Road Trip to Michigan

I spent Presidents' Day weekend at the home of my roommate, Krista, in Charlevoix, Michigan, about an hour south of the Makinaw Bridge. Good times were had by all, some of the highlights of which you will find below.

Road Trip!
It's about a 7 hour trip from Wheaton to Charlevoix, but my wondercar, Nigel the CR-V, got us to our destination with narry a hitch. Well, except when Krista was sure we shouldn't take the right exit, and Augustine (who's actually from Texas) recognised it and we had to turn around and try again. But for this little snafu we can hardly blame Nigel.

On the way up we stopped at a Burger King for supper, where we saw an ad that quickly became Krista's new favorite saying. It was a picture of a Whopper sandwich, perched on top of an open Big Mac box. It is on top because it's too big to fit in. The caption says, "Silly Whopper. That's a Big Mac box!" Krista laughed and described the ad to everyone who would listen throughout the weekend.

Cross-Country Trauma



So Krista comes from an active and athletic family. I am neither active nor athletic. She warned me that we would be going cc skiing on Saturday, which seemed fine to me at first. But then, all the way up Augustine (who'd met Mr. Swenor several times and is an avid downhill skier and generally athletic) kept telling Krista that she was feeling nervous that Mr. Swenor was going to push us too hard while skiing and she wouldn't be able to keep up. Well, if Augustine was going to fall behind, I might as well stay in the car. So that made me nervous.

By the time we were all fitted with shoes, skiis, hats, gloves, and water, I was panicking. Phrases such as "six mile trail" and "three or four hours" were being thrown around as if they WEREN'T terrifying. I was starting to feel a little sick.

It took about an hour to get to the state park where the torture was to take place. Incidentally, the whole area was BEA-U-TIFUL. Wow. So pristine and remote. We were driving through endless forests of pine trees, decorated with fluffy, white snow. The day was beautiful, too; blue skies and sunny, with temps in the low thirties. Most of this glory was wasted on me in my current state, but I couldn't help but appreciate a bit of it.



We finally arrived at the moment of truth. I was strapped to some skiis and informed that the "sticks" were actually "ski poles". Krista's sister gave me a few basic pointers while we waited for everyone to get ready. Things like bend your knees and try to glide. All well-intentioned and generally lost on me. We headed out. Here's a picture of us before I was covered in snow.



I managed to stay upright until we came to our first downhill slope. Now, this hill was actually more like a gentle undulation on the landscape. It would be nearly indiscernable had I been walking. But I wasn't walking, I was slipping around on two narrow strips of...fiberglass? and this posed a significant problem for me. I fell. The falling part was fast, but the getting up part involved coaching from everyone present, lots of grunting, groaning, maneuvering, positioning, repositioning, and, at LONG last, a hand-up from Krista's brother-in-law. Fortunately, everyone was quite gracious during the 10 minutes we all stood around waiting for me to get vertical again.

Not long after that, our group split up as the realization that I wasn't going to be moving any faster set in. Krista and Augustine stayed back with me and helped me through to the end of the two miles that I completed. In two hours. Quite possibly the longest two hours of my life... Yes, that's three times slower than walking. It seems that the gliding part is hard for people with bad balance. Like me. Plus I was hyper-paranoid about re-injuring my back with all the falling I was doing. All I can say for myself is that by the end of the trail I was considerably faster at getting up than I was during that first fall.

So my fearless companions finally agreed, after much convincing, to leave me at the first stopping point. They were going to go on to the second stopping point, another mile on. Mr. Swenor was supposed to come with the car and pick us up shortly, so I took off my skis and sat down on the porch of the park office (which was closed) to await his arrival.

A group of snowmobilers was also at the closed office, grilling burgers and hotdogs on a make-shift grill. They mentioned that there was a small heater in their snowmobile trailer that I was welcome to go use, but I was actually sweaty from my two hours of torture, and I politely refused.

