Travel

Flying Away Part 2: Boarder Blunders

/ jake.belknap@gmail.com / 1 Comment

The flight that would take me to Europe for my adventures began in Canada. Read the beginning of this story and the start of my overly romantic idea more filled with expectations than consideration here. 

Landing Confusion

Much of the rest of the flight went by with no more excitement. In the air, things were going well. I recruited three people to sing, turning a solo into a choir – an idea I had built up in my mind. I got some sleep which is not always easy, especially as a tall traveler. I also got some reading in.

My productivity on the flight. Source: pixabay.com

Quite the productive flight.

My fortunes were to change when I landed.

Greg and I were up front so we would be able to deplane rather quickly. Unfortunately, the ladies on supporting vocals behind me needed to wait until everyone got off the plane for them to get off and get some assistance.

Greg seemed to be only in if there was a group. Plus, they needed help with their bags. I opted to help the damsels in distress.

I let the rest of the folks on the plane go past while making small talk with the ladies. When the plane emptied, we slowly made our way off the plane. The ladies had booked a cart to drive them. With a wink in my direction, they told the cart driver they needed me to be with them.

“I only have the two spots covered,” he tells them.

Mouth agape, I stare at the other empty seats before recovering. “No matter,” I nonchalantly replied. “I’ll just quick step it and catch up at baggage collection.”

“Sounds good,” they respond before being whisked off.

True to form, I stretched my long legs to make up lost time and ground. My spirits lifting at the upcoming reunion mixed with the impending surprise that I continued to build up in my head had me making excellent time.

No way would a pesky thing like carts get me down.

Then I saw the border control line.

The Daunting Border Crossing Line

This line with all its switchbacks had me much further back than Greg who was about 12 people from the front. Seeing Greg’s position invites regrets to creep into my mind. “Relax” I mutter before making my way into the line.

Train station long line

A gross underestimation of the line I experienced. Source: Bex Walton.

About two minutes go by before the ladies wipe by on their cart. Relieved I try to make eye contact with them to reestablish our contract. The cart hesitates for a moment or two before going around the BC line taking the passengers to a personal line.

Oh no.

They are about to go through BC right now?!

Not much I can do now, so I settle into people watching.

There is a pretty great beard ahead (something I am always on the lookout to see, maybe even get tips from the owner).

Some Germans are in line near me talking to their children in a mix of Deutsch and English. I chat with them about taking their kids on the road. I think my enthusiasm is infectious because the kids start to make wider and wider circles in their laps around the line denizens and barriers. I end the conversation.

The line inches forward. Some people go to an extra corral area. I’m not sure about that (but I will become all too familiar with them on another flight). Hmm. I turn to podcasts to pass the time. People’s travel outfits, tattoos, and dispositions still serve to entertain my wandering eyes.

Finally, it is my turn at the front of the line. I made a friend with the border agent, but that is another story.

After my chat with the border agent, he sends me on my way with a stamp and a smile.

I was through. Next came the bags, but would the ladies still be there?

Reverse Benedict Arnolds and Baggage

The answer is no.

The women are not waiting for me. I have been abandoned by elderly ladies who called me “Hercules”. They used me for all that I was good for then spit me out. Is this how America felt? Are these ladies playing the reverse role of Benedict Arnold? I will take this betrayal, America!

Benedict Arnold

The original Benedict Arnold. Source: Wikipedia Commons.

Granted, it has been 1 – 1.5 hours since I left them, so I can understand their leaving.

Sans Greg and the reverse Benedict Arnolds, I foolheartedly move forward with my plan. Though my numbers have dropped back to one, I am no worse than where I started.

I will make this work; I will bring what I have played out in my head into real life.

Prepping the Big Reveal

After several winding hallways, I got to what I figured was the last one. This was it. I dropped my bag, took out the poster I had made and the balloons. Balloons that traveled from America through Canada to England. They did more traveling than most people. What a life I am lucky enough to lead!

I took the balloons and started blowing. Surprisingly, no one batted an eye when they walked past me. Granted, I didn’t have rearview mirrors to see what glowers, inquisitive glances, or condescending stares I drew, but people were probably just ready to get where they were going after a long flight.

