The Cursed Trip

OR

Lessons in Failure

OR

Why I’m still at Home Instead of Traveling Like I said I would be

OR

This is why we can’t Have Nice Things

Unfortunately, I will no longer be taking the trip around the country I’ve been working on.

My plan was this: Buy a camper, save some money, and then travel the country taking pictures of interesting things / people for a few years. For five years it kept bumping around in the back of my brain, until I decided to try and make a go of it last year. Since then I’ve bought the camper with a friend, saved money, taken test trips, sold most of my worldly possessions, and quit my cushy corporate job. I moved into the camper in June, and waited for Dittes to finish school.

First complication: I had enough money saved up to the point where I didn’t need a job, and I wasn’t looking for one. I swore that nothing would get between me and my traveling unless the job involved professional photography (Hah! Fat chance). Shortly before leaving, I was offered a job in professional photography. The job and experience it would provide were too good to turn down, so I took it on the understanding that I would start in a month, giving me time to travel.

Instead of traveling indefinitely, I would do so for only a month. Not what I had hopped for, but still a lot of time.

After an agonizing period of trying to leave for the trip, we finally got things coordinated and set out on a test run. I ended up not sleeping the night before our departure, and subsequently spent most of the next day incoherent and hallucinating from lack of sleep and the sudden change in diet. I recovered after a long nap, we camped for a bit, did some hiking, and overall had a very enjoyable weekend. The only problem that cropped up was when my beloved Canon SLR camera died due to moisture damage from a rain storm.

The plan was on Tuesday of that week we were going to drive back home, top off supples, and then set off for the Great Lakes.

Not to worry, I reasoned, I’ll buy another camera today through Amazon and have it overnighted. We aren’t leaving until tomorrow (Tuesday) night anyways. Due to the severe time constraints, the available selection was quite small, and I finally settled on a ludicrously over-priced but quite nice camera body. I placed the order with my American Express card just in time to get it the next day. Not a bad situation, but not great. At least I had a new toy.

A few hours later, my new employer emailed me and said that due to the sudden departure of lab technician, I needed to start my job in one week as opposed to four, or they would have to give the job to someone else. Earlier in the day I probably would have told them to fuck off and continued with the trip, but since I rely on a camera for income and it’s part of why I wanted to travel, I had to reconsider. Buying a camera on credit, taking the trip, and then finding a job when I got back was out of the question, as it would be completely irresponsible even by my standards in this economy. I emailed them back and told them that I would be ready to start in a week. I broke the news to Dittes, who took it better than I had expected, and we drastically reduced the trip to fit it into one week. Figured things couldn’t get any worse.

I spent the next morning tweaking my new camera, and the rest of the day getting ready to head out on our now abbreviated week-long trip. 20 minutes before we were going to leave I made a stop at an ATM to get money for toll roads, and was slightly dismayed to find that my bank account was massively overdrawn.

Amazon had not only charged the full price of the camera to my American Express card, which had the available credit, but to my bank account as well, which had nowhere near enough for the camera. The double charge had not only eaten up all of my traveling money, but all of my available credit as well. I was broke.

I called Amazon. I called my bank. I called my mommy. Dittes waited patiently as our departure time came and went, with me on the phone verbally abusing far-away customer service reps all the while.

Amazon was unable to reverse the incorrect charges. They wanted me to send the camera back and then re-bill me. The bank was powerless to dispute things until the charge had cleared the next day. Meanwhile, all the bills I had paid the night before were bouncing, each one incurring an overdraft charge amounting to a total of several hundred dollars. As we sat there in the driveway, it started to become clear that the situation might take days to remedy, most of which could only be accomplished in person. In the end, I gave up.

They agreed to go on without me, and I planned on rejoining them by bus or train if I could get things sorted out quickly enough. That was a long shot, which was all but dashed this morning when I found out that my bank account had been frozen due to suspicions of fraud, and I would need to find and present many forms of obscure identification to get it going again. In the meantime, bills will continue to bounce. The camera is on it’s way back to Amazon to expedite the undoublepay.

Am I mad? Sort of. It’s frustrating to see plans we’ve worked on for a year go up in smoke so quickly (and expensively), but on the other hand, being mad about it doesn’t change the situation. It’s a situation that will have to be dealt with. Like Winston Churchill said, “If you’re going through hell, keep going.”

