a wretched feeling to be driving across the tiny state of Rhode Island into the deep not real friendly looking woods without a place to stay, unable to find tiny campsites marked on the map but apparently not in reality existing, while my sweet girlfriend is utterly sick and in a terrible state. But she’s tough, and we finally found a private campsite in Connecticut, where we paid $31 to stay in an RV park next to limpid ponds. She is amazingly tough in fact, and never complained once, lifting my spirits when the whole ordeal just seemed too much to handle. So I can’t say I enjoyed Connecticut and Rhode Island, and I have a feeling this sentiment may be shared by more than a few people.

But the past few nights in Massachussetts have been wonderful, save for Kate still slowly getting over her sickness. We’ve had good luch with gorgeous campsites by waters edge, and again are living the dream, whatever it is.

August 14th is and was Kate’s Birthday, and I felt dumb because I really truly haven’t had a second apart from her during which to find her a suitable, deserving present. So I bought a whole bunch of flowers, spread them all around the campsite, and made her french toast and mimosas when she awoke. We went swimming in the pond just by our campsite, and settled in for the evening when this tremendous lightning storm rumbled in all around us. We sat on the tailgate of the truck underneath our screen house while the sky literally lit up with lightning at least 20 times a minute at its peak. The strikes were ridiculously close to us, and the ground was overcome with water, creating rushing streams underneath our feet and all over everything. It was strangely beautiful and appropriate, and we opened up a bottle of Jack Daniel’s, telling stories into the night while the rain kept hammering down. Late late into the night Kate dared me to go swimming with her in the pond, and I went, although freezing and not quite as resilient as her… nonetheless, I’ll always remember that night as monumental some how, and fitting for Kate.