Forget the bearded bro blowing up balloons!

Balloons blown, I was prepared. I picked up my backpack, threw my yoga strap over my shoulder, and gripped my wheeled luggage, then stretched the poster and balloons between my hands.

The good things I brought to the table.

Beginning to tremble with anticipation, I took the last few steps. Would she like this? Would this work? Would this be as good for her as it seemed in my head? Would the commoners throw rotting fruit at me? WHAT WOULD BE ON THE OTHER SIDE OF THE DOORS??!!

The Birthday Woman

I stepped through the doors to about 18 people standing around. My eyes trained on the only person I cared for in this country, the person I left America to join on a grand adventure.

In a shaky, cracking voice, I started “Ha-Ha-Happy Birthday to you.” Then more confidently, “Happy Birthday to you!” by this point one or two people glanced over with near vacant, partially confused looks. The birthday woman’s face went from smiling to embarrassed.

“Ssshh,” she said, motioning for me to stop.

This wasn’t right. This was supposed to be good.

Not taking the hint, I continued. “Happy birthday TOOOO Y…”

“Ssssshhhh!” she said again imploringly.

My shaky song finally came to an end after too long. Still smarting from having the plan I thought would be nice go amiss, I handed off the poster and balloons. She seemed much happier about the gifts once my singing had stopped.

I guess I was right, I needed backup. I needed a chorus to backup my lead. Now I know why singing servers in restaurants start belting off their renditions of “Happy Birthday” to customers in groups of no less than five.

Or was that really it?

Would a choir of singers have been even worse?

Did I really think of her when I was putting together the birthday singing surprise? Or a present that seemed fun? Or just thinking about what I would like? My family would love that kind of boisterous tomfoolery, but that doesn’t mean she would. When I think back to that moment, I can see how much I missed the point. I can see how much more I needed to consider her individual needs.

I wasn’t sure where that left us.

I had embarrassed her instead of sweeping her off her feet. Shit. This isn’t how our reunion was supposed to be.

But then she lifted my chin so my eyes caught hers before her lips pressed against mine.

After that, she took my hand and led me towards the trains and England. I figure this adventure would not always go as planned, but that we were in it together.

I was/am with that.

Your Turn

Have you had a plan go the wrong way?

Flying Away Part I: Playing out my Plot on the Plane

/ jauntingjake

So I have had some posts about travels and perspective. Now it’s time for me to take you back to the (almost) beginning of my travels: my flight to Europe. Before that, I had to get to my flight in Toronto.

Take Off

Let me lay the scene. I am at the Toronto Pearson International Airport and though my feet still glide over Toronto, my mind has already sprung ahead to the adventure waiting on the other side of the Atlantic. I just have one flight between then and that new country (for me). One more obstacle to overcome.

 

Image result for westjet

Westjet, you’re the real MVP for flying me away. Photo Credit: Tomás Del Coro

 

I join the throngs of Zone Three flyers in line. At this point, I’m still not sure if my bags will make it. They made an announcement about the flight being “filled to capacity” and I don’t know if those baggage size tools near the desk look accommodating enough for the all the belongings I stuffed into the two bags at my feet.

Surreptitiously, I avoid the line with the strict bag checker – you can always tell. My ticket taker seems chill, plus he has a Deathly Hallows necklace – Harry Potter fan = win! I make it to the dude, make HP small talk, score a smile, and I’m headed down the tunnel leading to my budget flight.

Brown Shoes and New Friends

I plopped down into my seat. I struck up a conversation with my temporary neighbor – we’ll call him Greg.

We chatted about the social acceptability of taking off one’s shoes during a flight. Then we noticed another person had taken the leap. This other person had brown shoes, so we knew he could be trusted.

That might need some explaining.

Back to Greg.

We took off our brown shoes – oh did I mention he had brown shoes, that’s how I knew he was a good person. We joked about the gas masks falling down after our shoes came off. One too direct look from a steward put an end to those jokes.

Greg was a pretty cool Canadian, most are in my experience. We chatted about his long-term girlfriend. He had dated her since high school then throughout college. The two wanted to make sure they weren’t holding each other back so they tried breaking up for a few months. It didn’t take. They were soon back together. I think that takes a bold set of people to be willing to give it up. Honest.

