Leave The Past Where It Belongs

     I was puttering atop the cracked pavement that ran through South Sioux City as I was flanked by a trove of Mexican restaurants and fast food chains, sprinkled with a couple thrift stores and auto body shops thrown in for good measure.  My sweet tooth had been tugging incessantly at my jaw for some time now, and the sun was doing my already chapped skin no kindness that day, baking me into a fine piece of leather. Involuntarily, my eyes darted from side to side, trying to pin point at least one building with a sign proclaiming fresh, cold ice cream.  After some fruitless meandering my eyes, stinging with sweat droplets, eventually honed in on a diner sitting far from the other businesses on the street.  After pulling up and parking at the curb, I booked it to the entrance to escape that merciless heat.  Yet as I touched the handle of the door, pulled halfway, I caught a sign in the window out of the corner of my right eye and, almost comically, did a double take and paused for a good few seconds.  My sweet tooth wailing away, I pushed my initial gut feeling to the back of my mind and stepped through the entrance.

One word: Subtle

     The first and, for a time, the only thing to greet me was the concussive blast of the A/C that my dripping forehead thankfully swam in, and the shirt on my back began to peel itself away from the accumulated sweat . Wiping my feet on the mat, I scanned the dining room, starting over the two gentlemen separated by two bench seats as one of them worked on some steaming coffee while the man to his left played with his chicken steak, making it dance around his plate.  My eyes hovered over a solitary man by the window while he labored on a phone call with someone he had no interest in talking to; his thick plastic cup of ice water sweating profusely and puddling into a ring on the table.  I guess I focused a bit too much attention on these details, seeing as how for the first fifteen minutes after I had entered that no one came by to seat me.  I could clearly see movement in the kitchen, and there were surely people passing back and forth past the opening to the kitchen.  I shuffled my feet, ready to pick up and step back out onto the toasty sidewalk when a blond woman poked her head around the corner that led to the bathroom and took a few almost defiant steps towards me as she laid down her serving tray on a neighboring table.  "The kitchen's closed today."

Abrupt. Curt.  Staccato.

     I had been wearing my best smile that day only a few seconds earlier, but I promptly exchanged it for an almost pleading scan around the dining room, followed by a lingering gaze at the stained white apron appearing in the slit to the kitchen, flanked on either side by two hands that were prepping lunch plates.  I didn't meet her eyes at first.  The embers of discomfort tickled my throat as I mumbled some verbal acknowledgement...but it felt wrong not to prod the bear.  "You sure about that?"   I made another visual pass over the customers, hoping that she'd follow my gaze and seal my point , but she had already forgotten about me.  "Yep, sorry."    She walked off on a mission, completely blanking out this short conversation she just had with me, and left me standing under the bitter air of the A.C as I tried to re stitch what had just happened.  After a few seconds, I lost my customary smile .  My jaw was set in a grimace as I raised my eyebrows and backed out of the place, the hunger pangs in my sweet tooth a fleeting memory as I collapsed back onto my ride, feeling suddenly alone in this street.  "Are you kidding me?"  I half laugh to myself as I pull away, still processing what was to be my first run in with someone stuck in the past.

 

