Apartment Hunting

We went looking at apartments today in the historical center of the Hague and found some oddities - coming from DC, you could not fathom the extreme location of these places. So in today's security climate, which seems less safe?

Option A: The house right on top of the entrance of the Dutch Pentagon, with a steady stream of people in military uniforms filing past your front door and through the guard booth (we'd have to make friends with the guards; otherwise, it would be awkward).

Option B: The apartment right next to and overlooking the guard booth and garage entrance for the American Embassy (as in, wake up in the morning, roll over, look out the window, wave at the rifle toting guard two stories below).

I continue to maintain we would have been safer in Bogota. But at least our chances of being burglarized would be close to nil...

Berea, Kentucky: Beyond the Bourbon Trail

I want to write a freelance travel article (target audience: Portland) that would be called "Berea, Kentucky: Beyond the Bourbon Trail." Berea is that sort of place that makes you wonder why you didn't know about if before.

First, Berea College: founded in 1855 as an integrated and co-educational institution (a distinction which took the college to the Supreme Court in the early twentieth century, to defend its right not to be segregated), Berea only admits students of very limited means - mostly from the local (Appalachian) region - and then doesn't charge them tuition.

Instead, the students earn their way through campus jobs, many by learning skilled crafts - pottery, wood working, weaving, blacksmithing, even broom making - the products of which are then sold to raise money for the college. (I really love this stuff: www.bereacollegecrafts.com)

And because Berea's mission is to educate those without means, and because it fulfills that mission so well, there are no legacy students here. Coming from Harvard, I find that highly intriguing.

Plus the college is dedicated to the next wave of social righteousness, and is experimenting with ecologically sustainable living communities for its students: like this "aquaponics" greenhouse the students built, mixing hydroponics (to grow vegetables for the students) with farming catfish (which are sold locally to raise money), all based on collected rain water.

I mean, how many colleges are there where entire brick classroom buildings were built by the students themselves?

Second, Berea has a lovely local hotel (run by the students, of course), cute little cafes and coffee shops, a high number of local Appalachian artisans, and more bookstores per capita than I've seen this side of Portland. All the makings for a lovely afternoon of porch sitting.

Third, Berea is conveniently located where the bluegrass meets the Appalachian foothills: within driving distance of the over-commercialized bourbon trail, but also driving distance to beautiful parks, and surrounded by real country side of rolling farmland and horses.

So that's my new love affair with Berea. Many thanks to our super-cool friends for choosing to get married there, and introducing Berea to the rest of us.

"I ate where it all began"

Sometimes you just need a good Quest. By day 3 in Kentucky, we had already achieved the two most serious pursuits I had wanted out of the state: bourbon tastings and fresh air. Plus we only had a few hours to spare before the Big Event. It was time for some old-fashioned Americana -- something slightly irreverent that would make a good, one-line story, something along the lines of, "We ate at the original Kentucky Fried Chicken."

This is cooler than you might be thinking right about now. First, a word about Kentucky Colonels. Colonel Sanders was a real colonel, just not of the military kind. As Portland has its Rosarians, Kentucky has its colonels: an honorary title bestowed by the state's governor for various forms of achievement, like being president of the United States, or the inventor of fast-food fried chicken (it had something to do with pressure cookers).

Fresh Air

We currently enjoy envisioning ourselves gallivanting up and down Andean mountains during our Inca Trail hike with no shortness of breath (or blisters, muscle spasms, or heart attacks).

But we have in truth no realisitic basis for that vision. So Rehana (preparing for her own African trekking adventure) suggested we spend a day in Kentucky undertaking a "real" hike, meaning one of at least several miles over mildly rocky terrain.

The drive to Red River Gorge was more than adequately picturesque - rolling hills of farms and stands of trees, old wood-slat barns with peeling paint and grazing horses, country cemeteries at the end of country roads (meaning two parallel wheel ruts). And the park itself, strewn over mountain foothills, was all bird songs, promising trail heads, and thick leafy foliage filtering the sunlight.

But when we got to the ranger station deep within the forest, the kindly (male) rangers looked us up and down as we queried what the best trails were, and suggested we take the driving tour instead. I'd like to think this is the suggestion they give all visitors with just a few hours in the park, but I fear it might have more to do with my giant purse and sunglasses and Jeff's query about where to get a good lunch.

We tried a couple of the driving-tour vistas and had lunch at the only realistic option "around those parts": a full-service gas station that served subs, sandwiches, fried chicken, pizza, and - most importantly - corn dogs. Finally ready to start a "real" hike, we promptly picked the wrong trail head and ran out of path after about 10 minutes.

Pretending to scramble over limestone outcroppings.

So after 30 minutes of scrambling down the limestone outcroppings and knobbly roots of the right trail (total distance: approx. 0.3 miles), we took some pictures and headed back to Berea.

It was a windy day, however, so at least we got some fresh air.

