Ex-Patriot Living Standards Revised (And, Shannon Admits She's Not A Technical Vegetarian)

Hummus isn’t often used as an indicator for anything except the presence of Mediterranean cuisine or as a radar for locating nearby vegetarians. I maintain that hummus has another conceptual use beyond this, one that satisfies and delights as much as the feel of it slathered across a pita or dripping off your tiny carrot stick.  

Given my pseudo-vegetarian/vegan lifestyle, (the technical ratio is as follows: 90% vegetarian, 80% vegan, a “strike-my-fancy” fish-and-meat-eater, a guilty consumer of beef stroganoff and/or bacon once a year), traveling through and living in as many countries as I have presents its own set of culinary experiments and experiences. We humans love to try to stuff ourselves into neat little boxes, right? “Oh, you must be a vegetarian. You look like one. So you’ve never eaten a hamburger?” Come on. We’re far too complex, contradictory and whimsical for that sort of stuff. And in case you were wondering, reader, here’s my “neat little box”: I am a Tendency Vegetarian. I consume meat when in Mexican restaurants or when experiencing new meat-centric cultures, but when left to my own devices, when following my tendencies, I do not eat animals that much. So, really, not a vegetarian at all. But go ahead and call me one if you feel like you need to.

That said, being back in the United States has been a delightful journey through All The Vegetarian Options. There’s a billion kinds of hummus at Kroger and more meat-alternatives than you can shake a stone ground whole-wheat slice of bread at. Get to a bigger city and the options multiply uncontrollably, like roots on a spud in the windowsill– there’s things I haven’t even heard of, but I’ll try it. I swear to god I will.

Which is why I propose a new international standard, one that can be used by vegetarians, vegans, and pseudo-whatevers across the board to analyze their new international abode. One that is far more effective at analyzing general socio-economic levels, a standard that far exceeds things like “GDP”, “low crime levels” or “varied cultural opportunities” as attractive elements for a vagabond.

Hummus must be used as an indicator of ex-patriot livability.

Dat's some sexy hummus.

As in, is it available? How many flavors are there? What packaging does it come in? Does it taste like hummus? Has it been home made? Is it available in more than one store?  Are other people eating it? Do other people know what it is? Is anyone around you aware of where it came from? Do the people in your immediate vicinity know that a chickpea is the same thing as a garbanzo bean? Will you tell them if they don’t? Will anyone else try the hummus? Here, do you want to try it?

My recent trip back to the United States has shown me that the accessibility of hummus in my day-to-day life has, indeed, heightened my overall quality of life. (Some scientists believe that readily available hummus – a variety of brands, flavors and more – actually increases life contentment by a whopping 33%***.)

It facilitates my snacking, it ensures I avoid other less savory snacks, it nourishes me, it pleases me, it understands me. So why isn’t it more available across the globe?

On a scale from one to hummus, America scores Full Throttle. Sure, there are probably super rural areas where hummus is treated like a foreign disease instead of the savory gift from heaven that it is, but I wouldn’t live in those places and therefore don’t include them. Even in my small city (30,000 people-ish) the options range from original to smoked to pine nut to burn-my-buds-off-spicy. Good god!

On a scale from one to hummus, Chile scores a Meager Climber. I found one hummus option in the small city of Puerto Varas, almost to Patagonia in southern Chile, and that was only because an ex-pat and his Chilean wife had set up the first-ever vegan store in the region. They made their own and froze it. It was good, but not mind-blowing. But yet, it was hummus.

In Valparaiso, I live around the corner from a Middle-eastern restaurant that offers hummus as a topping option. Score! However, the big box stores don’t have hummus, and most other hummus availability occurs on the streets or from the alternative places. Therefore, it is an underground condiment, and constitutes an important part in the thriving counter-culture. Hummus is not only there, but helps me feel like I’m part of the change.

I imagine future ex-pats having the following conversation:

Ex-Pat Patrick: Hey, man, so what’s up with [insert country]? Do you like it?

Ex-Pat Patricia: Yeah, it’s great! I’ve been having a blast, there’s so many beaches and the buses cost like four cents. Also, plenty of toilet paper in public restrooms.

Ex-Pat Patrick: That sounds great, but, I guess what I really need to know is….what’s the hummus level?

