Friday, October 2, 2015 Pablo Picasso, When He Was Young

Day one in Spain! Our first assignment, call and cancel the power chair rental. People advertising lodging fudge on wheelchair accessibility. We find them far too lazy to get up off their butts and measure their elevators, even if you send them the exact dimensions of your wheelchair in centimeters accompanied by a polite measurement request in Spanish. We have to collapse Bird’s front feet to get her in the elevator. So much for the power chair pipedream!

Our Airbnb host emails us, reaffirming that we don’t owe any money. With that settled, we can begin today’s adventures.

Today marks our first journey on the Barcelona Metro. The automated ticket machines only accept credit cards using the chip & pin system common everywhere except the States. The machine rejects my card. Fortunately, Keith, ever the prepared Bear, studied up on this and has his new Visa card with a chip, for which he’s even memorized the pin. He buys our tickets.

We have a wonderful map of Barcelona’s accessible Metro stops. The accessible ones have a little wheelchair next to them while the inaccessible ones have a skull and cross bones like a pirate flag. Elevators or in Spanish ascensores (which Keith quickly names ascenders) permit accessibility, while stops labelled with the skull and cross bones have “annoying stairs.”

As confused yet hopeful old people, maps can be a bit of a challenge! The closest subway stop to our apartment, Clot, has both a wheelchair and a skull & crossbones. Huh? WTF? We find the street-level ascensor and descend. We soon learn that the purple line is indeed accessible via Clot, but the red line, the one we need, correctly bears the non-accessible skull and crossbones. A kindly Metro employee shows us that the purple and red lines cross again at University. Thus educated, we ride the purple line six stops west to University, transfer onto the red line and ride three stops back east to Arc de Triomphe.

Exiting in El Born, we walk to the Pablo Picasso Museum. Reserving online, ahead of time, I purchased something called an Articket BCN. Paying ahead gives you discounted admissions to three of the museums we wish to see. We turn in our vouchers and receive something that very much resembles a red Canadian passport. Good for a year, each museum you visit you stamp, just like a passport. Naturally, we discover a burning desire to visit all six museums listed.

We enter the Picasso Museum, stamping our tickets. This museum holds a lot of Picasso’s early work. We start with his self-portraits featuring a young very intense Spaniard staring out at you. Picasso paints realistic portraits with just a touch of impressionistic flair, allowing us to appreciate his mastery of all forms. We see a painting of his sister at her first communion. She’s incredible, a veritable bride of Christ at seven. Despite the religious trappings, the entire portrait revolves around her, radiating her young beauty, innocence and transcendence.

Next, we see paintings from Picasso’s blue period, spent penniless in Paris after his best friend commits suicide. He paints not only what he sees ─ whores, misfits, beggars, street people ─ but what he feels, filling his paintings with blue, the coldest color. Depressing subjects and depressing colors; I shiver.

Fortunately, Picasso finds a girlfriend and moves into his rose period. Otherwise, I think that he would have killed himself too. He now paints numerous harlequins in cheerier oranges and pinks.

In the early 1900s Picasso decamps permanently for Paris, the city that calls all artists. As an aside I wonder, must all true artists spend time penniless in Paris as a necessary homage to their seriousness about art and the city of light?

Later Picasso refuses to return to Spain until Franco departs. Unfortunately, Franco outlives him, so Picasso never returns home. In his old age, examining his roots, he paints fifty impressions of Velasquez’s Las Meninas. We see many of these, but would have appreciated them more had we visited the Prado (in Madrid) first and seen the original Las Meninas.

After enjoying the museum, around three, we find another tapas place for lunch. We hear two women at a neighboring table having a very rapid spirited discussion in Spanish. Naturally, I don’t understand a word they say.

We pull out our subway map since we know that we have to find the Sants train station tomorrow to go to Dali’s Museum in Figueres. Keith has found a metro station named Sant Antonio that he is sure is the place. However, Sant means saint in Catalonian. I see at least five stations named Sant on the Metro map. Despite traveling with the ever confident Bear, I have my doubts.

I haltingly query the women at the neighboring table, proffering our map. They quickly point out that we want Sants Estació. They love our Metro map with the handicap signs and the skull and cross bones, which they interpret to mean “ugh! fucking steps!”. We learn that they hail from Argentina and believe solely Patagonia makes Argentina shine. We disagree, pointing out that the Pope comes from Argentina and therefore everyone from Argentina must be going to heaven. They laugh.

To intelligently use Barcelona’s Metro, you need to know the final stop each way. This tells you your direction. Eventually we learn this. Keith fondly enlarges words both foreign and English with extra letters. He adds a lot of R’s and S’s to things. So the red line terminus Metro stop Fondo becomes “Frondo” and finally “Frodo.” The stop Clot becomes “Clots”, and the train people RENFE become “RENFRE.” Add that to my Spanish, and no one understands a word we say. We find we can avoid the Clot inaccessibility mess and get on the red line by walking a couple of blocks farther from the flat then descending to the station Navas. Keith calls this “Narvaras” which upsets a local gentleman so much that the man shakes his finger Keith while repeating the word Navas, Navas, Navas.

We’ve now have had some time to observe the Spanish or more properly the Catalans. Like my dim memories of the States in the 1970s, everybody smokes. I’ve never seen so many people smoking. We dodge scooters everywhere. Both women and men drive them, careening like maniacs, weaving in and out of traffic. Everyone wears a helmet.

Nearly everyone seems to be wearing tennis shoes, often fairly brightly colored. We see bright orange, bright blue, and bright purple shoes. But I see no one in CFM (come fuck me) shoes aka heels. I sincerely hope the world has changed. High heels amongst all these cobbles would really be the height of stupidity.

Spain, a proud member of the EU (European Union), has handicap accessible bathrooms everywhere. I think that they always build three bathrooms, women, men and family (accessible). Intelligently, and unlike the US (especially DIA), they lock the family restrooms. You must find an employee and prove your worth before they will unlock the door.

We find Europe generally more handicap accessible than the States, save the size issues. America, huge and expansive, has big elevators, taxis and cars. Not so in Spain, where they build elevators in broom closets. This will frustrate us repeatedly.

We have a very sad tradition of relegating so many to being “Other” in the States. White, European descendants, especially the wealthier ones, hold massive privilege, privilege generally unacknowledged and unnoticed. Think about it. When was the last time you were personally harassed by the police?

