Am I a Closet Beach Lover?

Ask anyone who knows me, and you’ll here that I’m not a typical vacationer. My worst nightmare is being trapped on an all-inclusive resort with nothing to do but plop down on a lounge chair for hours, being bored out of my mind.

I’m an active, avid hiker, locavore, and explorer, and – I’ll be honest- I would be offended if you thought I’d enjoy a “beach vacation.” Not that I care if others find their zen there, it’s just not my bag. Ask my wife, and she’ll agree that I would be antsy within 10 minutes of a stereotypical “beach vacation.”

The good news is, I know this about myself and have learned to plan accordingly. Not that I have never tried a beachfront stay. Heck- if I’m being truthful- there are times when a lazy day on the beach sounded like just the thing to unwind! That feeling just doesn’t usually last last long enough to plan a whole trip around that premise.

If I’m being REALLY HONEST, I’ll share my secret.

I’m having an affair….

My mistress is Lake Michigan. She’s a beach, and I love her for all her glories!!

So what’s my beef with beaches? Why is Lake Michigan so different? And how can I be such a hypocrite?!? Let me expound.

#1. Beaches are aggressive.

Have you ever been pummeled by a series of waves whose sole purpose in life was to grind your face into the sand? This was my childhood exposure to the ocean. Every orifice on my body stung with salty pain, as I cried and struggled to free myself from my aggressor. I’ve never forgiven the ocean for this assault. We’ve come to mutual agreement that we can tolerate each other, but I will never trust her with my back turned again.

Lake Michigan, on the other hand, is salt-free and shark-free! She still has her moods, but even in the throws of winter, her charm can be witnessed by stunning ice formations and sunsets that melt your heart (if you can stay warm enough to endure the cold beach).

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#2. Beaches are icky.

Have you ever felt the slimy grasp of seaweed wrapping around your ankles, like some ghostly lake demon trying to suck you underwater to your premature death? Yeah, that’s pretty common in lake swimming. I grew up in Michigan, where you can’t walk a mile without running into some sort of lake. I wouldn’t traded my Indian Lake childhood for anything, but picking seaweed and unrecognizable black slime from your swimsuit afterward is a…. memorable… experience. It’s not for the faint of heart.

Let’s not even get into the public beaches and the horrific trash that humans discard. Some humans are worse that the garbage they create.

The Great Lakes are MASSIVE. One of the benefits of this scale, and the seasons that they endure, is that the beaches along Lake Michigan are pristine. It’s a rough environment for any creature to endure year-round, which makes summer here a pristine pebble-seeking haven.

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#3. Beaches are crowded.

What’s better than a relaxing beach day? Until you pull up, and after struggling to find a parking spot within a mile of the entrance, you haul your massive, Burning-Man-Worthy daycamp to the beach, only to discover that it is wall-to-wall carpeted with other families who couldn’t live without their entire homestead for their day at the beach. Suddenly your relaxing dream escape becomes a tightly-packed urban nightmare, annoyed by your obnoxious neighbors, their loud kids, and gross food smells. There’s a simple calculation of square footage of beach versus population of beach-goers, and it rarely end in quiet isolation.

I often get a chance to sneak over to say “Hi!” to my beloved Lake Michigan at random times on weekdays, while passing by on business trips. I’m not one to seek her out during peak tourist times. However, even when the rest of the Midwest is on summer break and thriving on her shorelines, I’m floored at how much less crowded it is than any ocean beach or inland lake that I’ve ever visited.

It’s not that Lake Michigan isn’t a huge attraction, but when her shoreline spreads 1,640 miles, there’s a LOT of room for all of us! I’m not a fan of crowds, but I’ve never once struggled to find a little bit of respite along Lake Michigan beaches. Even when the sands are rushed by summer break high schoolers, it’s still not hard to find your own little piece of heaven.

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#4. Tranquility is hard to come by.

With crowds comes annoyances. When I want to commune with nature, I seek peace and quiet. I don’t need utter silence, but a chance to really hear and see nature in her raw form. Which is hard to do when you are sweating to death in an utter lack of breeze, while hearing crying kids half a mile down the beach.

The advantage of a Great Lake is that the ginormous scale of this body of water ensures that random beach noise will be washed over with the meditative sound of waves crashing against the sandy shore. If you’re willing to stroll a half a mile up the beach, you may find yourself isolated, with only the random joggers and dog walkers passing by. It’s a perfect setting for losing yourself in staring at beach stones and discovering an overwhelming desire to start collecting stones. And even if you’ve got just enough energy to plop down next to those obnoxiously loud vacationers, the sound of her ocean-like waves drowns out a lot of their chatter.

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Closet Beach Lover?

So , yes, I am finally ready to admit that it seems that my weakness is for Lake Michigan beaches. I am madly in love with all her attributes, and I’m going to come clean to my wife today. I’m already planning to schedule my next trip up here, because each time I abscond with Lake Michigan for a brief moment of hidden passion, I can’t help but think about how soon I can see her again. Some love cannot remain in the closet. Nor should it.

“Heat Wave”

a cool breeze lifts the heat from my stomach

one droplet of sweat at a time.

My torso lies still against this orange patterned towel,

A damp, half inch layer between my skin and the grass.

My toes hang off, blades of grass tickling

The overheated surface of my skin.

The sun shoots across my pupils, quickly,

As I shift my weight to rest my tired arms.