The Good Life, Louisville edition

A brief afternoon in Louisville, walking around "Old Louisville": a neighborhood full of Victorian mansions and tree-lined streets. Coming from the D.C. real estate market, imagine our surprise that $350,000 in Louisville can buy you a 6-room estate, with turrets and chandeliers and turn-of-the-century stained glass windows.

Amusement Parks for Adults

When we heard our friends were getting married over Labor Day in Kentucky, I was all over it: This was my chance to be all hip and visit the down-home distilleries for my favorite fancy bourbons (the ones with the cool labels and names that don't start with a "J").

But as often happens, I am not nearly as cool as I think - and my favorite bourbons are not in fact made in little family-owned distilleries down by the local creek.

The Birth of Big Bourbon

Bourbon touring is a well-developed industry in north-central Kentucky, to match a fairly recent uptick in bourbon interest across a wide demographic. When Woodford Reserve started offering public tours 12 years ago, only half a dozen people would show up; now the distillery moves a couple thousand visitors or more through its factories on a typical weekend. And in the summer of 2009, when demand outpaced the expectations of the distilleries nine years before, there was an "official" shortage of Knob Creek.

That uptick of interest is itself the product of what I now realize was ingenious marketing: During the late 1980s and early 1990s, many of the bourbon distillers started making what they call "small batch" bourbons that could be sold at a premium because of their limited supply and trendy labels (and superior quality - I am not a total cynic).

Thus Jim Beam also makes, in the same factory as Jim Beam bourbon, the following "small batch" bourbons:

• Booker's (birthdate 1988)
• Baker's (birthdate 1992)
• Basil Hayden's (birthdate 1992)
• Knob Creek (birthdate 1992)

Even genteel Woodford Reserve is not immune: not only is it owned by the same company that produces Jack Daniels, but it has also been around (in its current form) for fewer than 15 years (birth date 1996).

We made it to both Jim Beam and Woodford Reserve on our first day in Kentucky. (This was, in fact, no mean feat and involved about 6 hours of driving.) If you can get over the herd-like shepherding and the general sense that you have entered an adult amusement park (and that you are not, in fact, unique and cool), this is not a bad way to spend a day. And I learned a few things, too.

Like how distilling actually works. This is useful common knowledge and, if I had retained any of my high school chemistry, I'm sure would not have seemed novel at all. Perhaps I just liked the big shiny copper stills at Woodford Reserve.

Also interesting: fermenting mash. Woodford Reserve has these giant, two-story high, wood-slat barrels that each held 7500 gallons of thick, bubbling, orange-yellow mash that was churning counterclockwise under the force of its own fermentation.

"Boiling" mash

What I learned touring Woodford Reserve:

• Bourbon is a sour-mash whiskey that maintains its (rather narrow) distinction from other whiskeys through stiff manufacturing regulations and an Act of Congress that defines it as a distinctly American product.
• The grain mash used for bourbon must be at least 51% corn and must also contain some malted barley and either rye or wheat (for flavoring - most bourbons are made with rye). The only other ingredients allowed are yeast and water.
• After the mash is fermented and distilled, it is aged in new oak charred barrels for more than two years (often more than four), which is what turns the clear grain alcohol into amber colored goodness. While the bourbon is aging, some (much) of the liquid is evaporated into the air of the warehouse, creating a heady bourbon smell that can about knock you over on a hot day.

What I learned touring Jim Beam:

• This alcoholic atmosphere (from the aging bourbon) fosters the growth of Baudoinia compniacensis - a black fungus that stains the bourbon warehouses, and any trees or structures near them. I'm sure Baudoinia compniacensis is a requisite part of the Jim Beam "tour" because it explains why their giant sky-blue warehouses look prematurely decrepit.

Premature decrepitude of the giant Jim Beam warehouses.

Beam means business: Spread over 44 acres, the Jim Beam compound includes a church, a graveyard, and a U.S. post office. The real work goes on in a factory compound down by the creek and the railroad, with chimney stacks, loud clanking noises, and the coming and going of giant trucks that reminded me of Willy Wonka's chocolate factory.

Chocolate factory for adults.

Tourists to Jim Beam are funneled up a hill to a new "visitors" center, which is a large warehouse-like space filled with branded clothing and momentos. (An even larger visitors center is in the works - though I am at a loss to imagine what else they could possibly sell.)

Beam's visitor center, where we bought stuff.
(Prematurely decrepit warehouse in background.)

There is no mistaking the purpose of the Beam tour: to drink, and then to buy things. Whereas Woodford takes you through actual factory floors and its grey limestone warehouses, the Beam "tour" is a seven-minute promotional video, after which a college kid shepherds you back into the "visitors center" (merchandise warehouse) for a couple free samples at the tasting bar.

Free samples of Knob Creek.

But I'm not one to complain about free Knob Creek samples (and free bourbon balls). It is, after all, an adult amusement park.