In the States you will generally find yourself branded “Other” should you have any color and/or disability about you. Descending into a wheelchair, I lost what I never realized I had, as the crown of white privilege fell off of my head, rolling away. Crippled now, I couldn’t even reach down to pick it up.

Europe’s tourist draws tend to be old places, requiring careful thought about how everyone can visit, including people like me. How will people in chairs get about? As I’ve said before, Europeans still consider me foremost human, like themselves. In the States, I am “Other,” not quite human, not deserving.

Enough ruminating on Cripdom! Back to Barcelona… Most of the Metro stops have multiple lifts. One takes you from street level to ticket/turnstile level, and a second down to the platform where you board the subway train. Able-bodied Catalans have no compunctions about using the lifts themselves, no matter how little they need them. Every station has escalators; no one has to walk up stairs. Not just Americans harbor amazing laziness.

In Barcelona we thoroughly enjoy the small local shops where we buy bread, vegetables and ham. Ham or jamon, the national dish, rates its own stores. You enter, select a pork leg hanging from the ceiling and the employees will shave off 100 grams for you. At €100 a kilo, all we can afford is 100 grams. We also visit a wine store, finding wine from the Canary Islands, something Keith has sought for years.

Having eaten our larger meal at lunch, we only desire a snack. We seek a different tapas place tonight, looking for variety. We find one which has the exact same tapas as Gent del Barri but of massively inferior quality. They mistakenly bring me a plate of pickled anchovies, the only bright spot in the meal. In our adventure, I try anchovies three more times before reverting to my earlier belief ─ disgusting.

Pondering, we note that some tapas we like a lot, specifically the Petrone peppers, salted and sautéed. We try the various hams until Bear becomes very tired of them. We really burn out on ham. Enough navel-gazing over tapas! We go home and turn in for the night.

Thursday, October 1, 2015 Barcelona at Long Last

We land in Frankfurt around 11 AM. My hopeful recollection of being the first one on the plane fades, dashed by the realization that I will be the last one off. Once again, we watch all the people exiting the plane, marveling at just how many flew with us last night.

The internet gives various figures for number of passengers on a 747-400, depending upon seat configuration, but guesses 375. Save the seat neighboring us, this plane appears full.

The same airplane everyday flies from Frankfurt to Denver, arriving in Denver around 3:30PM. Lufthansa cleans the plane, fills it up again and two hours later sends a different group of people to Europe.

I’m always so excited when the plane lands and I’ve pulled off Europe again. “Yes!” I say to myself with a fist pump.

Bird greets me on the jetway. Keith reassembles her. I transfer from the aisle chair into Bird. As well-behaved animals, we find our next gate for the flight to Barcelona. Waiting quietly for our flight, we sit next to two women from Brazil. They take one look at Keith, and begin speaking to him in rapid-fire Portuguese. Keith can be from Brazil now too. No one ever guesses Keith’s real nationality ─ American. Ever the helpful Bear, Keith looks at their tickets and tells them they’re on the right flight.

We converse with the Brazilians in pidgin Spanish. “So you speak English?” the women ask. “We’re meeting our family in Barcelona. They speak English. Everything is okay as long as you speak English!” Funny, English won’t really help us much in most of Spain.

In the American papers, we read that the Catalans have elected a separatist, pro-independence government. Threats fly back and forth between the Catalans and the Madrileños.  Rajoy, the conservative party prime minister down in Madrid, shrieks that independent Cataluña won’t have any euros. He will personally shut down their economy. We decide to use one of the ATMs in the Frankfurt terminal, just to be safe.

Our next plane arrives and boarding begins. With all save me on the plane, Lufthansa can’t find their aisle chair so I personally delay takeoff. Eventually they do find one, hustle me aboard and off we go. The two hour flight to Barcelona allows me to sleep again. Yeah!

We exit the plane in Barcelona, last off as always. We reunite with Bird again on the jetway. Downstairs, we collect our luggage and begin looking for a handicapped taxi. I call the correct taxi phone number, but my Spanish is so bad that no one can understand me. Acknowledging failure, Keith and I decide to wander farther down to taxiland. Keith pushes me the wrong way to the end of the line. Nope! Taxis leave in the order they entered, not to be changed for you, Mr. Greene. Following another futile phone call, we roll to the front of the line. The people directing the taxis find a bigger taxi for me, not handicap accessible. I learn that I can stand up and sit down in any car without much hassle really. Keith moves my legs into the cab after I sit on the seat.

The driver speaks English and takes us to our Airbnb rental. We’ve been instructed to call a Jordi who will come bearing keys and open the apartment. But Jordi never answers the phone! Our taxi driver approaches the cleaning lady, gets the correct phone number and calls for us. Turns out the phone number listed for Jordi hasn’t been his for two years.

We tip the driver heavily and heartily. He leaves. We sit next door to the apartment and have glass of wine. Jordi arrives with keys, lets us in and tries to collect the €150 deposit that we’ve already paid. We argue for a while before he leaves vowing to return tomorrow for the money. We do actually owe a €10 key deposit which Jordi doesn’t collect. I get on the Internet, contact the hosts, and ask them to call off Jordi.

Always good to have a place to call home if only for a week! We have the penthouse of a very small apartment. Squeezing really, really hard, rubbing Bird’s spokes, we get into the elevator. This trip will not be easy on poor Bird.

In our apartment, Keith puts some of our clothes away. From our terrace we can see Sagrada Familia, and the Agbar tower. Despite knowing its name, we never learn the purpose of the Agbar Tower. Keith notes that it looks like a large penis in the sky, often bathed with different colors of light. Perhaps this is a tribute to Spain’s machismo culture. Wait! We’re in Cataluña. Whatever.

We instantly fall in love with Barcelona. What a delightful city! And we sit in the middle of town, where everything remains open late into the night. We see greengrocers, ham places, places that sell meat, and shops with dairy products. Are we visiting in the real Europe with daily grocery shopping, choosing dinner on the way home from work?

We descend from our penthouse into the evening, shop at a small store buying milk, eggs and bacon for breakfast tomorrow. Bear takes our prizes upstairs and stashes them in the refrigerator. I await him on the street.