I don’t believe in god, karma, fate, destiny, luck, or fortune. I believe solely in probability, and whatever governs its mathematics. And whatever that is, I have to tip my hat to it. I could have never dreamed up such an improbable set of circumstances torpedoing my plans so completely and thoroughly.

After all, I’ve always assumed I was going to wreck the camper, not the other way around.

Sunday, July 20, 2008
Green Lake, Pickney State Recreation Area
8:10 PM

A few quick thoughts on the last few days, since I may not get a chance to put them down later.

Went over to Dittes’s house on Thursday night in anticipation of a Friday departure. Due to various factors, I ended up not getting any sleep at all during the night, but figured I could make it through the day ok and have an early night. We got to work preparing the camper, though my already questionable effectiveness took a downward turn as the combination of sleep deprivation and a recent change in diet caused me to start hallucinating around noon. We went out for supplies about that time, a trip I don’t recall especially well, and my condition deteriorated further as we went through a local thrift store. In its most pronounced state, I was unable to walk without weaving, talk without it coming out as gibberish, and used my nose to type the keys on laptop because I wanted to smell the letters I was typing. A quick nap restored most of my sanity, and with Dan in tow, we set off for our friend’s Dave’s house in Dundee, MI.

I cannot understate the graciousness of Dave and his lady friend Michelle in letting us crash for the night; they invited us into their immaculate and well-styled apartment without the slightest hesitation. Neither seemed to be slightly fazed by my slightly filthy appearance (it had reached 100 degrees during the day, fat men sweat, etc…) and tolerated my slightly idiotic sleep-deprived ramblings. After a few hours Dan headed back home for the night, and over the ardent protests of our hosts, Dittes and I bunked out in the camper.

The next day, Dave joined us for a tour of the Irish Hills region of Michigan. It was a slightly soggy affair, with a dismal drizzle pelting down for most of the day. Still, a good time was had, as we hopped from one location to the next. We made camp again in Dave’s driveway again that night, then set out in the morning.

Today it was my turn in the driver’s seat, and I gradually relearned how to drive a stick. We made for the Pickney State Recreation Area, which is about 20 miles north. We ambled around the various lakes and streams, until we found a nice campground overlooking a lake.

It was a bit early to be stopping, but as this was the best location we had seen all day, we decided to take our chances. Dittes suggested a hike down a local trail; I resisted at first as I was quite happy reading William Shriers’ WW2 diaries, but relented. To describe the four mile hike as grueling is a bit unfair, as the trail was quite pleasant, with the occasional sun-dappled meadow full of wild flowers. But being out of shape took its toll, and I struggled much of the way compared to the wry and nimble Dittes.

It’s worth noting, however, that I approached the hike from a different perspective than I normally would have. Over the next month, there is going to be quite a bit of hiking, and it isn’t going to get any easier. Part of why I wanted to take this trip is because I am out of shape, and I have to make changes in the way I live. Today I felt a sense of determination about the hike. I didn’t get cranky or fussy when tired, and tried to keep a fairly steady pace. I can only imagine the terrific racket I made on the return leg, panting and wheezing like a wayward dairy cow, but getting to the end of the trail was very satisfying. I’m proud of myself for not copping out. I know, it’s only four miles of gently rolling hills that wouldn’t present a challenge to quadruple amputee in a wheelchair, but for me, it’s a start.

We’re setting out a few weeks later than planned, due to some unforeseen complications. During that time, I’ve been staying in Metamora with my parents. Readers who have left home for any period of time only to return can probably sympathize where I’m coming from.

The town that I grew up in is a small farming community surrounded by fields. Fulton County is a patchwork of similar towns, spaced out at irregular intervals across the countryside. I never felt like I fit in; my parents raised their children on a steady diet of PBS and NPR, which is downright elitist in those parts and didn’t make me happy. When I left town, I did so with a faint sense of resentment and intellectual superiority towards the more country / redneck types I graduated with (I had long since surrounded myself with like-minded jerks from neighboring towns known collectively as “the goons.”). Over the years this dismissive attitude has grown, as I have embraced the finer arts and media that I grew up with and so detested at the time.

Side note: I blame my parents for my current love for classical music and NPR. I have no doubt they knew full well what they were doing when they refused to let me watch “Alf” when I was growing up, and it really chaps my caboose that their plan of having an intellectually-aware (though not necessarily intellectual) son came to fruition.

