September 24, Brighton.
The weather's been bad (bad for business, good for me) here in the past few days, it's been raining and overcast, but this morning, suddenly, a clear sky revealed the snow-capped peaks of the Rockies in the distance, glowing, arresting.
Sunday, September 24, 2006
Almost off.
September 23, Brighton, Colorado.
The circus is doing bad and I'm leaving for France next Wednesday (unrelated.)
It seems a series of bad locations and a spell of bad weather have taken its toll. There has been shows with less than 20 people attending, and not just one. Among one of the consequences the generator is not turned on until 11 AM and turned off earlier at night, and we're not going to get paid until Sunday, instead of Thursday as usual. Last casualty to date: Mike Gorman, who was responsible for booking out of an office in California, was fired earlier this week because of the debacle.
It's off to France for me to take advantage of our wonderful socialized health care system, where everything is absolutely free, and also to teach as a visiting lecturer in photojournalism at a university in my home region of the Riviera, in the south. The probability of my traveling again with the circus next year is next to nil, as I'd be more than six-month pregnant in January and the idea of spending the last months of a pregnancy with a toddler in tow while going through the traveling circus life is not exactly appealing.
But who knows, things change in a day in our circus life, that much I've learned.
The circus is doing bad and I'm leaving for France next Wednesday (unrelated.)
It seems a series of bad locations and a spell of bad weather have taken its toll. There has been shows with less than 20 people attending, and not just one. Among one of the consequences the generator is not turned on until 11 AM and turned off earlier at night, and we're not going to get paid until Sunday, instead of Thursday as usual. Last casualty to date: Mike Gorman, who was responsible for booking out of an office in California, was fired earlier this week because of the debacle.
It's off to France for me to take advantage of our wonderful socialized health care system, where everything is absolutely free, and also to teach as a visiting lecturer in photojournalism at a university in my home region of the Riviera, in the south. The probability of my traveling again with the circus next year is next to nil, as I'd be more than six-month pregnant in January and the idea of spending the last months of a pregnancy with a toddler in tow while going through the traveling circus life is not exactly appealing.
But who knows, things change in a day in our circus life, that much I've learned.
Saturday, September 16, 2006
Carol's recipes.
September 16, Longmont.
Carol and Gail left yesterday. They're on their way to Branson, Missouri, then the Amish country of Ohio, and will head back home to New Hampshire by the end of the month.
Carol left me with some recipes - she used to write a food column in her local newspaper. "Three ingredients, easy, because most people don't have time for anything else." All mothers out there surely hear you (unless they are the kind that can afford a nanny and a cook.)
Only thing - she promised to send me some vegetarian ones next.
Roast beef
1 small roast beef (4-5 pounds)
1 can tomato soup
Put roast beef in bottom of crock pot, pour soup over top. Cook on low for 8-10 hours. You can add potatoes and carrots to the beef of you want a complete meal.
Quick delicious pork roast
1 small pork roast
1 can apple filling
Put pork roast in bottom of crock pot, dump on whole can of apple filling. No salt, pepper or water is needed. Cook on low for 8-10 hours. You can add veggies same as above for complete meal.
Teriyaki chicken
One pound boneless, skinless chicken cut into bite sizes
1/2 cup soy sauce
1 can orange soda (diet ok)
Put chicken in bottom of crock pot, pour on soy sauce + soda to cover meat. You can thicken sauce a little if desired by adding water+ cornstarch. Cook on low for 7-9 hours.
Gail and Carol (Sept. 15.)
Carol and Gail left yesterday. They're on their way to Branson, Missouri, then the Amish country of Ohio, and will head back home to New Hampshire by the end of the month.
Carol left me with some recipes - she used to write a food column in her local newspaper. "Three ingredients, easy, because most people don't have time for anything else." All mothers out there surely hear you (unless they are the kind that can afford a nanny and a cook.)
Only thing - she promised to send me some vegetarian ones next.
Roast beef
1 small roast beef (4-5 pounds)
1 can tomato soup
Put roast beef in bottom of crock pot, pour soup over top. Cook on low for 8-10 hours. You can add potatoes and carrots to the beef of you want a complete meal.
