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D.C. on a raining fall afternoon gets a particular smell to it. It’s likely changed since the advent of lower emission cars and and increase in enviro-friendly buses. The walk up Adams, crossing west on Klingle Rd, Connecticut, Van Ness, and Nebraska entering AU with the myriad colored leaves falling. The rain usually helped to mitigate the effort of walking so far just to use a computer. But, I couldn’t find a job, so I had nothing else to do.

Twice I’ve been to Gettysburg, and it was mid-summer both times. I’d say that I enjoyed the place, but it’s hard to enjoy anything when you’re losing a gallon of water every half an hour. The town and surrounding area are genuinely steeped with history and a strange human presence. It’s a different feeling you get than being in Boston, or Phili where centuries of habitation have created a background hum of human movement. Except for the people who live there everyday, there’s only one reason people go to Gettysburg, and you can sense it in the air, as though the fabric of its meaning is manufactured. We go there because of what happened there, not the reverse. Boston Commons had history happen there because it was the commons in Boston. Gettysburg is an otherwise simple farm town that had national history forced upon it. A 19th century farmer that’s been forced to own a national treasure, whether it wanted to or not.

Chicago used to hold a lot of memories for me. It was the closest major city for many years, and several relatives did/do live there. The winter is what I remember the most. Seeing The Nutcracker at Arie Crown every year, heading to the Field, Berghoff if we somehow had money. A lot of family memories originate there, and continue to be created. Nothing beats looking out over the lake in the middle of the night from 15 floors up on Michigan Ave, though. Despite the size of the city, downtown dies at a certain time of day. The constant snowfall and wind leave small traces that people continue to trek the freezing sidewalks, and the blackness of the lake swallows it all. A vast inky horizon of hypothermia.

King Street station always stands out in my mind. No small part of this is due to the fact that any time I’m there, I think to myself ‘huh, this place always stands out in my mind’. While the Washington Memorial thing that’s next to the station is impressive, it always stands out to me as the place I realized I was learning patience. I’d scrape up some coins and ride the metro out to King Street to meet up with a friend of mine. I’d always be several hours early, so I’d practice waiting. Read a book, amateur anthropology, social observation, I could easily make 3 hours disappear. So close to escaping the beltway, but still stuck within the limitations of mass-transit.

Atop a hill due west of Hachioji, I once dug up the remains of an ancient civilization. I scraped a hole in the ground with a tiny gardening trowel for 2 weeks, then had to fill it all back in. The main highlights were carrying an entire steel framed tent up the mountainside myself (which gained me respect, but made me the logical target for unsavory physical labor) and getting absolutely blotted with the other graduate students. The only English to be heard were aptly used curses directed towards wayward equipment, and towards the volunteer students who didn’t seem to know what heat-stroke was.

The C&O canal runs right past Georgetown University, and ends over near Rock Creek. Lockhouse 6 can be rented out and is a nice enough place to stay if you have a car or preferably a bike. So long as the mosquitoes aren’t bad, the back porch is a nice place to sit and watch the Potomac flow past. One word of warning, the bathroom is at the bottom of some steep stairs in the basement.

An ’89 Chevy Caprice can do amazing things in the snow, including making turns without moving the steering wheel. We were told to meet in Greencastle, so I was making my way down 231 sometime late December. So long as you kept the wheels straight, you could still do highway speeds, much like skiing with a 2-ton backpack. The Tenchi Muyo soundtrack helps you stay focused as you strain every nerve to receive the subtle signals from the car. The wheel, even the vibrations from the gas pedal, as you hurtle under a bridge and find 8ft of traction before setting off again into a controlled slide that’s lasted 110 miles. And the heater worked ok.

On the NE corner of Mt Pleasant and Irving there is a lone parking spot. Unless you drive a red minivan, those are somehow too long and you’ll get a ticket regardless of how equidistant you are from the corners.

The first book I remember is ‘Arrow to the Sun’. It especially struck a chord as later that year I actually got to stand in a kiva. I wasn’t quite sure I should have been there, but my parents tended to be the kind of people who asked first. The only memory I have of moving to New Mexico was of a very uncomfortable Uhaul seat, and a seemingly endless supply of lemonheads. A lot happened that year. I was introduced to acrophobia crossing a high bridge on the way to an observatory, the concept of racism and classism from my neighbors, I got to see the Christmas procession and luminarias while there was snow on the pueblos, and the Rio taught me that nature can kill. Leaving the state also taught me a new emotion. Tiny hands were trying vainly to pull the head off of a beloved stuffed animal for hours before someone asked what I was doing. All I could say was that ‘it burns inside, and I don’t like it’. Nobody bothered to explain to me why we were leaving, or that I had just discovered ‘rage’ and ‘sorrow’. I thought it was because I wasn’t supposed to have entered the kiva.