      You can't help but register a barely tangible feeling of disconnect when in places like Sioux City.  Roaming through the streets you half expect to see some scattered tumbleweeds to lazily careen across the streets as you pass building after building that is either vacant or occupied by a seemingly derelict business.  The downtown is like any other: rife with bar life and a smattering of late night burger joints, occasionally dotted with real estate offices and public attractions like museums and art galleries.  When we arrived in town, we were hungry and on the prowl for anything that could shed light on the hunger situation in the area.  We craved to see a flourishing farmer's market that stretched for blocks, or maybe a handful of farms in partnerships throughout the city to spread their earth born wealth of resources.
     Curiously, however, we found a town that is comprised of some parts that are stuck in the past, oozing with racial indignation and petty feelings of superiority over the minorities of the area.  Not to say the entire city is like that; but at this point there is a lingering cancer located in the crevasses of this city, and it troubles me.  How can we even hope to solve problems as encompassing as hunger if we can't live in relative harmony with each other, instead of regarding each other in an almost acrid air just because the cover of my book is in a darker shade; that my ink stems from a more exotic background?  It's disheartening to have to stand back and let events unfold, hoping that the world would erase these ancient horrid artifacts of a time when equality was parceled out to a select few and retracted from the oppressed multitudes, much like a bully tempting a baby with a lollipop. 
     It's in these instances where I long for the chance to look these people in the eye, get down on one knee as I squeeze their shoulders and say, " Grow up."  No venom in my bite; no chastising of a ruler toting nun; just two words a man says to a child, to save them from wasting his or her life with such frivolous and outright discriminating ideologies.  It's a future that I still have hope in, however, despite my fuming.  And yet, if we are to tackle even an epidemic like hunger and expect any form of tangible change, then the other aggravating strands that stubbornly cling to our progress from an unfortunate past must be severed.  In this country overflowing with potential to change for the better, it's a shame when almost absurdly comic levels of discrimination get in between me and my chocolate dipped waffle cone.

 Blink and You'll Miss It...

     For the most part, deviation as far as the route on this trip has been kept to an absolute minimum.  However, as I sat on the side of the river in Waycross, chucking pine cones into the coffee tinted bed of water we were resigned to camp by, I decided a little research into other areas wouldn't hurt.  In a flash, I geared up and scootered on over to the local public library, checked in at one of the computers, and started investigating.  It didn't take too long, I soon discovered, as I stumbled across a cyclists' blog who highlighted a particular spot in Brunswick, Georgia: The Hostel in the Forest.

Raised eyebrows. Open new window.  Scan their information page.  Jackpot.

  My brow is softened in relief as I punched the number into my phone.  A creeping suspicion attempted to plant some doubt into my plans, but that was quickly squashed.  A handful of rings later, and a voice crackles to life at the other end.

"Hostel in the Forest, how can I help you?"

     "Hi, my name is Myles Chung, and I am traveling with a buddy of mine...."


  

 As luck would have it, the pieces started to fall in place as I talked with the man at the other end.  Being only fifty or so miles away, the hostel already seemed like a detour that was worth the effort.  And, seeing as how a severe thunderstorm was ready to bear down on us on the day we left the area, I figured it would be nice not to pack up in blankets of rain and tumbling tree branches from heavy winds.  I went into detail about our mission, highlighting some of our more unique encounters and experiences, and the man's interest was appropriately peaked.  Eventually, I brought up the topic of their work exchange program, which would potentially replace our one night stay charge in place of a few hours working in their gardens or wherever they need an extra couple pairs of hands.  Crossing fingers, at this point.

     My anxiously tight grip on my pen relaxed as the man's voice crackled back to life on the other end, confirming a possible work exchange at their site. My fist silently punched the air above my head, followed by a string of "Thank you's" on my part and a couple "Looking forward to seeing you's".  I hung up, and relayed the good news to Dan.  Come twelve noon tomorrow, and we'll  have a roof over our heads and a pillow to lay on.

     The next morning we shuffled around and rolled up our belongings, going through the motions as we packed up our 49cc mules and puttered off to the hostel.  It was a fairly quick ride; perhaps our eagerness gave us a MPH boost.  Missing the signage for the place, we backpedaled and finally made our way down their crater speckled driveway.  One of the first things I noticed was how absolutely lush this forest is with its  Gothic architecture like tree trunks reaching out towards the sky and its vibrant foliage canvassing the skyline.

  Involuntarily, my body pumped out its chest as it took in a large breath to taste the beauty we stumbled across.  We dismounted in the parking lot and I ventured out in search of the main office.  My none- too-dainty boots stomped on the path as I spotted some of the facilities "tree houses", remarking to myself how naturally they seem to be a part of this area.  The main office came into view and I ventured in, converging on the hole in the wall where a man by the name of Andrew Douglass sat behind a computer.  I come to find out that this was the man who confirmed our stay just the other day on the phone, and it was nice to finally connect a face with the voice.

