Bliss!

Oh, I could keep riding the rails, play hooky a little longer…

But I detrained at Albany Station, caught a pair of buses home, to spring the pups from their kennel digs and to get back to work. Let’s see. Uh, where was I?

La chance, c’est comme le Tour de France. On l’attend longtemps et ça passe vite. Quand le moment vient, faut sauter la barrière sans hésiter.

[Luck is like the Tour de France. You wait, and it flashes by you. You have to catch it while you can.]

-Monsieur Dufayel in Le fabuleux destin d’Amélie Poulain

Once again, I’ve let the Tour de France flash by without catching it. What’s up with wanting to follow the Tour de France anyway? Well, I figure I fancy cyclists (Scott, Tamao and Sue, the Robert-Barry-Montana triple threat, the bike cooks of Los Angeles, the king of New York, the cutters of Bloomington…) and bicycles (the sleek and sexy Bianchi, the adorably tuckable Bike Friday, the robo-dynamic torque coupling Co-Motion, the tough and exotically elegant Bambucicletas…) so maybe I could get into cycling? And the Tour de France is, like, cycling with a capital “C.” Plus I have a vague notion that it’s an event rooted in myth, passion, and drama, set against beautiful landscapes, and while I’m not really into sport, I’m a total sucker for myth, passion, drama, and beauty.

Anyway, this year, I came closer to catching it than ever before: the relevant BBC Sport page remained open in my browser a good couple of weeks, patiently waiting for me to peruse it, and I actually called a local sports pub to inquire about commandeering their TV. The doping scandals that dominated the news, however, proved an insurmountable barrier to entry for someone just trying to pick up the lingo and figure out how the dadgummed contest is supposed to work.

Instead I enjoyed following my mum’s very own 2007 tour de France. A passionate secondary school French teacher, she won a fellowship and planned an entire summer of intensive language and culture studies. Next thing you know she’s blogging about her adventures and Skyping me from across the Atlantic. Shucks, I’m proud! I made this map for her.

La Danse en Rond: Sylvie’s 2007 Tour de France

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Last week Scott and I went on a tour of Indiana and Ohio, during which we had the pleasure of reuniting with familiar souls and getting acquainted with new folks too. Naughty Northwest Airlines waffled on their scheduled red-eye out of PDX, so we missed our first day of vacation just trying to get there (and it was to include a blueberry pancake brunch by Grammie—no six-dollar meal voucher is gonna replace that!) My dear friend Kelly improvised a very late airport pickup, and Grammie sent us off with homemade gingersnaps instead (while Grandpa supplied the fresh fruit and reading material in the form of a garden supply catalog and an Earthjustice pamphlet).

First stop was Bloomington, home of my alma mater IU and Scott’s friends Sandy and Ben. I hadn’t been back to Bloomington since I graduated and moved away west. Even when I lived there I apparently had my head in a textbook, a movie, or a cloud all the time, because I’d never really experienced two of Scott’s favorite haunts—Bloomington Bagel Company and Sahara Mart—and they were right under my nose.

In this way, the day in Bloomington, strolling around the southeast corner of campus and meandering between 2nd Street and Kirkwood Avenue, was a delightful mix of nostalgia and discovery. Scott, Ben, and Sandy indulged me in a walk past the two nondescript 2nd Street apartments I inhabited as a student on our way to visit Sahara Mart. Seeing the apartments gave me a “You’ve come a long way, baby” kind of feeling; meeting the mart was more like “How could I have missed this? What the hell was wrong with me?” The olive bar and the brew sanctuary totally lived up to Scott’s hype, and at checkout, between the tin of Illy caffé and the tub of rose-petal lemon-peel kalamatas, I implored the owner Javad to relocate to Corvallis. (And I wasn’t kidding. Dude’s elevated groceries to a fine art.)

On campus I was briefly amused by the bizarre statue of Mr. IU, Herman B Wells, (erected after my time), and I relished the opportunity to enter new Memorial Union territory on Scott’s special tour of the tower toilet. My companions again indulged my nostalgia with a pass through Ballantine Hall, practically my second home as a student.

Other Bloomington highlights: smoothies at Soma (bicycle art in the stairwell up to Laughing Planet), dinner at Shanti (loony wait staff), breakfast at the BBC (bagel-making espionage), all preceded by Sandy’s wonderful waffle brunch. Most memorable moment: chillin’ to the mesmerizing light show of candles, fireflies, and stars (even a shooting star!) on Ben and Sandy’s deck.