Hungry, we wander down the street and find a place selling tapas, called the Gent of Barri. We order some ham and fried peppers. A woman asks us if we want Catalan Bread. “Sure,” we say. “Why not?” we think to ourselves, primed for adventure. She takes a piece of toast, rubs it with garlic then tomato, creating a tasty treat which we greatly enjoy. We’ll be recreating Catalan bread in our kitchen in Denver.

Sated with tapas and wine, we return to our apartment to sleep for the night.  

Wednesday, September 30, 2015 To Frankfurt, To Frankfurt

Is there a certain insanity in going to Europe when you can no longer walk? When your body requires two half-hour naps daily? When you can no longer write or type? Of course there is! There is also a certain insouciance and joie de vivre. I thumb my nose at the nasty people who insist that I’m a cripple and now must do nothing but sit in a wheelchair until I die.

Travel for me requires accepting and operating under a completely different mindset. At home I have the power chair Sven. Sven gives me lots of the autonomy. I transfer in and out of him, make my own decisions about where I will go and when and buzz around the house and even the city. Travelling, I must adapt to amazing passivity. Losing agency and any pretense of autonomy, I sit in a manual chair awaiting kindness’ push. I get a lot of enforced rest. Anything I want I must request, reduced to waiting upon the whims of others. Sitting passively for a nine-and-a-half hour flight gives one good practice in patience. But my co-travelers regain control of their bodies when we land; I do not.

Who must agree to my mad travel schemes? Only the Bear, my delightful companion and love of my life. I would never want to journey anywhere without him and he has kindly agreed to push Bird, the manual wheelchair that we’ve named for her many flights overseas and that she permits me to still soar. Despite living in a manual chair, at any moment, I must flawlessly execute sit-to-stand. Sit-to-stand is a very difficult move at the best of times, made more difficult when your brain discredits the sturdiness of your hips. Physically, I must be able to walk ten feet between the bed and the bathroom. I rely heavily on the aid of Tinky the Walker. We take Bird and Tinky with us on all of our adventures. Both bear numerous scars courtesy of the airlines. Sven, my power chair, justifiably fears flying and stays home. Pearl, as a minivan, weighs far too much for airline transport. She remains in her garage and talks to Gimmy the Camry. She tries to put Gimmy up to mischief, but fails.

Enough woolgathering! Back to our Denver departure. Late afternoon, we take a cab to the airport, then go through the security hassle. At DIA, hordes of TSA employees carefully investigate every bit of Bird and me. After wasting a good bit of everyone’s time, they wave us through and we proceed out to Lufthansa’s boarding area.

Walking no longer an option for me, I’m forced to rely upon aisle chairs. As such, I’m the first to board. Bear follows in my wake. For the blissfully uninitiated, using an aisle chair involves two strong people (airline employees) who approach with the chair then strap you securely into it.  They roll the appropriately named chair along the aisles of the airplane. Once at your assigned seat, they lift and deposit you in your place. Once the aisle chair deposits you in your airline seat, you’re expected to stay there. How do I go ten hours without using the bathroom? I wear an adult diaper, of course.

By the time they finish strapping anyone in, they could just as easily transport a corpse on the chair. Keith wants to buy me a gag, so that I would also be silent while tied up. We all have our fantasies, but his will come to naught.

But why have aisle chairs at all? Airlines, of course, function primarily as cargo carriers. You may be human cargo, but are cargo nonetheless. The airline will deliver you to anywhere you contract. You entered into a contract when you purchased a ticket. Read the stuff with the ticket carefully and you’ll see a contract.

For years I thought that the airline was called Lufttanza or “Air Dance.” What a cool name, eh? I speak with a very German stewardess who corrects me. “No, we are Lufthansa.” Or “Air Company.” Boring! “But we have a stylized crane (bird) in our logo. Don’t you like the crane!?” the stewardess continues somewhat fiercely. Not desiring to be thrown off the plane, I hastily agree but silently remain disappointed.

Once deposited in my seat by the airline employees, Bear and I watch our co-travelers find their seats and settle in. I’ve never seen so many people on an airplane. We’ve paid for bigger seats or at least seats with more legroom room than given to the average bear. The seats give us an empty three feet in front of us. We have the sole unoccupied seat on the plane next to us, since apparently no one wanted to chunk out the extra $100 for the seat. But I tell you, we have more room than Economy Plus and we find it well worth the moolah.

The plane departs promptly at 5:30PM. I think all flights to Europe fly overnight. The flight crew keeps giving us more drinks. Every time a wine glass empties they refill it. I ask one of the attendants if they’re trying to keep us sedated. “Is this a plot?” I ask. “Yes,” she admits. I laugh. “No,” she then avers, “I mean no, no, no.”

Lufthansa also has individual computer screens at each seat. You can choose from a very wide range of movies, TV shows, music, spoken word etc. to entertain yourself. My screen is broken. But I hate TV anyway so it’s okay.

Duly sedated by both alcohol and Ambien, I sleep through much of the flight. Thank God for Ambien.

Friday, March 7, 2014—Home Again, Home Again, Jiggity-Jog

We awaken. After a minimal last breakfast on the road, we load ourselves once again into Pearl. With barely suppressed excitement, she heads north toward Amarillo. We’ve reached the last day of our long journey, and we all know it, none more than Pearl. Reaching I-40, we drive a bit west to Cadillac Ranch.

I’m excited by today’s only planned stop, Cadillac Ranch. For the uninitiated, in the 1970s an art group buried ten Cadillacs halfway in the Texas dirt, nose first, the fins and back of the cars remaining above ground. I read about Cadillac Ranch as a teenager. I remember the breathless excitement and buzz around who could possibly afford to spend that much money on art. I mean Cadillacs? The American dream car?

The creators of Cadillac Ranch must have spent all of their money on Cadillacs and allocated nothing for site preservation and defense. Boy am I disappointed! The boys approach the sculpture, noting many pieces have fallen off of or have been stolen from the cars, diminishing the whole. A cattle fence blocks Sven and me, keeping us out, but doesn’t stop any determined ambulatory person. Assholes have spray-painted all over the cars. Stalactites of paint drip off of the old cars. Yuck! The self-same vandals can’t even take their trash with them. Myriad empty spray paint cans litter the ground. (I later read that the artists encouraged vandalism of the vehicles. Yuck! What an ugly part of humanity. Why can’t people just leave things be?)