I love hearing the stories people offer. On the road, at a coffee shop (where I should be typing away), or on some form of transportation, people have shared their lives and I have been lucky enough to listen. Keep it coming people!

Recruitment Begins

Greg seemed a level-headed romantic so he would be the perfect candidate to recruit for my plan. I was on a flight to meet my partner. When the plane landed, the date would be her birthday. I couldn’t just let such a momentous occasion pass by unnoticed.

I had a poster handmade and readily available plus balloons stowed and laying in wait to be blown to blue, birthday brilliance.

The last step of my plan involved others. Strangers. Unwitting accomplices who were lucky enough to join me on this flight.

The plan was to greet my special lady with a rendition of “happy birthday”. But just as when a friend would sing in public, it is easy to silence one person, it is a different matter entirely to silence a crowd.

A crowd is what I was after.

I explained the situation to Greg. He hesitated. His pause switched to a tentative agreement provided I convince others to join my chorus of voices.

I had to recruit more folks for my singing routine if my plan were to succeed. Greg was the first backup singer, but I needed more. My eyes danced around the cabin for other co-conspirators.

Ladies in Need

Greg began to get sleepy so I went back to reading. I only got a few pages in when two elderly ladies behind me got my attention. They immediately won points by referring to me as “Hercules”. After buttering me up, they offered to get me a drink or something if only I would grab a trifle from their bag overhead.

“Oh no, a drink won’t be necessary,” I told them laying on the suave attention thick as molasses. “I’m happy to help. But I do need some back up on something…”

With the tension as dense as my sugary sweetness, I stood up and grabbed the pillow out of their bag. The elation evident in their toothy smiles, the ladies began thanking me profusely. I sometimes forget how some things which are easy for me can be a challenge for others. We’re all in this together!

“So, I have this idea to surprise my lady,” I open. I could barely get any more out before they were both nodding enthusiastically. They are into it. They want to make this happen. This is going to happen. Joy is mine.

But I was far from the last security checkpoint.

********************

This story will conclude next week. Check back in then!!

Being Absurdly Existential on the Eve of Leaving (Again)

/ jauntingjake

***Note: I wrote this on Monday, October 30, 2017, the day before leaving my home in Michigan to go on my next journey. Then things got busy. Might as well give you what I have to offer.***

The year 2017 has been a wild one up through October. So far:

Then I went home in October. I have been running around like a wild man these last few weeks. I have attended two weddings, one in New York and the other in Florida. I saw friends and family who I have only been able to communicate with via texts and video calls for months. Plus, most importantly, I saw my dog.

Dog - october

The family dog, Ghanush.

I had been so busy, I barely got to relax with the people I like best in the world. We rushed off to a party, or to a brunch or a flight or a dinner or…you get the idea.

The best day at home was the day before my last day in town. My brother took the day off. We did our own thing (I played video games while he watched a show), we had a meal together, we went rock climbing, and we got a chance to have a long chat. I felt at home.

I have gone East to Europe and back home. Tomorrow I head South to Central America.

A friend sent me the following video today. Then another friend posted it. Alright world, I can take a hint.

This sparked many ideas for me. Let’s get deep.

The maker’s of this video call the concept “Optimistic Nihilism”. Although life can appear meaningless and chaotic, “we might as well be happy…If this is our one shot at life, there is no reason not to have fun and live as happy as possible; bonus points if you help others.” These ideas resemble Absurdism and Existentialism to me, at least partially.

Let’s go there.

Existentialism is “a philosophical theory or approach that emphasizes the existence of the individual person as a free and responsible agent determining their own development through acts of the will”. To me, this means exploring what it means to choose one’s own life, then taking those choices as important reflections of the one who makes them.

I had to revisit my decision to live abroad. Were there valuable things to see outside my country? Would I be able to balance exploration (internal and external) with professional growth? Could I manage relationships authentically and deeply though I would be doing so remotely?

Photo Credit: WikiCommons

This existential exploration is a big reason I left teaching at the beginning of this year (edit: 2017). There was so much unexplored territory in terms of work and professionalism that I could not experience if I had remained to teach. It has been fascinating to learn more about motivation and engagement – topics which have interested me since I was a kid caught up in doing challenging/unappealing workouts – from a business perspective.