The book in my hands, servings as an umbrella,

Gives a little shade to my warm, lazy smile.

Turning onto my naked side, I peer out

To see my beautiful beach mate resting too.

Her curves glisten in the unrelenting heat,

Sweat dancing across colorful tattoos.

She senses my gaze and opens her eyes with a smile.

Despite the heavy heat, a chill runs down my spine

As I relish in her refreshing love.

It’s the most amazing way I could ever imagine

To suffer from a record heat wave at a Michigan lake.

 

~KRW

7.2.12

Hitting the Road Instead of the Books (p2)

“If you could go anywhere in this great big world now, where’d ya like ta go ta?”

“… I want to see the BIGGEST ball of TWINE in Minnesota!!!”

 

(Read Part 1)

My best friend and high school sweetheart, Jamie, decided to join me on this epic journey. When I asked him if it was okay to include him in this writing, he whole-heartedly agreed, with the caveat that I refer to him as “the type of beauty that you don’t even notice until you look away and find that everything else is grey and lacks luster because your eyes have forever been ruined by perfection.” (Happy, Jeremiah?) In truth, I loved his heart more than anything else. As a young man, he was fiercely loyal, compassionate, and caring. His long hair, spiky Doc Martens, and handmade chain mail bracelet were a nice touch too.

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As a modern day renaissance man, Jamie was a perfect companion for a road trip. While I had taken a few semesters of high school shop classes, and learned basic auto repair, he did it for a living, and was a whiz at diagnosing unexpected mechanical failures (which, with a VW Bus, was inevitable on a cross-country road trip). I do blame Jamie for getting me hooked on Weird Al’s music, however.

 

I partly blame Mr. Yankovic for my near-obsession with seeing all the World’s Largest things. The fateful book, “Roadside America” didn’t help things any, either. I poured over the pages, my eyes filled with awe at the low-resolution, black and white photos of things so bizarre, I simply couldn’t NOT go see them! I never even knew there was a Spam Museum, nor did I eat spam, in fact, I’d been vegetarian since the age of eleven, but… c’mon, aren’t you curious???

 

Knowing that this would be the theme for my big adventure out West, I fully embraced this new life of kitschy oddities. That’s when I had the brilliant idea… to kidnap Ms. Gwendolyn and take her with me.

 

I didn’t know who Gwen actually would be, but I knew that she would have the time of her life! Her ceramic life, that is. You see, Gwen was a 2 foot tall ceramic goose that I stole from the lawn of a stranger in Lake Orion, Michigan. Honestly, she wasn’t my first choice. (Shhh.. don’t tell her). You see, in 1998, in this particular midwest suburban town, it was shockingly difficult to find people with lawn ornaments! I thought it would be so easy to find a cute, plastic garden gnome (by the way, my idea existed waaaaay before the movie Amelie was ever filmed). But after driving around in search of a victim, I was left with extremely sparse options. Then I saw Gwendolyn. She was standing there, next to another ceramic goose, and the setting sun glistened off her dewy concrete eyes. I knew she was ‘the one’ instantly, but I wish I had known how heavy she was going to be before I ran out of the car to snatch her.

 

Gwendolyn was a plain looking goose. She was mostly white, with some grey. Her feathered body was molded with little divots, not unlike a golf ball. She was hollow inside, which helped to reduce the load capacity of my under-powered, over-packed VW. I named her Gwendolyn, because she wanted to start fresh, with a whole new life. I wrote down the address of the house from whence she fled, and off we went.

Gwen was gleeful about her new adventure! The first night, we stopped at a campground listed in our thick book of campgrounds across America. It was a trailer park/ campground, and it was late when we pulled up. The gate to the campground was closed, and I didn’t know what I was going to do. It was dark, I was nowhere near any other towns, and I didn’t have the energy to stare at the atlas with a flashlight trying to reroute to someplace another hour down the road. Thankfully, a local living in the trailer park rolled up, opened up the gate before us, and said, “Just be outta here by 6am and you won’t have to pay!” “Uh… okay. Thanks!” I replied, nervous that I was going to get myself in trouble by sneaking in there after hours.

 

I found an empty site, got myself all situated, and started a small campfire. Gwen wanted to celebrate her freedom with a fire-roasted marshmallow, so I found her a stick with a Y-shape at one end, and whittled it down so she could roast her own, while balancing the stick atop her chest. She was a natural!

 

The next morning, we packed up our things under the darkness of cheap flashlights, and headed out. First night on the road? $0. What a great start to this adventure!!

 

(Read Part 3)

Hitting the Road Instead of the Books (p1)

Nobody thought I would actually do it. I was 15 when I decided that this was my plan. I’d just bought my very first car- a 1969 Volkswagen Bus for $2,800- and was saving up every dollar I earned to fix him up. The interior seats were a mustard yellow vinyl that reminded me of baby puke, but stickier in the summer heat with no A/C. The flooring was tattered and torn from 26 years of good times. The interior cabinetry- an original Westfalia conversion- was in surprisingly good shape, save for a few peeled back corners of the vinyl corner trim that had aged from white to creme-colored.

