Canyon Cures

11 08 2013

My Yellowstone experience has definitely picked up since transferring to Canyon. I’m now working at the corrals which are 12-hour days that go fast because I’m so busy. I enjoy being around the horses and wranglers. It can get a little hectic, trying to get our guests on a scale to be weighed, but I manage without too much protest. For a fleeting moment, I considered doing this again next year. Another year in the park would be much different, provided I had a vehicle.

Surprisingly, I’ve been given a company car since the corrals are a mile up the road. It’s an old, white Chevy Cavalier. So old it still has a cassette player. Nevertheless, it gets me from point A to B just as my very own Cavalier did not too long ago. At one time in my life, I drove a 1999 silver Cavalier. It was the first car I ever purchased on my own and it was a damn good one. I bought it in Dothan, Alabama while working as a sports writer for the Dothan Eagle. I remember my dad coming to town to help me with the process, but refusing to co-sign despite prodding from my mother. I also remember being slightly aggravated with this decision. Still, I bought the car with help from a local bank and, years later after I paid off the loan, dad’s decision made perfect sense. He wanted me to establish my own line of credit.

And then greed crept in.

Not satisfied with a car that ran fine and was paid off, I sold the Cavalier and used the money to make a payment on a brand spanking new Honda Element. Along with greed it was an obvious overcompensation for something and I wish I knew what. I was in a problematic relationship at the time and trying to play the “Big Daddy” role — ultimately failing miserably. About a year and half after foolishly parting with the Cavalier, the Repo Man came calling for the Element, taking it in the middle of the night. It was early 2009. I had not quite hit rock bottom yet. But I was falling fast.

Four years later and I’m in Yellowstone — driving an older model Cavalier than the one I once owned — to a corral where I sell horse rides by the hour. Much poorer, much wiser, much happier.

Canyon life has been much better than Old Faithful for several reasons, none of which pertain to lodging or food. Old Faithful has the amenities, but Canyon has the charm. It’s a closer knit group here, far away from the over-regulated geyser basins. At Canyon, the atmosphere is laid back and easy going. We’re thick in the woods here. On my first night, I heard howling wolves in the distance. I’ve seen bear, bison and moose while hiking on nearby trails and we’re so deep into the wilderness, the news of the day (USA Today) doesn’t arrive until noon. Two of my colleagues from training are also here — Ashly and Kirk. Ashly is a quiet girl from Indiana who recently graduated college. We split the hours at the corrals. Kirk is from Georgia, in his 50s and comes from a distinguished Atlanta family. He’s a Tea Party supporter so we do not discuss politics much. Thankfully, Kirk gave me a crash course on the Canyon when I arrived. The area is incredibly diverse with towering waterfalls, a huge canyon with yellow stone walls, hidden lakes, scattered thermal features and wildlife abounds.

I’m rooming with another Asian, a nice kid from Taiwan. My previous roommate in Old Faithful was a gay 22-year-old Singaporean graphic artist with an obsession for Pokemon. He left without saying a word. I transferred to Canyon the following day.

I was definitely wounded when I arrived in Canyon. The summer has been challenging, at times it has been downright cruel.

And then I met Ann.

It was a difficult time for both of us, one might even say we were brought together by depression. I had signed up for the recreation center’s trip to Gardiner to see the Montana Shakespeare Company perform “Theater in the Park.” I did this not so much out of a strong desire to see theater, but more of along the lines of enjoying the drive to Gardiner and the incredible scenery of Dunraven Pass. There were nine of us on the trip. I was the only male. I noticed Ann’s accent right away and for a second presumed she could be French. Even better, as it turned out, she hails from Italy, a beautiful country which I visited for the first time this past January.

Theater Goers in Gardiner, Montana

Theater Goers in Gardiner, Montana

We talked the entire way to Gardiner. Once there we learned that thunderstorms had forced the outside performance to be moved into a nearby school cafeteria. The play was “The Recruiting Officer,” a peculiar work by Irish writer George Farquhar. Ann said she did not understand much of what was said. The accents were “Old English” and much of the theatrics were over the top with the obligatory gender bending roles that one comes to expect from a Shakespeare troupe.  All and all, it was a pleasant evening. Ann and I talked all the way back to the Canyon. Two days later we would go on our first hike together — learning more about each other. Step by step.


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Beartooth Bob

29 07 2013

In the middle of our training, I met Bob. We were both assigned to Old Faithful and agreed to become roommates once we left “Camp Mammoth.” We instantly hit it off. Bob’s politics aligned with mine and actually made me look quite conservative. A Vietnam vet (there were three in our original group of 10) who could be gruff at times, Bob made a living through the lens of photography and was taking a break from his ranch in southwest Texas to explore Yellowstone.