About 30 minutes later, however, I was beginning to regret that hasty decision, as Mr. Swenor had still not made an appearance, and my previously sweaty self had become chilled. About this time, one of the women (there were three couples there, all in their late fourties/early fifties) came and insisted that I come join them in the warm trailer and this time I was happy to oblige. They had finished their meal and were just enjoying the last of their beer as I joined them. We chit-chatted for about 15 minutes until they were ready to head off again for another ride. They offered to take me back to our car, but since I didn't have keys that seemed counter-productive and besides, I had no idea if there were multiple roads to choose from or not, having come through the woods. I regretfully returned to my previous post, thanking them profusely and waving as they rode off into the forest. I did make use of their grill, which was still hot, to warm my hands. Eventually, Mr. Swenor showed up and picked me up. Having just finished six miles of skiing in three hours, he was sweaty and hot. Having just sat in the cold for an hour, I was shivering and cold. Being generous and a dad, he turned the heat on for me anyway. :)



Not long after that, and having successfully pushed the Suburban out of the snow where we got stuck, we picked up the rest of the crew and headed for an Italian restaurant for supper. I was exhausted, already sore (never a good sign), developing several impressive bruises, and I had to pee, but I had survived. We ate pizza, which was delicious, and headed home. I chattered away like a magpie with that lighter-than-air feeling you get when something you've been dreading is finally over.

Sunday
Saturday night we got freezing rain, and Sunday church service was canceled due to the road conditions. We all spent the day lazing about the house, reading, playing games, and watching tv and a movie. I really enjoyed being in a family atmosphere again. That level of interaction that only happens in families and long, long, long-time friends, where there is no hesitation; no need to hide, because everyone knows who you are deep down, and they love you anyway.

In the afternoon Krista gave me a quick car-tour of the city, which is situated between Lake Charlevoix and Lake Michigan. It was a nice day of relaxation.

Home Again
So Monday we left about 1pm for the long ride home. We were quite thankful that the roads were in pretty good shape, considering the ice of the day before. We topped our road trip off with supper in Greek Town in Chicago. I had mousaka (like lasagna made with eggplant, potatoes, and beef), which was really yummy. As always, it was nice to come home after a break away from the Roosevelt House.

The Merits of the 'Burbs

Today a woman whom I respect deeply brought to my attention that my frequent suburb-bashing is perhaps a bit one-sided. This gentle lady suggested to me that, possibly, there are very nice, reasonable people who have chosen to live in said suburbs, and actualy enjoy it there.

True, true, on all accounts! In fact, during my time here in the little burb of Wheaton I have met some lovely people, and have enjoyed many of the luxuries this region has to offer.

Therefore, having been convicted of the error of my ways, and in order to make an attempt to overcome the remaining cultural biases against which I continue to battle, I am dedicating this blog post to a list of the things I appreciate about living in the suburbs.

(ahem)

-I have easy access to, quite literally, every chain restaurant known to humankind

-People generally use good grammar

-I have never been nearly run off the road by a piece of farming equipment

-It's easy to find safe places to take walks (sidewalks and parks)

-Tthe close proximaty to Chicago allows me to take advantage of things like museums, fine arts performances, and special city-wide celebrations (like the St. Patrick's Day Parade or eating in China Town)

-People here are generally good drivers (noted exception: cell-phone talkers)

-The public library here is fantastic

-I can walk to the grocery, the college, the library, several eating establishments, the post office, and (most importantly) my choice of three different ice-cream places

-There's a wonderful $3 theater just down the road

-The Christmas decorations around here are phenominal!

-Flying out of a big airport is cheaper than flying out of a little airport

-Lots more country music artists tour in Chicago than in Lima

-There are never big clods of mud trailing off from a field turn-in, AND they clear the roads of snow with lightning-speed

-It is not nearly as unusual here that I am 27 and single

-EVERYONE can get cable :)

-The health care industry here in top-notch

and last but not least

-Pizza places will deliver to my house!!

Well, hopefully this list has redeemed, to some extent, the suburban world in which I continue to live. If you have any additional noteworthy perks of life in the burbs, feel free to share them...

The End of an Era

This week I recieved an envelope in the mail from the government. Since I haven't done my taxes yet this year, I knew it wasn't money (sadly), but I was still surprised to find in it my brand spankin' new US passport. The picture looks very much like a bad fake, and I am quite sure that at some point between now and my next renewal this fact will be the primary cause for a hold up for me in some obscure customs booth somewhere on the planet.

