for the Journey

a family huddles together in the basement, as the house is torn apart around them by a great storm.  incredible winds shake their home to its foundations - the roof above is ripped away, exposing them to the violent assault of nature. 

but they are together and not even the winds can tear them apart.  the family stays close and clings to this one thought: that every storm passes.

it gets worse before it gets better.  fear and emotion flood over the unprepared souls as the rainwater begins to pour in.  the deluge lasts for what seems ages and mercilessly destroys all that it can find.  a lifetime of shared memories and irreplaceable history are washed away.  the family can do nothing but observe, wait, and weep.

the noise eventually subsides though occassional crashes echo around them.  they numbly climb out of the wreckage, blinking bleary-eyed at the destruction that was once their life.  they mourn for their losses and do the only thing that they can.  they begin to rebuild.

__________________________________

over the years this reality transforms into a metaphor, an identity, a way of life.  time after time, the family gathers close against the wind and the rain and endures each storm together.

for my sister,

-louie-

“Humans live best when each has his place, when each knows where he belongs in the scheme of things. Destroy the place and destroy the person.” –Frank Herbert

as much as i admittedly hate the Yankees, it’s sad to see Yankee Stadium go.  baseball is above all else a game of deep history and myth, and some of the greatest baseball legends were born and baptized inside that famous Bronx colosseum.  Babe Ruth, Joe DiMaggio, Reggie Jackson, Mickey Mantle, Lou Gehrig.  and the list goes on and on.  no matter how i feel about the current villains of the diamond, there’s that sinking feeling that we’re losing yet another important American artifact.

the gravity of the loss has settled in profoundly over the last two nights, as i watched the final All Star Game and Home Run Derby in the old arena.  both new and old legends were gathered for one final farewell.  while Josh Hamilton belted ball after ball into the upper deck, Whitey Ford stood reading his plaque in Memorial Park.  Yogi Berra had to throw the first pitch from a quarter distance, but applause roared as he hit the mark all the same.  Derek Jeter received a standing ovation when he was retired from the game.  Willie Mays got a longer one, just for taking off his cap.  i’m sure most of the hall of famers didn’t make it all the way to the fifteenth inning, but the rest of us stood guard for them until the deed was done.

i was lucky enough to visit Yankee Stadium earlier this year, during one of my renowned “in-between” times.  as many negative things as i have to say about the franchise itself, the building and its history are beyond reproach.  looking out on the famous arched facade, hearing in person the voice of Bob Sheppard…and witnessing the hush as the scoreboard declared “60 games left” at home field.  for me it was a touch of legend.

oh don’t get me wrong- they were nosebleed seats, several fans called me a jackass (for wearing my Cleveland cap), and i spent a small fortune on crappy beer.  the crowd really turned on me when the Yanks fell behind 11-4 and one particularly obnoxious neighbor reconfirmed my feelings of animosity toward the pinstriped gang and its followers.

but i was there.

someday i will tell my children about New Orleans before the flood.  i will show them pictures of the World Trade Center.  i’ll recount tales of the gas-powered car, the dial-up modem, the five dollar movie.

and i will tell them about the house that Ruth built.

for the Journey,
-louie-

who knew that Chicago would offer such a rich cultural exchange?

it all started at Wrigley Field.  we were enjoying all the food and beer we could handle (which turned out to be quite a bit) on the rooftop seats in right field.  i’m not sure why anyone would give me unlimited access to a bratwurst stand, but so be it.  somewhere in the third or fourth inning we noticed that there were about a dozen spectators running around in full lederhosen gear.  some theories were passed around- maybe the visiting Brewers fans had a tradition that we weren’t aware of?  or possibly a publicity stunt of some sort?  at any rate, the obvious thing was that we would be avoiding these Bavarian fools at all costs.

fast forward a few hours: so we’re hanging out after the game with our new buddies, the guys in lederhosen.  turns out they are visiting Germans and actually just wearing what they felt comfortable in.  we all marched down Addison to a bar where they proceeded to buy all of our beer and teach us German drinking songs.  laughter, drinking, yelling, and general mayhem ensued.  and that was BEFORE the New Zealand rugby team walked in…

as if this wasn’t cultural enough of an exchange, i was also a guest at a Slovenian polka party in Joliet a few nights later.  this party was actually the main reason for my trip to Chicago, as it was a celebration of my cousin’s 10th wedding anniversary.  the place (the local Croatian Cultural Club hall) was packed with aunts, uncles, cousins and family friends.  the musicians on the bandstand had two accordions, a banjo, and a bass.  one fellow was playing the drums with a wooden spoon he found in the kitchen.  people were three-stepping everywhere.

my family and i drank Croatian beer and periodically raised our glasses to shout “Karlovačko!” - a phrase which we have absolutely no translation for.  we cut into the accordion-shaped cake (yep, these people really know how to party).  they took turns telling stories about ways i had embarrassed myself at my cousin’s wedding ten years ago in Cleveland, and i gave them several new stories to tell for the next ten years.  it was great to spend time with the people who have shared so many important moments with me for so long, even if we didn’t know what we were yelling out.