Bob, right, with Terry and Don at the Mammoth Corrals.

Bob, right, with Terry and Don at the Mammoth Corrals.

Like a lot of folks out here, Bob had worked in Yellowstone before — during his youth before shipping off to fight communism. He vividly recalled fly fishing spots along the Madison River and bar brawls in West Yellowstone. He liked to smoke cigars and spoke fluent Mexican-Spanish. During our training, Bob would usually ask the questions most of us were thinking, but afraid to ask and, best of all, he never minced words.

He sized me up right away.

“You’re a poor boy, Johnny,” Bob said on one of our many drives through the park in his lime green Ford Escape, a vehicle he playfully called “Kermit.” I offered to pitch in for gas money, but Bob refused. I told him my story of leaving journalism to strike out on my own and the consequences of such a move during a perilous time economically.

On Memorial Day, Bob finally relented and let me buy him a cup of coffee at the West Yellowstone McDonald’s before we toured the gateway city as guests of the chamber of commerce. Later that day, Bob recalled the brawl which made national news in the summer of 1964 and resulted in the calling out of the National Guard to restore order. Sure enough, Bob was right in the middle of it.

“It was Yellowstone workers against the local hicks, cowboys and anybody punchable,” he recalled. “Me and my bloodied roommate, a burley guy who we nicknamed ‘Garbage,’ got out of town when the fighting took to the streets.”

About a month into our service, Bob decided it was time for him to get out of Yellowstone. I pleaded with him to stick it out a little while longer, but his mind was already made up. He had some friends he wanted to see in New Mexico and he missed the love of his lady friend back in Texas. Before he left we made one last trip into West Yellowstone where Bob practically opened one of the local eateries. It was a style I had grown accustomed to seeing from him and one that I admired greatly. Simply put, Bob had no fear of rejection.

He insisted on being customer ‘Numero Uno’ at the Slippery Otter Pub, buying us a pizza and himself a Slippery Otter ball cap which he had all the employees sign. Bob was in a really good mood that day. Looking back, I think he was happy to be calling in quits. I certainly wasn’t in a good mood that day and Bob could tell.

“You’re pissed off, Johnny,” he said.

Truth be told, my Yellowstone experience has not been this great life changing journey that so many people said it would be. I’m not a 21-year-old college student and I am not a baby boomer supplementing my retirement. I have very few, if any, contemporaries here and I yearn for the newsroom life of a journalist again. These sentiments are what I was brooding over when Bob and I shared our last meal together at the Slippery Otter. Would I ever work again as a professional journalist? It has been five years now… is my career over?

Before I could whine any more, Bob cut in with the required dose of reality. “Just be damn glad you’re not in your 50s and 60s and looking for a job because that, my friend, is no bueno.”

I learned so much from Bob during our short time together. He introduced me to the writing of the New Yorker’s John McPhee, taught me how to cast a fly fishing rod and demonstrated an assertiveness I can only hope to acquire one day.

Not long after he left Yellowstone, I received an email from Bob about his travels along the legendary Beartooth Highway, a stretch of road near the park’s northeast entrance that the late CBS correspondent Charles Kuralt deemed, “the most beautiful drive in America.”

Like Kuralt, Bob was mesmerized.

“One of the most stunning road trips I’ve ever taken,” he wrote. “If you can possibly scrounge a ride, do this memorable trip.”

I haven’t done the Beartooth yet, but have moved on from Old Faithful — working now out of the Canyon location with seven weeks left on my contract…. still hoping the forest will soon appear through all these trees.


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Fantastic Sky

17 07 2013
The boys of summer

The boys of summer

I tend to look at the sky a lot out here. There’s good reason why this part of the country is called “Big Sky.”  The cloud formations are incredible, especially those puffy cumulus clouds mixed with a blue atmosphere that goes on and on. I am grateful to awake each morning to a new adventure, new people and new stories.

I dutifully walk over a mile to work every morning and eat three square meals a day in the EDR (Employee Dining Room). The deal is, to work in a national park like Yellowstone, you have to live inside the park and so you are provided housing and meals. Those charges are taken out of your paycheck and usually there’s just enough money left over for gas.

“You are not here for the money,” we remind ourselves daily. Still, I’m wondering if I’ll have enough in the bank to get back to Florida. I did not bring my jeep out here which was a major miscalculation. Public transport is inept at best. Tales of people being left stranded throughout the park are quite common as is the sight of hitchhikers thumbing a ride.