Ex-Pat Patty: [heavy pause] There’s a low hummus score. I haven’t even seen it in the capital.

LOOKS LIKE IT’S TIME FOR EX-PAT PATRICK TO RECONSIDER HIS TRAVEL PLANS TO [insert country here]!!!!

Chile is a livable country by my new standard. Ex-pats, please use this information to your advantage, and propagate the use of hummus as an indicator of ex-patriot livability. Your vegetarian ex-pat country mates will thank you.

(Please have a list of hummus pick-up locations ready for them upon their arrival.)

***this figure is entirely fabricated for purposes of this article. 

Helped and Hindered

Life in South America has proven to be just like life anywhere else, except that it's in South America instead of North America. And everyone speaks Spanish. And there aren't that many blondes wandering around. And it's hard for me to find a size 9.5 shoe. And the culinary culture isn't that refined. And people aren't really that into spices. And everyone kisses each other on the cheek when they meet, even when they're strangers.

Okay, so life in South America is a bit different than life in North America. (Oh yeah -- tons more stray dogs!) But since I've been able to re-acclimate to life north of the equator, I've noticed a few ways that my life overall has been helped -- and similarly hindered -- by my jaunts down south.

Let's investigate some!

1. My brain learns, but in order to do so, it must forget. And this involves forgetting English. My handle on idioms, cliches and other parts of speech is at an all-time low. This doesn't bode well, as I am beginning a venture to brand myself as a language consultant *cough cough*. Hey -- who knew they were called speedbumps? Roadbumps is just as effective at getting the point across. And my future language consultancy clients will understand this. (syn: road acne)

2. I now have measuring cups for eyeballs. That's right, I see in 3-D AND in 1-tsp increments! Due to the absolute dearth of measuring tools in the kitchen (is it just because of where I've lived and who I've lived with? Or is this an invention that really never made it past the Andes?), I've been forced to eyeball, size up and otherwise scrutinize every recipe I've ever loved including in my eating lifestyle. Thanksgiving 2012 was a prime example, and my forays into Vaguely Healthy Cookie Creation were met with varying results until I finally pinned down the non-specifically-measured ratio a couple months ago.

Well, close enough. 

3. I am a tad more resourceful. Now, I don't want you all thinking that I'd be able to fend for myself in the wild, because I certainly can't, nor can I start a fire, always operate doors or change the gas tank for that damnable space heater in my Chilean living room. However, I CAN think around certain situations where common household items are lacking. For instance, are you making mashed potatoes? Were you scouring your new kitchen for a potato masher, only to find out that not only do you not have a potato masher, you also don't have anything resembling a bowl in which you'd like to mash? No problem! Find one of those drinking glasses with the uneven bottoms and get to work! Serve AND eat the mashed potatoes out of the same pot you cooked it all in, and to top it off, don't use napkins (because nobody buys them) and just use the dish towel. Hey, you might be asking, that's a pretty good idea with the dish towel. Where did that come from? The Argentinians!

4. I speak great Spanish now. Finally. Also, I can understand almost any Spanish you try to throw my way. Thanks, Chileans.

5. I speak hodgepodge Spanish. As in, Mexican-Chilean-Argentinian Spanish. My accent shifts between all three, freely utilizing vocabulary and expressions from three distinct cultures. Someday, this will get me into trouble.

6. I am losing my grasp on normalcy. Some might argue this has been a long time coming, but I assure you, taking the leap has hastened this demise. I suppose 'normalcy' is a term that can be argued until the alpacas come home (what?), but living life this off the grid has certainly shifted (re: completely destroyed) my paradigm. In losing my grasp on normalcy, I am finding more expansive happiness, plentiful creativity and penetrating gratefulness. More things seem possible, life feels limitless, and joy lurks around every corner. This doesn't mean life is some effortless, non-squeaking joint that operates perfectly at every moment. But rather, I've come to appreciate and laud the aches and groans and squeaks and eventual functioning of these joints, because these limbs are carrying me to places -- both physical and emotional -- I've always dreamed of.

7. Questionable metaphors, like the one found in item 6, tend to be more predominant. I don't know why, or how to fix it.