I knew that this vehicle was the key to my escape, and I cherished every rusted inch of it. I borrowed some money from my parents to get the body sanded and repainted right away. The patchy, multiple shades of white paint that were on it were okay, but this bus had only moved to Michigan 2 years earlier, and I knew it needed a fresh coat of protection from the harsh, salty roads. I knew exactly what I wanted: brilliant, cobalt blue, with glittery heavy metal flake on the bottom, with snow white on top. (As it turns out, I couldn’t afford heavy metal flake, but I think he turned out gorgeous nevertheless).

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Over that first year we were together, I painstakingly removed all the wood paneling that graced the ceiling and walls of this camper. I salvaged the pieces I could, cut new ones where I couldn’t, and then stained them all a warm cherry color, replete with 7 coats of clear varnish. (My driveway and I saw a lot of each other that summer.) I bought a rusted out parts bus to scab materials from. An older woman helped me to sew all new curtains, which I then tie-dyed shades of cerulean blue, lime green, and a hint of purple. My own mother helped me to rip out all that nasty yellow vinyl and sew brand new upholstery for the rear seats and fold-out bed cushions. I picked a dark blue fabric with a black chevron pattern, to match the new paint job and help hide stains.

 

Before I knew it, I tossed my graduation cap into the air, starting dog-earring my brand new copy of “Roadside America,” and spent hours every week pouring over the atlas, thinking about the best routes to take. I had no cell phone. There was no such thing as wifi. It was just me and those books, calculating approximate travel time between towns. I made mixed tapes of my favorite road songs, and learned every word to Weird Al Yankovic’s “Biggest Ball of Twine in Minnesota” by heart.

Finally, the time had come. My friends were all packing up to head off to college or ‘real’ full-time adult jobs. My own summer job was winding down, and my wallet was growing thick. I had no credit cards, and had to carefully plan exactly how much money I would need to take this trip. There was no ‘Plan B’ if I ran out too soon. There were only intermittent payphones and an ashtray full of quarters.

 

I didn’t yet know if I wanted to go to college for Art or Architecture, so I picked a school with excellent programs for both. The only thing I knew for certain, was that this trip was absolutely going to happen, and was part of my destiny. With my admission to the University of Michigan officially deferred, I packed up my things in my beloved VW Bus, and prepared to hit the road. College would just have to wait until the next semester.

(Read Part 2…)

 

 

“Summer Days”

i’m dreamin of those summer days,

dissolved in peace under your gaze,

dipping toes in unknown lakes,

sunshine melting fresh cupcakes.

rollin down those country roads,

with chirps of marshland loving toads,

windows down and playlist beating

past rural farms and white lambs bleating.

hours filled with sleepy smiles;

we won’t be home for miles and miles,

but the warmth of your gentle hand

reminds me of the lakeshore sand.

 

in those dark and dreary days

when winter grips me with its haze,

i still feel your grip against my glove,

and it’s always summer with your love.

 

~KRW

3.2.12

My ‘Test Road Trip’ from Hell

Ever since the day we met, I knew I had a new road tripping buddy. Even though it was just the beginning of a long, cold winter in Michigan, and we had only just met, we began daydreaming about where we would go together the next summer. Bethany was equally adventurous, and we were elated by how many things we both enjoyed, and wanted to experience together. So, we decided to plan a “Test Road Trip.” Ya know, in case we got sick of each other after so many days…

 

My new best friend and I could hardly wait to begin our adventures, so when her friend, Kristin, invited her up to northern Michigan for her 40th birthday celebration, Bethany immediately squealed, “You should come with me!” Beulah is not exactly a short trip, but if we made it a long weekend, it would be a fun mini-adventure. Except, Kristin’s birthday falls on February 29th. May I now remind you that northern Michigan is prone to some pretty significant snowstorms in February? Yes, clearly this was a brilliant plan from the get go.

 

Lo and behold, as our trip grew closer, the weather forecast grew more ominous. Bethany wasn’t too worried, because she knew that her Swedish tank (aka “Volvo”) would have no problem in a few inches of snow. What she didn’t plan on, however, was that she was taking this road trip with a sustainability freak, who would insist on driving her own Honda insight Hybrid. For the unenthusiast, let me tell you briefly about this car. My “Silver Bullet” is a sporty looking 2-seater, with aerodynamic covers over the rear wheel wells, manual transmission, 2” clearance from the ground, weighs about as much as two women, battery-powered with a gas backup, and averages 65 mpg. So, yeah, obviously I couldn’t be seen in a 20-year-old, gas-guzzling Volvo, tank or otherwise.

 

Bethany (who I was learning is decidedly NOT a morning person), had not yet had any coffee when I convinced her of my sound logic for switching vehicles. We threw our luggage into the back hatch, and got ready to go. Just one small problem. Bethany had decided to buy an unassembled IKEA bookshelf and deliver it to Kristin for her birthday. It was in a long, thick box, and weighed as much as my car. We tried sliding it between the seats vertically, and it fit! But it came right up to the dashboard, completely blocking my view of everything right of the middle of my car, including my mirror, and my passenger. This would NOT do for a 6 hour road trip.

 

Being the problem solvers that we are, we pulled out some straps to tie the box to the top of my car, where I had installed a rack for mounting my bike carrier. The IKEA box sat snugly atop my car, functioning perfectly as a giant sail for catching wind! It was not ideal, but by this point we were well over an hour behind schedule, so I decided to roll with it. (Literally). Off we went on our first adventure!