I try to constantly reevaluate my life, my choices, and my direction. I have found that these existential musings are not always pretty, but I find that I have a more complex understanding of the world. Whether or not this understanding is accurate is up for debate.

The dictionary defines absurdism as “intentionally ridiculous or bizarre” and “the belief that human beings exist in a purposeless, chaotic universe”. This seems to be understanding the world and one’s place in it as being without meaning.

Robert Heinlein’s character Valentine Michael Smith, raised separately from life on Earth, exclaimed “I’ve found out why people laugh. They laugh because it hurts so much . . . because it’s the only thing that’ll make it stop hurting.” Or as my mom would say, “laughing into oblivion”. Both of these quotes sum up Absurd Existentialism and Optimistic Nihilism for me.

I find the human existence at times to be uncaring, harsh, and often chaotic. I have seen poverty at levels unimaginable in most places in the United States (outside of Skid Row). [Update: there are several teenagers huffing their brains away in Parque Central Xela, Guatemala where I live. There are kids shining shoes in shabby clothes.]

However, I think there is a chance to bring order, pleasure, understanding, comfort and if possible a few laughs into existence. Some goals I have for my writing are to entertain, provide a deeper understanding of the world, and offer some humor (except with this post, deal with it).

A purpose can be as simple as “better understanding people” Or “better understanding how to speak another language” or “make a better peanut butter and jelly sandwich” (when I discovered the triple decker PB&J, I felt like Copernicus).

Developing a purpose is an important pursuit that may take years and several revisions. That is okay. Difficult things can be good things. Important goals are rarely easily reached.

The Bastard Son of Sisyphus By Orla de Bri [Park West 9 May 2017]-128072

That picture is of a work displaying the Greek Myth of Sisyphus. In brief, Sisyphus is condemned to constantly roll a boulder up a mountain. When he and the boulder approach the summit, the boulder rolls down the mountain. Then he must repeat his task.

This defines the absurd human struggle according to Albert Camus. Man constantly must toil at work that seems to never be accomplished.

The most important part of this myth that this photo/artwork capture is after the boulder has rolled down and Sisyphus is left at the top looking down at the boulder, smiling. Though his task is absurd to the point of lacking value, he smiles at the opportunity to bring value to it in the process.

Waking up sometimes feels like looking down at that boulder – at my agenda for the day: accomplish writing tasks, source new work, complete another workout, eat healthily, accomplish as much as I can, produce, produce, produce. However, I also know it hasn’t gotten the best of me yet and I smile.

I hope for more chances to laugh at the chaotic tragedy of existence, then get back working on my purpose. Day by day, that is the goal.

So I leave tomorrow to continue building my “utopia in the stars.” Though there are “billions of stars to visit,” I have found that there are so many worlds to explore right here on Earth. The next worlds I plan to explore are in Latin America.

guatemala-695497_1920

Photo Credit: Kurious

 

I honestly don’t know how long this digital nomad traveling escapade will continue, but there is definitely more to see in the world and learn about myself.

I hope to keep experiencing new forms of happiness. I hope to keep making a solid effort to improving my life and better understanding the world. I will keep making efforts to understand people better and brighten their day with a smile, a good conversation, or a well-placed pun.

Much to do!

Here’s to new adventures, more happiness, and laughing into oblivion!

Me at the Pink Floyd exhibit at the V&A Museum in London. Photo Credit: Laurel Steele.

Brown Shoes and the People who Wear Them

/ jauntingjake

They say shoes make the man, but Andy Dufresne got away with his get-out-of-jail-free trick because I mean, seriously, how often do you look at a man’s shoes? Whichever side you fall on, adding brown, high top ankle shoes to our outfits made all the difference for me and my brother.

Let’s take it back a step.

I have struggled with fashion and getting clothes to go together leading me to believe less in clothes and shopping forays. My brother Evan has the touch but is similarly apathetic in acquiring new effects.