During our training in Mammoth, I was lucky enough to bum a few rides from my colleagues. I rode to Bozeman one day with Jerry, a retired banker from the Orlando area, Terry, a school teacher from Nebraska and Joe, my roommate. Jerry and Terry, both Vietnam veterans in their 70s, were quite a pair. They played well off each other and kept the rest of us smiling. Terry is especially entertaining, with his storytelling and sincere love for Yellowstone. He first worked in the park in the early 1960s, returning five decades later, admittedly, to seek out lost youth.

“We used to feed the bears you see,” Terry would say, always emphasizing the “you see” part for dramatic effect. When Terry would enter the EDR, someone would invariably announce his arrival with the word, “Showtime!” Terry is well liked by many of his co-workers. “There was a dump out in West Yellowstone you see,” Terry continued. “And we would ride out there at night to watch the bears eat. They’d stand up on two legs and growl at each other. It was FANTASTIC!”

Everything in Yellowstone is fantastic to Terry and he loves hearing other people share their experiences. On our trip to Bozeman, the four of us piled into Jerry’s full size king cab pickup truck. We stopped in Livingston and paid a visit to Dan Bailey’s fly fishing shop. Across the street sat the train station where Terry was quick to reminisce about passenger service which had long been discontinued.
Once in Bozeman, I got the guys to agree on trying a hippie co-op downtown that Joe and I discovered on our first night in Montana. All the food is fresh from local farms, grown organically and many of the dishes even I could not pronounce. There were several flavors of protein shakes, entrees of tofu and kale and plenty of gluten free grub to go around.

“I wonder if people eating this will get a whole new set of medical conditions,” Jerry mused. Hanging out with such a senior set, health and wellness issues were always on the tip of a nearby tongue. There were obvious risks at play. Since arriving in the high altitude of Yellowstone, Joe had struggled with his balance and took to walking with a stick. He was also having trouble grasping the company’s computer system, although he wasn’t the only one, still privately there was talk that Joe might not be cut out for Yellowstone living. I hoped this would not be the case. Joe is a kind hearted person, quick to share his pistachios or crack a joke to lighten the mood. When I had come down with a sore throat a few days after settling into Mammoth, it was Joe who dug through his medicine bags and found just the right remedy.

On the drive back to Mammoth, Terry regaled us with code words from his Vietnam days. As we drove through the stunning Gallatin and Absaroka mountain ranges, I learned for the first time what — or rather who — a “Mackerel Snapper” is. Raised Catholic, I found this outdated slur to be amusing. The day itself was a blast. One of the better ones I’ve had here. Sadly, Joe and Jerry are gone now. Both have returned to Florida for different reasons. Terry, at last count, is working at the Lake Yellowstone location, while I’m still predicting eruption times at Old Faithful and looking to the sky — cherishing every minute.

Big Sky over Mallard Lake

Big Sky over Mallard Lake


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Flying into the Future

7 07 2013
The Roosevelt Arch welcomes visitors to the northern gate of Yellowstone National Park.

The Roosevelt Arch welcomes visitors to the northern gate of Yellowstone National Park.

Greetings from Yellowstone National Park!

I have decided to fast forward this blog into the present. A lot has happened since my last post chronicling events in September of 2012. I lost my grandmother, helped re-elect a President, traveled to Russia and Italy, made a pilgrimage to the Vatican, lobbied for equality at the Florida Capital and now find myself back in the wilderness.

I have been here for almost two months now. It is quite different from the Grand Canyon. For starters, there is much more life, the park is huge and teaming with an abundance of animals, birds, plants, trees and flowers. The mountains are gorgeous and the rivers and waterfalls almost too picturesque for words. Wary of working retail again, I applied for and got a job as an activity sales agent. Basically, this is a concierge position and, much to my surprise, I received a coveted post inside the historic Old Faithful Inn. Not a bad place to be at all. The Inn, built in 1904 out of rustic lodgepole pine logs, is a vibrant place during the summer months and time goes by quickly.

I’m the youngest guy in our department which is rather surprising considering the number of college students employed at the park. As I write this, only six of our original 10 sales agents remain. We trained for three weeks at Mammoth Hot Springs, getting to know the park, each other and the computer system we would be operating. Mammoth is where the park service top brass live and is the only location in Yellowstone open year round.

I have gone through several roommates already. Currently, I share a room with Keyon, a university student from Singapore. For some reason I have become a magnet for intelligent Asians. Keyon works in the Old Faithful Inn Gift Shop and is studying art and graphic design. He watches Pokémon, the Japanese animation, religiously and claims to be a “free thinker.” Keyon says he is in Yellowstone on a trip of self discovery and to get closer to nature.