The point that I’m getting around to making is that for the last few years, I’ve frowned and looked down upon the people and the town I grew up around. I was a highly cultured person, who went to the symphony, appreciated the arts, and read the newspaper. The folks who would wave at me as I drove through my home town were NASCAR-loving, country music listening, beer-swilling dunces with whom I had nothing in common with.

Needless to say, I was wrong.

I passed the first few days of my stay in relative boredom, avoiding going outside for fear of catching teh dumbs. I probably would have stayed indoors wearing a paper mask and peering warily out the window at the neighbors indefinitely had it not been for a colossal thunderstorm that rolled through and flooded the town. My morbid fascination with cruel acts of nature overrode my fear of rednecks, and I set out with my camera to admire the job god had done smiting his followers.

As I wandered through town, photographing the river and the destruction it had wrought, I got the deeply unnerving feeling that I wasn’t… alone. In fact, most everyone aside from those bailing out their basements had turned out to look at the mess. Some of them had cameras too, though I comforted myself in the knowledge that my high-priced SLR was far superior to whatever they were using.

But it didn’t end there.

Walking through the streets, I would occasionally cross paths with a person, and without exception, they all greeted me with a smile or some light conversation. Total strangers saw me taking pictures, and casually struck up cheerful conversations about how hard it had rained the previous night, or how this was the worst flooding since ’69. I remember in particular an old lady who came up to me as I was photographing a pickup truck in her backyard that was quietly sinking beneath the current.

“Are you taking pictures of my backyard?” she asked.

Naturally, I assumed that she was cross with me for invading her privacy, so I apologized and told her that I would move along.

“Heavens no!” she exclaimed with a smile, and started talking about watching the flood waters creep up all morning from her bedroom window, and how this was the worst flooding she’d seen since ’69. We talked for several minutes before she wished me well and walked back to her house.

That, I believe, was the turning point.

Throughout the day more people stopped and talked to me, with an openness and sincerity that I hadn’t appreciated before. I started to notice patterns, like how I would see the same person walking the same dog at the same time and day along the country road I took to hang out with the goons. I saw the woman and their dog every day at the same time because we both had built our lives around routines and patterns; we got comfort from knowing that tomorrow and the next day we had something to look forward to. Or how my neighbors would always wave and say hi when they saw me, despite my never having met them and my vagabond appearance.

I’ve gradually come to realize that I’m not so different from the woman with the flooded back yard and the rest of the town. I was just as curious about the flooding as they were, and sought to document it as they did. Their friendliness and willingness to stop and talk to strangers is no different than my traveling and interviewing random people. I talk like they do, with a slight accent that pronounces “Lima” as LIEma, instead of the correct LEEma. My actions, the way I talk, the way I look at things have all been shaped by where I grew up.

I’ve learned that no matter what my interests are, where I get my news or where my travels take me, my roots are in Metamora and the people that live in it. I’m one of them, for better of for worse. Mostly for the better. And feeling superior to them…

Well, that makes me the dunce.

The front page has been inaccessible to users of Internet Explorer, due to some quirks in how it handles image maps. That should be fixed by now.

Getting ready for the road has taken longer than expected, but we anticipate being on the road by Thursday.

More trouble cropped up with the camper on Saturday. I’ve been having intermittent problems with the brakes, forcing me to stop in Lima and set up shop at my friend Emily’s house.

She has been very generous to me in putting me up for the weekend, and I thank her for that.

I find that I’m only dimly aware of what time it is, or even which day it is anymore. Instead of orderly blocks of days, weekends, holidays, time just kind of smears together and loses it’s significance. Even the trips I’ve taken where I just randomly drive around have a set beginning and end, and various mile markers. Without those restraints, I’m just kind of bobbing along.

Just to be clear, it’s not my boat, I co-own it with Dittes.

Yesterday was the first day of the shakedown cruise. I wanted to take the camper on an ambling trip around the countryside, get a better feel for her. The most immediate problem cropped up when I was driving back to Perrysburg with my friend Curt. A few minutes into the drive, the forward vent hatch - which was already held on by duct tape - ripped off clean from its mount and went sailing down the highway. With an oncoming storm, we elected to pull over and make immediate repairs. A quick trip to Lowes for plexiglass, and repairs commenced.

And just in time, as it started to pour just as we finished. I’m happy to report that the skylight worked perfectly, and may become a permanent fix in lieu of replacing the hatch.