The Belknap brothers are not typically shopping dudes. One of our biggest problems with shopping is our body types. We are both tall (6’3” and 6’4”), thin…let’s say athletic, with long arms and legs, and thicker necks. We are not Big and Tall, not wide enough for an XL or even most Ls, and not into strangulation (in public) that comes from a tight button up. Unless we recruit a tailor, we have it tough.

Too Tall Meme

The First World Problem of being athletic.

So, when we do find some threads that work, we make it last. We use most clothes until they fray years after their purchase date. I had a pair of jeans that lasted (read as “I made them last”) from middle school through college graduation.

The Shopping Spree

A year or so ago, Evan made a decision to go on a shopping spree. He had been fashionably marching with the throngs of the working world for a few years professionally, but it had been a while since his last sprucing.

Enter The Nordstrom Rack, a strip mall outlet store with discount, wholesale versions of well-to-do brands. He came home with what would become a game changer.

Amongst many sweaters, button shirts, and a pair of nice jeans he selected some snazzy brown shoes. These shoes can easily be dressed up or trotted around in casual wear. He has always been a stylish fella, but these shoes were next level.

 

Men's brown shoes

The glorious shoes Evan claimed.

 

As time went by, Evan rightly got compliments for these shoes and his overall style. At work, Burrito stops, clubs, Arabic bakeries…you name it. The love rained down. Finally, he had shoes capable of keeping up with his large strides and even larger personality.

Surprise men's fashion

Just look at this well put together guy.

Evan and I talked about brown shoes and how it took a special kind of person to wear them. Such a person could be trusted on a deep and important level because they respected themselves at a deep and important level, obviously. This is absolutely a ridiculous joke, of course, but backstory and hidden agendas are fun to weave into life.

I was open to my own brown city slickers. I had a hopeful eye out but never found my sole mates. Just before heading out of the country, I found the pair that was meant for me, and I for them.

My Time Comes

A generous family member gave me a gift certificate to Kohls before I left the States. Little did I know this store held the future of my feet on a deserved pedestal.

I wandered through the store with a compelling determination. Then I saw them. The fluorescent, department store light brilliantly illuminated the clearance rack a bit more brightly than the other beige shelves throwing the rugged brown works of art into glorious relief.

They were brown, classy ankle shoes good for ambling, traipsing, schlepping, hiking, and most importantly jaunting. At the same time, they had sophistication. They were more cultured than I could hope to be. They had a depth of character which could only be earned, never bought. How could a price be put on such a refined work of beautiful, efficient craftsmanship? They found a way. Then they reduced it. Perfect.

Silly men's model

Me wondering what these shoes can’t accomplish.

Lacing up for the first time felt like putting on the X-men uniform, I was ready. I was able to shove my insert into the bottom to keep my foot in line. My jeans draped easily and comfortably over the top of my discount brownies. Jaunting accessory secured.

Out and About

I didn’t have much time to try them out, but I got a few miles into their soles (and souls) before heading out.

Then these wonders traveled with me across the Atlantic to the Queen’s country. The frigid London temperatures of February, no problem. Spring rains, dancing in the rain. Puddles in the Subway, no stop to my flow. Drafts in the Tube stations, warm and regulated. Any problem came my way, I gave it the (brown) boot.

man playing dog stick

Thanks to my Browns, I can keep up with Ivy!

Travel days were always brown shoe days. I need every inch of available luggage space to make my work supplies and my efficient yet tasteful wardrobe fit. I would put on a pair of jeans, slip into my brown boys (BBs), and be ready for the turbulence of travel.

At first, this worked well. But as time went on, London led to Turkey and then Italy. Early spring became summer. The classy combo of pants and brownies went from a comfortable uniform of readiness to a mobile sauna from my hips to my heels.

On the most recent travel day, I sacrificed some older clothes and rearranged some necessities to pack instead of wear my beloved Browns. We weathered the separation with stalwart composure but were glad to be reunited in the privacy of our new accommodation.

I had been proudly walking all over in these town treaders. But after all the pounding they had taken, they were starting to look worse than Logan during extreme depths of his “William Stryker ruined my life“ depression.

trashed shoes

Thrashed, but ready for more.