On to the outskirts of Columbus, Ohio, where my mum’s family convened in honor of cousin James’s high school graduation. I’ve enjoyed following James through the years, watching him come into his own as a talented volleyball player, social activist, rock star…

I was apparently too flustered by this happy opportunity to pack for it properly, and I showed up spectacularly unprepared, without a light, a lighter, or bug dope. Or marshmallows. The cousins took care of me.

Mum and I cooked our oats and dates on a backpacking stove, and when the mosquitoes crashed our evening meals, we huddled together with the cousins (all six people, three dogs) in their pop-up camper. Andrew and Mum and I roasted marshmallows over the campfire while James strummed us a lovely serenade on his guitar. I slept well in the tent, a dog on my face, another on my legs, and Gordon and Mum’s serenade of snores.

Snowbanks were scaled. Mountain air was inhaled. Trees were hugged. The lake was admired from many different angles. Photographs were taken.

By the time we returned to Corvallis to feast on Scott’s waffles (Scoffles?) – carbohydrates fit to usher in the weekend of the Northwest Tandem Rally – that twitch in my left eye had completely faded.

Oh, that reminds me that the first song the deejay played at the reception was Franz Ferdinand’s “Take Me Out.” Thank you, deejay friend of the groom! It made me do a happy dance. Or maybe it was the champagne and riesling and pinot noir.

Hmm. You know, come to think of it, I’d have welcomed that wacky Christopher Walken. Shucks, you think he’d have danced with me? Anyhoo…

My sincere congratulations to the newlyweds! It was indeed an honor to participate in the celebration of your marriage! And in such truly amazing company!

Em welcomed me to her Rapunzel room, complete with exclusive balcony, all very charming but for that drunken slacker down in the building’s shadow, losing his breeches and barfing his brains out. Better, though, to see the epic clash of Roman soldiers and Samurai Jesus and the nimble romping of those Ultimate Frisbee gazelles! Yes! Boys frolicking in skirts! That’s more like it!

The princess merrily led me from her tower to her dungeon for some dragon taming and snake charming. I was happy to confirm (from a safe distance and with a sturdy plexiglass partition separating us) that Eulia the boa constrictor is as gorgeous as she sounds. To make up for not holding (or being held by) Eulia, I was treated to a thorough tour of the museum’s backroom collections, or “Hmm. Wonder what genus and species of dead beast y’all keep in this drawer!” I was still recovering from the dead squirrel in the refrigerator when, almost as an afterthought, she took me into the Poe-Bates room– stuffed birds, yes, but then on the table– a total freak show! Aw, the cute little lamb… has legs growing out its back!

And so it was that our classroom film screening and translation rhapsodies (Latin and German), all falling firmly in the “nostalgia” category, were balanced by some solidly edifying lab and fieldwork. Right in the middle of the chemistry department, we wielded blowtorches, spun the lathe, tortured some Pyrex and managed not to explode anything. Then there was the John Bon Fire– practical studies in pyromania led by a real scientist! I’m sure we left a few brain cells in those dark woods, but it was worth it to watch the splendid, colorful sparkling as the plastics melted. And I must confess to getting a huge kick out of watching the flames slowly consume a one-armed school desk like something out of a dramatic Pink Floyd video. So I thrill cheap. The after-party proved even more fascinating as we joined Professor John for his nightly rounds. We circled one of his ponds (in the tract of land he’s working to reforest), listening to a symphony of spring peepers and playing matchmaker to some horny American toads. Oh, what fun to interfere with natural selection! Oh, to go herping at night!

We took the scenic route to Charlie’s, and I was intrigued to learn that old Richmond, with its blocky brick buildings by the train tracks, is the “cradle of recorded jazz,” Picked up the latest Earlham Word and discovered that it’s “pie” and it’s definitely a verb.

We whiled away the afternoons in the Heart, lying in the grass and monkeying on the giant tree swing… but now I’m back from playing hooky, and poor Em’s down with a serious case of senioritis.

I felt somehow compelled to mention my own adventures in Italian Studies at UC Berkeley, and he was terribly impressed by this. Internal barometer sensed that familiar storm of self-denigration brewing in the mind of my dream self. She was on the verge of mumbling some lame description of perceived grad school failures, when that knot of tension simply unraveled and fell away. I guess I figured if Neil Gaiman is digging it, I oughta accept the compliment and bask in its light a while.