Bethany had prepared some freshly juiced “Love Potion” for our journey, had consumed some caffeine, created a stellar music mix on CD, and was happily navigating. She had made this journey before on her motorcycle and had a favorite halfway spot where she liked to gas up, so that was out first destination. I was glad I was driving, because the weather was not cooperating, and the fierce gusts of wind were blowing my sail hard, tensing my arm muscles as I kept it between the lines on the road. As we got further out into the country, open fields of shimmering white crystals drifted over the highway, gusting and swirling into sudden walls of blinding whiteness before they disappeared into thin air. Fun!!!

 

I couldn’t wait to get to the halfway point.

The driving was too stressful for me to do anything but focus on the road, and I was growing hungry, and needed to pee. Our route looked quite different in the snow-covered terrain, Bethany noticed as she squinted at signs to try to remember which one was her exit. She knew it by sight only. I silently watched as my gas gauge dropped, which was especially alarming because our IKEA sail was depleting my battery as well. I began to worry as the distance between each exit grew further and further. “I think it must be this one,” she guessed, as we finally exited the freeway. “No… this isn’t it. Let’s turn around.”

“Are you SURE?” I asked.

“Yeah, this is too soon, it’s coming up next.”

“Should we just stop and find a gas station here, since we’re already off?” I prodded.

“No, my gas station is way nicer. Let’s keep going,” she insisted.

Against my better judgment, I complied. After all, I didn’t want to argue on our Test Road Trip. I turned around, only to discover that the exit we had taken was one of those where there’s an off ramp, but no on ramp. Only a road to the previous exit, with no way to abort. So, there we were, driving 9 miles the wrong direction, only to then get back on the freeway and try again. We passed two more exits with nothing but an intersection in sight, and I was seriously starting to freak out. Here we were, my new best friend and I, preparing to become that story you hear on the news. That tragic one about two ladies found frozen in a snow drift, after they ran out of gas in the middle of a blizzard in northern Michigan with nothing but an IKEA bookshelf to burn for warmth. So sad.

I started thinking about all the warm layers I could put on, and mentally preparing myself for the long, cold walk from our abandoned car in search of help, when finally, like a beacon of hope, the gracious orange glow of a Shell appeared on the horizon. WE WERE SAVED!! I breathed an audible sigh of relief, trying not to pee my pants, and coasted into the gas station on fumes and prayers to the universe.

 

I looked over at Bethany, our eyes both wide with amazement, and we smiled at our success! As a peace offering, she offered me a sip of her Love Potion, reaching down at her feet to grab the sealed bottle. As she twisted off the cap, a superheated explosion of beet orange juice splattered all over the inside of my car with shocking thoroughness. Bethany gasped in utter horror as her brain processed the phenomenal fermentation that we had just witnessed. You could not have engineered a better volcano had you tried.

 

Unable to speak, we both opened our car doors to go find something to clean up the mess. That’s when I heard the soft THUD of my passenger door hitting the concrete bollard next to Bethany. “You have GOT to be kidding me,” I muttered, but I could no longer deal with this insane series of unfortunate events. I HAD to go pee.

 

When I returned to the scene of the crime, Bethany was still feverishly dabbing at the upholstery with water and paper towel. Thankfully, the seats were pretty dry, since we were still sitting in them when it happened. I could see in her eyes that she was terrified that she had just killed our friendship. That was it. The Test Road Trip served its purpose and all future adventures were no officially cancelled. But I walked over to her, smiled, and said, “I can’t even believe our luck,” as I reached down to give her a hug. What else could I do?

 

Bethany offered to drive the second half, and I decided to take her up on it. My shoulders ached from the tension of fighting with the wind gusts and snow drifts. She drove us the rest of the way, and it grew dark as we approached Kristin’s house. There were two ways to get to her place, nestled high up on a hilltop surrounded by trees. We now had a good 6 inches of snow on the ground, and were strategically coasting through stop signs to keep enough momentum to not get stuck. We turned onto the less steep approach, and I gulped. “There’s no way we’re going to make this,” I thought.

 

To my joy and awe, we fishtailed our way all the way to the top, and could see her driveway! That’s where we finally got stuck. I didn’t care at that point, we were close enough to walk. I grabbed my bag, tromped through the snow to her front door, and waited for instructions from B. “She said she’s not home yet, but the door’s unlocked,” Bethany read from her phone. She reached for the door and a booming series of barks ensued. “Oh, uh, hi Chopper. Do you remember me?” her voice quavered. “Great,” I thought, “we made it all the way here to be eaten by a dog.”

 

“Is he friendly?” I asked, having grown up with large dogs that cans sometimes sound meaner than they really are. B thought so, but clearly had a fear of dogs, so I decided to attempt to enter. I asserted myself and commanded the dog to sit to get a treat, and shockingly, he listened. After befriending him enough to get in the door, we walked inside, threw down our bags, and collapsed on the couch.

 

B’s reunion with her friends was lovely, though I (the introvert) was meeting everyone for the first time. We had some tapas and wine and caught up with Kristin and Kate. We were so exhausted, we didn’t stay up too late before asking where we were sleeping. Kristin’s two little boys had twin beds downstairs, one decorated with Batman, one with Superman. Bethany chose Batman, leaving me with the latter, and we passed out from our crazy long day.