But that unfortunate detail aside, as I sat on my bed in Wheaton flipping through this new document, the moment seemed almost sacred.

I thought back over the ten years during which my old passport had served me. I counted today: My old passport contains 63 passport stamps, 6 visas, and represents trips to 25 countries. I had to get pages added while I was in China, because the border guys were getting grumpy about there not being enough free space to stamp it anymore. That passport went with me on two missions trips, three study abroad trips, a year of teaching in China, and a month of traveling around Europe.

If my passport could speak, the stories it would tell!

Of my first time out of the country- 2 weeks in the Dominican Republic when I was 18. We got stopped in the airport because one of the guys on my team had packed a machete in his carry-on luggage! Stupid boy. Fortunately, this was 1998, so he didn't go to jail or anything.

Of the time I went to Hong Kong with Joy and only realized after I'd left China that my visa was only a single-entry; in other words, I couldn't get back into the Mainland without being issued a new visa.

Of my trip to Russia. Of just starting to get settled and hearing a report one Tuesday night- terrorists had bombed New York City. We thought it was a joke at first. But all too soon it became apparent, as we watched the talking heads (maddeningly dubbed over in Russian, which we couldn't understand) spoke for hours and hours about the three planes that had crashed and of the trauma that was unfolding in our homeland, amoung OUR people, so far away. We, huddled silently in front of the only tv in the dorm, watching; watching and praying that none of our family had taken a last-minute trip to NYC, and that it was really over.

My passport might tell of my month of traveling in Europe. This was by far its most hard-worked month. Ten countries in less than 30 days. We even PAID for a stamp in Liechtenstien!

So many memories. I wonder what the next ten years will have in store for me. Will I have more or fewer stamps when I renew my passport in 2018? How will the world have changed? How will I have changed? What stories will my new passport have to tell on that day?

Sledding, Suburban-Style

Saturday I went sledding with some friends from Wheaton. We had a lovely day, in spite of the trials of suburban sledding. Apparently, advanced degrees and expensive SUVs make people less able to figure out the finer points of sledding on their own. Those finer points are things like:

1. trudge to the top of the hill with your sledding device
2. check carefully to assure no large obsticles lie in your path
3. sit on your sledding device and hold on as you glide down said hill

Do no be confused by the apparent simplicity of these points. Here in DuPage county they merit not one, not two, but FOUR park rangers. It was a little like a waterpark. I had to roll my eyes several times to stand the ridiculousness of it all.

I do want to share a particularly amusing observation I made while I was sitting by the fire, pretending that it was giving off enough heat to warm me up.

Because I was concerned about all the bumping and jostling upsetting my grumpy back, I volunteered to be the group photographer. Hence, I did a lot of people watching. About a half hour after my group arrived, a group of little girls, probably 10-12 years old, arrived with two moms. Not long after that, a similar group of little boys arrived with a few dads. All the kids trekked up the hill and came whizzing down, to the encouraging cheers of their respective chaperones. After 30 or 45 minutes, they started trickling back toward the adults, ready for a spell of rest before another arduous journey up the forboding Mt. Trashmore (remember; this is Wheaton. Any hill is going to be manmade...)

But here's the funny part: The soccer moms, sitting to my left, dig into their Longaberger baskets and pull out two big thermoses of hot cocoa, and bunch of little goodie bags, each with individual servings of pretzels, peanuts, and chocolate. The bags looked like party favors you might find at a baby shower or something. The girls sat down in a circle and munched and slurped contentedly away on their gourmet snack.

On my right are the boys. The start crowding around and one of the men grabs a cooler and opens it to reveal: mini bottles of water. ON ICE, no less! Which is good, because it's only about 15 degrees, and there's nothing worse than luke-warm water when you're half-frozen, I always say.

So there are the little girls at their tea party on my left, and a sprawling mass of boys, drinkin their ice-cold water and occasionally jumping on each other, to my right. I had to laugh at those people who assert that there is no difference between male and female.

Idiots.

So anyway, after everyone had all lost feeling in at least one extremity we all got pizza and came back to the warm house to thaw out and eat. Here are a couple of pictures to commemorate the day...