Enter Istanbul. There was a shoe repair shop near my temporary housing. In a burst of independence, I decided to negotiate a repair personally with a man who only spoke Turkish. No, I didn’t and don’t know Turkish aside from the well-meaning Merhaba (hello), teşekkür (thank you), and the all-encompassing afiyet olsun (bon appetit, enjoy your meal, etc.), but I made it work. For 70 Türk Lirası (about 20 USD) BBs got new soles sewed on and the top part of each fully reattached. Gone was the barefoot sensation. Gone were the ankle drafts.

Repaired shoes

Thanks, Turkey! You helped extend the life of these boys and send them off on more adventures!

 

Nowadays I am usually barefoot working at home in rural areas. But the Starks are always right eventually, Winter is Coming. And with the Winds of Winter come my brown boys. Too bad these shoes will probably never be able to see the forthcoming G.R.R.M. book.

A Soft Start to Living Internationally Part 2: Starting with Toronto

/ jauntingjake

I started this series gabbing about the morning I left America. If you would like to read about how this day began, read part one of this series here (Part 1).

TL;DR – I packed up a few bags and left America.

Landing

Laurel’s wonderful friend, Agata, kindly offered to put me up during my short Canadian stay. I would then step off from Toronto to England because the flights much cheaper. Toronto, you take me places!

But first I had to get there. With the echoes of minimalism, the thrift I try to always exude, and my fear of going broke, I thought it best to walk to Agata’s place. Who needs trains, am I right?

After the Greyhound bus from Detroit stopped, I turned just about every direction before my GPS caught up. Pro Tip: the location identifier on Google Maps doesn’t take any data and is a big help when you have no other guide or data abroad. With only a few steps backtracking, I headed off towards rest at Agata’s place.

Turns out, my densely packed bags made for a more arduous trip than an unencumbered jaunt would be. My bold plan took a lazy turn after about a mile. Sweaty and disheveled, I made my way to the closest train station. It occurred to me that I would be doing this muling around with all my belongings often; this was a marathon, not a sprint. I have to take care of myself. Vigor and focus renewed, I ambled down the steps towards the Toronto public transit.

Public Transit of Years Past

I had experience with other public transit systems, just not in Detroit. The Motorcity has a rocky history with public transit. There is the People Mover, but it has a short route. The short M-1 light rail, dubbed the Q-line, will be operational soon.

While living in LA, I didn’t have a car. I thought and continue to believe their public transit is a thing of wonder. The trains and buses combine gangsters with business people, panhandlers with school children, young professionals with crusty punks, homeless folks with the retired. The public rails and wheels took me from my home in Koreatown to my non-profit office in downtown LA, to the middle school I served at in South LA (or South Central), and to the Santa Monica Beach which I visited just about every weekend – the ocean was a great experience after living in Michigan.

But another part of the public transit was the tourists. Several times people had a wide-eyed look glancing around and trying to figure out the system; which lines went which ways and were any of those ways close to the location they wanted. The escalator at the Wilshire (unfortunately pronounced “Will sure” instead of “Will Shire” as I wish it was) Vermont station separates the tourists from the residents. This is the longest escalator west of the Mississippi (proof – http://lat.ms/2pTIXo0) so while the tourists stand with mouth agape, the residents sit down to wait out the long ride.

escalator

This is just a part of the Wilshire/Vermont escalator. Photo credit Darylynn D. on FourSquare

Often a tourist would ask me with my tanned skin and long blonde hair at the time (AKA typical LA white beach lover) for directions in broken English. I would catch mutterings in broken German, French, Eastern languages which had the ring of similarity, and Eastern languages which had no similarities before the one with the best English would approach me imploringly. Usually, I barely knew any better than them, but I tried.

Now, I was a tourist struggling to figure out a new system. At least this was in English for me.

The rail system had two lines, each going in opposite directions. Nothing crazy. I knew the stop I wanted. Now how to make the ticket machine speak to me. The plot thickens.

I needed a transfer eventually so I approached a distracted teller hoping for guidance. I grabbed a ticket from the stand she pointed to, briefly wondered why I didn’t pay any money, then she let me through. Her alluring cellphone helped this ignorant customer that night.