8. I will probably only ever wear black leggings for the rest of my life. No, seriously -- bury me in leggings and a slouchy shirt, because that's all I ever want to wear.

A beach in Huron, OH, complete with sunset, lake,

slouchy shirt and leggings. 

It's up to you, reader, to decide if these items have helped or hindered!

Bus Culture in America (Or a Lack Thereof)

I've lived in the United States my whole life, pretty much (a majority of the 2__ years of my existence, at least), and only this past Monday did I finally get on a bus as a means to travel between two distant cities.

By contrast, I've lived in three Latin American countries and traveled to a whole crapload of other countries, and the general rule in all of them is: get on the bus. Always.

How did this happen? How can this form of transportation be so familiar and snuggly and NORMAL to me in every country except my native land?

Before I go further, let me clarify: I'm not talking about inner-city bussing. I'm talking about multiple-hour, great-mountains-majesty-spanning BUS TRIPS. Ones where you need a meal at some point and part, if not all of, your body goes numb. If you would have asked me to get on a bus to travel anywhere in the US a year ago, I would have balked, looked at you funny, made a comment about Greyhound and asked why I couldn't just drive myself or fly? Yet since 2006 my preferred method of travel through Latin America has been the $1.30 ride on the chicken bus, where neither life nor luggage is strictly guaranteed.

That's a pretty weird double standard, don't you think?

Well, it finally came to an end. I recently visited Chicago for the second time since my American Whirlwind Tour of 2013 began, and I found myself without a ride back to Ohio. As in, I wasn't going to fork over the money to fly, and my own car was nestled comfortably 300 miles away. What does a vagabond do? GET ON THE BUS.

All Latin American Travel Preferences aside, Greyhound has a seedy reputation. Maybe it's changed since I last heard anyone comment honestly on it, but from what I remember, there tends to be shifty types lurking in bus terminals, questionable drug use and a whole lot of on-board harassment (unless that's the free entertainment in the ticket price?). And you could probably get chlamydia, or at LEAST Hep C, from the seat covers.

Enter Megabus, America's first ever low-cost express bus service and the natural choice over Greyhound. I can hear the Backpacker Angels singing from their hammocks in the hostel! The first time I heard about Megabus, I had a chilling flashback to Ryan Air, Europe's notorious discount airline that inspired this article for Vagabondish. But no, I was assured that Megabus not only was cheap AND respectable, it picked you up inside the city and dropped you off at the actual destination. None of that one-hour-away-from-where-you-thought-you-were-landing hullabaloo Ryan Air is famous for! Plus, wifi on board, and power outlets in every seat. What?! Megabus, am I dreaming? Or were you specially engineered to appeal to my budget backpacker, working holiday senses?

Your bold colors and low prices

inspire me to choose YOU, Megabus!

But there's always a catch, right? The first sign was when the bus wasn't there at the scheduled departure time of 4:15pm. A nearby lady muttered, once I had admitted it was my first foray with the company, "The thing about Megabus is, half the time, they're never on time."

The bus showed up around 4:40pm. We pulled away from the bus stop at 5:03pm.

Once I was comfortably nestled in my chair on the 2nd floor of the bus, excited about plugging something, ANYthing into the power outlet and hooking up to that wifi floating around our mobile oasis, I became aware of a nagging sensation in the back of my mind. As I looked around, took stock of my seat mates, listened to the overly detailed explanation about our intended route, I realized that we Americans are definitively and indisputably not a bus culture.

As I mentioned earlier, I have extensive experience with pretty much all forms of transportation apart from hot air balloons and drag cars. And my years of bus travel throughout Latin America have conditioned me to expect certain things from The General Long Distance Bus Experience, which MegaBus failed to provide. Here's why:

**Loading the luggage and passengers was lengthy and inefficient. What is an ongoing and flawless system for large, luxury bus companies between Mexico and Chile, took twice the time for Megabus. On the side of a street in downtown Chicago. In the searing sun. I've seen Chilean double-deckers arrive 8 minutes prior to departure time and load the whole damn thing, passengers and all, with 30 seconds to spare. BAM.

