Ukrainian President Viktor Yushchenko was upbeat for the ribbon cutting ceremony for his countries first Burger King.

“This is a proud moment for all Ukrainians.’ he exclaimed.

The emergence of chain burger restaurant will phase out the old Soviet-style restaurants which required citizens to supply their own food, cooking utensils, and stoves.

“Basically, the Soviet restaurants were simply windowless concrete rooms with some tables.  But never enough chairs.” said Yushchenko. “The name ‘Burger King’ also has a nice ring to it.  Much finer than “Feeding Establishment 14-A’ as we had during Soviet rule.  It’s also nice that food is provided at the restaurant.’

After an aggregate eight hours spent on the phone with airlines, online ticket agents, consulate officials (actually lifeless, monotone, recorded consulate officials), and the State Department it was apparent that I would not be leaving the country this summer.  Not for the lack of trying, but possibly the lack of money.

I was planning on spending five to six weeks in Brazil.  After attending my friend’s wedding in Hollywood and a nine day galavant around the state of California, in addition to the gargantuan task of securing a Brazilian visa (now I know how the rest of the world feels trying to get into this country)  time and money would not allow for anything north of two weeks in Brazil on a strict budget.  When I go to Brazil, largest of the South American countries, two weeks and strict budget cannot be part of the deal.  That would be something like trying to ‘see’ New York City with fourteen dollars in about forty five minutes.

The backup plan?  Colombia or maybe Peru to meet up with my hiking buddy Keith from last year’s adventure.  But by then it would be too pricey to fly down and Keith was hiking mountains I should only look at. He’s a seasoned veteran but even he still managed to have a run in with some pretty nasty frostbite.  I really wasn’t interested in spending too little time in a place too far way only to come home with my face half-fallen off.  Europe?  It costs at least two hundred dollars just thinking about flying to Europe.  Asia?  Next year, maybe.

The good thing about living in Maine is that it is awesome–especially in the summer months.  It was time to give up the prospect of international travel for the summer and dig in the heels for a summer of Maine living.  And I am really glad that I did.

Here’s why:

1.  Family.  My brother and his wife and kiddos visited form Colorado, which is always a great time.  Watching Red Sox games in the comfort of the folks’ house was a step above going to some painstakingly slow internet cafe in Latin America to get results of the games.

2.  Artwork. There was lots of time to continue working on projects that i have started.  I also started a new series of black and white portraits.  It started with Biggie Smalls and a few other rappers, and is now winding it’s way through the realm of mobsters and general bad asses.  So maybe that’s what the theme is: those who ye shall not mess with.

3. Friends: It’s funny how traveling in places like Colombia and Bolivia that you don’t run into old friends from high school.  Staying in Franklin County for the summer lends itself to that much better.  My friend Matt came into town from DC a couple of times.  I see him a few times a year but never in the summertime, which brings me to:

4. Rafting: Every year, while I am away a group of the guys heads up to the Penobscot River for three nights of camping and fun filled days of rafting.  The Penobscot River is my favorite river to run.   Beginning at the base of a dam in a steep gorge it winds its way southeast over waterfalls and  many rapids.  Most rapids are easily accessible from the road, making it easy to put in anywhere we want, for any amount of time.  Sixteen of us, one raft, a few coolers, and about 15 thousand pounds of meat posted up on a riverside campsite for the weekend.

My friend Erik used to guide river trips and has since bought his own raft and gear.  We pay for his gas and food and he takes us down the river.  Sweet deal.  It’s great because beyond the basic guidelines of  staying alive on a river we don’t need to adhere to rules of rafting companies.  Stopping to jump off rocks, check.  Letting two people man a six person raft to surf a rapid, check.  Refreshments to beat the heat, check.