Self discovery was my mission last year in the Grand Canyon. I’m in Yellowstone because it was the only job I could get and the thought of spending the summer unemployed in Panama City was unbearable and so here I am in the heart of bear country. My job has more dignity this year although the pay is still minuscule. There are days when I answer more than 300 questions, half of which being: “When’s the next Old Faithful eruption?” I wear a uniform that resembles a dairy man ready to deliver the day’s fresh load of milk only with a grizzly bear logo sewn across my left chest.

My first roommate was a nice fella named Joe from Naples, Fla. We had been introduced via email by our manager and arranged to share a hotel room in Bozeman, Montana before reporting for duty. We met at the airport in Minneapolis having both taken the flight up from Atlanta. I was surprised to find that Joe was slightly slow — the result of a motorcycle accident, he said, that nearly claimed his life and left him with a metal plate in his head. Disability be damned, Joe was eager for a new adventure.

“I’m headed to Yellowstone,” Joe would tell anybody in the airport willing to listen. “Goin’ sell pony rides.”

As we prepared for take off, I caught myself reminiscing about my first flight into Montana as a recent graduate of Troy State University and Sports Editor of the Troy (Ala.) Messenger on assignment to cover the football team’s playoff game against the University of Montana Grizzlies. That game will forever be known as the “Missoula Massacre” for the Trojans fell by a score of 70-7. Those were the days before the internet and the instant world of Twitter and Facebook. I remember having to take pictures and FedEx the roll of film back to Alabama. It was my first year as a professional journalist. My how time flies.


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Cheering Charlie

14 06 2013

Barack Obama delivered the speech he needed to, energizing his base and sending the faithful out of North Carolina fired up and ready to go. The convention gave the President a much needed boost in the polls and set the stage for the campaign’s final stretch run.

The convention’s final night had a rock concert like feel. In between the parade of speeches were performances from musicians the likes of James Taylor, Mary J. Blige and the Foo Fighters. There were also moving videos from Democrats across the country and tributes to US troops stationed abroad. Surprisingly, Democrats had outflanked Republicans on issues of defense and national security. While Mitt Romney failed to even mention the troops during his acceptance speech at the GOP convention in Tampa, President Obama’s decision to go after, and subsequently kill, Osama bin Laden was duly noted in nearly every speech in Charlotte.

“Osama bin Laden is dead and General Motors is alive,” declared Vice President Joe Biden.

The Foo Fighters rocking out at the DNC 2012.

The Foo Fighters rocking out at the DNC 2012.

I had arrived at the convention early, prepared for an eight-hour day. Pat and Brenda were waiting, having already claimed our seats in the Florida delegation. Man did Florida have great seats, thanks in part to the state’s all important battleground status, its coveted 29 electoral college votes and being the home of DNC chair Debbie Wasserman Schultz. Debbie even paid a visit to the delegation before her speech and we gleefully snapped a few pictures with the distinguished congresswoman. But it was another Floridan who would grab even more attention that night for completely different reasons.

His name was Charlie Crist.

Yes, the former Republican governor of Florida was granted speaking time at the Democratic National Convention much to the surprise of many a political observer. Crist had been basically run out of the Republican party for his “moderate” views and an infamous hug of President Obama that did not sit well with the GOP’s base. Seeing the handwriting on the wall, Crist left the GOP and ran for US Senate as an Independent, losing to Tea Party darling Marco Rubio in a three-way race which included a scandal saddled Democrat, Kendrick Meek.

But here in Charlotte was the beginning of Crist’s comeback — an opportunity to curry favor with party bosses for a future run of some kind. I saw it as a payback from Obama, acknowledging Crist had suffered from his embrace and rewarding him with a primetime spot, on the convention’s final night, to state his case for redemption. When Crist was announced over the PA system about half of the Florida delegation rose to its feet, myself included.

“Why are we applauding him?,” asked the wise cracking geezer from Fort Lauderdale sitting next to me.

“Because he is from Florida,” I replied.

“So what?!” the geezer shot back. “Do you not remember the Jeb years?!”

I didn’t because I wasn’t politically engaged during that time, but like Crist, I had been a Republican so I could identify with his plight. And soon, people were identifying me — from all across the country. Unbeknownst to me, television cameras had been quick to capture the reaction from the Florida delegation to Crist. There I was, front and center, clapping away.

Once I had left Time Warner Arena and my i-phone service had been restored (communications were jammed throughout the day) messages began to pour in from friends who had seen me on television. Some of the messages were from people I had not talked with in years. People who were no where to be found when I crashed out of the Panama City News Herald four years ago. Funny how fame works.