 

 We exchanged greetings and I already felt at home here.  Dan and I checked in with our I'D's and gear, but not before being warmly hugged by some of the staff members who crossed our paths, and at that point I realized how much I despised the stagnant feeling of handshakes for first encounters.  After successfully checking in, Andrew informed us that there is need of some work in their garden and blueberry plants, and we changed our clothes in anticipation.  Andrew himself had quite a large checklist to finish that day, but we eventually made our way to the garden.  We were given a nice little tour of the area, and made our way with tools in hand to the blueberry plants.  We could tell that there was a lot of work to be done here, and we proceeded to clear the choking vines that were wrapped around the branches and deep in the soil underneath the plants.  It was refreshing to be doing something that didn't feel at all like work. We put in some solid gardening time and headed back to our rooms, and I commissioned the camera for a little photo shoot of the facility. 

     Every aspect of this place left a sliver of envy in my awe as I marveled at all the quirky intricacies littering the area, while at the same time soaking in the sights and sounds surrounding me.  Granted, this all may not be noteworthy for some who have experienced this before, but being a shut in of sorts myself, it all felt like some sort of intoxicating aphrodisiac, to me.  It surprised me to learn that this facility has been around for quite some time, being founded by a man named Tom Dennard in 1975.  It's had its share of facelifts since then, but its primary focus is to leave a lasting impression on its guests and on the Earth.  From its composting toilets and outdoor showers to the thoughtful and loving attitudes of all who live there, I came to understand the wholesome impression this place left, what with its emphasis on embracing a lifestyle that is not only good for the body and soul, but also for the soil and leaves that I squished in between my toes.

     Tearing myself away from this other world, I made my way back to the main house and we were invited to pick some items from their garden in preparation for the group dinner.  Making our way back to the garden, and we start to pluck some lettuce leaves with the subtle sounds of our greedy munching on the offerings filling the air.  Dan and I at this point have contentedness written all over our faces, as if some sort of drug was being gleaned and leaked into the air from the compost pile itself.  We pick our fill, and headed back to the main area, chatting a bit with some of the residents before the dinner bell rang.  We hurry on over to the dining area and form a circle of hands with staff members and guests alike, highlighting what we are thankful for and opening up to each other.  We make the rounds, and then proceed to pounce on the Mexican inspired meal, including a salad made with the lettuce we picked.  Despite their produce output being only around 11% , they do an admirable job with keeping their meals wholesome and clean, and its only bolstered by their own little chicken farm that is right on the property.

     Our bellies pleasantly lined with bone sticking goodness, we took turns cleaning up the dishes and transferred over to the fire pit and conversed amongst each other as the smoke stung our eyes and the cool night air lapped at our backs.  Exhaustion eventually laid its hands on us, and we slunk back to our respective beds, cataloging all the sensory details of the day as my head sank into the pillow.  I have no way of telling, but I like to believe a permanent grin was languishing on my face as I dreamed about composting and howling roosters.

     I can't avoid being sappy about this place.  The reception towards us when we stepped onto the property was humbling, and the love for Mother Nature is interwoven into every nook and cranny as we investigated even further.  I wouldn't even call it low impact: just living like we should be.  If you take away the constant overbearing sheen of money, power and superficial life requirements, and in turn embrace not only your own health and sanity but also your neighbors and the world,  then what excuse do we have of having such epidemics cripple our livelihoods?  Cure homelessness.  Evict costly and blood stained wars.  Refuse a foothold for hunger.  This place is a tantalizing glance through a window to a world where common sense and love for your fellow man should be aplenty, and it's a vine that should not be ripped out from the ground, but instead allowed to be invasive in its influence and spread throughout our society. 

Leading by Example

   In an Ideal World...

 

  "Stigma" can be such a debilitating word when it looms over the heads of a particular city, especially one that is hampered by a, shall we say, waist band problem.  Riding into the Tennessee area, Dan and I were informed about the health epidemic in regards to the mass consumption of fast food chains and a lack of embracing a healthier, cleaner diet not consisting of preservatives and dye ridden condiments, the catalyst for a state with such a high obesity rate amongst its occupants   It was only the first day, and we could already smell the influence of these processed food havens in the air as we puttered along, noticing throngs of cramped vehicles being chaperoned through drive-thrus like chromed cattle to the slaughter.  Noticeably, however, as we lazily rolled over the cow dotted dipping hills of the more rural country side, I could taste in the air what I can only describe as something that was unmolested and unadulterated by the hustle and bustle we just left behind.  For miles I could see the vibrantly green waves blanketing the country side with the burgeoning nimbus clouds casting cooling shadows over the stark naked trees lining the road we were traveling, and in time I soon became enamored with my surroundings, almost to the point where my oblivious attention towards oncoming traffic almost got the better of me.  