**There's no way to identify your luggage, apart from what might be the very same bus driver pulling pieces from the dark luggage doorway at night, holding it up with eager eyes for all to assess, and then putting it back inside if nobody claims it. Other companies give you luggage tags, which you present to the unloader so that you can at least have some way to really identify if that bag you're lugging home is actually yours -- or its lookalike.

**Being over 40 minutes late and then arriving over an hour and a half late to the destination doesn't bode well, especially in our time-conscious culture. Time is money, or so they say, and I don't think Megabus can get away with this for very long before people start to really complain and choose another service, at least when time is of the essence. Long-distance luxury buses in Latin America arrive and leave exactly on time, 99% of the time. I'm not actually sure how it works, but I suspect there are cleverly placed wormholes throughout the continent that allow for bus drivers to make up for lost time. I've never once taken a bus between cities in Chile that didn't arrive early. Come on, guys. It's possible to arrive AND leave on time.

Ummm, hello? Megabus? Can you come pick us up?

I guess when it comes to discount service providers like Megabus, Ryan Air and so many others, they find their shtick and stick to it. RyanAir's tagline is that they're the on-time airline; which is true, once you overlook things like their airports being in different postal codes and everything except the ticket costing 100 euro. And it seems like Megabus is no different: they promise a quasi-luxurious on-board experience, with wifi and power outlets; which is true, but you definitely won't be arriving on time, wherever it is you're going.

All that being said, will I take Megabus again?

Hell yeah I will.  And you bet your ass that when I go back to Europe, I'm first in line at the check-in kiosk for RyanAir, .01 kg under the weight limit for my backpack and with five layers of clothes on.

---

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The USA Whirlwind

I've been back to the United States for over two weeks. Not only did I update my blog once (ONCE) in June, I also failed to mention the Great Return Via Steel Bird To Native Homeland. Nor did I adequately expand upon the Period Of Mutual Genius that transpired when Jill and I spent a month in Chile together.

Here are some excuses for my poor blogging behavior, mostly in an effort to rationalize away my personal guilt:

1. I've been busy. This is a lame excuse, but seriously, it's been a whirlwind since I got back to the States. Not only that, I've been really busy enjoying myself! Living in the moment, and all that jazz! My USA schedule is pretty packed -- I gave myself 6 weeks here, thinking that it would be "plenty of time" to do "everything I wanted to do". What I'm finding is that 3 months is a better figure. Next summer I shall aim for this time frame. In my two weeks back, I've visited my hometown, seen a variety of friends and family, visited Cedar Point twice (more on this later...), experienced a healthy amount of thunderstorms, went to a burner festival in Michigan, spent a week in Chicago, passed the 4th of July holiday amongst fireworks and revelry, shopped at Kroger, and had a doctor's appointment. Also, work.

2. My computer broke. AGAIN. It broke the day I got back to the USA when it was just 7 months old. This incident was timely and fortuitous for a number of reasons. Not only did it mean that I could repair my laptop without exorbitant continent-spanning mail charges (and the terror that accompanies leaving expensive equipment in the hands of foreign mail carriers), it also happened while under warranty. The non-timely and non-fortuitous aspects to the situation were that it broke in the first place, and that Sony ended up NOT repairing it due to the fact that it would be "uneconomical". I'm still working on getting a new one. Now I'm paralyzed with indecision facing the surplus of options that I have.

3. I forgot about my blog. What??? No really, I did for a little bit. I think it had something to do with Item #1.

Now that I've expanded upon reasons for Blogging Laziness, I would like to recuperate my street cred with another list!

Things I Forgot About Home:

1. So much English! I can understand barely audible conversations in my periphery, I get the gist of a half-muffled discussion, and no word escapes my ears un-understood. This is normal for us English speakers, but reminds me of the fact that I've been living in something of a quiet language bubble for 9 months. Sure, I hear sounds around me in Chile, but I don't tune in because it's Spanish, and it doesn't zip through my blood vessels on a subconscious level like English does.
2. Free coffee refills. Sure it's the gut-rot variety that they serve in diners and restaurants, but my god they refill the cup before I've even made a dent. Sure beats having to fork over almost $5 for each meager sip of espresso in Chile!
3. Starbucks on every corner. This is not an exaggeration, and especially not in Chicago.
4. Too many options. This is both good and bad. While I'm happy that the majority of America, especially in larger cities, caters to every type of lifestyle imaginable and consistently surprises me with vegetarian and vegan goodies galore, this same principle makes other activities, such as buying contact solution, relatively hellish.
5. Things are easier? This may have something to do with the fact that I and everyone I know has a personal car, which makes trips to the store less of a feet-dragging, ugh-where's-the-change-for-the-bus, its-gonna-take-two-hours-just-to-get-soymilk-do-I-really-feel-like-doing-this type experience.