Quick delicious pork roast
1 small pork roast
1 can apple filling
Put pork roast in bottom of crock pot, dump on whole can of apple filling. No salt, pepper or water is needed. Cook on low for 8-10 hours. You can add veggies same as above for complete meal.
Teriyaki chicken
One pound boneless, skinless chicken cut into bite sizes
1/2 cup soy sauce
1 can orange soda (diet ok)
Put chicken in bottom of crock pot, pour on soy sauce + soda to cover meat. You can thicken sauce a little if desired by adding water+ cornstarch. Cook on low for 7-9 hours.
Gail and Carol (Sept. 15.)
"The son of my heart."
September 15, Longmont.
Jim, Circus Chimera's owner, calls Carol Stone "Mom, " even though she's not his biological mother. Carol has silver hair, and she is all softness and roundness, like the generosity and tenderness she seems to wrap around you. This is a small window on her story.
One day about four years ago Carol and Gail decided to hit the road. They were high school friends in Tilton, New Hampshire but had not stayed in touch. "Life took over," says Carol. A chance meeting reconnected them after Carol came back to New Hampshire. Both had recently lost their husbands and felt like it was time to fulfill that dream of traveling.
Between the two of them and the few trips they took beforehand they've been in all 48 states. They travel in Carol's car, with Gail's miniature Schnauzer, Bandit, in the back, stopping at whatever motel they see when it's time to fold the day. Their trip is open to improvisation, to the suggestions of a stranger met on the road. "We U-turn a lot," says Carol. But two things they always try to do: go visit Waverly United Methodist Church in Waverly, Tennessee, where Carol went when she was taking care of her husband, who was affected by Alzheimer's and passed away in 2002, and catching Jim, wherever the circus is.
Jim was the first one of some ten teenagers Carol and her husband, George, welcomed into their home over the years. They lived on a 200-acre dairy farm in Tilton, purchased by George's grandfather in 1840, and had two sons of their own. "It was a unique environment," says Carol, "there was lots of room, and always lots of work, lots of music, George loved music, and we had strong faith."
Carol met Jim when she was working part-time at a department store to complete the farm's income and the manager asked her to look for a kid to help around the store. She called the high school and they sent Jim. "He came to the farm and I put him to work," she recalls. He didn't leave until he was in college, later meeting D.R. Miller, owner of the Carson and Barnes Circus, and starting his circus career under his wing.
Before Carol left the trailer she turned around and added, "He's the son of my heart."
Jim, Circus Chimera's owner, calls Carol Stone "Mom, " even though she's not his biological mother. Carol has silver hair, and she is all softness and roundness, like the generosity and tenderness she seems to wrap around you. This is a small window on her story.
One day about four years ago Carol and Gail decided to hit the road. They were high school friends in Tilton, New Hampshire but had not stayed in touch. "Life took over," says Carol. A chance meeting reconnected them after Carol came back to New Hampshire. Both had recently lost their husbands and felt like it was time to fulfill that dream of traveling.
Between the two of them and the few trips they took beforehand they've been in all 48 states. They travel in Carol's car, with Gail's miniature Schnauzer, Bandit, in the back, stopping at whatever motel they see when it's time to fold the day. Their trip is open to improvisation, to the suggestions of a stranger met on the road. "We U-turn a lot," says Carol. But two things they always try to do: go visit Waverly United Methodist Church in Waverly, Tennessee, where Carol went when she was taking care of her husband, who was affected by Alzheimer's and passed away in 2002, and catching Jim, wherever the circus is.
Jim was the first one of some ten teenagers Carol and her husband, George, welcomed into their home over the years. They lived on a 200-acre dairy farm in Tilton, purchased by George's grandfather in 1840, and had two sons of their own. "It was a unique environment," says Carol, "there was lots of room, and always lots of work, lots of music, George loved music, and we had strong faith."
Carol met Jim when she was working part-time at a department store to complete the farm's income and the manager asked her to look for a kid to help around the store. She called the high school and they sent Jim. "He came to the farm and I put him to work," she recalls. He didn't leave until he was in college, later meeting D.R. Miller, owner of the Carson and Barnes Circus, and starting his circus career under his wing.
Before Carol left the trailer she turned around and added, "He's the son of my heart."
Thursday, September 14, 2006
The Waffle House.
September 14, Longmont, Colorado.