5. Camping: If you’re going to be in Maine during the summer you may as well spend some of the time outside camping.  The summer was highlighted by three major camping trips: one to down east Maine, one down to Massachusetts (feel weird writing that), and the last, possibly the most epic camping adventure I have ever been on, happened up on Spencer Bay in Moosehead Lake.  For some reason, my friend’s 2001 digital camera ate the pictures I took so here’s an old one:

6.  Concerts: Fresh off retirement, Phish rolled through the east and finished off its summer tour up in Saratoga Springs, NY.  Saratoga Performing Arts Center (SPAC) is my favorite east coast music venue and I have never regretted the six hour drive to get there.  It is an amphitheater set in a state park, rife with woods and streams.  The hardest part is finding your way through the labyrinth of wooded parking lots to your vehicle after the show–it took us an hour and a half.

The band sounded great.  It’s interesting how people are more inclined to perform better at their daily tasks (whether it’s playing in a band or remembering to do things like eat and sleep) when not completely out of their minds on pharmaceutical drugs.  The band seemed happy and the music was tight–or as tight as any jam band music can be.  I went to the show with my long time friend Tim and ran into our buddy Sully, who can count the amount of shows he missed on the summer tour on one hand.  I think he is enjoying having a successful business that he can work from home (or on tour) with Phish simultaneously touring the country.  Not sure, but I think he likes it okay.

sss

Hudack and I were spent by the time we got to our friend Joe Petsche’s house. The effects of the Armenian wedding the day before lingered with us for the five hour drive up desolate Interstate 5 to Joe’s place in Salinas. It was time for relaxation and a break from the fast pace of Los Angeles. It was time to get up to one of the most relaxing places in the world: Humboldt County, California.

Joe, Hudack and I became friends at Humboldt State University in a small town called Arcata, which is about five hours north of San Francisco. Back in 1999 we found ourselves with a weekend of absolutely nothing to do before school started. From perpetually rainy Arcata we took a memorable trip up to Eugene, Oregon, which among other events was the final resting place of the car’s alternator and the point of origin for our friendship.

We stayed the night at Joe’s place in Salinas, which is close to Monterrey Bay. In the morning he explained that Salinas is the ‘lettuce capitol of the world.’ Lettuce, fast food, and gangs, is how Joe explained the delicate balance of life in Salinas, but he and his girlfriend got a good deal on a nice house there and it’s close to where they study/profess at San Jose State University.

Humboldt, our destination for the trip north, is a stunning place. The coast features intermittent immense rocky cliffs and sandy beaches. The interior is filled with towering redwood trees, mountains and cool winding rivers. Fortunately for us, as beautiful as Humboldt scenery is the ride north along the 101 from Humboldt is nearly as sweet.

We had four days to conquer the old college stomping grounds and had a list of places to hit during the stay. Here are the highlights:

MOONSTONE BEACH

This was the ultimate hangout in college. Frisbee, bonfires, rock climbing faces, relaxing, sunsets…And if those didn’t interest you then it was time to check your pulse and see if you have a heart beat.

Low tide exposes caves at Moonstone. I once saw Hudack catch a live fish with his bare hand close to this cave. Hudack has done some amazing things in his life but that ranks up there with the time he fell through our patio roof trying to secure a sound spot to watch the sunrise.

Hippies sit on a log at Moonstone Beach discussing pertinent hippie issues.

Scenes like this is a big reason why people show up to this beach.

MOUTH OF THE KLAMATH RIVER

Kinda pretty, I guess.

The Mouth of the Klamath is a wildlife paradise. Fish stream into the ocean from the river only to be eaten by seals like these. The seals face the constant threat of being liquidated by a whale or a shark, which at times make themselves visible.  It’s like a free Sea World without the families from Indiana in matching t-shirts and hats feeding the wildlife nachos.

Even bears love the huge population of fish at the mouth of the Klamath for some reason.

FERN CANYON

This little stream carved this dramatic canyon with vertical walls covered in ferns. Usually, it seems, there is a human vs. elk standoff at the entrance to the canyon because they (the elk) are drawn to the stream for water and they (the people) are often less than artful in dealing with wildlife in ‘their’ path.  Even better is when a hippie has to restrain his hippie-dog from attacking the elk: “Marley! No! Chill, Man! Stay, bro!”