Some days I feel totally re-acclimated, and other days I'm struggling to remember the phrasing of a particular idiom that seems to have been replaced by Spanish vocabulary. Furthermore, my automatic response in restaurants and stores still tries to come out in Spanish. When I'm in a Mexican restaurant, this is acceptable. In most other places, it's not really appreciated.

High School Marching Bands: Chile Style

My family on my mother's side has always been enmeshed in music. My grandfather not only met his wife (the famous G-M-Z) in band during college by bumping her chair with his trombone (not a metaphor), he then went on to be a career band director for their local school system. They raised their children (one of which was my mother, the other famous G-M-Z) in a hotbed of music. I'm fairly certain that my grandfather's heartbeat, when observed during doctor's visits, sounds exactly like a metronome at 120bpm.

The grandkids, aside from maybe actually every single one of us excelling at an instrument during our school years, also grew up with The Classic Band Stories. Ranging from summer lessons mishaps on Seminary, to pregnant grandmothers scaling the stands during Marching Band season, to every sort of reed failure imaginable, my youth was firmly enmeshed in actual music and memories of music.

Which is why when I stumbled upon a high school marching band in Valparaiso, I had to film it, share it, critique it, and immediately email my grandfather.

Here's the thing. They were good, and very Latin American Music-y, but there were a couple aspects to the show that differed so greatly from any high school band performance I've ever witnessed in the United States that I felt I had to formally comment. Here it is... Things That U.S. High School Band Directors Never Have To Deal With:

1. The salsa-reggae-cumbia-whatnot blend of music the kids were playing really brought out the crazies. Valpo has a healthy roster of crazy hobos, and I don't mean this in a flip, derogatory way. More like, there are actual mentally people who roam the streets and most likely have no home. Some beg, other wanders and interact with birds, and occasionally they will approach and make incoherent conversation. They are harmless in my experience, but sometimes they get too close or start speaking in tongues, which is the cue to walk the other way. The music down here being naturally infectious and inspiring, it's easy to see why the frenetic drum beats similarly make the crazy resonate a bit stronger in everyone...but especially the crazies.

2. Going along with item 1, the music meant that the crazies, who notriously do not abide by social constraints, also do not adhere to appropriate performance etiquette. The band director at one point had to wrangle a man who had wandered into the drum line and carefully guide him out of the performance. The student dancers up front didn't even bat an eye or miss a step.

3. Similar to item 2, the other group that doesn't obey societal rules is The Strays. During the performance in the plaza, a rogue retriever wandered into the drum line and contented himself sniffing the ground amongst the gyrations and beats of the band. Nobody really cared -- not a single student reacted, which is probably very different from what would happen during any band performance in the States. I can see entire horn sections giggling and making eyes, drummers missing the beat and flag girls dropping poles in response to even one unexpected animal on the field. Not here. It's just part of the show.

4. Mid-way through the performance, one of the front line percussionists wandered out of the drum line, tiny multi-cymbal instrument in one hand, cell phone in the other, eyes glued to her phone. She paused near the periphery of the performance, intently texting. [long pause] Really??? Mid-performance? How could she even hear that she'd gotten a text with all that racket around her?

5. There is a very distinct sound that accompanies some genres of Latin American music, like a whistling-type noise that punctuates the music and gives it almost a Caribbean feel. I've never known (and still don't know) what this instrument is called, but during this band performance I spotted it. It is essentially a small, hollow drum that the student was, well...fisting. It was funny to watch for a variety of reasons. The student playing the Unknown Instrument seemed pretty pleased with his performance, too.