 

In the morning, I awoke with a cold nose, and burrowed my face beneath the comic sheets. “Was yesterday for real?” I wondered. “That was EPIC.”  I began making some grand analogies to the journey of Odysseus, and then the cold found me. It penetrated the rest of my skin, as I shivered myself awake. I’m all for energy efficiency, but this was a little ridiculous. Moments later, my loud thinking woke Bethany and she agreed, so we toddled upstairs to make some coffee and tea. When Kate and Kristin awoke, it was to the realization that they had run out of propane, which is how they heat their house. After some frantic calls, we learned that it would be a couple days before they could get refilled, what with the snowstorm and all. So we prepped the house for the cold snap, and bundled up. Later that afternoon, B & I curled up together on the Batman bed for a nap, sharing our body heat for warmth. This was probably the highlight of the test road trip at that point.

The party was held next door, at Kristin’s parents’ home, which was empty because they were gone on vacation, and had heat. B & I moved over to their garage apartment for the night, grateful for a backup option. The party was amazing! I met so many new people, and had so much fun hearing all their old stories about B. And at the end of the late night, I got to lay in bed and stare up at the stars through a skylight, and make a wish on a falling star.

 

And, yes, my wish came true.

“Spanish Drinking Chocolate”

In a teeny, tiny cup
Rich swirls of drinking chocolate
Move like velvet,
Licking the walls of the ceramic mug,
Slowly dripping back down
Into a pool of heavenly warmth.

Steam rises in delicate tendrils
Carrying an aroma so rich & sweet
My eyes close themselves
So I can concentrate on the smell alone.
I fill my lungs, my chest expanded
Then, when I can wait no longer,
I lower my lips and take a sip.

~krw~ 

11.18.09

The Brief but Powerful Role of Keystone Underground: How Kelly Met Bethany

It had been a bitterly cold week, especially for so early in December, and filled with frustration at the office. The guy in charge was exercising his newfound power by declaring their startup nonprofit of five “NOT a democracy.” By Wednesday Kelly was already thinking about the weekend, and she texted Lisa to see if she wanted to go out dancing Friday or Saturday night. It’s good to help blow off steam, and prevent herself from becoming a complete hermit crab, Kelly decided. Lisa is pretty much always interested in dancing, and surprisingly available last minute, which made her Kelly’s favorite dancing buddy.

Me: We could try Elks Lodge Friday night

Lisa: Well, I’m actually supposed to go on a sort of date Friday night, which might be fine, because we’re meeting at 6:30, but I probably shouldn’t plan on being done early.

Me: Oh, nice! Well have a good time on your maybe date. What about Saturday?

Lisa: Saturday’s wide open, I think. And I’m pretty sure that is the night my friend was telling me about something going on in Ypsilanti at some new place that opened up there.

Me: Oh? I’ve never really been to Ypsilanti, except to buy art supplies once.

Lisa: Yeah, I’m trying to remember what the place is called… I’ll have to look it up. But she did say that it’s a completely smoke free venue, which was why I want to try it!

Me: That sounds great. Sure, let’s try it! I’ll meet you at your house at 9 so we can carpool?

Lisa: Sounds like a plan.

 

Saturday evening Kelly put on some comfortable jeans, knee-high striped socks that she could push down if she got too hot, and a tan v-neck t-shirt with a thin brown sweater over the top. Layers are critical when you go out dancing in Michigan winters! She bundled up her long brown hair into four loose quadrants, then secured them to the crown of her head with elastic bands, so that she could dance freely without a care. Just before she left home, she opened the drawer to the right of the sink, pulled out a clear glass vial an inch in diameter, closed her eyes, and sprinkled glitter over the top of her head. It fell softly onto her shoulders, across her collarbone, and caught in her eyelashes, ever so slightly. There’s never a chance to wear glitter that gets missed by this grrrl!

Lisa greeted her at the door looking like she had just gotten home from work. “I can’t decide if I want to dress up a little, in case there are some eligible women there tonight, or just be comfortable,” Lisa explained. Kelly shrugged her shoulders, “Do both.” Lisa spent a few more minutes debating what to change into, and forgot to run a comb through her hair before putting on her eyeglasses and slipping on some comfortable shoes. Jeans and a long sleeve shirt it was then.

Kelly offered to drive, and Lisa navigated the car to downtown Ypsilanti. This town kind of has a reputation that precedes it. Although it is the next door neighbor to the affluent and highly educated Ann Arbor, it gets a bad rap as an area of poverty and high crime. Kelly had heard that there was actually a pretty up-and-coming art scene here, but somehow never made it there to check it out. Most of her friends live in or around Ann Arbor, and it’s the only place that anyone ever suggests for places to go.  Lisa’s house is in this no-man’s-land between the two towns, filled with strip malls of cell phone dealers, mattress stores, and a hidden pocket of co-op housing, built from former military barracks. It wasn’t rural, like Kelly’s home, but it wasn’t urban or suburban either. It just felt like you were lost in a grey area between two points on the map, with no tranquility and nothing to walk to, but conveniently located close to US-23, I-94, and two centers of employment.

As they drove down Washtenaw, the scenery changed from strip malls and fast food joints to a quaint and historic little downtown. They passed by the edge of Eastern Michigan’s campus, a surprisingly large university that gets dwarfed by U of M’s presence in Washtenaw county. Just across from the corner of campus, a ridiculously phallic-shaped water tower emerged with a wooden-shingled dome, dividing the 4-lane street into two boulevarded one ways. As their eastbound lanes curved right, it made room for a block of large historic homes that were now turned into student apartments.