I knew from the early stages of NZ trip planning that I wanted to try an extreme sport. Queenstown is, after all, the capital of such adventures, and there was already something extreme about my trip to the opposite hemisphere, to the other end of the world clock continuum. It must have been that IMAX film Adventures in Wild California that moved me to want to skydive, but then my little sister had to go and bungee jump in Mexico mid-November (she always beats me to important things like this!), and so I vowed to do an even BIGGER jump in Queenstown. So many of those to choose from! The van driver for my river rafting trip set me straight – he claimed preference for the bungee swing and the small, independent company that operates it and didn’t think as much of the big-name jumps I had been considering. I read over the Canyon Swing brochure, and I was hooked. Added bonus was the discovery that I would be performing my own human physics experiment not far downstream from where they digitally inserted the great flood at the Ford of Bruinen.

Here I am harnessed up and ready to launch myself the first time off the platform straight down toward the Shotover River. You may notice that Mr. Hanky, the Christmas Poo, accompanied me on my first jump – Bob, Jim and Steve, that’s for you! I’m also donning my Fellowship of the Ring t-shirt for the occasion.

The decision-making was far from over. Once I hiked down to the launching platform from the van, I had to figure out how exactly I wanted to fall into the canyon. The nice folks at Canyon Swing provided me with a menu of 7 jump styles (and turns out they have other ideas too, beyond the menu!) I discussed each jump style’s merits with the friendly staff and fellow jumpers, and I watched a few of them fall and survive before I climbed into the harness myself for a good old-fashioned Forwards Jump. Now it may not look very fancy, but the Forwards Jump requires that the jumper will herself to go, rather than being dropped, pushed, nudged or released by the launch boys. I found that it was important NOT to look down but to focus on the opposite canyon wall…Still not jumping…Come on, legs, GO! Finally, I swallowed hard and asked the launch boys to count down for me. It worked, I threw myself off the cliff, and I don’t remember much about the next 6 seconds. I couldn’t really see anything clearly; I couldn’t even scream properly. It just was, and then it was over and I was a small shaking mass swinging gently back and forth over the clay blue river.

My first leap into the canyon, a Forwards Jump, during which I managed to keep my arms straight (for a second), but my legs were feeling too traumatized to cooperate.

As soon as I discovered that I had lived through the free fall and that the swinging bit at the end is rather pleasant really, I knew I must go again.

For my second jump I submitted to what they like to call Gimp Boy Goes to Hollywood. To get into position for this kind of jump I had to sit down in my harness and allow the launch boys to swing me out over the edge of the platform. While dangling there I had to simultaneously will my legs to STOP shaking and summon all the strength in my long-forgotten abdominal muscles to lift my legs up over my head and wrap them gently around the rope. Things seemed to be going well – I was following directions carefully – I posed for another pre-jump photo – but my legs were shaking uncontrollably – and I was a little nervous about waking my dormant abdominals – and then I heard the launch boys say quietly and seriously: "Hmm." ("’Hmm?!’" I thought. "What the heck does ‘Hmm’ mean?!") "Why’s her harness doing that?" "Hmm." "Yeah, let’s bring her back in."

I’m trying hard to still my shaking legs before Jump #2. This photo was taken moments before they decided to bring me back in for harness adjustments.

They didn’t feel that my harness was properly fitted so they brought me in and sent me back to Kramer at the gear station. Legs still shaking. Kramer fussed over the harness while I tried to keep my legs from giving out. Another guy jumped, and it was decided that I would take his harness once he returned to the platform. I think it was a good 10 minutes’ time before I found myself squatting at the edge in a new harness, ready again to be dangled over the abyss. Just happened that their canyon-cam ran out of film at that moment – bummer! But I agreed with them that we’d better just skip the photos and get the jump over with.

So now picture me doing a headstand, feet to the sky, back arched a bit, arms out to the ground – except there IS NO GROUND to touch. I am released and dive headfirst along the rocky canyon wall. Picture me doing this AFTER A TERRIFYING FALSE START that would PSYCHE OUT one of lesser courage. Doing the Gimp was amazing – even better than the first forward fling. I would’ve gone a third time if they’d have let me, but alas, our van full of extreme swingers had used up the allotted time and had to return to Queenstown. The group was quiet and contemplative as we drove back into town. The world doesn’t look quite the same after a premeditated free fall.

I picked up a copy of today’s NY Times to keep the article in which I was almost published. But to read more about my adventures in New Zealand, check back to this here blog – hooray for self-publishing!

>>My tour companions (Steve, JD, Vic, Kristin, Alane, and Mum) walk back along the trail of the Rohan refugees on Deer Park Heights near Queenstown, South Island, New Zealand. The Remarkables in summer form the background.

Alas, they gave in to the beauty of Pierre Vinet’s promotional still photo of the Rohan refugees reflected in the lake and the Remarkables under fresh winter snow. Can’t compete with that!

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