David and I left Charlotte the next morning bound for my brother’s house in Alabama before reaching the Florida Gulf Coast. The trip felt like Sherman doing a reverse burn through the Deep South. I had been away for six months, but little had changed. Romney had the region locked up with the exception of Florida. I eagerly looked forward to the campaigns in my home state, knowing 2012 would be much different than 2010. I was healthy again, had money in my pocket and, best of all, my name was not on the ballot.

I have a feeling Charlie felt the same way.


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The Comeback Kid

3 06 2013

The convention roared to life on a Friday night with the arrival of former President Bill Clinton. “Bubba” — as he is affectionately known — was brought in to shepherd the Obama/Biden campaign to victory in a way no other politician could. Clinton could sell the President’s plans because he could communicate in ways Obama could not. Blue collar workers, independents and conservative Democrats were willing to listen to Clinton even if he is basically sharing the same message as Obama. Those voters remembered the 1990s and while Bubba had his problems keeping sexual desires in check, the economy under the Clinton Administration was booming.

In Charlotte, Clinton did what he needed to do — rev up the base with cold hard facts in the process calling out Republican wonder boy and Vice Presidential nominee Paul Ryan for his underhandedly “brass” tactics. It was vintage Clinton, the crowd loving every minute and it came at just the right time. Leading up to Clinton’s speech there were manufactured controversies afloat from the proper place of God in the party platform to should the convention’s final night be staged at nearby Bank of America Stadium. The irony of Obama delivering his convention speech inside a stadium named for a bank that received the biggest government bailout seemed lost on many tone deaf DC insiders.

Meanwhile, David continued to get me into high level events and functions as we rubbed elbows with senators, congressmen, media elites and high profile candidates. Meeting Barney Frank was especially fun. Frank, the openly gay congressman from Massachusetts, is a longtime liberal warrior and widely respected for his knowledge of financial issues. At a luncheon headlined by First Lady Michelle Obama, I nudged my way to the front of the room and got our picture taken with Barney. We all three were smiling from ear to ear.

Michelle baring arms

Michelle baring arms

Like Clinton, the First Lady was a real crowd pleaser who attracted attention with her wardrobe decision to “bare arms.” Michelle Obama had made fitness and healthy eating a major part of her agenda as First Lady, giving overweight Southerners yet another reason to loathe her husband. I had met Mrs. Obama before, during the summer of 2010 as my campaign for the state house was just beginning and so too was the fallout from the BP oil spill in the Gulf of Mexico.

Michelle Obama came to Panama City Beach to address concerns of the spill, but before she could step foot on our sugary white sand beaches, she was greeted with an ignorant redneck response that is so common in the region. Postings across social media, on internet sites and echoed through talk radio did not exactly roll out the red carpet for Michelle and ultimately forced her appearance to take place in front of a limited, small audience of community leaders and local officials. As the Democratic nominee for state rep, I made the cut and was able to get a spot along the rope line just yards from the Gulf where I thanked the First Lady for coming. I then told her, I was running for state rep, to which she replied, “Oh you must really be hurting.” To this day, that response still puzzles me. I was hurting that summer. A lot of folks were. Fast forward to the end of the summer of 2012 and the hurt remained. A nation was bitterly divided.

As the convention’s final day loomed, the DNC braintrust decided to move proceedings from the originally scheduled Bank of America Stadium indoors to Time Warner Arena. They said it was due to inclement weather, but it was also a face saving move for the President. A half empty football stadium would have been a horrible image to overcome this late in the campaign. There was also a noticeable energy gap to deal with particularly among young people who were vital to the 2008 campaign of “Yes We Can.” Bank of America had gotten their bailout, but not these kids.

What happened next I’ll never forget. David gave up his seat for me. It was a incredible act of kindness, generosity and sacrifice. The nominating process was complete and all that remained was the pageantry. I would attend the convention on his delegate pass, sit in his seat, listen to the President’s speech and absorb all the evening had to offer. For a lifelong political nerd this was the ultimate show. And the curtain was rising on a comeback.


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On the Ground in Charlotte

24 05 2013

I landed in Charlotte with a headstorm of energy — and Democrats sure needed it. Dismal employment numbers and the Supreme Court’s recent decision to uphold the Affordable Care Act (aka ObamaCare) had left the President’s re-election campaign in a vulnerable position. Luckily, the Republicans had nominated a Plutocrat in Mitt Romney who had failed to energize the Grand Old Party’s base. If anything got Republicans motivated to oust Obama, it was the Supreme Court’s ObamaCare verdict.

Evening hours in downtown Charlotte.

Evening hours in downtown Charlotte.