 Disillusioned, we jump back into Pearl. We stop at the next gas station to buy Advil, ice, coffee, bad donuts made from repulsive quasi-edible oil products (the Bear’s favorite) and tea.

We hope that luck rides with us for we have seven hours home at the very best. Unfortunately for us, the weather prophets have predicted snow for Denver.

Circling Amarillo, Pearl turns north on route 87. We plan on taking 87 through both Texas and New Mexico, then picking up I-25 where Colorado starts. But for now we’re still in Texas. We see a lot of last year’s dead yellow brown grass.  The land begins to roll. We see cotton fields, green and irrigated, the only green in the landscape.

Slowly, as the land rises, we begin to see mesas and scrub brush cloaked in winter’s brown. Off the roadside, we find dried deep red gullies and every once in a while a canyon. Pearl cruises through brilliant late winter sunshine oblivious to the clouds ahead.

We cross into New Mexico. Excitedly, we see mountains in the distance. Do we see glimpses of home? Uh-oh, not mountains—clouds. Pearl takes us farther into the state. Now we really do see a mountain here and there. First we see conical hills dotting the land, then more mesas higher and higher. Oh boy, we’re 20 miles from the Raton Mountains, where Colorado begins. We smell home! We see rain ahead but we have been seeing it for the past two hours. Pearl still basks in the sunlight.

Colorado now, we approach cloud-covered Raton Pass. As we ascend, driving up and over, we encounter rain and rain and rain. Dejectedly, we pass Walsenburg again. Educated now, we don’t stop at the atrocious Alpine Rose Cafe for tea. Per Bloodroot, only non-foodies and other war criminals eat there. The rain slackens a bit then takes a breather. We stop at a roadside rest and cook lunch.

After lunch, back on the road again, snow begins. Heading ever north, we merge with heavy traffic. I-25 forcefully teaches us that we really live in one big city that starts in Colorado Springs and ends in Fort Collins. A mere ten hours after we awoke in Texas, we land at our house. Boy is it good to be home!

What impressed me? The beauty of America, of course. I treasure my memory of Taos museums, Carlsbad Caverns, Big Bend National Park, Johnson Space Center, Lake Fausse, Avery Island, the Laura Plantation, historic battlefields, Sixth Floor Museum, and Poverty Point.  I loved meeting the different people in Terlingua, Texas, and Lafayette, Louisiana.

What touched my heart the most? I still think about how we live in the Denver wealth bubble, certainly compared to northern Louisiana. I hadn’t realized that the bubble didn’t extend beyond here. I am saddened by too much of our country living in poverty, still divided along racial lines, even all these years after we tried to change it.

We spent four weeks together, didn’t kill each other (though greatly tempted) AND still speak to each other, despite visions of duct tape covering mouths.

What treasures now grace our home? Looking through our new trinkets, we find a NASA Johnson Space Center Christmas ornament, a Laura plantation ornament, a Tabasco magnet an Alamo mission magnet and a Poverty Point State Park magnet. Keith believes that the refrigerator will fall through the floor due to the weight of the magnets. Altogether, this trip yields a coffee table book on samurai armor, eight more magnets, three coffee cups, a sweatshirt, a polo shirt and three Christmas ornaments.

And we have seen a part of America I never dreamt of seeing. I overcame my fear of Texas and Texans. I realized that I still don’t like drunks (New Orleans). I love history. We saw some official history (the battlefields) and unofficial but equally real history (the Laura Plantation & New Orleans parks). Life is good.

Fin

Thursday, March 6, 2014—Buddy Holly Sings Songs of Windmills

Bear wants to see the Buddy Holly Center. Bloodroot wants to see the Wind Power Museum. Of course we can tour both of these places in an hour. Right? Duh, Jody, make a decision. I decide on the Wind Power Museum as I fear the dreaded ear worms, songs I can’t get out of my head, emanating from Buddy Holly. I can’t bring any Buddy Holly songs to mind but I’m certain that once I heard any Buddy Holly song, it would spin in my head forever. Keith drops us off at the Wind Power Museum and disappears, driving over to the Buddy Holly Center.

At the Wind Power Museum, Bloodroot and I have our own personal guide. We learn that wind brings power—power we don’t think of back East and that windmills have been fundamental to Texans since the first settlements. We find a surprisingly environmental attitude at the heart of this museum in rural Texas, as our guide hugely supports the necessity of wind power in Texan history. “The industrial revolution,” he intones, “has its origins in the mill races used in Europe to grind corn (grain). Grain came first but remember that all ideas and inventions build upon the previous ideas and inventions.”

To wit—in 1606, the Governor of Virginia built the first US windmill, again to grind grain. It resembled a Dutch mill, but while Dutch mills remained stationary this one rotated on a post, spinning about to catch the wind.

Innovation in wind power moved west with the nation. With our near constant wind, windmills could be used to pump water, but never in a steady stream. The water spurts out as the gears spin around, reminding me of a hit-and-miss engine.

Windmills in Texas evolved with tails, looking rather like weathervanes, which would push the whole contraption into the wind. Later tails could fold up or fan out depending on the wind pressure. To catch the wind, a windmill’s blades would rotate a bit on their axes, presenting a larger surface for times of little wind. When the wind became too fierce, these same tails would flatten out the blades entirely, letting the wind pass through. A windmill without the ability to open and close would have blown itself to pieces in the force of the plains’ winds.

We also learned a bit about the first chain of restaurants that sprang up alongside the first trains. Railroad steam engines could travel forty miles before needing more water, leading the railroads built windmill powered pumping stations for water every forty miles. Towns began to grow up around the windmills where the trains would stop. Sensing economic potential, a man named Fred Harvey cut a deal with the railroads and began selling food in chain restaurants at the train stops. He hired women—the young, chaperoned, now famous “Harvey Girls.” Perhaps for the first time, women safely reveled in the freedom born of escaping the restrictions of the East, earning decent money and traveling somewhere distant on their own.

As Western settlement progressed, windmills dotted the landscape. So, we learn, the country grew up with the power provided for free by the wind. We had only to harness it.

I remember dad’s family stories of Williston, North Dakota and his disgust that, “we didn’t even have electric.” But they had two windmills. One windmill pumped water while another on the roof produced electricity on demand for my grandfather’s radio. Family lore avers that when grandfather Andrew switched on the electric windmill atop the shanty, the roof sounded as though it would fly off any second.

