WATCHING THE RAIN IN GALICIA

06/10/12 UA3542 depart CMH 6:40 a.m. arrive ORD 7:06 a.m. UA477 depart ORD 9:26 a.m. arrive PDX 11:41 a.m.

09/10/12 depart portland greyhound station 12:05 p.m. arrive grants pass 5:20 p.m. old ford pickup to fort freedomland (via the kerby mart) via the oregon redwood highway (number 199).

13/10/12 depart grants pass greyhound station 9:00 a.m. arrive portland 2:20 p.m.

17/10/12 DELTA9100 depart PDX 11:30 a.m. arrive LAX 1:52 p.m. culver city bus to santa monica/sunset blvd metro rapid to silver lake.

20/10/12 red line metro to union station flyaway bus to DELTA4678 depart LAX 1:59 p.m. arrive SFO 3:20 p.m. to BART to civic center.

22/10/12 DELTA9051 depart SFO 8:35 p.m. arrive PDX 10:13 p.m. (two hour delay)...rose city taxi to terwilliger and taylors ferry.

24/10/12 amtrak cascades depart portland union station 12:45 p.m. arrive seattle king street station 4:30 p.m king county bus 255 to kirkland transit center.

25/10/12 king county 245 to 255 to amtrak bus depart seattle king street station 10:45 a.m. arrive vancouver pacific central 2:15 p.m.

28/10/12 amtrak bus depart vancouver pacific central 9:00 a.m. arrive seattle king street station 12:45 p.m. amtrak cascades depart seattle king street station 2:20 p.m. arrive portland union station 5:50 p.m.

29/10/12 UA321 depart PDX 12:19 p.m. arrive IAH 6:15 p.m. UA4341 depart IAH 7:20 p.m. arrive CMH 10:54 p.m. (no delay despite the efforts of the edge of superstorm sandy).

and on october twenty-sixth, after at least three prior visits, i finally succeeded in being talked to by a staff member at solder and sons at main and cordova on vancouver's downtown east side. nonetheless, having already eschewed a book purchase that day, i considered it unfair to consider buying the copy of granta number 10 that was on the fiction shelves of the small store. travel writing. and "in this issue," just as it had started coming down outside, márquez's essay "watching the rain in galicia." but because of more immediate commitments, i only gave myself a moment to smile at the thought of shedding a tear at the title.

on the thirty-first (which was as early as was possible for me), under the sway of the urgent tone of that article in the next morning's article globe and mail, i voted. way to go ohio. or, i guess, we'll see. then i went to the library. i had a book overdue. but the main branch also had a copy of a book that included that essay.

"i don't know where the shame of being a tourist comes from," márquez writes. ...and i don't know how i feel about that statement. but it was better, perhaps, that i hadn't read the essay in that issue of granta, because even more than the author's observations on the galician rain -- and on the wind, "that sows the lunatic seed which makes so many galicians delightfully different" -- i appreciated the poem by lorca that this other collection had included as an inset on one of the pages. "it rains in santiago, my sweet love. white camellia of the air, shadowy shines the sun/it rains in santiago in the dark night. grasses of silver and of sleep cover the empty moon/see the rain in the street, lament of stone and crystal. see in the vanishing wind shadow and ash of your sea/shadow and ash of your sea, santiago, far from the sun. water of ancient morning trembles in my heart." and in those words by the poet from the vega of granada, my own (unknown) far away lament for the delightful galician lunatic i had met in andalusia. and then for everyone i had met there. and then for everyone i had more recently left. my morriña for all of the places i was already missing, and that which was even deeper, maybe, for all the ones that i hadn't yet been able to see.     

 

THE OREGONIAN FAMILY ROBINSON; or, FORT FREEDOMLAND: MARRIAGE OF NOT SO OPPOSITES

it was with trepidation that they headed southwest on the 199 toward the turnoff for takilma happy camp and the shooting spot...well, he was trepidatious as he was being driven, but she, the experienced shot, was probably just driving...although both caroline and christopher were proud to have announced the marriage of irony and barbeque sauce a short while earlier as they passed the restaurant advertising sushi, bbq and family fun. (although they had also passed.) and after he'd killed a can from...the fifties?...with a rifle from 1911 (and then sniped that elusive bottle on a fluke with the first of three test shots from the nazi gun they'd borrowed from ephysema tom), they found another can in the shrubs while they were picking up their spent rounds, alive and unopened but recalescent from the indian summer sun, and they stopped at the kerby mart before going back to the picnic table at the fort so that they could toast the marriage of hamm's and hot coors. the marriage of toplessness and hard labor, which had been scheduled for earlier in the day had been not so unceremoniously delayed because of the shooting expedition (and then further because of all the toasting), but caroline and christopher were proud to announce that it was tentatively rescheduled for the following morning. you want some? get some at got somes. what they didn't have was that coveted small town signature sweatshirt, because caroline must have thrifted all of cave junction fresh out. not at get somes, but christopher did manage a las vegas rodeo tee from one of the other stores, and in the light of the lantern, the saddle in the middle of the print didn't look too different from a diagram of the female reproductive system. in gold. and they laughed as they finished the next round of hamm's (recalling the thirty from canada and the thirty-six in the photograph from spain), proud to announce the marriage of outdoor urination and home cooking. it might not have seemed possible after those first two nights and days, but the spirit of camaraderie that floated with the smoke in the lantern light that third night was even more intoxicating than it had been when caroline and christopher had proudly announced the marriage of cat tattoos and illegal fire pits. when the shirt came off for the wood chopping on the morning of day number four, however, his tattoo had been, in the meantime, rubbed off or faded; but it was nonetheless with pride that caroline and christopher (she still in her shirt) announced the marriage of precious moments and filthy hands (but not of the filthy hands to the precious moments figures that they stole from aunt judy's junk store in morristown, tennessee all those years ago). everyone in attendance smiled and wished the couple well, and the light of their benefactions shone all the way down from the army tent on the slope at the back of the freedomlands to the reception offices in the airstream at the entrance to the fort at the bottom of the hill.

