sometimes, it's all in the details

nessie

It started, logically enough, in Scotland. At Loch Ness, to be precise. 

Hannah and I had taken a trip up to Edinburgh from London, where we had been staying in a flat in Bloomsbury for two weeks (on Great Russell Street, where Charles Dickens had lived). On our second rainy day in Scotland, we went on a bus trip that took us all around the country — touristy, I know, but sometimes there's no other way to get around. It was led by the sweetest old lady named Fran, who aggressively plied us with whiskey products and whose liltingly accented voice could make even statements like, "And then they dragged William Wallace from the castle, and he was hanged, drawn and quartered," sound positively charming.

We had been driving through the greenest, foggiest hills for hours when we came to Loch Ness. After rambling through Castle Urquhart and frolicking on grass that, as it turned out, we weren't supposed to walk on, we took a boat out onto the Loch. Much to our surprise, Nessie came out for a visit. 

Upon our return to London, we made one of our many visits to the British Museum. There, we discovered a distant cousin of Nessie's. 

The quality of the picture's not so great, but the family resemblance is uncanny.

From this moment on, Nessie followed us everywhere. We even saw her on Rome's Palatine Hill, to see Augustus Caesar's frescoed palace:

We think this tree had a bit of Nessie ancestry in it.

I couldn't count the number of times she's popped up (and yes, let's quash the rumors: Nessie is a girl). I haven't always had my camera on hand, unfortunately, but just this past summer I was able to capture one of Nessie's most striking visits yet. Sunset over Lake Michigan:

Such a long trip just to see us! It's flattering, really.  

For your viewing pleasure: the first sighting.

back to school

There was just a sound that went with the end of summer. It was the usual cacophony of crickets, of course, but there was just another element that she couldn't put her finger on, and that was what officially made the change from summer to autumn, for her, anyway. Was it frogs? The distant hum of the highway? The leaves changing color? She lay in bed and whatever sound it was came in through her window and blended with the gentle thrum of the fan. It swayed back and forth across the span of her bed, rustling the sheets against her bare legs.

These days, the nights when she didn't wake up with her sheets tangled around her waist and the thin cotton comforter pulled up to her chin were becoming fewer and fewer. The air was more than crisp when the sun went down, and every day the sun was going down minutes before it had yesterday. Soon she would have to put her fan in the back of her closet and the vacant space would be replaced with soft, oversized sweaters and fleece blankets and plans to go apple picking. That didn't sound so bad.

It was still summer if she had bare legs. But now there was that sound drifting through the curtains, that inexplicable, indescribable, end of summer sound.

some favorites

Ah, that restless, anywhere-but-here feeling. I know it well. And of course it's starting up again right before I go back to Oberlin for my final year. Just my final year? I've been itching to be done for ages. I'm ready for other things.

Reminiscing about trips of yesteryear.

I'd give a lot to be in Rouen with Angèle and her one white eyebrow.

Back to Geneva. I could stay in this hostel.

This house in Rio Preto, Brazil was a bright spot. I was here for two weeks, once upon a time. 

The Royal Crescent in Bath.

I could join forces with the shadowy reader in the Jardins de Cluny in Paris.

Return to rainy Edinburgh, with its colorful shopfronts.

Oxford, England. Worcester College.

Lake Michigan sunset, believe it or not.

Roman couple in the Piazza Navona.

Or just go back to Venice.

quixotic

I've been driving too much. In these past two weeks, I have gone through New York, New Jersey, Pennsylvania, West Virginia, Ohio, Indiana, Illinois, and Michigan on wheels. But at least, when I have my way, I get to have the windows rolled down. And I have a talent for finding good stuff on the radio.

Heading toward Chicago, I was momentarily paused on an Indiana highway. Traffic was backed up ahead of me and everything was slowing down. And there were huge, white, whirling windmills as far as the eye could see out of my window. Snapped a few pictures of them even though I probably shouldn't be taking photos while driving. But I felt like Don Quixote. It had to be documented.