    

 

     And then we met Jason and Mindy, our hosts in the Tennessee area, along with the new member of their growing family, Parker, and my admiration for this family is only slightly tinged with a tendril of jealousy.  Nothing negative in its connotation, mind you; it's just that they are a family with pure Americana stenciled in everything that they are and do,  and it's humbling to see this healthy and happy family achieve a lifestyle that I imagine all of us aspiring to be like, one day.  As we start to talk and trade each of our fair share of stories, Dan and I are invited to a dinner being made by Mindy, which we are informed consists of wholesome ingredients gleaned from a combination of their own farm and through the friendships they've built with other local farms.  On the menu:  authentic biscuits and gravy, made from scratch.  My stomach growled a bit too earnestly, which prompted me to hide the thunderstorm in my belly with a couple well timed coughs.  

   

    At the tail end of the week we rode over to their house located in the town of Norris, and Jason, upon our arrival, invited us for a lengthy hike up to the blueberry patches that are owned by Mindy's parents which we gladly accept, giving us a chance to stretch our legs for once.  We inhaled the earthy bark and brush as we clamored our way up the trails leading to a look out,appreciating the scenery of the barren foliage and steep hill sides, properly kindling and fueling our appetites as we made our way back down the trails and to their house.  

     Once we had arrived, we were treated to Mindy showing the process of making the meal, all the while demonstrating the ridiculously simple and yet time consuming process of making fresh mozzarella.  I resisted the urge to toss the camera aside and make off like a bandit with the bowl.  Later, I'm informed that she also tried her hand at kimchi, a Korean spiced fermented side dish, and my eyes blossomed to the size of saucers.  For the record, this half Korean concedes that her first try ranks up there with some of the best I've ever had.  

What particularly intrigued me about this whole process was that rarely anything is wasted in this kitchen.  The raw milk that they get from a sort of "Groupon" cow that they co-own (which, by the way, has officially converted me from the watered down reduced milk I am used to), is used to make this fresh mozzarella, and the eventual whey by product of the whole process was actually used for the kimchi she whipped up, along with a myriad of other food items bulging from her refrigerator.

 Soon the kitchen is cluttered with the unfair and sinful combined fragrances of rising biscuits and sizzling crumbled meat, all the while a bubbling pan of white gravy is practically begging me to chug it.  Self control.  Just keep taking pictures, Myles.  She tops off the meal with a couple of farm eggs straight from the source, and the meal is ready.  To be quite honest, I can't exactly recall the transition from the kitchen to the dining room table. The smells and my salivating were blocking my immediate memory. I can, however, reminisce spreading that golden broken yolk with a gravy slathered biscuit around the perimeter of the plate and shoving it into my mouth.  For a split second, I couldn't exactly handle what I was tasting, for that processed air I was swimming through in the city area choked with fast food restaurants was not at all present in this house.  It felt wholesome, and it tasted alive.  It.Was.Blissful.

  

 Top it off with freshly juiced organic apples, and we finally laid down our forks, feeling satiated and rich in goodness.  It's a wonderful feeling, really: to consume something that weighs down your stomach not with chemicals and overly saturated mystery ingredients, but with a heft that invigorates you instead of prompting you to regret that last bite.  I have to say this is the first time that, after eating biscuits and gravy, I didn't feel like a  total slob and feel compelled to take a three hour nap.  With the meal wrapped up, we lounged in their living room and bathed in our own personal puddles of contentedness. as if we had just proven something to the world and are now reaping the rewards of our enlightened sensibilities.