when anything with sirens tears past the kerby mart and through cave junction southwest down the 199, everyone within earshot looks up and goose necks. and the brotarians who hold their daily afternoon meeting on the patio of dos gringos are anything but the exception. the sheriff's building in cave junction is empty, and when it isn't raining, the cruiser in grants pass is usually sitting under a layer of dust. the residents of josephine county don't want to pay the gas. the situation might be different on the other side of the ridge in jackson county, in applegate where the mountain homos have their man camp, in the hot springs around ashland, but for the length of the 199 to the california border, the law is just the mountain man itself. or that's how they'd like it. and they like you. the law of the mountain man is inclusive. it passes the nazi sniper rifle, and it doesn't give a second thought to caroline leaving the truck to walk in the opposite direction of get somes and buy ammunition at the store on the other side of the parking lot. the mountain homos from the man camp on the other side of the ridge are welcome too. (it's a shame that we hadn't more closely watched the weather so that we could have organized a river swim.) and there i was in the middle of it, an esteemed friend of fort freedomland, lost in a place called america, where i could be a mountain man too. so i ventured a joke. the biker walks into the place with an alligator under his arm. he walks up to the bar and plops his dick out on it. then he sets the alligator down, and it bites down hard on his dick. after about twenty seconds, the biker pokes the alligator in the eye, it opens its mouth, and he puts it back under his arm. then he asks the bar if there's any one there man enough to give that a try. and i say that i will, i told them, just so long as he doesn't poke me in the eye. then i proceed, without a trace of trepidation.

HOW TO LIVE THE DREAM ONCE YOU'VE LET THE DREAM DIE

the hairdresser is almost certainly in the pocket of the gaming lobby. they pay the rent at her salon loft, for the big flat screen tv and the cable, and for her shelves full of only the best from j beverly hills. they pay for my decaf and the assortment of creamers in the mini fridge, and over my hour (and the two hours on either side of mine during which a friend of mine occupies the gaming lobby sponsored chair) the hairdresser drops that, yes, it couldn't have been more than two days since she was last at the casino, and that the tarzan machine was paying out big. not more than two days ago she won over twelve hundred dollars in not more than an hour. the day before that she hit the triple seven with her first pull at the lucky 7 slot machine. and did we know that there were specials on tuesday mornings? a fistful of free play for the early birds on tuesday mornings! and sure, that pull at the lucky 7 had cost her three dollars, but that three was two hundred no sooner than her hand was off the lever. she could tell us more on the boat at buckeye lake.

the gaming lobby does not, unfortunately, pay for my haircut, which is understandable, because they wouldn't want to give up, so to speak, the game. but they've chosen their representative wisely, and she does good hair. i want her to shave the part to look like a portuguese soccer player, nothing of the shoddy spanish imitations, and she understands exactly what to do.

then there's nothing to be done the following monday. the beginning of the work week has been postponed until we can charge our cards with our free play credit on tuesday morning, and the doorman in front of the spanish renaissance revival building of the athletic club of columbus doesn't open doors to portuguese soccer revival haircuts. they say that the place is family oriented, but we all know what hides behind those unopened doors in the midwest. for the exception of that coveted entry the work week might have been allowed to start early.

and they say too that when it rains it pours, and now it's pouring and there's even less to be done about the monday. but then the post knocks, and there's a letter. an update from fort freedomland. the vintage airstream has found a home in southern oregon. it has a deed, but it can still only be reached at general delivery, cave junction. nearby, she writes, there's a swimming hole for sasquatches. they will work on an outhouse for visitors. i will learn how to shoot. it's been a while since she's asked at the post office, she apologizes, so she doesn't know if i've written. for that matter, she doesn't even know if she's reached me. more likely i'm in baltimore or somewhere making rich men delight in drinking my urine (even if not at the athletic club of columbus). with the rain outside and the grind not set to restart until tomorrow, i just wonder: if she hasn't actually read any of my letters, then how did she know?