FDR brought electricity to the masses via the REA (Rural Electrification Authority). Local co-ops sprang up across the country. Everyone now had electricity and the windmills faded into western dreams. When I picture old farms, I always see a windmill pumping water in the background. Think Dorothy Gale!

Now, of course, we have huge new windmills dotting the land, spinning when demand rises, explaining the silence of so many windmills. The mills start up as needed.

Per Bloodroot "My parents before they were eaten by windmills."

We take some photos of ourselves by the numerous windmills as Bear returns from the Buddy Holly Center, a museum he thoroughly enjoyed. The Center has huge Buddy Holly glasses out front. Many country musicians hail from this area. The museum celebrates the music of Lubbock and west Texas including Waylon Jennings, Roy Orbison, Bobby Keyes, Tanya Tucker, Joe Ely, Butch Hancock, the Gatlin brothers, Jimmy Dale Gilmore, and Delbert McClinton. Is there a desperation in the soil that drives so many to the uncertain career of flickering fame? Are there no other jobs? No other way out?

The town constructed the museum in the old train station—in Bear’s opinion, the best repurposing of an old train station ever. I vehemently disagree. “What about the Orsay?” I counter. (The Musee d’Orsay, an amazing impressionism museum, is housed in the old Art Nouveau Orleans train station in Paris.) “Okay, okay,” says Bear, accepting defeat, “the best repurposing in the United States.”

We pile into the car and head north to Amarillo. We stop at the Palo Duro Canyon, our original plan for today. Amidst the endless North Texas cotton fields, a vast Canyon opens. Pearl takes a road that goes down, down, down. “Am I driving to Hades?” the classically trained van asks.

We arrive at the Canyon around 2 PM. At the visitor center, we learn that Palo Duro was the site of the Comanches’ and Quanah Parker’s last stand in 1874. We’ve obsessed on Quanah Parker since reading Empire of the Summer Moon, a most excellent book all about the Comanches. In our travels, we have often sought Quanah, but have come up empty-handed. Here we finally strike gold and read all about his final military defeat, another point in the closing of the western frontier.

Next, the exhibits cover the geography of the Canyon featuring the various rock layers. I’m ashamed to say that I don’t remember a thing.

The CCC (Civilian Conservation Corps) built the road down to the canyon floor—two companies of blacks and two of whites. The CCC, a famous New Deal program started during the Depression, originally planned to hire 18 to 25 year-old men. Soon the program expanded to include World War I veterans. The men lived in military barracks, obeyed military rules, worked forty hours a week, and attended mandatory education classes.

The Corps built the visitor center into the cliff using carefully matched rock. Today people drive by it unwittingly because it blends so well with the natural surroundings.

Loading ourselves back into Pearl, we leave the visitor center and head for the bottom of the canyon. We cook a picnic lunch. Keith and Bloodroot leave at 4 PM for a 6-mile hike out on Lighthouse Trail.

I read. I watch the sun illuminate different stripes of rock layers, wishing I had retained some knowledge from the visitor center. The multihued canyon changes color suddenly and repeatedly as the afternoon wanes. I wonder if the boys will have enough sense to turn around before night falls. As the evening approaches, the light accentuates the different rock formations.

The boys wisely return around six. They speak of encountering the biggest mass of bluebirds they’d ever seen. They also met a couple lugging plein air supplies to paint out in the canyon, creating beautiful paintings in which they justifiably took great pride. The artists argue between themselves as to whether they found hauling all the supplies worthwhile.

Reunited, we pack up and direct Pearl to our last hotel, this one a mere thirty minutes distant in South Canyon, Texas. Tomorrow, our final feat, we face a seven-hour journey home.

Wednesday, March 5, 2014—Samurai Cross Texas

Waking once more at our miserable Dallas Airbnb, we cook a hearty breakfast of bacon and eggs. I had forgotten how much I abhor air mattresses. I can’t say that any of us slept soundly, comfortably, or well, except maybe Barkley back at his house in Indiana. The noise of the air pumps starting up, then clattering to a halt, plus the serious discomfort of the mattress had us up most of the night. Following breakfast, we wash up and leave quickly, glad to be shut of the place. And Airbnb asks for a review. We delegate this chore to Bloodroot, hoping he can approach this task with more discretion than I can summon at the moment as I continue to bitch.

Today we plan to drive five hours from Dallas to Lubbock. Bloodroot interjects, “Mom, Dad, the Kimbell Museum in Fort Worth, Texas has a wonderful traveling exhibit of samurai armor. I saw this show when I lived in Paris. It’s fantastic. I could see it twenty times! Also, Fort Worth lies one hour west of Dallas, on the way. Traveling there first will knock an hour off of our drive later today.”

All animals and Pearl in agreement, Bear steers Pearl around the outer perimeter of Dallas, catches I-30 and cruises over to the Kimbell Art Museum. Bear immediately approves of the museum’s architecture, split into two buildings, with parking underground. The buildings look mid-century modern although built much later. The original Kahn building (1972, named for the architect) has multiple rounded glass roofs that resemble a greenhouse. Piano (2013, an Italian architect) designed his building to blend seamlessly with the earlier, yet added environmental sensibilities through material choice and by maximizing the use of natural light. This building fits snugly into the land, one story aboveground, mirroring the Kahn’s height, with a colonnaded pavilion and over-hanging glass eaves.

After parking Pearl underground, we use the handy elevator to ascend to museum level. We enter and pay at the Piano building, finding the traveling samurai armor collection to the left of the lobby. Viewed from the foyer, the armor looks like creations in bamboo. Upon closer examination, we find the armor comprised of myriad small half-inch to two-inch lacquered iron pieces sewn together. The design provides maximum protection while retaining vitally important flexibility. How much of someone’s life would be consumed making even one set of armor?

The armor covered every bit of a warrior’s body with chest pieces, shin guards and leggings. As the samurai covered and guarded their faces too, intricate helmets sprout grand dragons or other scary things. The helmets have a hole beneath the chin to release sweat. Although indispensable, the armor must have been bloody hot.