Looking up, out of the canyon.

Joe poses to make the canyon walls seem taller than they really are.

THE TRINITY RIVER

One of my favorite places in the world is traveling inland in Humboldt County to the Trinity River, one of a few pristine winding rivers through the mountainous countryside. The temperature is anywhere from 10-20 degrees warmer than the coast though it is only about 45 miles inland. The water is cool but the air is hot so it is ideal for floating and swimming, The only sketchy part is getting down there. This picture shows approximately where our rental car would have landed if we hadn’t missed the Jeep that was coming the opposite way around the corner.

It never required being held at gun point to swim in river water that looked this nice.

Spots like this are hard to access but once you are there you become thankful that it’s that way–thankful, for instance, that it isn’t inundated with heaps of people with big silver boom boxes blaring Def Leopard using the river are their personal aluminum can recycling bin.

THE COMMUNITY FOREST, ARCATA, CA

This redwood forest sits just beyond the back doors of the university.  It has miles of trails winding all around the hills behind school.  It also served as a fine alternative to going to classes.

You can always tell that you’re in a redwood forest because all the trees will be really tall.

This jaunt through redwood country made me realize how important it is to stay connected with this amazing area of the world.  It felt great to just aim the car in any direction we wished, seeing sights that we either took for granted or were too busy to get to back in the college days.

Most of my friends have moved away from there and have become real functioning people:  I teach art in Maine, Hudack gave up bare-hand fishing and now works with computers in Baltimore, and Joe Petsche is now a professor of Geology at San Jose State.  We have plenty of excuses of why it is hard to get back to the place, but letting six more years lapse before heading there again will be a crime.

]]> http://pilgrims3.wordpress.com/2009/07/10/hollywood-up-to-redwood/feed/ 3 saratoga85 DSC05627 DSC05583 DSC05597 DSC05613 DSC05622 DSC05652 DSC05710 DSC05704 DSC05718 DSC05745 DSC05744 DSC05756 DSC05852 DSC05801 DSC05844 DSC05925 DSC05880 DSC05924 http://pilgrims3.wordpress.com/2009/07/01/the-armenian-wedding/ http://pilgrims3.wordpress.com/2009/07/01/the-armenian-wedding/#comments Wed, 01 Jul 2009 22:10:13 +0000 saratoga85 http://pilgrims3.wordpress.com/?p=554 ]]> Back in January of 1999 I met Claude as he carried boxes through the hallway of our dorm. We were about to start the spring semester at Humboldt State University in northern California and it was the first day for transfer students to move in.

“Are you 21?” I greeted him as he walked by visibly exhausted.

He looked at me incredulously like I had insulted a family member. It seemed like a fine enough question to me. At that stage of my life I possessed a vigorous curiosity of peoples ages and I didn’t know how old he was. Simply a question.

“Hey man, I just drove like 12 hours. Let me get my car unloaded first, okay?” he replied a bit agitated.

Once he settled in he was more open to talk. Claude, as it turned out, was twenty one or over. He was also from San Fernando Valley just north of Los Angeles and  is the first Iranian-born Armenian I have ever met, which being from Maine should surprise no one. (Maine’s diverse ancestry hailing from France all the way over the channel to England and Ireland). Claude is part of the Armenian community in Los Angeles and speaks with a lot of pride about his Armenian friends and family.

Back in college whenever Claude got homesick for LA we gave him these 3D glasses that made everything look like a club full of pretty Armenian girls with shots of Patron listening to Carlos Santana.

There were a dozen or so people placed in the overflow dorm which served as a holding pen for transfer students until something opened up in the proper dorms. The upside was there were no RA’s to oversee our actions and because of this there really were no downsides to living there. Claude and myself, as well as some of the others became close friends over the next few years. Through living in the dorms and renting houses and apartments together a good core of friends and fond memories developed.