I knew I had done wrong, but I didn’t know how to do right. So I made it to my train, sweating from the walk and the anxiety of being found out, labeled a cheat, fined, and kicked off the train forced to walk again – this time in shame. Luckily, I played it cool and got off at my stop.

After struggling through the subway system to her stop, scaling an impressively steep hill, and making it up to her apartment, Agata immediately remarked “wow you’re tall! Let’s go eat.”

While she changed, I scrutinized her extensive library judging her shrewdly. Pursuing someone’s books allows me to judge the owner by the covers, as it were. Her shelves boasted the likes of Vonnegut, Tolstoy, and Bukowski; although we had to talk our way through Hemingway, we came to an understanding. Her immediate food demand combined with her stellar book collection catapulted her to immediate “good people” status.

agata and korean

The wonderful Agata and the delicious Korean spread she located.

Agata took me to a Korean spot cementing her greatness. I miss you LA public transit and LA Koreatown.

Out and About

The next day was “Family Day” in Canada, mirroring Presidents Day in America. Apparently, Canadians are about the people close to you; I’m with that. This was great for Agata because she had the day off and terrible for me because working parents and their ankle-biters had the day off. Time for a solo outing.

Struggling through adversity and Lilliputs, I visited the Art Gallery of Ontario (AGO). This place blew my mind. Its vast collection spanned five floors! Check this out:

boat hullway

This area was constructed to be like an upside-down ship. It was a beautiful hullway!

If you think that is something, check out this set of stairs:

stairway

Stairway in the middle of the attrium!

Plus, due to it being Family Day, they had extra fun, such as a room for popping bubble wrap (read as “Jake’s personal heaven”). With my height, I have trouble passing for a human, let alone a child. I let the littles have their fun…but I will have a room like this (hint, hint – present suggestion).

Pro-tip: Stick around for the free tours at the AGO. They are short and sweet, but our guide was supremely personable and knowledgeable. She took us for an intense slice of some of the gallery instead of trying to hit everything.

 

lounging lady

Check out this “Reclining Figure” by Henry Moore. A little too scandalous for America.

 

Next, I explored Kensington Market. This was a great area to buy cheap, vintage clothes. This was also a DIY/artist/hippie/alternative area – my kinda people. In one shop, when a customer admitted he had never heard of Kraftwerk, the worker took it as a point of pride to play “Die Roboter” instead of pushing clothes. When I couldn’t help singing along, I made a new friend.

Kensington Market

The bizarre glory of Kensington Market.

After bumbling around there for awhile, I met back up with Aggie for so much Mexican food (in Jake that means “just enough”).

We headed back because Aggie had work in the morning – honestly, who works on a Tuesday?! We hung out, watched Black Mirror, gossiped, made cookies (she cooked, I judged), braided each other’s hair, etc. It was a good, chill night in the middle of so much excitement.

Goodbye Friend, Gay Morning, and Goodbye Toronto

The next day, after getting visible, matching friendship tattoos (sorry mom!), she went to work and I caught up on Facebook, politics, and Facebook politics. Before packing up again.

 

Before leaving the wonderful Toronto, I made it out to the gay district, called The Village, just in time for it to pour rain.

 

rainbow

So fabulous their crosswalks were rainbows!

 

Despite becoming a sodden boy and carrying now sodden bags, it was nice to grab a burger (two half pound patties with bacon – good thing they don’t have a weight limit for passengers on flights) and wander around the area where Queer as Folk was filmed.

 

glad

The best bookstore and my future home.

 

I happened across the oldest gay bookstore in the world, called Glad Day Bookstore (https://goo.gl/atmqKj). The original owner started off selling porn magazines out of a backpack in gay bars. It moved from the second floor (where let’s be honest, it was safer) to its present location which also serves food and booze and has dance parties on weekends. If they had a treadmill, I probably would have tried to apply for housing!

Begrudgingly, I caught a train and then bus during the after work rush hour surge (oops!). I made it up to the airport arriving on a day and time when most folks don’t travel – only two people in the security line in front of me! Let’s go Tuesday flights!

I arrived at my gate about two hours before boarding, 2.5 before take off. However, after writing a draft of this, I only had over an hour to grab food, convert to a small but serious cult, read my book, stress over whether or not my bags will be accepted within the size limit, and troll the internet. Much to do.