We stopped to get food before driving onto the lot last night. Sitting in the truck on the side of the road, the Waffle House beaming yellowish lights in a pool of darkness, the lights a feeling of loneliness, the people at the counter, a blond waitress, made me think of Edward Hopper (gone corporate.)
It also brought me back to Athens, Georgia, in the early nineties, sleepless nights at the Waffle House after a concert in town, Kris and Melissa and Matt, teaching French at the University of Georgia, fresh out of junior year at my French university majoring in English, catapulted in Athens at the height of the R.E.M. craze, the rock scene exploding, days without tomorrows, riding in the van with John and Dominic going to see a movie, jumping over potholes seating on the metal floor in the back, laughing out loud, days of insouciance, late nights at the Waffle House.
Stopping to eat (just not there.)
Rockies.
September 12, Loveland, Colorado.
Tough drive last night from Vail to Loveland, north of Denver. We crossed the Rockies, culminating at the Vail pass at 10,666 feet, the I-70 a seemingly endless succession of uphill and downhill parts, the truck struggling to haul the 13,000 pounds trailer, down to second gear going up many a times, 20, 25 miles an hour maybe (the dashboard lights are still out so I have no idea how fast, or rather slow, I'm going,) the truck heating up going up, the brakes heating up going down, and that for a hundred miles.
The baby blissfully asleep through it all.
Tough drive last night from Vail to Loveland, north of Denver. We crossed the Rockies, culminating at the Vail pass at 10,666 feet, the I-70 a seemingly endless succession of uphill and downhill parts, the truck struggling to haul the 13,000 pounds trailer, down to second gear going up many a times, 20, 25 miles an hour maybe (the dashboard lights are still out so I have no idea how fast, or rather slow, I'm going,) the truck heating up going up, the brakes heating up going down, and that for a hundred miles.
The baby blissfully asleep through it all.
Wednesday, September 13, 2006
Drops of heaven.
September 9, Vail, Colorado.
The circus is at Ford Park in Vail, and I discovered the Betty Ford Alpine Gardens on a walk between rain drops yesterday. At 8,200 feet in altitude it is one of the most elevated botanical gardens in the nation.
It rained steadily all day, and today it is gray and threatening. Rain, cool weather, so wonderful after months of sunshine without a break, dry and hot. It is in the lower fifties, heaven.
The circus is at Ford Park in Vail, and I discovered the Betty Ford Alpine Gardens on a walk between rain drops yesterday. At 8,200 feet in altitude it is one of the most elevated botanical gardens in the nation.
It rained steadily all day, and today it is gray and threatening. Rain, cool weather, so wonderful after months of sunshine without a break, dry and hot. It is in the lower fifties, heaven.
Thin thread.
September 5, Grand Junction, Colorado.
Two hundred miles in one shot last night, retracing our steps all the way back to Grand Junction along mountain roads, highway 40 West, 13 south to I-70. The last show was at 4:30 PM so we got an early start, but that meant driving smack in the middle of nursing-and-getting-to-sleep time for Dylan, adding to the stress of the trip. He finally calmed down and was down the whole way, but getting him to sleep again after nursing upon arriving lasted close to two hours, I exhausted by the trip, falling asleep while he wouldn't, struggling against fatigue and frustration.
The joys of circus traveling are wearing thin these days.
Two hundred miles in one shot last night, retracing our steps all the way back to Grand Junction along mountain roads, highway 40 West, 13 south to I-70. The last show was at 4:30 PM so we got an early start, but that meant driving smack in the middle of nursing-and-getting-to-sleep time for Dylan, adding to the stress of the trip. He finally calmed down and was down the whole way, but getting him to sleep again after nursing upon arriving lasted close to two hours, I exhausted by the trip, falling asleep while he wouldn't, struggling against fatigue and frustration.
The joys of circus traveling are wearing thin these days.
Sunday, September 03, 2006
Errata.
September 4, Steamboat Springs.
Cardinal photojournalist's mistake in the entry on the new performers how joined us in Salt Lake City (check and recheck your info.)
Svetla is Gino Terrablanca's daughter, not Andrea and Lyubomir's.
Many apologies.
Cardinal photojournalist's mistake in the entry on the new performers how joined us in Salt Lake City (check and recheck your info.)