The military samurai class devoted their lives to the art of war, perfecting their use of arrows, swords, spears and, in time, guns. The Japanese quickly copied the Portuguese match lock rifle, and guns eventually played an important role in their feudal wars. In response, armor evolved plates—better for deflecting bullets. Despite all the advances in firearms, proficiency in archery remained important to showcase an individual’s warrior aptitude.

Samurai also armored their horses. I find the dragons’ heads on the horse face masks compelling. This armor, also comprised of a multitude of small iron bits, shows as much care in its creation as the human armor. A mounted warrior without his trusty steed isn’t worth much, eh? Imagine teaching a horse, your military partner, to fight covered in all that hot stuff.

The Samurai Armor show comes to the DAM (Denver Art Museum) in March 2016.

Following the armor, we visit the permanent collection, first in the Piano building. The museum has adopted a refreshingly minimalist tack, displaying only one or two items per era or culture and then moving on. We see a very good old Greek vase featuring the Goddess Nike, and some Egyptian pieces, one still bearing ancient paint. We find viewing fewer objects far easier than the three days we once spent in the Louvre.

We cross over to the Kahn building which holds European art after 1800. We enjoy green Impressionist paintings (Monets),  a few Picassos, and my favorite, a very cool Van Gogh with a yellow sky, blue and brown houses, and green vegetation with stunning red spots. That boy was such a master of color.

The Kahn building also houses the Museum Café, where we buy small lunch plates of excellent food, slowly savoring our delicious relaxing lunch. Many museums now lease their restaurants to people having appropriate culinary expertise as opposed to art history skills. The Kimbell correctly considers the fare good enough to sell the restaurant cookbook in the gift shop. On our way out, we gaze at the book, but decline, buying only a coffee mug and a large coffee table book depicting the samurai armor.

Still having far to travel today, we roll back to the parking garage, reunite with Pearl and drive away around 2:30.

We pick up I-30 again which quickly melds into I-20. Westward ho! We head for Abilene, Lubbock and our proverbial home in the west. Casting a sideways glance at my husband, I note that as his beard grows, Keith more and more resembles one of his rugged Scottish ancestors from the Hebrides. Once he would have piloted a sailing ship in the North Atlantic; now he guides Pearl across the North American plains.

During the afternoon, the land changes throughout our four-hour excursion.

First we see fields newly plowed—field after field after field—awaiting cotton seed. Or perhaps already impregnated, seeds holding their breath, waiting for the sun to warm the land before sprouting out of brown-red earth. The few trees on our route haven’t yet shed winter’s gray coat to leaf out and greet the glory of spring.

The land dries and rises morphing into vast cattle ranches and mesas. Passing by Abilene, we listen to Dave Alvin sing Abilene. Bloodroot and I sing along loudly, irritating Bear.

Further west, the earth becomes too dry for cattle. Slowly desert scrub conquers the land, littered with hundreds of oil wells. Once again, we drive through a petrochemical haze. Are we in Texas or Louisiana?

The windmill farms appear. Some of the tall white windmills spin, some stand silently awaiting digital orders.

Fifty miles past Abilene, we exit the freeway, turning northwest toward Lubbock. We again pass freshly plowed, newly seeded fields, followed by wind farms on the drier land, spotted with cattle ranches and long thin mesas. We see oil wells again. Then, once again, we return to newly plowed cotton fields. The world looks flat as far as the eye can see.

Pulling into town at dusk, we seek tonight’s Airbnb. Back and forth, up and down we drive. Although spread out, Lubbock is not a big place, but spaciness and road weariness hinder our search. Finally, as full night descends, we find our quarry. The Airbnb, a house among others on an unremarkable street, sports nothing to guide us save its address.

Grateful for this lovely little place, the boys unload Pearl, bringing in suitcases and food. Our Airbnb host Shawn acquired a former home for unwed mothers, which he updates as funds allow. The atmosphere is more hostel-like than anywhere we have stayed thus far during our adventure. We have our own bathroom and bedroom but share a kitchen.

Shawn takes in “strays,” much as Bear accuses me of doing. He gives second chances to people down and out, provided that they wish to go to seminary in Lubbock, a city with numerous evangelical Christian religious schools.

Working together (Shawn, his protégé John, Bear, Bloodroot and I) we create a yummy communal dinner. I chop vegetables as my contribution to the stir fry. We talk over dinner. The boys clean up. Shawn and John retire to watch TV, sinful or not, while we head for bed.

Tuesday, March 4, 2014—My Time at the Re-education Center

Awakening in our lousy Airbnb, Barkley eschews complaints. Naturally, his youth permits comfortable repose on an air mattress. He feels that this trip should crush our souls, the quintessential point in touring America, n’est-ce pas? He expresses concern that even this Airbnb will fail him in his quest, but considers last night’s privations a valiant attempt.

Leaving the Airbnb after breakfast, we drive downtown to visit the George W. Bush Presidential Library and Museum. Barkley insists upon touring this hellhole, considering it the natural destination of all liberal nihilists and catastrophe chasers.

We park and bid Pearl farewell for a time. She curls up for a nap. We amble up to security line, greeting Barkley’s friend Geung, a Dallas resident meeting us at the museum. Geung appears to be a nice, normal young Asian-American woman. We later learn, according to Barkley, that she writes poetry about roadkill and English on masking tape. So much for normal.

Perhaps due to the gun zealotry amongst Bush followers, we face close scrutiny as we pass through airport type screening. Sven causes the usual confusion. Security, after being stumped for a bit, finally waves us through. 

The museum costs sixteen dollars each. I begin loudly contemplating suicide. Barkley treats, silencing my raucous protests. Upon payment, the ticket people give us “43” stickers to wear, commemorating Bush’s tenure as the forty-third president. Since the Bush regime produced nothing substantial or positive, the museum chose a number as his legacy, a wise alternative to recounting his endless missteps.

Most of the other patrons of the library fit into the 70- to 80-year-old demographic, comfortable with casual racism and Bob Evans’ Restaurant. The volunteer docents, uniformly white, seventy-year-old women, sport dyed blonde hair. They wear skirts, nylons and heels, their blue-eyed blonde sameness exuding a nasty, ice princess, forbidding upper-middle-classdom. Finding their hiveminds as indistinguishable as their appearance, we quickly abandon any attempt to tell them apart, simply addressing everyone as “ma’am.” This may have saved our lives. Periodically, hordes of schoolchildren careen through the exhibits, blissfully unaware of the brainwashing to come.