Years later news came in that Claude was getting married. My longtime college roommate and friend Adam Hudack and I drew up plans to head to Hollywood, California to help Claude celebrate this special occasion. Leading up to the trip we joked about possible toast themes for the wedding and prospective wedding attire. Hudack talked me down from wearing my small 1987 Larry Bird replica jersey with dress pants to the posh Armenian wedding and offering my five all time great Celtics memories as the wedding toast. Hudack is a good friend.

Adam prepares for the wedding.  Back in the days when we had a house in Humboldt I’m confident that neither of us could even spell the word ‘iron’ .

I met Hudack at the baggage claim at LAX and had a laugh about the time a few years back that he had, during the course of his flight, forgotten what his luggage looked like when he got to the baggage claim. That was back when in-flight beer was only $3 and mixed drinks just $4.

I steered our golden Mitsubishi rental car onto I-405 to head to our hotel in North Hollywood , a mere 20 miles away. Two and a half hours later we arrived at our hotel. There we met up with our friend Charlie and his wife Melissa and their baby girl. After cooling off from our crawl from the airport and a few old school laughs we set off for Claude’s place where we met up with more friends from the college days to fetch up plans for the night.

It was decided that we would head to a small Argentinian grill/bar for the evening. Claude warned us that he would call it an early evening because he was getting married the next day. We laughed and wished him luck with that dream.

We piled into the restaurant, which was nice but not too formal for the likes of our crowd. Apparently, singer/philosopher Jessica Simpson was eating dinner there when we walked in but no one seemed interested enough to do more than say “Um, okay, whatever, what do you guys want to drink?”  The place was nice but if she was eating there you must be able to order items by number or the menu must have little pictures of the food so she could just point.

It was there that I met Claude’s best man Art. Meeting him it became apparent why Claude always seemed so disheveled after returning back to school from his friend’s weddings. Art had no shortage of ideas for toasts and kept the staff busy behind the bar.

The next day we met at the parents home of Claude’s soon to be wife, Mary.   I had not yet met Mary, though we had spoken on the phone a few times. After meeting her later on it’s obvious that Claude is a very lucky man. She is very pretty and very much down to earth–I couldn’t imagine a better match for Claude. According to tradition of the Armenian wedding, the groom and his groomsmen to go to the house of the bride’s parents, where there is a reception with food and drinks and a bit of music and dance. From there they pick up the bride and all travel together to the church for the ceremony and then to the reception.

Hudack, Charlie, and our friend Jack and I arrived at Mary’s house to find three very well dressed men standing in the driveway with very grim expressions. As we walked up the driveway smiling, trying to fit with the same grace a nun tries to fit in at a frat party, I kept expecting Tony Soprano to come around the corner smoking a cigar wondering who the hell the clowns were that just showed up.

Claude’s brother, Chris (another in the long list of quality people we met), explained to us later that the grim expressions were a common gesture when the bride was ‘taken’ from the family for the wedding. Thinking about it, if I were a father and Claude came up to ‘take away’ my daughter I might be rather grim, as well. But that is most likely because I have vivid memories of the places that we lived during our college years and how close they teetered on the edge of being condemned.

The stretch Hummer that housed Claude and his groomsmen arrived at the house and as they filed out of the vehicle a small band started playing. Slowly Claude moved up the driveway dancing with friends and family members. We clapped in rhythm along with the music as the group slowly entered the house to meet the bride. Inside the living room they continued to dance the same way. The mood was festive, the food was amazing, and it was increasingly hard not to smile at how it was an real celebration happening around us. Adam and I remarked at how senseless it was in weddings we’ve been to where the bride and groom shouldn’t see each other before the wedding.

Just as things were wrapping up at the house, Adam and I noticed a small boy with a large shiny knife.  As Claude and Mary were leaving the boy jammed the knife into the side of the doorway stopping Claude in his tracks.  Apparently, at this stage Claude needed to bribe the family member to be able to take Mary with him.  So, the child was given a pretty good slice of cash and they were on their way.  My thoughts on seeing that was if they pull that when I get married they better send a bigger dude or a bigger knife to get that kind of money from me.