one upon a time, computer software was hard to come by. Mr. Egghead was a software store in Indy that carried some of the most desired programs on floppy. It was summer and I got to travel with my father on a very rainy weekday afternoon. The five and a quarter golden slabs of plastic obtained, we went to the free art museum, where I saw a Buddha’s head framed by a rain lead sky and wet evergreens. He explained to me why Mozart was important, and that even if you don’t like a type of music, you should recognize that somebody else might like it for very personal reasons. I still have the aged cassette of Eine Kleine Nachtmusik from that day. Before leaving town he drove me to a toy store, and bought the biggest LEGO pirate ship that existed. It wasn’t even my birthday.

The Capitol Limited runs from Union Station in downtown Chicago to Union Station in downtown D.C.. 16 hours to ponder your existence and contemplate what’s about to happen to you, or what did happen to you. Early March at 9pm on the corner of Orange and Bendix is cold. Usually, there’s still snow on the ground. You get there a few hours early, and you never remember why. The wind whips across an empty lot straight from the lake, chilling your bones. You board the train and half the passengers are already asleep. Please put me next to an empty seat. Ooooh, window. 3 hours later it’s Toledo, and 3 CDs of the case you brought are played. May as well try to sleep, maybe if I hooked this leg over the other one and pinned it against the wall I could pretend I’m laying down. You get used to the noise of the rail, but suddenly jerk awake when you hit a straight run and everything goes dead silent. At least I managed to sleep past Alliance this time. It starts to get light around West Mayfield, and you begin to see topography. The Beaver flows into the Ohio and you play hind-and-seek with the Monongahela and the Youghiogheny. The Casselman gives you some nice scenery while you eat what technically counts as food, Oingo Boingo in your ears as green valleys and tiny towns slide past your vision, the pregnant woman who boarded in Pittsburgh is still asleep and drooling on your shoulder. Green made more verdant by the light rain that seems to always accompany this stretch of track. “Oh, you’re awake. No, I’ll pass on the suspicious brownie. Not much of a beer drinker, either. It’s ok, the coat is waterproof”. Observation deck as we hit Cumberland and the start of the Potomac. Three and a half hours to go. Nothing but fields until we hit Harper’s Ferry, then prep the bags as we swing in from the north, Washington Monument clearly visible from quite a distance. Off the train, your brain tries to adjust from constantly moving forward for the last 16 hours. The escalator almost killed me. Remember the Red line stations as Siousxie welcomes me back to the Metro, concrete and dingy orange hexagons. Drop the bags and it’s the first clove I’ve had in months, accompanied by a burnt quesadilla and an Old Fezziwig.

Less than 100 steps from the eastern exit of the Ryogoku station on the Chuo-Sobu line is a small tonkatsu shop called ‘Ichikatsu’. It can seat 15 people, if they all breathe in and think thin. The menu consists of only 3 items, and you’re advised to be after tonkatsu. The exterior exactly mirrors the interior, and the staff, silent and monotone. And customers line up for what it is they sling out on industrial plates. The triangle of cooks are a spinning machine, picking up an order where it was left off by another, silently applying an artistic smear of mustard before depositing it before a waiting patron. On and on they spin, for 11 hours a day. Pausing only to change the oil.

The Hotaluna (designed by Leiji Matsumoto) remains the best use of $18 I have yet to experience. It sets out from Asakusa pier and heads to Odaiba. It passes under 14 bridges, most low enough to decapitate a passenger if they stood on the fold-able deck attached to the top of its insect carapace. Setting out at dusk means it’s newly night when you’re allowed up top. What seemed like a slow crawl along the Sumida, banked by urban and industrial lights, suddenly becomes a manic race as the wind threatens to rip you from your feet. The Rainbow Bridge begins to loom before the ship, growing ever massive as you slip silently below, rounding one of the 6 batteries build to fend of foreign incursion into Edo Bay. All too soon the Statue of Liberty welcomes you to Odaiba Park, and reclaimed land, the captured Hachimata Sphere looking down. Walk around for a bit, the metro station isn’t going anywhere.

Music is a constant. One ear open to hear the noise of the city, but the other one has a constant stream of songs. Some cities get their own soundtracks, sometimes particular trips get a new download of a song that caught my ear on the way to the airport. The drive from Louisville to D.C. always got the same 10 CDs in the same order, with ELO cresting the Appalachians. Tokyo gets a mix of Information Society and Origa. The music helps to create a point or avenue by which it’s easier to remember, it also helps mark the passage of time. The average song is about 5 minutes, 3 songs and I’ve walked from my apartment to the station. If I don’t make it to the gate by the 4th song, I’ll get yelled at for being late. A rainy temple in the park always get’s Ghibli.

