Mega Update

     

    This post has been a long time coming, and I promise to my potential readers that my updates will be much more timely as I continue to try to find my footing during this expedition.  As some of you reading this may not be aware, I am currently trekking across the U.S on 49cc motor scooters, (48 states total), with my buddy Dan Emery to look into the epidemic that is hunger.  Specifically, we strive to gain a more insightful understanding of the struggles millions of Americans are facing in regards to lack of food, degradation of American agriculture, the abysmal waste of over 40% of our food resources, and, perhaps the most pivotal of all blossoming concerns, the lack of education that is not imparted onto the general public about these problems.  Of course, I'm damn sure this well worn menu of factoids has been shoved down your throats quite frequently if you've been trailing our progress, (along with the ACP blog), so I'll save you some time and get to the marketable aspect of this post:  my personal experiences and emotions I've run across while freezing my tookus off on my two wheeled pony/stallion.  

    

     *Deep breath*

                               Here we go.

MASSACHUSETTS:  One Way, or the Highway

"Wait, if that's a one way, then... screw it, where's a pub?"

     

                "Well...sheeeitt."

     This soothing mantra that I chanted to myself quite frequently while navigating the rat maze that is Massachusetts, (particularly the epicenter of Boston), is what reined me in from the tantalizing idea of punting a puppy in the face, just to alleviate the stress that was clouding over my vision.  Up until this point I had never taken a full dose of a state like Massachusetts before, only fleetingly getting lost like an idiot/tourist while roaming around locations like Faneuil Hall or other frequently flocked high traffic zones.  So, imagine my deflation as I looked upon the blocks upon blocks of one way streets, cornering me into alleyways littered with coffee cups and shattered beer bottles and exits onto the highway which, unfortunately, we had to avoid due to how slow our mopeds would allow us to go.

Count to 10. 

Shout expletives and down a couple of local brews.
  
Deep breath. Proceed.   

     Fast forward into the late afternoon, and we scuttled into the parking lot of our destination.  Lesson learned.  

    Now, I only start off this post with such a negative first take because I feel compelled to get it out of the way before I harp on the positives of this great state, despite what my tone may invoke.  Commute being put aside on the back burner, my encounter with the residents, (particularly in the little town of Wakefield), of Mass. has given me a tantalizing taste of what to expect as we further our progress along the next few states.  For that particular week, our base of operations was at a friend's home in Wakefield, where we were greeted by a lovely family consisting of a hard working mom, a super chill father and four boys with energy levels rivaling Russell Brand on liquified crack.  

     After we unpacked and settled in, we proceeded to visit a local food pantry with the intention of seeing with our own virgin eyes just what exactly was required to keep such an operation afloat.  At first, we had almost missed the damn place since it was discreet in its location; no sign or anything signifying it was a safe haven for the hungry in the town.  Nevertheless, we tracked it down and headed on into the facility, where we introduced ourselves to the head honcho of the whole operation, whom we had contacted earlier.  As she showed us around the actual pantry, she laid out a brief timeline of the life of this particular pantry, and the struggles they've had to overcome to keep themselves relevant in the town.  

     While all of this was going on, my eyes scanned over the labels of tomato soup cans and turkey stuffing mixes hugging the walls of the room, and I grimaced at the dwindling supplies and fluorescent bulb washed decor, clearing my nostrils of the air that was choked with a layer of disparity and an even meatier layer of defiant perseverance.  My shameful shell recoiled from the saturated heroism seeping from the pores of these tireless people as they shared their stories and personal motivations for devoting their energy towards this establishment.  My ignorant heart couldn't fathom, (let alone sympathize), with the love that radiated from these volunteers, because I have never done anything in my life so selfless and worthy of a god damn Nobel Peace Prize.  And then, even when I couldn't possibly take any more sobering testimonials, we were introduced to a lady named Debbie.

     My God, what an extraordinarily beautiful woman.  I say this with no hint of superficial intent, because I am referring to the energy that is just absolutely radiating from behind her legally deemed blind eyes.  Her role is the actual ordering and organizing of the food stuffs that find their way into the pantry, so her perspective is that much more relevant to our unending and ignorant questions.  

     As I first lay my eyes on her, a cloud of skepticism hangs over her head as we lock hands, dancing the well worn steps of the usual greetings and introductions.  We then proceed to ask if she can lead us through her daily task routine, which she agrees to do with a fleeting glance over our shoulder at the wall clock directly behind us.  Aisle after aisle she recites from the back of her hand the types of donations they receive, the struggles of keeping the shelves stocked, and the daily check list she adheres to in order to maintain the center's survivability.  

     And yet, as she regurgitates these bullet point factoids, she starts to become comfortable with our unwavering attention, her eye contact less wavering with ours and her body language less confrontational.  Eventually, we stop roaming the aisles and simply allow her to vent all of that pent up frustration and charisma that was previously caged behind those eyes.  Her shoulders sag slightly.  A sliver of vulnerability creeps through her eye lids as she sinks back on her heels, confiding in us the images that have been burned on her brain ever since she started working here...

...And then she catches my eye.

     My arm hairs spring erect beneath my sleeves.  Moisture is vacuumed from my mouth as my pencil grinds to a fidgeting halt over the pages of my notepad.  Never, ever in my life have I seen such stubborn orbs gush forth such pleading daggers of desperateness and soulful beauty.  Her words fade into the back round, for her eyes tell its own ragged story.  The irritating filter that is verbal communication is cut out of the interchange as she shifts her gaze back and forth from either of my eyes, scanning for any understanding behind my lids.  

     I nod dumbly, keeping the contact alive as I shift my weight to my other foot, lowering my notepad and clenching my jaw.  I reek of inadequacy.  Naked.  This continues on for what seems like an eternity before a phone ringing in the hazy distance breaks the interchange, and the veil is pulled over her eyes again, her plea receding back into her body.  Cue the obligatory thank you's and promises of further communication.  I shake her hand, and she constricts her grip, that one last reassurance that I had received her message.  

 I most certainly did.

      From then on, everything else felt strangely monotone.  I made a trip into Boston to snap some photos and enjoy the sights.  I mucked around with the kids at our host's home, making even more memories to further chew about in my mind in my contemplative moments, yet it all felt somewhat bland compared to what I experienced back at that pantry.  In the end, I came away with a sobering tendril of what to expect on this trip, and I pray for even more "one way streets", so that I may slow down enough to appreciate what I so callously under appreciated.  A tantalizing taste for things to come.