6. In the States we have the flag girls or the baton twirlers, typically in eye-catching, flashy uniforms with impressive skilled routines. In Latin America, there are girls dressed simply but with a jaw-dropping, booty-popping choreography. With musical roots the likes of salsa, cumbia, bachata and more, each with their own unique dance but almost all involving a surprising amount of hip movements and flair, it makes sense culturally that the student dancers would dance like that. But outside of hip-hop culture in the States, you just don't really see that. Especially not fronting a band, and especially not when under the age of 18.

Here we catch a glimpse of a stray dog wandering into

the performance, the pleased-with-himself student mentioned

in Item 5, and a brief look at some dancers near the front.

Unfortunately, no crazies in this shot. 

Reflections On An Important Anniversary

I'm not good at remembering birthdays, maiden names, anniversaries of any sort, and sometimes what I ate yesterday. Even things I feel I could never forget, not in a million years, tend to slip my mind.

I write today to confess that I have forgotten an important anniversary in my own life, a date that I swore to honor every year for as long as I had breath in my lungs.

For those readers who are not familiar with my journey, on May 29th, 2007 I had major back surgery to remove a benign tumor that had been growing for possibly a decade inside my spinal cord. The surgery to remove it was successful, but it left me paralyzed for an amount of time that my neurosurgeon said could possibly last the rest of my life.

Luckily, it didn't last the rest of my life -- ya'll have seen me using two legs -- but the window of time that included paralysis from my chest down was life-altering. The months spent in the hospital and the ensuing years of rehabilitative efforts were similarly life-changing. It was a transformative experience that not only reminded me to be grateful every day for the gift of mobility and independence, but one that reinvigorated the passion of living life to the fullest. I promised myself then that I would no longer limit myself based on fears, social norms, or any other form of perceived physical or societal limitation.

This is why I do what I do. We're all familiar with the stories of mid-life crises that involve a high-powered exec or other mid-life professional dropping the cash and career in favor of extended travel, or starting their own business, or enacting that personal goal that had lain dormant for decades. What I took away from my experience is that life is meant to be lived now.

I do not want to nor will I wait until I am 40-something with too many years of unfulfilling income-earning behind me, with a host of material possessions to prove an ambiguous degree of "success in life".

As homage to the neurosurgeon who saved my life -- he resolved the excruciating pain of my daily existence, a pain that I'm embarrassed to say would have led to me taking things into my own hands down the road -- and also reinvigorated my life, I bring him photos from my travels whenever we have a follow-up appointment. I tell him, "This is possible because of you." I'm not sure I can ever thank him enough.

I believe we are all capable of living our dreams, and choosing our dreams. What I strive to avoid is falling into the trap of living a life that I haven't chosen. Following a path that someone else decided was right for "someone my age", "someone like me", or "a successful twenty-something".

I consider myself lucky and blessed in too many ways to count. And one of the best experiences of my life was going through the agony, trauma, pain and challenge of back surgery, losing my ability to walk, and then fighting to get that back. Not just the ability to use my own two legs, but the ability to live my life as I imagine it. 

This is why I am here. This is why I have embarked on many trips, why I do things differently than maybe what parental figures might suggest for their children, why I won't stop doing this until I absolutely cannot continue any longer.

In 2009, during the climb up the 

Steps of Repentance on Mount Sinai

During a 2010 trip to Tikal in Guatemala...

Sweaty, humid pyramid climbing!

Cavorting around Cedar Point in 2012,

definitely a physical feat as mentioned in my previous post

My legs (and some planes) have carried me down south

as of 2012 to continue the explorations...

What inspires me most is the wide variety of goals and dreams in this life. It is a deeply personal decision, and nobody can tell you if you're right or wrong. For some, living life to the fullest might mean studying in an ashram in India, or raising three children in a safe neighborhood, or twisting culinary conventions in a hip restaurant in NYC, or writing books about science-fiction robots, or perfecting their color-coordinated living space, or starting an e-Bay business that sells doorknobs. It doesn't matter what it is...all that matters is that it comes from the pulsating, wrenching pits of your gut; that it forms the unseen lining of your blood vessels and internal organs and can only be felt, understood and enacted by you.

Life is meant to be lived now. Look around and ask yourself if where you are and what you're doing is truly what you want to be doing. If so, congratulations, and keep doing it! And if not, the first step of an exciting new journey can begin at exactly this moment. 