Svetla is Gino Terrablanca's daughter, not Andrea and Lyubomir's.
Many apologies.
Peace.
September 4, Steamboat Springs.
This morning I stole an hour away from the circus, away from the baby, away. I went to the mountains, to a Steamboat Springs landmark called Fish Creek Falls, a short enough excursion so that I could be within easy return should I need to.
I went in search for peace and quiet, nature, and were it not for the throngs of people reminiscent of the Champs Elysées on a Saturday afternoon during the annual spring sales and the chopper hovering above, the picturesque little falls would have given me just that.
After ten minutes of walking on one of the trails starting at the falls I finally found the peace I'd come looking for, among the beautiful birches, my favorite trees, silence, precious silence, not that silence of Simon and Garfunkel fame but the utter silence of the forest, not even wind in the branches, only my own breathing and my footsteps disturbing it. And at the same moment the smell of the forest, transporting me in a second's time thousands of miles back home to the Alps in France, in one breath thousands of miles away, to the peace you find after hours of hiking, high up in the mountains, alone with your thoughts and the wonder of nature, in utter happiness.
It was but a minute before the chopper was back and people appeared on the trail again, the precious silence shattered, but that minute was like a glass of water for a desert hiker.
This morning I stole an hour away from the circus, away from the baby, away. I went to the mountains, to a Steamboat Springs landmark called Fish Creek Falls, a short enough excursion so that I could be within easy return should I need to.
I went in search for peace and quiet, nature, and were it not for the throngs of people reminiscent of the Champs Elysées on a Saturday afternoon during the annual spring sales and the chopper hovering above, the picturesque little falls would have given me just that.
After ten minutes of walking on one of the trails starting at the falls I finally found the peace I'd come looking for, among the beautiful birches, my favorite trees, silence, precious silence, not that silence of Simon and Garfunkel fame but the utter silence of the forest, not even wind in the branches, only my own breathing and my footsteps disturbing it. And at the same moment the smell of the forest, transporting me in a second's time thousands of miles back home to the Alps in France, in one breath thousands of miles away, to the peace you find after hours of hiking, high up in the mountains, alone with your thoughts and the wonder of nature, in utter happiness.
It was but a minute before the chopper was back and people appeared on the trail again, the precious silence shattered, but that minute was like a glass of water for a desert hiker.
Friday, September 01, 2006
Fatigue.
September 1, Steamboat Springs.
What didn't feel like much at the beginning of the season is starting to weigh on me now.
Each time we move, and this week it has been every two days, having to wake up to a restless baby in a cramped trailer, the mess of the trip disconcerting, putting everything back in place one more time, one more time, the trailer lopsided more often than not, having to change him and feed him and entertain him in a danger zone of corners and nooks, afraid he'll bump his head every inch of the tiny, crowded way, feeling trapped. Maybe it's the end of the season approaching, the accumulated fatigue; maybe it's the growing, ever more demanding baby; or the weariness, compounded by the pregnancy.
Suddenly I am longing to be at home in one place.
What didn't feel like much at the beginning of the season is starting to weigh on me now.
Each time we move, and this week it has been every two days, having to wake up to a restless baby in a cramped trailer, the mess of the trip disconcerting, putting everything back in place one more time, one more time, the trailer lopsided more often than not, having to change him and feed him and entertain him in a danger zone of corners and nooks, afraid he'll bump his head every inch of the tiny, crowded way, feeling trapped. Maybe it's the end of the season approaching, the accumulated fatigue; maybe it's the growing, ever more demanding baby; or the weariness, compounded by the pregnancy.
Suddenly I am longing to be at home in one place.
Steamboat Springs.
September 1, Steamboat Springs, Colorado.
I always liked the name. Steamboat Springs.
It sounded exotic, as if it didn't belong where it was, more reminiscent of the marshes of southern Louisiana, say, than the mountains of West. It had always goaded my imagination. I was not disappointed this morning when Dylan woke me up and I looked out the window on to the mountains around. There's no mistaking we're in Colorado now, the mountains are finally there, green, beckoning, the air cold, cold even in the warmth of the sun as the morning gets late, the spruce, the fir, the peculiar aromas of altitude. There are mountain bikes on people's cars, a Jeep passing me as I was walking with the stroller with a "Life is Good" tire cover on its back.