On Anticipation

Sometimes a book that changes how you see the world creeps up on you. Joyce first gave me a copy of Alain de Botton's The Art of Travel during college, when I diligently read it even though much of it went over my head. (His second essay, "On Traveling Places," finally forced me - after several years of post-modern humanities studies - to look up what "liminal" means.*)

I slogged my way through it, and at some point during the roughly 8-10 moves I've made since then, I lost the book. When Jeff and I agreed to quit our jobs so we could spend a year traveling around the world before the world tied us down, I checked a copy out of the DC library. The book turned out to be an old friend whose ideas I'd been using for years without adequate attribution.

De Botton's first essay, "On Anticipation," explains why we have not made any real plans for our year of travel, other than a one-way plane ticket to Bogota for September 17 and a deposit on an Inca Trail trek to Macchu Pichu in late October. To anticipate travel in any detail, explains de Botton, is to be disappointed by the reality of actual travel, which cannot possibly match our imagination.

According to de Botton, the problem is that we forget to imagine in the mundane, which dilutes (sometimes past recognition) the experience we thought we were going to have: to get to the palm tree-lined, white sand beach, we first have to struggle through customs, manage land transportation, and check into the hotel - none of which is likely to be idyllic. Contrary to de Botton, I'm expecting and am actually interested in the mundane - which can feel exotic when experienced someplace unfamiliar. But what you also can't anticipate is serendipity - the luck of finding just the right restaurant or meeting just the right friend - which is in essence what we are seeking.

Anticipation is not a bad thing. Before we made The Decision, I had spent years mapping out global treks through Asia, Africa, and South America. I memorized the theoretical best months for traveling in different regions and checked out stacks of travel books from the library for their tidbits of cultural information and the occasional photograph. Anticipation might even be a requisite part of truly enjoying a journey - the trick is to not let the journey you anticipated get in the way of appreciating the journey you end up with. So the closer I get to actually leaving, the less I'm willing to lock my expectations onto any one direction.

As illustration (literally): There's a Rousseau painting at the Art Institute in Chicago ("The Waterfall," 1910) that is full of towering jungle, exotic flora, and warm colors - an image of luscious foreignness that appealed to me so strongly I stuck a postcard of it on my wall at work.

From www.globalgallery.com

But Rousseau never set foot outside of France: his paradise is completely imaginary and could never be found by traveling any place real. We can enjoy "The Waterfall" (and similar anticipatory daydreams) for what they are, as long as we don't expect to find that ideal when we venture out into the world. Thus, at some point this summer, I realized I had switched out my imaginings of what our global trip would be like in favor of replaying favorite memories from past trips: my mind wanted to leave for Bogota with a blank slate.

This creates a dilemma: how do we answer the questions of those staying behind, who can "risk" anticipation (and would enjoy anticipating with us our many upcoming adventures), without creating unrealistic expectations for ourselves that will color our actual experiences? Jeff and I have pieced together a partial answer that is purposefully vague on specifics but sometimes manages to satisfy the questioner: In addition to our one-way tickets to Bogota, we know we will spend a couple weeks in Peru. There will be learning of Spanish and some amateur salsa dancing. Perhaps before I head back north for Molly's wedding, we will go to the Galapagos. Perhaps during December, we will head south to Patagonia. More trekking, more wildlife. After the new year, we will go to SE Asia, maybe basing in Phnom Penh in case I can observe the special tribunal at work. March through May would be China - one month in the south, two in Beijing. We would study Mandarin, cooking, and Chinese politics. If there's money left, we would end in France - so I can work on my French - and maybe Germany - ostensibly to learn a bit of German but really to go to Oktoberfest in Munich.

* Liminal: of, relating to, or being an intermediate state, phase, or condition: in-between, transitional.

Post-script:

Even our sketchy outline, however, proved too much anticipation for our finite minds. When, four days before our flight to Bogota, we learned I had an opportunity to go work in the Hague for a year instead, Jeff and I both needed some time to mourn the year we had come to expect we would have.

In anticipation of wandering travels, I had spent days researching and hours shopping for just the right pair of pants that I could use for hiking, yoga, surfing, fine dining, and - in a pinch - as pajamas; had spent weeks struggling with the health insurance industry and my doctors' offices (a still ongoing saga); and had spent less time than I had hoped (but still some) trying to learn rudimentary Spanish. A friend had even passed on a sublet posting for a lovely, affordable, fully furnished colonial home in a cool and trendy neighborhood of Bogota, complete with bicycles and conveniently available through the end of the year. All, it turns out, for naught.

One goal for the year was to learn to live with uncertainty and open-ended plans - something that does not come naturally to me. But it turns out that my purposeful lack of fore-planning has opened up an entirely new course. How serendipitous.

***

Update (April 5, 2011): During an emergency trip home to Portland in March, I randomly happened upon my original copy of The Art of Travel, tucked into one of the countless bookshelves in my mom's house (this one, on a stairway landing, was otherwise full of cookbooks). Serendipity indeed. Inside was Joyce's original inscription: "A book to inspire as you head out to save the world."