Why Growing Up Near an Amusement Park Might Permanently Taint My Career

We all know that the best writers take moments, experiences and relationships from real life and inject them into their writing with a finely-disguised syringe, sending a therapeutic jolt of relate-able life zipping through the blood stream of their prose.

I try to do this as well. Really, it's the natural byproduct of what happens from living life -- writers observe people, the ebb and flow of relationships, striking life moments, dull life moments, and these all collect into a Pool of Usable Material at the fingertips of a writer. Or in the tip of their Bic pen, or under the keys of their typewriters.

Jill and I have been talking a lot lately about our craft, why our stable middle-class childhoods both helped and hurt our art form, and why it might not be a bad idea to take a quick dip into the pools of Suffering and Addiction -- just momentarily, for the sake of the craft. But scheduling heroin cycles and past domestic abuse isn't something you can just decide to weave into the tapestry of your existence. Actually, hold on -- I suppose I could start with the heroin or instigate some highly unhealthy domestic habits and make my life go south, but I'm not going to do that.

That being said, I'm stuck with my middle-class stability...my relatively non-traumatic childhood, my degree, my job(s), my good health, and my loving, supportive family. SHEESH, GUYS!

Although this is just a sampling of Those That 

Constitute My Genes, I am so blessed to have the 

family that I do. 

I guess the only thing I can do is use my formative years to my advantage. Much to my chagrin/delight, the most resonate aspect of my childhood is Cedar Point. That's right -- America's Rockin' Roller Coast. Located in Sandusky, Ohio, this gem of a thrill-seeker's oasis constituted the bulk of my introduction into Real Life. Summers were focused on obtaining season passes to Cedar Point, from my youngest memories until present day, and then abusing those passes to the fullest extent. Winters were spent pining for a variety of wood and steel-based experiences. Falls were spent being haunted by local ghosts and riding the last wave of available thrills, and springs were spent waiting desperately for the Opening Day.

It comes as no surprise, then, that my adult years are spent relating a majority of my life experiences to the cycles of Cedar Point. I didn't realize this right off the bat -- in fact, it took a good number of years before I realized how ingrained Cedar Point and its environs were in the fabric of my being....all the way to my artistic metaphors.

This came to my attention for the Nth time when Jill and I were caught in a rainstorm on our way to the Chilean version of Wal-Mart way across town. We had been dodging various gushes of water from the streets, multiple dripping gutters and a whole slew of rain-borne lakes when I mentioned (i.e. screamed over the downpour), somewhat offhandedly given the storm, "This is worse than Thunder Canyon!"

Any Cedar Point Aficionado will know exactly what I'm talking about -- the desperate unknowing of when the next gush of frigid water will unexpectedly saturate, douse and completely chill you to the bone. Will the raft rotate enough for you to miss the waterfall, or will it place you directly in its torrential, unforgiving path? The feeling of helplessness is overwhelming...and apparently a life experience that resonated most strongly with me via Thunder Canyon.

This is not the first time Cedar Point and its rollercoasters have been the subject of my (select one: poorly-timed/lame/ambiguously creative/regionally-based/mildly interesting) metaphorsimiles. Once in Europe, Jill and I encountered a museum with a line so long it prompted me to shriek, "This is worse than when Raptor opened!"

See, Ohio-folks? You know exactly how long that line was. INSANEly long.

This emergence of a Cedar Point-focused understanding of the world around me has led me not only to seek an appropriate diagnosis in the new DSM-IV, the giant book of  disorders that was recently re-issued, but also to delve a bit deeper and find out what else, exactly, I understand in terms of roller coasters and amusements parks.

Childhood Amusement Park Coming of Age: A bit different than the classical coming of age later in puberty, this experience coincides with finally reaching the height requirement for the Big Kid rides. Any Sandusky native knows about waiting with desperate, nearly fatal excitement for the time when the height stick is the same level as the tippy top of your head (possibly with hair teased a bit higher by mom). This milestone of reaching the height requirement for all the cool rides inevitably forms the foundation around which Childhood Life is based. ("That summer we finally could ride the Magnum", or "The day you finally made it onto the WildCat") Boasting to your friends that you finally rode such-and-such roller coaster proves to be good fodder for street cred later in the halls of Perkins Schools once the end of summer hits.