Barack Obama’s signature piece of legislation was wildly unpopular in the Southern red states. It was bad enough they had to accept his Presidency, but a reform of America’s health care system was just too much for Joe Six Pack to take. And yet here, in the heart of the old Confederacy, the Democratic Party had gathered to nominate President Obama for a second term. There were already signs of trouble on the horizon. Romney was leading in the polls in both North Carolina and Florida — states Obama had carried four years ago.

David picked me up at the airport. He rented a car in Panama City and drove up for the convention. I was surprised he had been able to become a delegate. Although the Florida delegation was one of the larger ones, most of the state’s power and influence came from the southeast counties of Miami-Dade, Broward and Palm Beach. For someone from the Panhandle to break through all the horse trading that goes on leading up to delegation selection was truly remarkable. I just didn’t think David was quite that shrewd.

He is loyal, however, without a shadow of a doubt and I was glad to see him again. I wondered if he recognized a difference in me.

Our hotel was in downtown Charlotte, which was surrounded and guarded by the largest police and security presence I had ever witnessed. All of the cops in their urban riot gear reminded me of some scenes from the latest Batman movie. The media were everywhere as well. MSNBC had its own “village” where the cable network broadcasted several of its daily shows live to masses of adoring fans. On my first night in town, David and I managed to get close enough to the cameras to show up on Chris Matthews’ Hardball show. During the commercial break, I gave Chris a thumbs up and he smiled. It was a clear connection.

The next morning we attended the Florida delegation breakfast, listening to politician after politician speak about the importance of the upcoming campaign. There we were joined by Pat and Brenda, two ladies from Bay County, who much like David had successfully navigated the delegate selection process into a ticket to Charlotte. Brenda was a fresh new face in Panama City politics, pumping much needed vigor into the women’s club. Pat, a yellow dog Democrat if there ever was one, had been a vital financial supporter of my run for state representative and was known for speaking her mind.

MSNBC host Chris Matthews meets his fans.

MSNBC host Chris Matthews meets his fans.

In a room full of power suits and enormous egos, I came down to breakfast in a pink Lacoste polo, khaki shorts and flip flops. I was comfortable in my own skin and never felt the least bit awkward or intimidated. This was a huge jump from four years ago when I was scared to leave my room, scared to go to Wal-Mart. Just plain scared.

I cannot begin to explain how much the Canyon had worked wonders on my human spirit. All those hikes had filled me with strength and confidence, only now I had the compassion and humility to go with it. The confidence I exuded before from influential journalism jobs was, admittedly, filled with arrogance and entitlement. While I am indeed grateful and fortunate to have lived a life of great privilege for thirtysomething years, the hard times of the last four years had reshaped my world view and given me much needed perspective. I knew the Romney crowd we would be battling. I knew them intimately and I knew their weaknesses. The ground game would be where this campaign would be won.

Forward!


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The Vegas Buddy System

17 05 2013

After six months of retail labor, I turned in my resignation at the Grand Canyon, giving the proper two weeks notice.

“Make sure you leave on good terms,” my friend Thomas advised. “You might want to come back.”

I had serious doubts I would ever want to return to the Grand Canyon, as a worker that is. The isolation was severe and the pay was poverty level, but for this stage of my life the experience proved priceless. I was leaving much healthier in spirit and physical well being than when I had arrived. Nature had truly worked wonders. I was ready to return home and rejoin an old fight with much stronger legs. First, I would fly from Phoenix to Charlotte, North Carolina to meet David, who was a delegate at the Democratic National Convention.

David had carried on the political battles back in Florida while I cleared my head and regained confidence in the Canyon. It would be good to see him again. He was always supportive of my endeavors and his honesty is impeccable. David is honest to a fault.

But before I would see David and many other familiar faces from my politico days, I would take advantage of my independence, freedom and surroundings one last time with a trip to Las Vegas. The recreation center put together the trip, renting a bus and a block of hotel rooms smack dab in the middle of the famed strip. It was open to any Canyon employee who could get the time off and afford the experience. In total, about 40 of us went, half of which were Turks.

We stayed at the Flamingo, a modest casino hotel in an excellent location. It was near the end of the summer season and yet the pool parties were still raging across Sin City. Just weeks prior to our arrival, Great Britain’s Prince Harry had made tabloid headlines after being caught partying it up with some less desirables. In the new age of social media, the catch phrase “What Happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas” no longer applied. On our trip were a few international students I had befriended after the guys from Singapore left. One, in particular, was a Macedonian university student named Bard. We had gotten off to a somewhat frosty start. I had overheard him skyping with his mother at the rec center and when he finished, I asked what language he was speaking.

“I’m from Albania. Do you know of this country?,” he answered.