when midnight crept up, the band played their final waltz and raised a toast to the happy couple.  the dance floor cleared and everyone went to the bar to finish up his drink before heading home.  i was just wishing to myself that it didn’t have to end so soon when a lone banjo started plucking a simple tune somewhere near the bar.  an accordion jumped in from across the hall.  before you knew it, a whole new set of musicians were up on stage playing polkas with an even greater fervor than the group before.  it was madness- you just can’t kill a good polka.

my uncle and i looked at each other, then over to my cousin.  an aunt shrugged her shoulders, raised a beer and shouted out “Karlovačko!!”

which in any language means “Hell yeah.”

for the Journey,
-louie-

i stopped mid-sentence as our plane glided down toward the city.  it was…huge.  downtown Chicago looked much like one would expect from a prominent urban mecca.  i could pick out the familiar sites: Grant Park, Soldier Field, the Sears Tower.  but it was the sheer sprawl of of the city i couldn’t believe.  streets and buildings and parks stretched for uncounted miles in every direction.  it looked like the lake shore just couldn’t accommodate all of the supplicants that wanted to be near it so they camped as close as they could, each creeping slowly nearer to the skyscrapers and docks with every passing year.  i have seen many cities, but never anything like this.

i remember smiling as the plane touched down.  it feels so good to be back in motion, wandering to adventures and parts unknown.  Chicagoland has always been on my list of places to explore but somehow i’ve put it off until now.  well no longer- i couldn’t wait to discover what was waiting for me over the next five days.

i grabbed my bags and navigated through O’Hare to the elevated train- of course known famously as the ‘L’.  relatively empty at first, the train quickly became crowded.  i was trying my hardest to take up only one seat with all of my luggage piled on my lap and squeezed between my knees, but i was failing rather miserably.  while this certainly might have been a cause of tension back home, i found that one passenger after another slid effortlessly into the cramped half-seat beside me, not afraid to brush legs or share breathing room with a stranger.  i guess personal space is a luxury for the uncrowded.  people here seem more relaxed and less hesitant to get close.  despite being one of many in a constant crowd (or maybe because of it?) they seem to know who they are.

the L brought me to Wicker Park and to friends.  this being my first visit, it was quickly decided that authentic deep-dish pizza was in order.  we traveled downtown and i easily made friends with the best pizza i’ve ever encountered.  we attempted to walk off the cheese and sauce euphoria with a stroll throughout the city, ending the evening way up on the 96th floor of the Hancock building.  content and excited, i sat near a wall of windows with a drink in my hand high above the Windy City.  i looked over the lake, the streets, the lights stretching as far as the eye could see.  this is what i come looking for.  through everything else, it is moments like this that keep my feet moving and my spirits high.

for the Journey,
-louie-

wandering past the frozen reflection pool, my thoughts were anything but.  there is such an energy to this city.  something about DC calls to me, makes me feel at home, settles my spirit.  Washington is a city of thought, emotion, memory.

the ripples of my mind splash across my surroundings:  Lincoln enshrined in his temple like a hero of old, a child and his father laughing and flying a kite on the lawn, old women making crayon rubbings of names on the Vietnam Memorial wall.  so dynamic, so refreshing.  my thoughts and person are drawn back to this city again and again.

i came upon a shrine i had never visited before.  the (somewhat) new World War II memorial sits silently at the far end of the reflection pool.  i entered the open pavillion with an open mind.  looking around, i found that it made me immediately…uncomfortable.

at first glance, this appeared to be a vain monument to success - a gleeful cheer for mankind.  i nervously avoided the gaze of the Japanese man walking past me to see a triumphant engraving on the floor, celebrating Victory on Land! Victory at Sea!  Victory in the Air!  Kilroy was engraved on one wall, playfully peering out on victorious citizens and defeated guests alike.  the polished stones all around me were displaying some celebratory symbol or quote of the great war to end all wars.  my stomach began to churn.

then i found, resting solemnly near a quiet pond, these words:

Here We Mark The Price Of Freedom.

above the pond was an impressive and expansive wall of gold stars, each representing 100 Americans who had lost their lives during the War.  there were over 4,000 stars.  in this quiet corner i found the true weight of the monument.  “us vs. them” dissolved as strangers stood silently side by side in reverence and morbid awe.  Washington became again an ocean of thought, emotion, memory.

that night i cheered, screamed, and laughed with strangers in a local bar, as we watched the local Redskins in the NFL playoffs.  as we enjoyed the night of victory and defeat, i bought a round to mark the price of freedom.

