Travel Vignettes

Tibetans call the transitional state of existence between two lives the “bardo” or “antarābhava”. For one week every November in Jackson Hole you can experience theirs. The town is a shuttered Void….a soulless realm…its consciousness has left one tourist season and prepares itself for the birth of another. And so the cycle of Samsara continues.

The bags under his eyes roll over like an infinite swell into a narrow bay, never fully cresting. His locks channel John, or was it Paul, on the Sgt Peppers cover. ....The Spanish have a nervous tick, they tug at the nose with the thumb and forefinger. It’s not clear what relief it brings. His steps are a straddle, mosey maybe, with a perfectly measured sway in the arms. You’d guess, I’m guessing, he played music or still does. I bet he has a record collection. The Clash, Joy Division. Maybe he’s gone jazz by now. Everyone eventually finds their way to jazz, the smart ones do, don’t they?

Dusk in North Dakota. The sky falls like a dirty white sheet over the horizon and drapes itself across the landscape. From rear view to windshield, it’s tough to discern a beginning or an end. Riffing off the great mountaineer Conrad Anker, it feels as if you’re trapped inside a ping pong ball.

On a sunny afternoon in Valparaiso, a man sits in a enclosed outdoor cafe, filing in his Suduko puzzle. Around him, students hurl chunks of brick and pavement with tee shirts tied to their faces. Riot police spray mace and unleash water canons. He barely looks up.

It's August in Alabama, and the heat hangs over Birmingham like a verdict to a guilty man. The humidity is so thick you have to breathe through your mouth. Sauna heat. My three block walk to an ATM felt like 30. It was a mistake.

They all fell. First the Koreans, then the tandems, small groups, couples, the old timers, and the overnighters. 2 by 3 by 5 by 2 and so on. I rooted for them all as I passed, but I was also hunting them.

“The Middle East was better off with Saddam.”

Grand avenues and bisecting streets cut through Barcelona like a birthday cake. Long, even slices running parallel or perpendicular to the Balearic Sea. From the water's edge, the city rolls lightly over the coast like sea foam. It's L.A., not New York. A sprawling mass, not a towering steel totem.

A series of photos capturing the streets of Barcelona during Catalonia’s battle for independence from Spain.

It was a hundred year hangover. One I'll tell my grandkids about. I didn't plan it that way, but then again, you never do, do you?

It's summer in Harlem. Rush hour. On African Square, in front of the pristine facade of Starbucks, a man fishes out on the ground from what appears to be a combination of drugs and dehydration.

My AirBnB host in Hamburg is the 55 year old German version of myself. I hope. Kinda. Except I'd like a lovely wife, kid, and a Doberman.

That was the beginning of my regret spiral, which ended with me losing everything, save the ensuing hangover. The toughest thing about Las Vegas, whether you're in the casino, nightclub, or strip club, is knowing when to walk away. It's a lesson many never learn.

Valparaiso is like San Francisco 20-30 years ago, before SF became a Segway tour.

For 30 days and 300 miles the Sea was my Shepard. Constant and true. Saying goodbye was like seeing a girlfriend off to start a long distance relationship. Will she miss me as much as I miss her? How could I ever know.

Police got involved. Money was stolen/withheld. Insults were exchanged. A deep, deep, dislike (hate) was forged. And the "Curse of the Red Panda" was born.

I wonder...if you've never spoken to somebody who doesn't speak your language, have you spoke?

There was so much rubble in Berlin after WWII, they could've built a mountain from it. Well....actually, they did.

On July 2, 1961, Ernest Hemingway walked into the foyer of his home here in Ketchum, Idaho, put his favorite gun to his head, and pulled the trigger.  It was a shotgun.

That scene from a movie, where a caravan of cars drives through the middle of the desert to meet another caravan, a trail of dust whipping up behind them…