Downtown was just a couple more blocks from campus, and looked much nicer than Kelly had imagined. There were three blocks decorated with matching acorn lampposts, like you would see in a Norman Rockwell painting, with intricate storefronts topped with apartments above. Each retail space was filled with some store or restaurant that you’ve never seen anywhere else. It held a very local charm, without a Starbucks in sight.

They found a free parking spot right out front on the main drag, and Kelly backed into the spot, waiting a minute for traffic to clear so she could open her door. She scurried to the sidewalk to wait for Lisa, turning herself around to take in all of her surroundings. She admired the diversity of the architecture, some modern, some ornate, with incredibly detailed stonework, and some simply old. “It’s really cute here,” she muttered aloud.

“I know, right? I was surprised the first time I came to Ypsi, too,” shared Lisa, “and Depot Town is equally nice. That’s where my office is, and it’s just a few more blocks that way,” she pointed in the direction of a bridge down the hill.

“And THIS,” Lisa turned to face the crosswalk, “is where we are going!” Across the street was a large glass storefront with a corner vestibule. It looked like a restaurant, and an empty one at that. Kelly was a little bit disappointed, but followed her friend out of the cold. “So, I think this place is actually downstairs,” she posited, scanning the abundance of signage and literature that filled the entryway, looking for confirmation of this mystical venue.

“Ah! There it is- Keystone Underground-  Martini Bar!” Inside the restaurant, where a hostess stand should have been, a sandwich board sign stood waist-high, directing them down an open stairwell into a much darker space. As they reached the last steps, a truly unique space emerged. It was a long, narrow room, divided in half by a brick wall punctuated by arched openings. It felt a lot like an eastern European wine cellar, cozy and warm, ancient yet secretive. The underground bar had a modern flare, the bar lit dimly with neon signs that reflected off the bright orange bartop. To the left, as they walked through one of the archways, more seating appeared, and a DJ booth was set up against the back wall, not quite ready for the dance floor.

Lisa spotted her friend, and walked over to greet her with a hug. She was a short, curvaceous woman, with spiky hair. One long sweep of bangs curled in front of her left ear and framed a gigantic, beaming smile. In an instant, Kelly could tell that she’s the kind of person who can warm an entire room with her smile, which squished her wide blue eyes into dark slivers as her big, rosy cheeks reached for the moon. They walked back over to Kelly, who stood frozen in the mostly empty void, unsure of what to do. “Kelly, this is my friend, Bethany. She’s the one who is organizing the Electronic Saturdays here tonight!” “Hey there! How’s it going?” Lisa’s chipper friend asked as she greeted Kelly, then excused herself to go hug another stranger. She must be a little bit older than herself, Kelly thought, but her energy was through the roof, as she watched this pint-sized tattooed figure bouncing through the room, checking in with the DJ on equipment setup, greeting other people who were starting to trickle in the door. There weren’t many other people at this bar, but Bethany seemed to know every single one of them.

The bar was relatively new, and it appeared that most people didn’t know it existed yet. Kelly decided to have a drink, since there wasn’t a big enough crowd to feel comfortable dancing in yet. She asked her friend for suggestions, and had no idea what actually got ordered. A golden martini arrived in front of her, and it was tasty, but not cheap. Certainly, one $10 drink would be enough for the night. “And this is why I don’t like to go out and drink,” she reminded herself. The two chatted about work stuff, and at some point Lisa’s friend came back by to visit more. She was trying to persuade them to get out on the dance floor, where a total of zero people were dancing. “Hmmm… maybe in a little bit,” Kelly politely responded, with a suspicious feeling that there would be no dancing tonight. It was already getting late, and she was stifling yawns instead of shaking her groove thing, which meant that she wouldn’t last too much longer.

The people watching was pretty good, although the place never really did pick up much. Eventually, since the sole purpose of coming out was to dance, Lisa did convince Kelly to get up for a couple of songs. Bethany joined them, and was a welcome added distraction, not that there was anyone there watching them. Not surprising, she was a very outgoing, extroverted dancer, smiling and laughing and cracking jokes with the two. It was enough to help Kelly to relax and have some fun. “Awwww, yeah! That’s my jam!” she hollered, kicking up her heels and throwing her elbows back with excitement. Both Lisa and Kelly laughed out loud, the only two introverts to be found, both equally astonished and entertained by Bethany’s exuberance.

The night turned out surprisingly well! They may not have spent hours dancing like Kelly had hoped for, but it felt really good to finally give in and get out there, even if they were the only ones dancing. Just before midnight, Corey thanked her new friend for helping them to break in the dance floor, and walked back upstairs to the street to turn into a pumpkin. “Perhaps she will be our new dancing buddy!” Kelly thought after dropping off Lisa and heading home. Cold car tires crunched over the gravel driveway. In the conifer-cloaked darkness, she quietly tiptoed through the front door, greeted by a cat along the way. She pulled her sweater over her head, sniffed it, and realized, “and I don’t smell like smoke!” When you factored in that sweet smell of success, Ypsilanti started to look like a great new option for dancing. And besides, Santa made an appearance at Keystone, and even swung around a steel column like a stripper, so, there’s always that to look forward to next time.