Following the ritual admission price fleecing, we enter the room holding the visitor archive, known here as the “Freedom Registry.” The boys and Geung sign the guest book. Already spooked, my hackles up, I just can’t sign it. Perhaps I want no record that I ever visited a place of such darkness, but, oh yeah, I’m blogging.

The museum’s first exhibit features a collection of presents given the States by various countries during Bush the Lesser’s regime, by far the Library’s best exhibit. Afghanistan gave us a priceless sapphire. Berlusconi (Italy) gave us some very nicely designed jewelry. The States received a lapis lazuli candelabra and a miniature pottery house from the Dominican Republic. Other presents include a painted gourd from Mexico, a doll-sized house from Guatemala, a jewel-encrusted bowl from Qatar, a sterling silver and gold sculpture of Jerusalem from Israel and a handmade shawl from Burma. Many countries lavished riches upon us; I find the most poignant gifts given by people who have so little to give. I appreciate them; I hope that the Bushes did. If you lived in Guatemala, what would you give to appease your nuclear-armed, gun-toting, homicidal neighbor to the north? I never do find out what we give other countries in exchange.

The Library has the best displays money can buy, all very high tech-looking. In the next room, which could easily hold a few hundred people, we lift our eyes high on the walls. Pricey projectors beam a slickly-produced video featuring numerous multiracial people exuberantly dancing as they celebrate Bush’s presidency, deliriously joyful to live under Republican rule. Although intended to be inspiring as we must raise both our eyes and hearts upward, the show fails, proffering no context whatsoever, just insipidly running in an endless loop.

The Library holds no books anywhere, adding fuel to the fire of my belief that the boy can’t read. Just like Chauncey Gardiner, eh? Why would you need to read to be president? After all, God forbid, reading may give birth to an independent thought not approved by your handlers.

Walking into the next room, my dénouement begins. We face a massive interactive display detailing precisely how Bush stole the 2000 election. I’d forgotten his strong resemblance to Howdy Doody. Once again, I see and relive that puppet becoming president, deftly pilfering the election. Greatly disturbed, my stomach churning, I recall Jeb Bush’s manipulation of the Florida electoral results. Could anything beat having your brother, the Governor of Florida, rig the vote giving you the presidency? The butterflies in my stomach grow exponentially, bouncing about the organ trying to escape.

Queasy, yet moving forward, we watch a movie where Bush promulgates his platform of faith-based initiatives, a program designed to steal the government’s money and give it to churches. Why would anyone expect separation of church and state, the idea our country was founded upon? The only break in the bullshit comes via one small sidebar where Yahweh gives George the strength to quit drinking at forty. Of note, we also see Bush up against some comedian in a Bush mask trying to say nuclear. “Nu ka ler” Bush and the comedian both say.

For our next treat we visit an Oval Office replica, arrayed as an exact copy of the room during Bush the Lesser’s reign. Left of the desk we find a painting of Laura Bush, nose held high in the air as she walks two small dogs on the white house lawn. I’m sure Laura considers herself too refined and important to clean up after her dogs. Certainly, she carries no poop bag. After all, cleaning up shit remains the province of minorities and poor people, their due station in life.

Barkley mirrors Laura’s pose in front of the painting, nostrils elevated. Fortunately, no rain falls in either the painting or on Barkley; otherwise someone would drown. We gather behind the desk for a photo-op. Avoiding the strategically placed professional photographer, Barkley snaps our picture.

I breeze through the remaining museum rooms, remembering the lies and the idiocy. Was Bush the Lesser the worst president ever? I recall he began his reign with a budget surplus, which he quickly gave away to the wealthy via unsustainable tax cuts. Then he invented weapons of mass destruction as justification to start an unprovoked war in Iraq, destabilizing the Middle East while chasing after some demented vision of “finishing Daddy’s work.” Using this excuse, he gave trillions to his vice president Dick Cheney’s Halliburton. Supremely incompetent, Halliburton quickly lost the war. Icing the cake, Bush crashed the economy, leaving Obama to pick up the mess.

I can’t take any more. The place creeps me out. George W. Bush and his handlers have crushed my soul. Bear and I exit to the courtyard coffee stand which unfortunately sells Starsucks. Denied even a good cup of chai, I buy a hot tea. Bear likes Starsucks coffee and orders one. He has the gift of contentment, even under the most trying of circumstances. We sit out in the sunshine. I breathe deep healing breaths, doing my best to quell the massive unease overtaking me. We plot our escape but fail. We can’t abandon our fellow travelers in the museum from hell and I just can’t bring myself to go back in there.

Meanwhile, the boys and Geung continue the tour, greatly enjoying themselves, free and untroubled as they laugh at the displays. Barkley convinces the others that I’ve been forcibly taken to a re-education center.

They visit the much touted Decision Center video game. Situations – Katrina, Iraq, Afghanistan – appear on a central screen, as the game gives each player a list of four equally stupid choices. (Example: 1. Commit suicide; 2. Destroy the economy; 3. Invade Iraq; 4. Drill for oil in Maine.) Strangely, no matter what they choose, the correct choice is always whatever Bush did. Bush himself appears on the central screen to explain this to them, defending the indefensible from Hussein’s assassination to the Invasion of New Orleans. The trio remains unconvinced.

Wandering outside, our kids find us as I lie cringing in the courtyard. They hurriedly bundle me into Pearl. Pearl snorts awake and we make good our escape.

I knew from the onset that the museum would be at best a joke and at worst an edifice to the most reprehensible aspects of our society. What I didn’t expect was that it would disturb me so much. My soul has been duly crushed by the weight of the bullshit at the Bush Museum. Barkley, that advocate of Satan, has achieved his objective in a way a horrible Airbnb never could.

Delighted by my release from the re-education center yet concerned about my mental health, Geung suggests the Cosmic Cafe for lunch, a local vegan Indian place. Driving over to the restaurant we ponder, who is worse? Huey P. Long or George W. Bush? What would Long have done, had he become president? Would he have carried out some of his populist schemes, improving the lives of so many, while enriching himself? Or just steal lots of money by giving it to random connected corporations like Bush did? We pause and think, preparing for a later discussion.