Only once have I feared for my life while traveling. We had set out for Crystal City 8 hours prior, and somehow we were about to hit New Jersey. A number had gotten transposed in my mind and we were no longer on the route that I had memorized. If I could find 83, we could still make it by our deadline. The music was low as everybody else was sleeping, but I could faintly make out Stray from Wolf’s Rain. Still 45 minutes till dawn and a thick fog had set in over the rolling hills and valleys of Pennsylvania. The old, white Honda station wagon was surprisingly nimble. I dragged the vehicle around sharp corners, feathering the throttle as not to go airborne and wake the passengers. I had never been so awake, my eyes never so clear, gripping the steering wheel as though it would take flight. Is this what piloting a jet fighter was like? Low stone walls passed millimeters from the fender, trees and mailboxes a blur. No idea how long the detour took. By the time the sun was up, we had merged with the interstate, and people were beginning to come awake. “Not far now”

If you have the chance and the time, get lost among the industrial parks around O’Hare. Stay off of 90 and 294, and you get an interesting mix of suburbia and industry. A shipping warehouse, a Girodano’s, some half empty offices, the occasional liquor store. Put on some jazz, kick the pedal down, and if you don’t care where you’re going, you’re the new Rally Vincent.

I learned to drive in the middle of summer, in a silver Monte Carlo, whose AC was purely hypothetical. That summer I became by father’s chauffeur around the back roads and fields of the Northwest Territory. A constant stream of irish music and Hirasawa Susumu wafted weakly from the tape-deck, perpetually cycling as we cruised through the heat and sea of green because the cassette was stuck. He’d purposefully get us lost, and I’d have to find our way to house and dinner. The NS roads are named for trees, the EW numbered. Turn left, head south as a reel starts up, and enjoy the mint fields at dusk.

I used to have an apartment in the west of Tokyo. I was never in it, but it was there nonetheless. I slept 5-6 hours a night, and spent every other waking minute on my feet. No plans? Hop on the train, get out at a random station, walk around for a few hours, then try to find your way home. Cell phones were tiny in that age, and GPS maps were as much as a car. It was like the Tab key on an old FPS game, little by little the fog lifted and the map got filled in. So long as the phone was charged, and the sound recorder had new batteries, just put one foot in front of the other until you can’t move anymore. It’s also a great way to work through the back catalogs of your favorite bands. Flogging Molly was especially good for the long walk back from my local. I say ‘local’, but it was an hour by train. The White Room closed sometime around 12:30 or 1, well past the last train. So, walk home or pretend to sleep in the station. Walk it is. The Dark Crystal soundtrack was especially good for those long, dark walks. The city was completely quiet, with the star-like lights of apartment buildings standing in stark contrast to the pitch-black mountains to the west. It was at least a 3 hour walk, and that’s if I was on a path I knew. There was no point trying to create a route. Streets and addresses didn’t work the same way there. So I’d walk along the tracks, because I at least knew the Keio line. Keep close to the rails, switching sides as roads meandered away into the silent depths of the city. The sky would start to brighten around 4 as the sun came up over the flat Pacific. Switch to Whiskey On a Sunday to keep moving. At Takahatafudo switch to following the monorail. Sunrise as Chuo station came into view at the end of the tunnel. Just a couple of hours sleep before doing it all again. I had an apartment, but I was never in it. I was never so tired, but simultaneously never so happy.

I used to volunteer for long drives. A sister or brother had to be picked up or dropped off from college, and I’d volunteer to navigate. I was the map guy. I still don’t really bother with SatNav. Give me a map and we’ve got a course. The long drives were best. Mom would be driving the van, I’d be reading a book and remind her of the next turn. Night would descend and I’d try to figure out which towns we were driving past depending on the glow of the light pollution above them. The higher the dull orange glow, the larger the city. Indy’s glow had a slightly whiter tinge to it from the industrial lights. Billy Joel on the radio as we skirt around Kokomo, losing the signal to the same atmosphere that was tracking our progress. A web of lights that only space could see. But if you looked at just the right angle, you could catch glimpses of what you were missing.

I used to enjoy driving. Now I have to do it as a necessity and it’s rather killed the mechanism of dredging up travel memories. Maybe it’ll return to being therapeutic, time and situation will tell.

The constant long commute might be nearing an end. Stay tuned to see if this experiment gets back on track.