    

     For me, this is how I envision a healthy America.  I crave to see discover these places not with a layer of the aforementioned stigma hanging overhead with its health statistics and obesity rates, but instead stitched together with families like Jason, Mindy and Parker; a family whose collective smile is infectious, and whose day to day lives are fueled by clean and wholesome meals (not to mention absolutely delicious) ,and steadfast relationships with their farmer friends and neighbors.  I picture this idealistic future, and it emboldens me as we climb back onto our little scooters, ready to continue to spread the word and influence of the influential families we meet along the way. 

Virginia Beach: A Taco Well Spent

   

Meet Taz.  Taz has been homeless for the past 4 years.  I bought Taz a taco.

 

 

 

Kodak Moment

 

In all honesty, he practically blindsided me.  I had decided to cut off about three pounds of my curly locks at the local barber shop while we took a two day reprieve in Virginia Beach, and the day had already a warm blue sheen from the receding daylight.  I was tucking my collar back behind my slightly scratchy neck when I turned my head to see him galloping over, a stitched together gait interlaced with strands of past addictions and scuffles.  With the diction of a fresh faced public speaker, he immediately launched into a convincingly well rehearsed boiled down timeline of his life on the streets.  As with anyone who has dealt with this type of encounter before, I could taste the point of this conversation coming to a head.  Sure enough, the subject of how many green backs were in my wallet at that time came into the spotlight, and it was then that I decided to embrace the mission I had set out on all those weeks ago. 

 

 

 "Sure, man.  I think I got a couple of bills here, somewhere."

 

   

"God Bless you, man, God Bless." 

 

      

   Some part of me cringed at the color by numbers lines he was rolling off of his tongue.  My turn in the conversation, now.

 

 

"Actually, man...you hungry?"

 

 

Even Colgate couldn't fix that grin he flashed me. 

 

"Now THAT'S pretty funny, man, haha."

 

 

I chuckled and nodded my head, and the hook sunk in.

 

 

"Yeah, well, I mean, if you want man, I can get you something, you know, close by, if you want to, bud." 

 

 

I shifted my weight to my other foot and gestured towards the littered Virginia Beach Boulevard, lined with neon veined chain restaurant signs and soccer mom vans.  He doesn't bat an eye.

 

 

"Yeah uh, so there's a Taco Bell like two blocks down, man.  I like tacos man, like, for real, man."

 

 

Can't argue with him, there.  Tacos are awesome.

 

 

"Alright, yeah sure, Taco Bell, man.  Hey, uh, do you mind if I like ask you a couple of questions, like a testimonial, type of deal?  You think?"

 

 

 

Momentary hesitation quickly proceeded by, what I imagine, a high pitched squeal from his stomach.

 

 

"Sure, sup' man, whatever, sounds good."

 

 

I have trouble keeping up with him over to the Taco Bell.

Margate City, New Jersey

                                      

Sappy Life Time Channel Moments

 

                         

     I've come to the conclusion that I am destined to become a disheveled fisherman on a rickety old fishing rig with a six pack tucked underneath my fold up lawn chair and a sea salt encrusted radio blaring 60's/70's one hit wonders behind me as I cast out my line for the millionth time that day.  That image has soaked into my sub-consciousness since our arrival here in Margate City.  It's a nice suburb town, but nothing that would differentiate itself from the usual sea side attractions you tend to run across.  What really gives it its tantalizing flair is its proximity to the beach, and what a beach it is. 

    
     Don't get me wrong; I realize there are infinitesimally better beaches in other tourist trap towns that exceed the beauty of this one.  However, since being on this trip, I have come to truly appreciate the small wonders that we all take for granted due to certain luxuries and accommodations. 
    
     When I decided to go for a run on that beach, I was lost in some cringe worthy sappy emotions as my lungs bulged with the sweet sea breeze and my skin lapped up the addictive rays of the evening sun.  I wasn't surprised when my skin felt as if it was on fire, due to the lack of exposure since we set out on our journey. 

     And, with a primal urge that overtook my still introverted demeanor around complete strangers sauntering on the beach,  I unleashed a guttural challenge to the frothing ocean sheets receding back and forth on the beach sand that managed to somehow expel all of my pent up anguish about various things, as if yanking the stopper in a sink and witnessing all that build up of toxic sludge just spiral down the drain, leaving a sparkling porcelin bowl in which to dump the next load of thoughts into; ready to start again replenished and invigorated.
     