And the green, the green, I feel my lungs come alive again, my eyes drinking it in, can't get enough of it. Somehow I had always assumed that the Rockies were as dry as the mountain ranges of California or Utah. I'd driven through Denver, Boulder, and up to highway 80 on my way to a photo job in Logan, Utah, and that's as close to the Rockies as I'd ever ventured, not wanting to go back then, disappointed, longing for the Alps at home and their baby green slopes. Steamboat Springs has finally proven me wrong.
I always liked the name. Steamboat Springs.
It sounded exotic, as if it didn't belong where it was, more reminiscent of the marshes of southern Louisiana, say, than the mountains of West. It had always goaded my imagination. I was not disappointed this morning when Dylan woke me up and I looked out the window on to the mountains around. There's no mistaking we're in Colorado now, the mountains are finally there, green, beckoning, the air cold, cold even in the warmth of the sun as the morning gets late, the spruce, the fir, the peculiar aromas of altitude. There are mountain bikes on people's cars, a Jeep passing me as I was walking with the stroller with a "Life is Good" tire cover on its back.
And the green, the green, I feel my lungs come alive again, my eyes drinking it in, can't get enough of it. Somehow I had always assumed that the Rockies were as dry as the mountain ranges of California or Utah. I'd driven through Denver, Boulder, and up to highway 80 on my way to a photo job in Logan, Utah, and that's as close to the Rockies as I'd ever ventured, not wanting to go back then, disappointed, longing for the Alps at home and their baby green slopes. Steamboat Springs has finally proven me wrong.
Simplify my life.
August 31, Craig, Colorado.
Confirmation of the teaching job at a university in southeastern France, my home, I had discussed with the director in the spring. But with the new situation created by the surprised pregnancy I'd like to be teaching in the fall rather than spring of 2007; I'll know on Friday if that's going to be possible. Starting to think about all there is to do before going, the paperwork, the cats, packing for a year for two, and then the question of whether we can find somebody to drive the trailer during the rest of the season or whether I'll need to drive it back to Dallas before flying overseas. Obviously the former would simplify my life a tad.
Confirmation of the teaching job at a university in southeastern France, my home, I had discussed with the director in the spring. But with the new situation created by the surprised pregnancy I'd like to be teaching in the fall rather than spring of 2007; I'll know on Friday if that's going to be possible. Starting to think about all there is to do before going, the paperwork, the cats, packing for a year for two, and then the question of whether we can find somebody to drive the trailer during the rest of the season or whether I'll need to drive it back to Dallas before flying overseas. Obviously the former would simplify my life a tad.
Tuesday, August 29, 2006
Another missed birthday party.
August 29, Rifle.
There was a fiesta last night, BBQ and booze, for the birthday of Carlos, who is called Bemba, one of the Mexican tent workers. Still under my 36-hour sleepless challenge's exhaustion, all I could do was climb into bed, but judging from the decibel volume of the shouts and laughter coming from the cookhouse a few feet away it was a good party.
There was a fiesta last night, BBQ and booze, for the birthday of Carlos, who is called Bemba, one of the Mexican tent workers. Still under my 36-hour sleepless challenge's exhaustion, all I could do was climb into bed, but judging from the decibel volume of the shouts and laughter coming from the cookhouse a few feet away it was a good party.
Notes on nursing badly.
August 28, Rifle.
Some nights, like tonight, Dylan nurses himself to sleep for so long my arm goes numb under his head. My back starts to hurt, and I'm acutely aware of time passing. Of course I'm in the most uncomfortable of positions, sitting at the edge of the bed with no back or leg support. Afterwards it's as if he'd sucked my very marrow, I feel hollow and exhausted.
I called the midwife center back in Savannah, Georgia, where I had Dylan today asking for advice; there is no doctor I can call for just simple questions while on the road. They told me I could go on nursing him while pregnant, which I was concerned about. They also told me there is a chance that at some point he'll wean himself because the milk will change in preparation for the new baby and he won't like it anymore.
May that be soon, or I might lose more than just weight in the game.
Some nights, like tonight, Dylan nurses himself to sleep for so long my arm goes numb under his head. My back starts to hurt, and I'm acutely aware of time passing. Of course I'm in the most uncomfortable of positions, sitting at the edge of the bed with no back or leg support. Afterwards it's as if he'd sucked my very marrow, I feel hollow and exhausted.