Update: The $10 martinis proved a bit too rich for Ypsi blood, at least circa 2009, so the venue no longer exists as Keystone Underground. Michigan passed a smoking ban that opened up all sorts of new smoke-free destinations soon after. But, that fateful night, during the brief period that Keystone Underground was in existence, Kelly met her soulmate. Kelly and Bethany rent the space they met at for their very own wedding reception when they got married two years later.

You Should Care About Cameroon Too

Today ends an exhausting, but invigorating, week-long conference called GreenBuild, hosted this year in Washington DC. We packed up our bags, thanked our AirBnB host, Elizabeth, and walked three blocks to the Metro stop to catch the yellow line to the Ronald Reagan International Airport. It is SO great to be in a city with effective mass transit!!

 

Unfortunately, they are doing some repair work to the Metro over the weekend, and the Yellow train never came. After waiting 20 minutes, and watching the digital board update with only green trains, I finally gave up and opened up the Uber app on my phone. So much for that reduced carbon footprint I was bragging about. In less than 2 minutes, Nathaneal pulled up in a new Toyota Corolla and we were on our way to pick up one more passenger to carpool to the airport.

 

As the car took off like a wizard on a broomstick, I noticed the eerie, twinkling sounds that were all too familiar. I was back inside Hogwarts Castle, winding my way through the incredible creation at Universal Studios, pushing Kurtis’ wheelchair through hairpin turns and scanning each new room for hidden treasures. As it turns out, Nathaneal loves classical music, including the compositions of John Williams, especially while driving “to keep from getting angry.” Our driver chatted away and I noticed that his eloquently spoken English was delicately laced with a lovely accent.

Our new friend moved to America nine years ago from Cameroon. His mom calls him “her American boy,” and always vowed that she would find a way to send him to school in America. He loves it here, although there are some cultural differences that he still doesn’t get. Nathanael explained, “In Cameroon, when I say you’re my friend, it means I will be for you in thick and thin. And if I am bored, I just go over and knock on my friend’s door, but if they are not here, I just go on to another friend’s house to see if they are home. But here,” he shook his head, “after I do that 2 or 3 times, my friends tells me they don’t like this, that I need to text them first, but I don’t understand.”

 

We talked a bit about how it’s different being an adult instead of a kid, as Bethany recalled doing the same thing growing up. She also supposed that technology has changed things, because it’s just so easy now to give someone a warning so they can clean up or get dressed. But, the more I thought about it, Nathanael was right.

 

In my neighborhood, Fountain Square, I finally have the tree-lined sidewalk filled with kids riding bikes in packs, just like I’d always imagined as a child. I know my neighbors. And, although I do have their phone numbers, which I use  most of the time if I want to share something, sometimes it is just so much nicer to walk two blocks down and knock on a friend’s front door. Sure, they might still be in their pajamas, or they might not be home. But there is something so lovely about interjecting an unexpected smile into someone’s day. Instead of wondering, “Is that the Jehovah’s Witnesses AGAIN???” a knock on the door starts to make me wonder, “Oh, who could that be?”

When I got home, I wanted to look up more information about Cameroon, to educate myself on the place Nathanael called home. Sadly, the first things that pop up are tragic. Today, four suicide bombers led an attack (three of them female) and killed four innocent people, wounding dozens of others nearby. It was claimed by the terrorist group Boko Haram. The people who died were not terrorists. It could have been Nathanael’s mother who was injured. These victims are just like me. Sure, their culture has differences. That’s what I love to learn about. That’s why I travel.

It’s hard for me not to make comparisons between this Cameroon attack and the Paris attack. My Facebook feed this past week has been filled with far too much anti-Syrian hate. People claiming that they should “go to a country with a more similar culture” (read: religion). But refugees don’t get that choice. When your daughter runs home from school, terrified of being abducted or murdered on the way home, and your family members have lost their home in a bombing, and the dinner table is empty because your government has collapsed, all you can muster is the courage to say goodbye to the only place you’ve ever known, in the hope of finding a safe place to lay your head at night. A place where your child can sleep without night terrors.

So, Governor Pence, Governor Snyder, is Cameroon next? What about Beirut? What about Iran? Or North Carolina??? Who else are you going to arbitrarily ban from seeking safety in your state? These refugee families don’t get to pick where they land. The UNHCR (United Nations High Commissioner on Refugees) does. The system takes 18-24 months to permanently relocate a family, and the UNHCR is the one who looks at all countries’ capacity to help, and distributes the refugees across the globe. Why don’t we “make other Islamic countries take them,” as some have ignorantly asked? Well, you can’t ‘make’ a country offer help. But we can do the right thing. We are a country of immigrants. We landed on this soil without a place to call home, and WE accepted food and aid from the Wampanoag tribe in 1621.

And, by the way, those Paris attackers? They were Belgians. Yes, born in Brussels. So, if you want to ban entire groups of people based on extremist activity, you’ll have to also ban people traveling from Europe. And Africa. And Asia. And South America. And, really, the North Pole, too, because Santa is really just an expert and B & E, the sneaky bastard. Hell, let’s just dig a giant tunnel underneath Mount Rushmore and we can all pile in, seal up the opening, and be safe from all those crazy freaks out there! Or, you could quit being so paranoid and go get to know your neighbors. Invite them in for a cup of tea. Quit being such an asshole, ‘cause you’re giving Americans like me a bad name.

Freedom to Marry (now let’s not get fired for being gay)

I’m married. No… for reals… I’M MARRIED.

Not just on my federal taxes.

Not just in the state of Indiana.