We left and headed to the ceremony, which was held at an Armenian church. The service was completely in Armenian, so we took seats in the back standing and sitting when everyone else did, trying not to be too late in doing so.  Someone up in the front sang hymns in a very high pitch, which I strained to listen to for any Tool lyrics that Claude arranged to be spliced in.

After the service we headed to Hollywood for the reception, which was held at a very nice reception hall.  The wedding party stayed behind at the church for another round of photos because apparently the photographer was paid by the photo and not a flat rate.  There were nineteen tables scattered around the room, lavishly set up with appetizers and big bottles of vodka and whiskey.

We had been at the reception hall for about an hour when the wedding party arrived.  Keeping busy with the food and drink we had almost forgotten about the wedding party.  Charlie, who was in that mix slid over to our table.

“Man, I’m starving.” he said with a tired smile.  Naturally, we poured him a drink.  He was most appreciative.  Dinner was a five course (maybe more, maybe less, I lost count after two, or so) affair.  The food featured a lot of Armenian fare and very well put together.  The Armenians have food and drinking down to a science.

There were toasts, our favorite being the one from Art, which after some words about being ‘happy forever’ and ‘being lucky’ and ‘great girl’ and ‘great man’ and so on, left everyone with “Okay, now everybody….DRINK!” It was all laughs and revelry from that point on, and I’m confident that nobody let Art down.

The happy couple.

]]> http://pilgrims3.wordpress.com/2009/07/01/the-armenian-wedding/feed/ 3 saratoga85 DSC05979 DSC05484 DSC05492 DSC05536_2 http://pilgrims3.wordpress.com/2009/04/30/homage-to-nowhere-possibly-nebraska/ http://pilgrims3.wordpress.com/2009/04/30/homage-to-nowhere-possibly-nebraska/#comments Thu, 30 Apr 2009 12:38:42 +0000 saratoga85 http://pilgrims3.wordpress.com/?p=523 ]]>

“SOMETHING OUT OF NOTHING’  Acrylic on canvas 16″ x 20″

This is a study for a larger triptych I am finishing.  I’ve taken elements of this piece and incorporated them into a larger landscape.

I like wide open spaces, even though I live in North Jay, Maine.  Driving around out west what I ind remarkable is the immensity of the sky.  Even if what is happening on the ground yields little of interest the sky has a lot to say about a landscape’s beauty.  That is good news for places like Nebraska and Iowa and of course, let’s not forget Kansas.

I was late (some would say ‘as usual’) and Davis and Mike were anxious. They left me messages and as I drove to Mike’s place but I knew there would be little benefit to hearing them. I threw my stuff into Davis’ Jetta (or Jettre in Canadian?) and assumed the shotgun position for the five hour jaunt.

The border crossing was uneventful, which is good because you never want ‘events’ happening at the border. The first stop after the border was hitting the store for snacks and supplies. I really don’t know why it is so amazing that just a half hour north of Sugarloaf USA people are speaking only French. Yet it always is

“Merci, beaucomp.” I told the cleark, a frail attempt to speak the native tongue as I took my bag of Canadian road trip purchases.

I usually travel in Spanish speaking countries and can linguistically navigate
through most public situations. I felt a bit helpless at least as far as making conversation or jokes. I didn’t even have a cool accent with which to butcher the home language like the Australians I meet traveling in Latin America: “Whole-la, Amaaaygo. Como est-ass? Me La-mo Daiy-vid!”

We pointed the car west and drove until Montreal appeared on the horizon. We covered such topics as:

• How Canada has purple money.
• We tried to figure out how far Montreal is in real life (miles), not in those silly kilometers.
• Talked at length about what being one of the million deer we saw on the way would be like. (Very straight road, very boring)
• Socialism (laughing at, not with)
• Wishing the Montreal Expos were still around. Big time.
• Wondering how many loonies and toonies it will cost to get into the Canadians hockey game.