I called the midwife center back in Savannah, Georgia, where I had Dylan today asking for advice; there is no doctor I can call for just simple questions while on the road. They told me I could go on nursing him while pregnant, which I was concerned about. They also told me there is a chance that at some point he'll wean himself because the milk will change in preparation for the new baby and he won't like it anymore.
May that be soon, or I might lose more than just weight in the game.
Moving east at last.
[Somehow forgot to post this entry, no doubt due to sleepless nights.]
August 23 Salt Lake City, Utah.
The much feared road trip from San Francisco to Salt Lake City went on without a glitch for us. Thanks to Roy, who agreed to drive Fridman's truck, Fridman came with me, a world of difference when you travel with a nine-month-old. Not only was it a relief to have around, but we took could take turns driving, plowing through the night until and then on and off yesterday. We left Newark at 11 PM on Monday night after the shows and arrived at 5 PM on Tuesday here in Salt Lake.
Dylan slept though the night, waking up at 7:30 PM, his usual time, and from then on we had to stop so that I could nurse him but he was surprisingly good for an active baby, playing, dozing off. The 18-hour-trip was not easy either being pregnant and plagued with an upset stomach demanding food every two hours, like a newborn. We took a break in West Wendoverthe last town in Nevada on the border with Utah, to have lunch in the buffet of a casino, let Dylan make an utter mess on the table.
Lunar vistas of the salt desert spreading flat from the Nevada border. the rocky hills seeming to float above it from the distance. The desert in Nevada surprisingly alive with vegetation, and surprisingly, joyfully green past Elko, with even a spot or two of snow on some peaks, the brush teeming with new baby green sprouts.
The circus left in the morning on Tuesday and drove on to West Wendover, spending the night there and arriving here this morning. Tio Tito blew a tire, but otherwise no major incidents for such a major trip, almost 800 miles. We're out of California, having spent almost four months there, and three in the Bay Area.
Driving through the Salt Lake Desert.
Showers and trucks.
August 28, Rifle.
Walking down for a late lunch in Rifle, a few blocks from the fairgrounds, a two-street downtown really but a European-style bistro (good food, refined deco and casual atmosphere,) next to the Western wear shop with cowboy hats in the window and the pawn shop with various machine guns for sale. Up the street there is an apothecary. The Winchester Motel, a small sign hanging under the name: "Showers." This is truck country, big heavy-duty trucks, or rather trucks-that-are-actually-used country.
We're not in California anymore, if not quite Kansas.
This afternoon a boy, ten years old maybe, was riding his horse in the dirt ring around the arena, and he couldn't quite hang on to his hat, a big white cowboy hat. When he rode past the second time around the hat was gone.
Walking down for a late lunch in Rifle, a few blocks from the fairgrounds, a two-street downtown really but a European-style bistro (good food, refined deco and casual atmosphere,) next to the Western wear shop with cowboy hats in the window and the pawn shop with various machine guns for sale. Up the street there is an apothecary. The Winchester Motel, a small sign hanging under the name: "Showers." This is truck country, big heavy-duty trucks, or rather trucks-that-are-actually-used country.
We're not in California anymore, if not quite Kansas.
This afternoon a boy, ten years old maybe, was riding his horse in the dirt ring around the arena, and he couldn't quite hang on to his hat, a big white cowboy hat. When he rode past the second time around the hat was gone.
To Colorado.
August 27, Rifle, Colorado.
Travel day again, on Sunday, une fois n'est pas coutume, 350 miles from Salt Lake City to Rifle, a small town in southwestern Colorado, up I-70 from Grand Junction.
Dylan oblige, again, I left on Saturday night after the show and drove all night, with Ekaterina accompanying me, for Fridman had not been given the OK to go with me and couldn't drive the circus truck ahead of me either because it pulls the trailer where the tent workers sleep.