I didn’t know Albanian, but I sure recognized sarcasm.

“Yes, I know of Albania,” I replied. Perhaps he was protecting his privacy, I thought, and at the same time insulting my intelligence. Whatever the case after a few minutes of small talk, Bard was on his way. He worked in housekeeping so we didn’t see too much of each other, only in passing at the employee cafeteria or at the general store. Despite getting off to a rocky start, Bard and I became closer for reasons I cannot fully divulge, but by the time the bus was motoring its way through the desert we were fast friends.

This friendship cemented itself as we wandered the strip, headed back to the Flamingo after an awesome night at the dance clubs. It was around 3 a.m. and the street workers — or ladies of the night if you will — were out and aggressive. Seeing two clean cut young men in good spirits, they were quick to pounce. Bard brushed them aside without a thought. He was an imposing figure, after all. Easily over 6-foot with buzzed blond hair and fluent in several languages — Russian, Turkish and English just to name a few. For this situation, “No” was universally accepted.

That’s when the girls turned their attention and charm tactics to me. “Would you like some company tonight, honey.” one of them asked.

Bard didn’t let me answer.

“Leave him alone,” he shouted. “He’s with me.”

The girls seemed surprised. I know I was.

Of course, Bard and I were not together. We shared similar interests, but not the same bed. And yet I was grateful for being with Bard that moment. I had given into temptation in moments like that before. One incredibly stupid situation in London comes to mind that I may write about one day despite my best efforts to forget. Stupid decisions are easy to make in Las Vegas. That’s why it’s best to go with the buddy system.

спасибо, Bard!

Skyping with Mom in Albania.

Skyping with Mom in Albania.


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Leaving Los Angeles just a Shadow of Myself

6 05 2013

I almost missed the train back to Arizona. “John, what time is your train?,” Normen asked as Joel and I browsed the sales racks at the Gap store in Hollywood.

“Oh yeah, the train,” I realized, pulling out my iPhone to check the time. I had one hour till departure. “We better go.”

And we did, briskly walking through the heavy crowds of people gathered on the sidewalks outside the Chinese Theater and down Hollywood Boulevard to where we had parked the car. On the windshield, a parking ticket courtesy of the City of Los Angeles greeted us. Union Station wasn’t that far away, but the traffic was thick and it was almost five o’clock. We would never make it, I thought.

Normen gives the victory sign, as Cheng Yew and Jastine figure out the parking meter.

Normen gives the victory sign, as Cheng Yew and Jastine figure out the parking meter.

Crowds packed Hollywood Boulevard.

Crowds packed Hollywood Boulevard.

The guys were staying a few extra days in LA before driving up to San Francisco then flying across country to New York before departing back to Singapore. It would be one of those trips they would remember for the rest of their lives. I had made a similar journey to Europe as a teenager and those memories are still very much alive. I was thankful to have been a small part of their American experience.

Somehow we made it to Union Station with a few minutes to spare. Jastine and Cheng Yew accompanied me to tracks, where we said our goodbyes and had our hugs. They asked me to visit Singapore one day and promised to show me around. I said I would and thanked them for our friendship — a friendship developed over the course of living and working together for the past 10 weeks in the isolated, desert climate that is Grand Canyon. I would miss them. A lot.

The ride back to the Canyon was depressing. I was alone again — with still two months of work to go. Despite a nearly full train, I was the only one who made late dinner reservations in the dining car. The food was fair, the rolls hard as rocks, but the service was super. I enjoyed chatting with the Amtrak employees and conductors. They all were approachable and friendly, unlike those stuffy 50-something flight attendants often pushing the drink cart on a Delta plane. Most of the crew were in for the long haul to Chicago. One of the conductors asked me where I was from. “Florida,” I said and then he grinned and replied, “Interesting Governor you got there.”

Elected in 2010 during the Tea Party wave that swept me and many other Democrats out to sea, Florida Governor Rick Scott made a name for himself as an ideologue, hellbent on fighting the Obama Administration every step of the way. So when the federal government offered funds to the states to construct a high speed rail network, Scott refused the program and the money went elsewhere.

“They’re building a new connection from LA to San Francisco with your money,” the conductor gleefully said. “It’s projected to be the fastest route in America.”

“I’m sure it will be,” I replied, adding just a tinge of sardonic wit.

Florida was very much on my mind during those last months I spent working at the Canyon. I knew it would be a battleground state in the upcoming Presidential election and polls were showing Mitt Romney, the Republican nominee, to be leading in the Sunshine State. My break from politics had been refreshing and reinvigorating. Nature had truly heeled a lot of old wounds and now I was ready to return to the game.