Embassy Suites would be our headquarters for the weekend. As we pulled up next to an Audi it was apparent that we may be a bit outclassed (not dissing the Jettre, Davis). As we retrieved our backpacks (speaking of classy) from the trunk we noticed a small group of people stood outside the door, including a man dressed in leather jacket that had bright gold dress shoes.

Our suite was not bad for $65 a night (thanks Hotwire), and like hillbillies seeing a neon light for the first time we jumped around the place laughing and pointing in awe. Davis stepped out of the bathroom with the Embassy Suites complimentary bathrobe on, thankfully over his clothes.

Then we went out on the town.

Late the next morning we arose and hit the streets for breakfast, which given our complete lack of planning/research turned into a long, hungry walk. Blindly looking for any particular place in the city is similar to chasing mirages in the desert. Each block that looks promising and filled with diners and breakfast joints from afar seems to have nothing up close. Up close diners and breakfast joints magically transform into closed laundromats, a nail place, and a smoky bail bonds office.

I wouldn’t say the locals despise American tourists, but ‘welcoming’ may not be the right word either.

Eventually it was found. We had a good feeding session then set off for the contemporary art museum.  I think my favorite types of art museums are contempoaray art museums.  I find the art there humorous–like a jab in the chest at people taking art and life too seriously.  Last April it was Chicago’s contemporary musuem, now it was off to the Contempoarary Art Museum of  Montreal.Post modern art is a great deal about conveying a message so there often there is a deeper meaning in the art but how it is portrayed comes in a variety of forms, such as looping video, illuminated marquee signs with homeless people on them, or as we saw in Montreal, large canvases of solid color and nothing else.

Here are some highlights of the minimalist painter Claude Toissagnt exhibit:

Red on canvas.  And to think all this time I thought that I had to go to work for a living.

I don’t think Mike understands the underlying intricacies of the artists work.  He explains his feelings in a more gestural manner.

Davis and Mike pose for the album cover of their upcoming folk album “Power to the Flower People”

We tried to tell Davis that doing the wave just looks friggin stupid with only one person and that he should have tried something else for the picture in the neon pyramid exhibit.  Davis is stubborn.

Claude Toissagnt is famous for creating some of the easiest and most brainless mazes in the world.

After the museum and a few refreshments at the hotel we went out for the night.  The next morning it was back in Le Jettre for the long ride home .

It’s time once again for the Maine Educational Assessment. Kids are sitting in my classroom filling in circles completely and not marking in the space marked “Do Not Mark in This Space” longing for an end in sight.

Given that the test is ultimately irrelevant to the students for all practical purposes (unlike the SAT scores on which colleges often dwell) the teachers mantra for the week is a paltry ‘try your hardest.’ Sometimes it’s a “This could affect our funding and programs could be cut if we don’t do well”, which still does little to motivate the students. In the sports minded school that Dirigo is, I opt to appeal to emotion by bringing our rival school into it: “It’s pretty sad if you guys can’t even beat Mt. Valley on this test. We need to show them who’s better at standardized testing. Let’s Go!”

Motivated or not students fill in the bubbles, insert their answer booklets into their test booklets, hand them to me, I put them into a box, that box is joined with other boxes to form a big box that goes to the State. And magically, the State grades them using bubble-sensitive equipment and determines how effective or ineffectives we are as teachers. Sounds reasonable. If little Jimmy wants to fill in bubbles using a check mark or x’s instead of filling them in completely the State will deem the boy ‘dumb’ and his teachers ‘incompetent’. I hope the little Jimmies in my class fill the bubbles in completely.

This is my baby nephew Quinn at the “Tony Soprano Look Alike Contest for Babies.”  Unfortunately, Quinn lost a close one to a baby that wore a little Italian suit and smoke cigars.

The Royal Arch. Rocks, trees, and blueberry skies= Colorado.

Still life with tree, rock, and more trees and rocks farther away.

I chose to shoot the pictures of Rocky National Park in black and white since there were no other colors in existence that day in the park.

The Mighty Elk.  Looking at this massive beast one word that doesn’t immediately come to mind is the word ‘intelligent.’