So it was driving all night again, only stopping to try and steal a couple of hours of sleep in a gas station off I-70 in southern Utah (no can do, front seats of a Dodge truck not very comfy,) the attendant an old weathered man with a mischievous grin and a friendly manner, then facing a whole day of caring for Dylan, not being able to rest because the circus had left in the morning and was slowly coming in during the day, so the trailer was not parked and the slides not open. Ekaterina went to sleep as soon as we arrived, at 8 AM or so, and I went on to feed and change the baby in the cramped space of the unopened trailer, go for a walk, nurse him, watch him go to sleep only to be instantly awaken by Gramo jumping near him and Yogi crying for food, play some more and finally put him down for a nap, but then I couldn't grab any sleep for the lack of space to lay down, and the sheer exhaustion.
The circus is at the Garfield County Fairgrounds, in a big arena amidst all the trappings of horse country. When we arrived, in the early morning, the air was cool, it felt fresh, pure, smelling of mountain creeks and grass, rejuvenating; it felt good.
The trip was good, too, straight as an arrow down 6 across utah then I-70 into Colorado, an easy drive after the treacherous curves and ups and downs of California, chatting with Ekaterina, plunging through the night, sharing that unspoken bind that seems to tie those who drive when nobody else does, seeing the sun rise on the deserted highway into Colorado, the mesa at Grand Junction grandiose in the red light of the rising sun, beautiful along the Upper Colorado River surrounded by desert cliffs, ochre and sand, wild.
Travel day again, on Sunday, une fois n'est pas coutume, 350 miles from Salt Lake City to Rifle, a small town in southwestern Colorado, up I-70 from Grand Junction.
Dylan oblige, again, I left on Saturday night after the show and drove all night, with Ekaterina accompanying me, for Fridman had not been given the OK to go with me and couldn't drive the circus truck ahead of me either because it pulls the trailer where the tent workers sleep.
So it was driving all night again, only stopping to try and steal a couple of hours of sleep in a gas station off I-70 in southern Utah (no can do, front seats of a Dodge truck not very comfy,) the attendant an old weathered man with a mischievous grin and a friendly manner, then facing a whole day of caring for Dylan, not being able to rest because the circus had left in the morning and was slowly coming in during the day, so the trailer was not parked and the slides not open. Ekaterina went to sleep as soon as we arrived, at 8 AM or so, and I went on to feed and change the baby in the cramped space of the unopened trailer, go for a walk, nurse him, watch him go to sleep only to be instantly awaken by Gramo jumping near him and Yogi crying for food, play some more and finally put him down for a nap, but then I couldn't grab any sleep for the lack of space to lay down, and the sheer exhaustion.
The circus is at the Garfield County Fairgrounds, in a big arena amidst all the trappings of horse country. When we arrived, in the early morning, the air was cool, it felt fresh, pure, smelling of mountain creeks and grass, rejuvenating; it felt good.
The trip was good, too, straight as an arrow down 6 across utah then I-70 into Colorado, an easy drive after the treacherous curves and ups and downs of California, chatting with Ekaterina, plunging through the night, sharing that unspoken bind that seems to tie those who drive when nobody else does, seeing the sun rise on the deserted highway into Colorado, the mesa at Grand Junction grandiose in the red light of the rising sun, beautiful along the Upper Colorado River surrounded by desert cliffs, ochre and sand, wild.
John.
August 26, Salt Lake City.
Seeing an old friend from grad school again, so good to be catching up.
Chasing memories over a brie sandwich - which I did savor, a surprising reprieve from the debilitating, unrelenting stomach ache and nausea (getting worse each passing day.) John used to be a photographer, we met when we were both students in photojournalism at the University of Missouri-Columbia, he's now made a cozy niche for himself as an advertising copywriter, just bought a house and got himself a dog. I liked his latest photographs, from a few years back, black-and-whites taken with an old camera, nothing like photojournalism, liberating, something I never could do, unfortunately, no matter how much I wanted.
Seeing an old friend from grad school again, so good to be catching up.
Chasing memories over a brie sandwich - which I did savor, a surprising reprieve from the debilitating, unrelenting stomach ache and nausea (getting worse each passing day.) John used to be a photographer, we met when we were both students in photojournalism at the University of Missouri-Columbia, he's now made a cozy niche for himself as an advertising copywriter, just bought a house and got himself a dog. I liked his latest photographs, from a few years back, black-and-whites taken with an old camera, nothing like photojournalism, liberating, something I never could do, unfortunately, no matter how much I wanted.
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