Next post will be a European one!

A Soft Start to Living Internationally Part 1: The Last Day

/ jauntingjake

 

Since moving out of America, life has really picked up speed! Let’s go back to when I left home. Trying to catch up will take some time, but that’s the goal.

Maybe one day I will catch up to the present. Maybe beginning this series with hope is a good thing. Maybe that’s just wishful thinking.

Either way, here we go. Back to Sunday, February 19, 2017.

I was ready to (finally) leave for Europe! I had been pulsing with this intention for over a year, refining the idea more and more of what life COULD look like. After finishing teaching at the end of the fall semester at the end of January, I had been itching to start. Now, to say goodbye to Michigan.

Preparations

I had been trimming down all my clothing, what I used and what I actually needed. My friend Kate loaned me a book which got my head in the minimalist space ready to declutter my room, my life, and my approach. If interested, the book’s title is ‘’The Life-Changing Magic of Tidying: A Simple, Effective Way to Banish Clutter Forever’’ by Marie Kondo and it can be found here https://goo.gl/VG0mHY. I chose clothes, shoes, books, papers, and notebooks (the last three were like purging lovers) based on their usefulness. I cut a bunch and donated them. I’m talking several bags worth. Other clothes remained at my mother’s house (you’re the best, Mom!).

Goodbye car

The last time I held my car which surprisingly held me.

Finally, I had what I thought would be the essentials to get me through the days. I had to balance the cold London February winds with the sweltering Turkish July heat in one go. I wouldn’t be coming back for awhile.

Leaving Home

The morning of my departure arrived and with it the need to do a final pack. I loaded my things into my carry on bag and a backpack (to avoid paying for a checked bag now and for each of my many forthcoming flights). I wasn’t able to fit everything, but, solemnly, I made peace with that.

My brother Evan came up to my room to check how I was doing. After a few jokes to chill both of us out, he noticed the extras sullenly sitting on my bed. “We can make this work.” Blind optimism runs in the family.

With pushing and cramming and some protips (socks go in the packed shoes, sit on the luggage while zipping it, don’t forget the extender zipper, etc.), we made it work. Reflecting on this now, I am happy to have the comfortable sweatpants which didn’t make the first round cut.

Next, it was food time. My family and a few select friends – chosen by a mix of proximity to my house or Detroit and, more importantly, the ability to wake up early on a Sunday – headed to a send-off brunch. The food was good. There may have been mimosas. Detroit does brunch right.

We fought over the bill. At this point, I’m not sure who won, but I’m glad that Evan and I could vindictively mock argue bringing to bear the full might of our beards one more time before leaving.

Evan and Jake Beard Grabs.

Belknap beards and eye contact were strong that night.

Bus and Beyond

From there it was on to the Detroit Greyhound bus station. Uncharacteristically, I got there early. This gave us a chance to wander around outside and enjoy the unseasonably nice weather (thanks, Michigan!). There wasn’t much I noticed on this walk…well, there were a few surreptitious glances at the people I became used to seeing daily. Ew, nostalgia.

Then came the last moments. We still had time to while away, more time to sit and joke. There were some back slaps and more nostalgia about when each of us had left for different reasons. But now the people I saw most days or at least a few times a week would not surround me. Thanks to emails, video chats, and a big effort on their part to figure out time zone differences we would make it work.

Then the bus wheels were moving and we were waving.

I had a low-key Greyhound ride to Toronto with about eight other travelers. My fellow riders ranged from a woman with no bags who commiserated with me about the troublesome wi-fi to a bearded man whose pack told more of the miles he had seen and would see than he was ready to share. Before I knew it, I had left America.

A customs officer grilled me when we unloaded at the border. Apparently, freelance writing from another country doesn’t make much sense; I need to work on my elevator pitch. It was some small solace that another couple were the ones to hold us up and not me; it’s okay to be a nuisance so long as you aren’t the worst one. I slept through about half of the ride and then fidgeted until drop off.

Check out part two BY CLICKING HERE to read about what I saw in my first city on my journey into the great wide open. For now, cue Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers and fade to black…