I spent the remainder of my time at Grand Canyon hanging out with my roommate Brian, who was eagerly anticipating the start of the college and pro football season. We traveled down to Flagstaff on one scorching Saturday afternoon to attend Arizona Cardinals training camp. The crowds were enormous that day and it was quite clear the people of the desert southwest were starved for a good NFL team.

Arizona Cardinals training camp in Flagstaff.

Arizona Cardinals training camp in Flagstaff.

When I wasn’t working or hanging out with Brian, I would go to the employee recreation center to lift weights, write, read the New York Times and visit with the international workers. I had gotten fairly close to a few of the Turks. One, a shaggy haired teenager named Ozgur, had become my table tennis buddy. He was quite gifted with the paddle. His English speaking skills were another story. I helped Ozgur with his English and he, in turn, taught me a few key phrases in Turkish. I would learn to say “Merhaba” and “Arkadas” with an Istanbul accent. Ozgur wanted to come to Florida with me after his work was finished. I really didn’t know what to say to this request, afraid he would not be able to understand my world back home.

I had not been entirely honest with my co-workers and friends from the Grand Canyon about circumstances involving my being there. But September was on the horizon and I would soon be stepping out of the shadows.


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Behind the scenes soccer

19 04 2013

The next morning, still a bit fuzzy from the Kush, we collected ourselves and made a day of it at Universal Studios Hollywood. I think Joel was slightly aggravated about the rest of us toking up. The lingering effects sure made the rides at Universal fun. Most of the rides were stationary, three dimensional experiences as opposed to high flying roller coasters and were themed around popular movie franchises — Transformers, The Simpsons, The Mummy, and so on and so on. For me, the highlight was the studio back lot tour where you board a tram for a behind-the-scenes glimpse of famed Hollywood movie sets.

And ingenious works in progress. Amazing how well the lens can fool you.

Later that night, Jastine, Cheng Yew and I took in a Dodgers game. This was a sentimental stop for me, having grown up an Atlanta Braves fan and watching many a battle with Los Angeles’ boys in blue.

California fossil

California fossil

Dodger Stadium is one of the older ones in Major League Baseball, its tall swaying palm trees a familiar sight from years watching Ted Turner’s superstation. Just being in the stands on a clear and cool night in Chavez Ravine, munching on a Dodger dog was pretty damn awesome. The game not so much. A pitcher’s duel won by the visiting Philadelphia Phillies. I hate the Phillies.

On my final day in LA, we soaked up the syrup at Roscoe’s Chicken & Waffles before visiting the La Brea Tar Pits. Roscoe’s was a homage to Southern cuisine and would be the closest my Singaporean friends would get to a Dixie fried delicacy during their American tour. Best I could tell, they enjoyed it, despite still not budging on the tipping procedure. At the tar pits — another lasting image of Los Angeles seared into my memory by the entertainment industrial complex — we got a tour of the grounds given, surprisingly enough, by a recent Auburn University graduate. It was here, that I learned California’s state fossil is indeed the saber toothed cat.

After the tar pits, we returned to Hollywood for one last meal together and shopping before I had to catch the train back to Arizona. Large crowds were gathered outside the Chinese Theater for a premiere of the dance movie “Step Up Revolution.” No one in our group seemed interested. We ate at a sports themed restaurant. SEC football media days were on the TV sets. I explained to Joel this was the dominant college football conference. Winners played on those teams, I said.

“Your football makes no sense, John,” Joel observed. “All that stop and go. Stop and go. It’s boring.”

Joel loved soccer as did Jastine. And Desmond, my hiking buddy.

I watched the Singaporeans join with the Turks to beat the French, Bulgarians and Americans — beat them badly — at the Grand Canyon Recreation Center’s annual East vs. West match. The French group came out to the Canyon in mid summer and the women reinforced every negative stereotype I could imagine. The guys were actually very cool and I learned quite a bit about Parisian culture, particularly from this one Moroccan. More on him, later.

The Turks were aggressive on the field — the exact same field that would be transformed, later that night, into grazing grounds for a herd of elk. The elk were a constant reminder of our wild living conditions, far from the streets of Paris. One of the Bulgarians nearly broke his leg that day. The Turks were relentless and not even a stout American goalie could stop enough of their advances. The match would become the subject of much conversation at the employee cafeteria. Soccer was all the rage during the summer of 2012. It was not entirely foreign to me. I played the sport as a grade school kid in the Orlando suburbs. I recall being self conscious about my shin guards being bigger than my legs. Quite the challenge being the smallest one in your class or on the team.

Easy prey for bullies.

Grand Canyon Kicks

Grand Canyon Kicks

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Elk on the field


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