Lollapalooza was awesome, by the way. Awesome and completely nuts. I still haven't decided whether or not I'm any good at music festivals. But Coldplay was the best show I have ever seen.

Oh, and Michigan was okay too...

long sunsets

On the drive back to Ohio from New York, the sunset seemed to last for hours. All of Pennsylvania was awash with oranges and reds and yellows. Summer sun colors.

Sitting in the back seat, I thought about how heading west was an American tradition. How odd it would be to watch the sun rise for this long. Mornings are never as desperate. We always want to extend the day right at the very end, to make the last rays of light reach as far as they possibly can.

saving kerosene

I was sitting on the porch reading Blue Highways, William Least Heat Moon's trip across America on the country's backroads. I was in the middle of accompanying William to a three-calendar diner in South Carolina when I heard a voice directed at me.

I looked up. This was yesterday. I was on one of the side porches of the Robbins Hunter Museum in my little town in Ohio. It used to be a house — well, I guess it still is a house — before it was turned into a museum of local history. I think that's what it's for, anyway. In 20 years of calling this town home I have never actually been inside, choosing to venture no father than the shaded porch, perfect for reading on at lunchtime. The grooves on the tall, white columns fit perfectly to the contours of my spine and shoulder blades, which tend to poke out too far from underneath my skin.

The old man was walking into the library, the entrance to which was only a dozen yards or so from my perch. "Was that book so good you couldn't wait to get home?" he cawed at me. People often seem to feel the urge to say something to me whenever I'm sitting here, like it's odd that I should choose this porch, of all places, to have my snack, read, and stay a while. Maybe it is odd. I've never seen anyone else doing it. They must not have heard about the perfect shoulder grooves. 

I laughed, smiled, and waved obligingly at the old man, who tottered through the doors, still chuckling to himself. I turned back to my book and hit the road again. 

Twenty minutes later I went into the building. I craved the air conditioning. As I was sitting at the tables in front, flipping through a magazine, the old man came up to me again. He stood extremely close; I could see flecks of color in his irises. 

"I talked to you because you reminded me of my home," he said to me, staring intently. "I know you don't want to hear the rattlings of an old man, but let me just tell you real quick. I'm from Kentucky. Back then, when I was young, we didn't have anything like today. No television, no radio. Nothing like that. All we had to do was read! And I had the worst teacher in the world: my mother. But every year, just at the beginning of summer, the traveling book cart would come through — today, we'd call it a Bookmobile — and my mother would check out everything. And I read it all! History, stories, poetry. We had to use kerosene lamps, since there was no electricity, and sometimes to save kerosene I would build a fire and sit with my back to it so the light would fall on the page. And I would read until midnight. Anyway, I'll leave you be."

And he wandered on off to the bookshelf. He was still perusing when I left to climb back up the hill to work. I'm glad he doesn't have to wait for once every year anymore. 

a wednesday morning

By 9 a.m. the cicadas are already in full force. I wheeled my bike out of the garage this morning to ride to work — slightly late, as always — and was overwhelmed by the summeriness of it all. Humidity and the background noise of the insect orchestra combine to make Ohio in July.

I was forced to ride quickly with the being late thing and all. Arrived 20 minutes later feeling like I had partially melted. I could feel the sweat dripping down my back and soaking into my romper. Not cute. It's that damn hill by the golf course that gets me every time... If I didn't have to pedal up that bad boy, I think I would make it looking at least somewhat presentable. And less shiny, for sure.

I hear it's been way over 100 degrees for the past week or so down south. The Midwest hasn't been spared either. I'm thinking of adopting a vampiric lifestyle: sleeping all day, venturing out at night. It seems like the only way to avoid the heat. I hate sitting around in air conditioning all day, no matter how much of a relief it is. Who wants stale, recycled air when the cicadas are singing outside?