for the Journey,

-louie-

i took the metro to the heart of Washington, DC.  a picture on the bus made me laugh: it was meant to indicate that the fare machine no longer accepted pennies, but the image was basically a big red X through a picture of Abraham Lincoln.  whoops…

to balance things out i began at the place shown on the tails side of the penny - the Lincoln Memorial, where tourists, locals, students, and families gathered in clumps on the tall steps leading into the Greek columned temple.  i started up the imposing staircase.  i slid around a professor who was giving a lecture in Japanese and i had to weave nimbly across the steps to avoid intruding on haphazard photographs.  once i finally fought my way to the top of the tall steps (resisting the urge to have a personal “Rocky” moment) i came face to face with the man himself.

the Lincoln statue is an intimidating picture of what Honest Abe would look like if he were still alive, turned to stone, residing in Washington, and 30 feet tall.  it really is impressive.  the atrium that houses him is an area of quiet reverence, commanded by the great figure who silently watches over his people.  his words are carved on the walls around him, wise thoughts from an incredible man.  something tickled in the back of my memory…what was it that Abraham Lincoln said?

“Towering genius disdains a beaten path.”

these are words to live by.  taking my leave of the towering genius, i set out on my own path to explore the rest of Washington.

inspiration for the Journey,

-louie-

another weekend, another town.  this time my wandering feet took me to Beantown.  Boston, that is.

after meeting up with a few friends, i found myself at Boston Common at the start of the Freedom Trail.  the Freedom Trail consists of a 2.5 mile red line that meanders throughout downtown Boston.  along this path there are 16 important statues, churches, monuments, and other historical sites of New England interest.  forsaking the guided tour (what do we look like, tourists?), we set out on our own to learn about the history of this fine town.

the plan was simple: follow this strange red line wherever it took us, stop at each historic site, and drink a beer after each and every one.  did i mention there are sixteen sites?

yes, this undertaking went much as you would have expected.  we paid plenty of attention at the State House and Park Street Church.  we were even appropriately respectful at the graves of John Hancock, Samuel Adams, and Paul Revere.  but the Boston pubs quickly took their toll on our reverence and attention spans.  i had been thinking that having a red line painted on the ground was kind of silly and a little insulting, but several pints in (and only halfway through this “tour”), we found ourselves clinging to the line for dear life.  “at least we know which way our car is” became our mantra as we wove back and forth in the general direction of freedom.

i’m not as certain that the bronze donkey statue was an official Freedom Tour stop as i am that there must be pictures of that encounter plastered all over the internet by now.  i may not have learned much about freedom or history, but i got a pretty good taste of the beer and chowdah.  and what do you know- our car was waiting for us back at the beginning of that blessed little red line.

now who can drive?

one more pint for the Journey,

-louie-

i hadn’t seen her in over 15 years, since middle school.  i honestly didn’t remember much about her, except that she always laughed at my jokes.  we were just kids last time we spoke and she now lived four hours away, in Charlotte, NC.  it was already getting dark outside and i had committed to plans for that night.  but when she got in touch with me and said she wanted to see me, i jumped in the car without hesitating.

she always laughed at my jokes.

soon after i returned from my cross-country adventure, i received a call from my bank.  they reported a highly suspicious trend of spending and wanted to make sure i was aware of the situation.  the representative cited several alarming transactions in a short span of time:

• Chinese food for three in San Diego
• irresponsible withdrawals followed by a large influx in Las Vegas
• steady supplies of flashlight batteries throughout Arizona
• something called a “Gringo oil change special” in El Paso
• a souvenir to help remember the Alamo in San Antonio
• the better part of a cow in Lockhart
• strawberry and banana pancakes in Little Rock
• hoppin’ john and a BB King t-shirt in Memphis
• Hooters wings and a bloody mary in Nashville
• several liters of energy drink in Asheville
• breakfast for four in Charleston

as near as we can tell, here is the path of recklessness that these obviously misguided hooligans carved across the country.

i did it.  i conquered this country.

i touched the water on the Charleston, SC beach, just as i had touched the water at the very beginning of this Journey in San Diego.  i experienced this country from one side to the other, Pacific Beach to Battery Park and everything in-between.  sea to shining sea.

as soon as i dipped my fingers in that Carolina water, the entire trip took on a new focus in my mind.  i forgot how exhausted i was and what hardships i had faced along the way.  the stuff that didn’t matter fell away and the true Journey could finally shine through in my memory.  and you know what i remembered?  laughter.

that’s what this trip was really about.  Steve and i laughed from one coast to the other, sometimes crying and convulsing with laughter.  maybe we were delirious- but everything was funny, everything was good.  i often worried that we were about to crash during the particularly heavy fits.  but i decided that it would be a good death and just kept on laughing across the next state line.  in the final analysis, what else about this trip matters?

i imagine this is the same experience i’ll have when i touch the waters on the other side of this life.  once i conquer the land of the living and look back, i won’t remember the times i was scared or lonely or didn’t get what i was expecting.  i won’t think about how hard it was or whether i arrived on schedule.  i’ll remember belly-aching laughter, and decide it was all worth it.

hilarity for the Journey,

-louie-