I’m married in ALL 50 STATES!!!

SCOTUS RULES!

There is no way that I can express how amazing the past week has been. I’ve been counting down to this for over 2 years, since the 2013 ruling that granted federal rights to gay and lesbian married couples. My lawyer friend, Cindy, told me that it would only be a matter of time before the lawsuits from individual states worked their way up to the supreme court and- the way these things work- it would likely be June 2015 before it got ‘resolved.’ She was spot on.

June 26, 2015 was a day that the previous generation of LGBT folks thought they would NEVER see. They have endured countless discriminatory acts against them. They have been yelled at. They have been beaten. They have had to walk home in fear of an attack. They have been denied health care. They have had to watch their partners die from hospital waiting rooms. They have been turned away from funerals. They have been left penniless when unable to inherit their own life from their passed love.

They have had their love questioned. They have been told they are ‘disgusting.’ They resigned themselves to introducing their ‘friend,’ or- if they were really brave- their ‘partner.’ They didn’t think this day would every come.

MARRIAGE IS MARRIAGE

For three and a half years I have been married. Yes- LEGALLY married (as I often have to explain). No, it was in Buffalo, NY (because doesn’t every couple get asked WHERE they got married?!?) As a newlywed, I audaciously referred to her as ‘my wife,’ despite how weird it sounded as it echoed in the ears of my midwestern coworkers. I was determined to claim this word and normalize it. I often got asked to repeat myself, when people’s eyebrows wrinkled with confusion. “Yes, my wife,” I would reiterate casually. Because how can we expect people to get comfortable with it if they never encounter it?

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Today, our world is transformed. Marriage is marriage. Love is love. Typing these words still makes my eyes grow watery and my cheeks smile.

We have celebrated our marriage every time it was made a little bit more legal. It’s been kind of fun, I mean, how many straight couples can say they threw 5 parties to celebrate their wedding in the first 5 years of being married? (2011 Elopement in Buffalo + 2012 Reception in Ypsilanti + 2013 Federal ruling + 2014 Indiana ban overturn + 2015 Marriage equality). Now, there will be no more mandatory destination marriages. No more traveling to get married again when a new state passes laws allowing it.

And that’s not all! We have Divorce Equality too!! No more waiting for YEARS to get divorced because they aren’t citizens in the state they got married.

GENERATIONAL DIFFERENCES

As a younger generation gay person, I am blessed beyond belief. I came out at age 29 and I never endured what my wife did. She was kicked out of her parents home at age 17 for being gay. She knows the real fear of being threatened. When we first visited Indianapolis and contemplated me taking a new job that would require us to move here, I wanted to know if we would feel welcomed. She wanted to know if we would be safe.

I will never forget that Friday, after my full day interview went so well, we went to walk around downtown Indianapolis so that we could seriously consider this opportunity. We were waiting for the crosswalk signal on Delaware Street, and I naturally reached my hand over to clasp the hand of my love. Her hand instinctively jerked away from mine. I turned to look at her, clearly confused by her behavior. Before I had a chance to ask, she said, “I don’t know if we should be doing that here.” I turned my shoulders square to hers, stared into her eyes and said, “Honey, if this is NOT okay in this town, I want to know NOW, before we decide if we want to move here.”

We have been welcomed so warmly by our new city, that this story seems laughable today. We are extremely open, loud and proud. We are met with nothing but love by our neighbors. Even those who clearly didn’t know that we are gay, stammer to correct themselves when I edit their assumptions.

MOVING FORWARD

Let’s remember that marriage equality today does not erase the painful past. These emotional scars are deep for Bethany, and for millions of Americans like her. More importantly, our fight is not over. SCOTUS ended marriage discrimination, but not all discrimination. I can still be fired for being gay. I can be denied a mortgage. I can be refused a large number of basic parts of living, just not the legal piece of paper that affords a married couple all those wonderful rights.

The marriage fight is over, once and for all. This will bring awareness. This will cause conversations and questions and dialogue about an issue many were embarrassed to discuss. This opens the door for more closeted LGBTQ folks to finally come out to their friends and family. This will let the next generation of kids know that they are EQUAL to their straight peers, and not something to be bullied.

So what’s next? We need to fix discrimination. Let’s start by amending the laws to reflect that LGBTQ citizens are at a much higher risk of being denied, bullied, ignored, and refused service. I’m not talking about RFRA, the black eye that Governor Pence gave the state of Indiana. I’m talking about our state constitutions. In many states like Michigan and Indiana, our local government has refused to add sexual orientation and gender identity to the anti-discrimination language.

In 1968 the Civil Rights Act brought equal rights language to many of us who faced discrimination. There’s a federal version and there are state versions. The original federal language made it a federal crime to “by force or by threat of force, injure, intimidate, or interfere with anyone … by reason of their race, color, religion, or national origin.” They have been amended over the years to protect new statuses, like being pregnant (remember when women got fired for being pregnant as a regular practice?) So, you can’t be denied based on race, creed, color, religion, disability, age, sex, or veteran status, but you CAN be denied if you’re gay. Or fired. Or not hired. The list goes on.

So, “yay” for wedding cakes and all the happy couples I know who refused to get married until they could do so in their home states. I expect the USPS to be carrying lots of beautifully crafted wedding invitations to my doorstep in the ensuing months. For those of us already married, and, hopefully, ALL OF US, let’s get back to work!