     I don't need a therapist. I already have myself.  I just desperately pined for the right catalyst to ignite that fuse towards my eventual catharsis.  It's almost embarrassingly beautiful how such a simple landscape can have such a soothing impact on the things I deemed stressors in my life, and from then on I cared less about trivial matters that would normally invite an overly saturated level of negative self critique.
    
     Take my on going weight loss struggle, as an example. My first day on this magnificent stretch of sand and I manage to clock in at a 6:50 mile average during my jog, and yet the external signs of my athletic progress are abysmal.  I criticize my failure every day in whatever available mirror I catch my reflection in, and then my sink begins to accumulate a fresh layer of self doubt and sickening pity. 
     
     The next day, while on my way over to the beach for my next jog, two fairly attractive females pulled up next to the stop sign I had just passed and decided to yell out in unison, "Fat-Ass!", followed by a peeling out with audible cackling emanating from the car.  Now I don't honestly know if they saw something that warranted a response of that nature,  or if they were just messing with whomever crossed their path. Regardless of that, it prompted me to wonder in my head, How could something so outwardly beautiful project such a grossly hateful exclamation towards someone who is desperately striving to change their image towards something acceptable in their eyes?"
   
      ...And yet when I stepped out onto that sand, my toes forming fists and clenching the sand encrusted shattered shells littered across the dunes,  I realized that I had finally discovered my answer.  It certainly didn't justify their actions, but instead unraveled a plan for my response to these negative empty painted shells:

     I care about me,

       Not you or your judgments,

 

      And as long as I am constructively improving myself  in whatever way I can,

 

 I am content with me, and that is the single greatest weight off of  my shoulders.

      It's funny: you hear countless throngs of people preaching this sappy verbal discharge to the innumerable helpless schmucks stuck in various ruts, and yet the words are somehow transcendent once you are dipped in that blissfully relaxing eureka moment, yourself.  At this point, this stretch of sand on the border of Margate City in New Jersey has given me a gift that will never be equaled, and I'd be remiss if I said I wouldn't miss that golden, ocean washed stretch of pavement.

A Meditation on Perseverance,

  Frost Bite, 

    and Rebirth 

 

...Has it been a month, already?

   

     Don't get me wrong; I've certainly felt every excruciating minute in the bitter cold as we crawl our way through the first set of states, with every appendage and digit attached to my body cursing me in my blind idiocy.  Frostbite?  Quite possibly, I coo to myself as I progressively lose sensation in my hands while I wring the life out of the throttle, scanning the road sides for a safe haven in the form of a gas station or accommodating restaurant chain.  Nothing.  
     
     At this point my ice fused toes have written me onto their shit list.
    
     Pay them no mind.  

            Screw your better judgement.  

     Sure enough, a Shell station pokes its head up over the horizon, its vibrant yellow shell tantalizing in its promise of deliciously stale and scalding hot coffee and curious patrons questioning our sanity.  We arrive at the building, hitching up our 49cc ponies and head on in dressed like a couple of unemployed stormtroopers.  We dance through the routine: unstrap helmets, toss chapped smiles at the customers and owners, roll out the practiced and well worn speech of our cause, until we finally cower next to the nearest heater as we rub the circulation back into our white washed skin.  And all the while as I do this... I chuckle.
      

Why?  

Because it's just not sane. 

        It goes against my self preserving grain.  

                     Because I sense myself strengthening                      in spirit and in fortitude.  

                    Fortitude that is intoxicating.  


        Intoxicating in its blunt ignorance. 

 Ignorance that is pure bliss.
     
     I manage to wiggle my thawed out toes.  Thank. God.  

"Ready?" 
      Dan hoists his burden from the floor and onto his back, once again.  I stamp my feet and pump out my chest.  

"Let's do it, bud."  
     My body groans in exasperated submission.  I'm beaming like an idiot.



Here's a short video to go along side this post.  A little lengthy, so sorry about that!

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.