The "Holy Shit What Did I Get Myself Into" Second Thoughts: A brand of roller coaster regret that, although short-lived, is soul-piercing and also nearly fatal. Occurs most often once boarding a new ride, or one you haven't been on in a very long time, just after your window for changing your mind and getting off has passed and the car begins heading up the first hill. Usually accompanied by an intense urge to pee and or defecate. This is when you shouldn't look down.

Coaster Second Thoughts tend to occur

at about this point in the ascent.

Amusement Park Exhaustion: A specific brand of exhaustion that occurs only after a special cocktail of elements are mixed, including mid-summer Ohio heat, twelve hours of walking/roller coaster riding/line waiting/greasy food ingesting/water-logged pants from the water rides you swore you wouldn't go on in your clothes but you did anyway because it was so damn hot out/refusing to sit down and rest because we're going to ride as much as we possibly can today/lines that reach the 2 hour mark or higher, and sun burns.This exhaustion is usually accompanied by the notable scents of sun screen, body odor, sweat, aforementioned fried food smell clinging to your clothes, and the lingering grit of countless metal hand rails.

Loss of a Beloved Coaster: Cedar Point deals with limited real estate (but really, can't we extend the peninsula by now? COME ON) which means that certain rides and coasters get ousted in favor of the latest and greatest. Many of my childhood favorites have been heartlessly canned -- such as the Pirate Ride and, more recently, Disaster Transport -- but at the very least this teaches us an important lesson in the changing nature of life and love. Everything must come to an end. We all get dismantled and discarded eventually....which, I guess in human terms, would be dying. Even Disaster Transport, which, to be honest, I still haven't dealt with that grief. (Roller coaster counseling, anyone?)

In reality I began detaching myself from 

Disaster Transport when they removed the

outer space theme and the all moving bits and bobs

in the repair bay.

New Coaster Excitement: This is a type of excitement that, for coaster enthusiasts like myself, penetrates deeper than most anything else in life. Let's talk about Gatekeeper -- I've been watching simulated video footage of this beast for over a year. I'm living in Chile but I'll be damned if I don't get a season pass for the four weeks I'm in Ohio just because I am positive I will go enough times to more than pay for the cost of the pass. This isn't just excitement, this is dedication. Sure, the ride will be over in a matter of minutes, but that'll be some damn thrilling couple hundred of seconds. Also including in this branch of excitement are people who track time in terms of number of days until Cedar Point opens.

The "One-Chance Shot" Letdown: This is a brand of disappointment that thankfully doesn't strike often, but when it does, can be highly disruptive. The scenario usually goes as follows: you've either left the city or state for work or school or pursuing-life-goal purposes, and either don't have it in your budget or priorities to purchase a season pass for Cedar Point. This means you visit once, and during your trip to Ohio you buy a day pass, probably from Meijer. You have one chance to go, and you plan to make the best of it and ride as much as possible, but the one day you're able to go between park hours, family obligations and general vacation timetable is....the one day it rains. Or the one day all your favorite coasters are down for repairs. Or the one day the wind is so strong that Wind Seeker is closed due to weather and you still haven't had a chance to ride it since it came out. So what do you do? Ride Calypso? Play Skee-ball? Oh, like that's worth $50? This is the one-chance shot letdown. Better luck next year!

Other Cedar Point-Specific Phenomena: the Gray-Out that occurs after the first hill on Millennium Force, the specific emotional arc that accompanies Top-Thrill Dragster (anticipation--surprise--glee--one moment of heart-stopping beauty and adrenaline from the front seat at the top curve--glee--feeling like you're dying/being born--the come down as the ride stops), the spine-jarring experience of the Mean Streak, and the dismay when you realize the Back Lot is full...

As evidenced by this excessively lengthy post, Cedar Point is near and dear not only to my heart, but to my understanding of the world around me. Though there are some life moments that are best understood in terms of roller coasters and amusement parks, I will make a sincere effort to wrangle this probable disorder so that it does not negatively affect my creative fiction. Unless, of course, I decide to get into Roller Coaster Fan Fiction writing...now that might be a real moneymaker that combines all my passions!