We park Pearl and enter the Cosmic Café. Taking a seat, we note that the menu features vegetables. YES! We need to remember to eat vegetarian on the road as a viable alternative to questionable meat and grease.

We discuss Geung’s just published book of poems with her, called Foreigner’s Folly. The wannabe writers in the group sigh, acknowledging their jealousy at her success. She and Barkley attended Notre Dame’s Creative Writing Master’s Degree program together. Geung, of Korean heritage, moved to the States at fourteen; she has always felt caught between the two cultures. A performance poet, she once gave a poetry reading at a café near the university (Notre Dame), wearing a ski mask with a flowered dress and talking into a voice modulator to make her sound like an evil robot. The café soon went out of business – coincidence? Impressed by her awesome power, I want to read her poems.

Leaving the restaurant, we bid Geung good luck; she gives us a signed copy of her poetry. We head over to the Sixth Floor Museum (aka the Kennedy Museum), sadly located in the book depository where Oswald shot John F. Kennedy (JFK) fifty years ago.

This museum lacks the intense security of the Bush Museum, odd in a way given the centrality of the assassination legacy. However, this museum also charges sixteen dollars a person for entry. Today we have a sale price of $12 each, no explanation given. We gratefully accept the reduced rate. We receive no presidential number stickers or any stickers actually, either because JFK’s legacy outshines a number or the more logically situated admissions counter prevents free entry.

Like the George W. Bush Museum (though to a much lesser extent), this museum doesn’t dwell on Kennedy’s mistakes. We see displays about the Bay of Pigs, but not about the escalation of the Vietnam War. Triumphantly we hear about Khrushchev moving the Cuban missiles, but silence over our moving missiles out of Turkey in response. Of course, JFK didn’t do the incredibly stupid corrupt things that Bush did. The Sixth Floor Museum ends with Obama’s inauguration as a shout-out to Kennedy’s Civil Rights policies, although Lyndon Johnson (LBJ) carried them out.

Using much less expensive displays than the Bush Library, the Kennedy Museum captures the heady ebullience of the early sixties, a time when our young president and country could do no wrong. We step back into a shining moment in our collective history just before drugs and the disaster of Vietnam rubbed our public noses in our arrogance and incompetence. We watch Bob McNamara join the Kennedy administration to serve his country, leaving Ford Motor Company and taking a huge pay cut.

Kennedy founds the Peace Corps. I reflect upon his 1961 Inaugural Address’ admonition: “Ask not what your country can do for you — ask what you can do for your country.” We still believed in America the new, a shining beacon of freedom and democracy to replace tired old Europe. I feel inspired once again, if only briefly.

Unfortunately, the museum focuses too much on the sensationalism of Kennedy’s assassination. Too many exhibits discuss the assassination in minute detail. I scan them, hoping to avoid dwelling upon this unsavory moment in our country’s past. I desperately attempt to avoid crying and fail.

One exhibit commands my attention. In the “corner of shame,” books pile around set up exactly as they were fifty years ago. The museum invites you to step into the gunman’s shoes, standing exactly where Oswald did all those years ago. Anybody could have shot JFK from this vantage point.

The final exhibit shows opinion polls over the past fifty years. Who is the best president ever? JFK? Lincoln? FDR? Kennedy’s numbers rise through time.

One new idea occurs to me. LBJ carried out JFK’s ideas, including Vietnam. Controversy exists as to whether or not Kennedy would have escalated Vietnam into the morass it became. But what about the good things? Without JFK’s untimely death, would we have civil rights? Would we have gone to the moon? Or would these initiatives have been shot down or stalled by Congress? Did our citizens allow massive societal changes to respect the death of the president?

Leaving the museum, we take Barkley out to the airport. Along the traffic-stalled highway, we deliberate the legacies of two men of evil: George W. Bush vs. Huey P. Long. We recall our Huey Long audiobook we heard while still in Louisiana. Long began as a populist, promising free textbooks to schoolchildren and roads for Louisiana. Surprisingly elected governor after successfully challenging the planter aristocracy, he delivered on both these promises. The week he fulfilled his campaign commitments, the Louisiana House impeached him. His entire focus then shifted to massive theft and the annihilation of anyone who opposed him.

Brilliant, unscrupulous, and amazingly energetic, he completely controlled Louisiana during his seven-year reign of terror (1928 to 1935). He hounded enemies, destroyed their businesses, tricked them with rigged voting machines, and once tied a few up in a swamp until they saw the light. Elected to the US Senate in 1932, he vigorously, comically, fought all New Deal programs out of jealousy. (Long didn’t invent the New Deal, so he despised it.)

In Baton Rouge, in 1935, an assassin shoots him. Long’s bodyguards take out the assassin with thirty rounds fired from automatic weapons. The bodyguards hurriedly carry Long, shot in the abdomen, to the hospital. Two surgeons, the best in the state, rush to save him, crashing their car in transit. An incompetent doctor, appointed by Huey for political reasons, botches the operation. Huey dies, though the Long machine controls Louisiana politics for a few more years, eventually falling to infighting and federal indictments.

Now who is more evil? George W. Bush or Huey P. Long? We debate.

Although strikingly unintelligent, Bush managed to bankrupt the country, wasting our patrimony on ludicrous tax cuts and giving trillions to Halliburton; start two wars no one can win; and blow up the economy. Derailed easily by groupthink, Bush lacked Long’s narcissism and utter ruthlessness. Could you imagine Huey P. Long with nuclear weapons? The States would be a desolation. And with that realization, we crown Huey P. Long far more evil than George W. Bush.

Dropping Barkley at the airport, we bid him a fond farewell. He’s been a wonderful co-traveler and worthy fellow road scholar as we courageously explore America.

Before returning to our crummy Airbnb, we stop at the conveniently located Whole Foods to procure something for dinner. The cashier tells us, in deference to his personal sanity, that he has never visited the GW Bush Museum. GW Bush, we learn, shops at the other Dallas Whole Foods, surrounded by a bevy of Secret Service people. As an American, I’m so proud that I get to pay for this.

Back at the ranch, we make a wonderful dinner of chicken, potatoes, and green beans. This Airbnb, the worst we have ever leased, lacks all cooking equipment. Fortunately, we carry our own. Yeah! Real food! We contemplate another night on the horrid air mattresses, realizing that things could be worse. We could be Bush or his children.