Hope to See You Then

I am in Massillon at my parents' house walking through a dream. What I once thought was my home is now a distant land occupied by strangers. I walk about my own life as if it were a distant memory. Strange and savage, haunting and beautiful.

Tonight I will travel to Columbus. Attend a premiere at the Drexel. Laugh when the mood strikes me and leave when it is all over. My brother plays a cracker yokel in a movie about zombie racoons. I play an audience member. Drinks to follow. More family obligations through the weekend in Columbus.

After that it is difficult to say where the fates will take me. I have secured a job in Columbus doing demolition work on condemned inner-city apartment buildings. It is all very Good Will Hunting. I plan to spend the month of January reading the Brothers Karamazov and swinging a sledge hammer.

It is during this period where I hope to secure a Greyhound bus to Cincinnati, listen to some blugrass music at the Comet, and visit old friends. Hope to see you then.

Much Has Changed

I am in Massillon, Ohio. The sky is grey and cloudy and a thin layer of snow covers the front yard of my parents' house. An anamatronic snowman waves dumbly into the void. Mocking my plight. I long to ride my bicycle yet again, but this is not possible now. Much has changed in the past week.

A Moment of Rest

My photographer captures an afternoon rest stop in Baja California. If you have not yet visited www.hobofabby.blogspot.com may you have your liver pecked out for a thousand lifetimes by a thousand vultures.

I Hear the Jazz Again

December 15, 2005

It was four o´clock and we were still in San Miguel. It was not the San Miguel de Allende I knew - where I came with my first love to listen to jazz on warm summer weekends - the town where Neal Cassady stumbled down the tracks to the death he had cheated so many times before. I didn´t know this place. I had to find its heart once again. Or leave, dejected and jaded. Robbed of something that I never owned.

Stopped in a cantina with my comrades for Pacificos y tapas to think it over. Didn´t know if we should make our way up the mountains outside of the city in search for salvation or beat down the line for Queretaro, this sacred place sullied forever in my mind. Time was getting short before I had to be in Mexcity and we decided to make for Queretaro.

Didn´t want to backtrack out of town so we pushed through the bumpy cobbled streets to the Mexican quarter of the now gentrified retirement community. The actual residents of this beautiful town are now being forced away from the Disneyland stage set festering at its once proud core. Come. Retire in beautiful San Miguel de Allende.

Where the streets are filled with cops and FEAR to make the pasty white trophy wives primped as poodles carrying poodles primped as trophy wives feel safe. It is the FEAR, ironically, that makes them feel safe in this place, now so divorced from reality. The plaza is no longer home to gentle old Mexican men bearing handlebar mustaches and gentle smiles clad in starched western shirts and cowboy hats, but frowning retired investment bankers from Connecticut clad in khaki "traveling" pants barely able to support the digital SLR cameras dangling from their fatty pink necks. These vultures and their accessories do not have any desire to see Mexico, or god forbid, any Mexicans who are not bringing them drinks or cleaning their winter home - so tastefully cluttered with as much "rustic" furniture and pottery as they can accumulate.

The cops now tirelessly guard this retirement community, vigilantly protecting the image of the town. As I rode past the plaza a Pinkerton on the take gave me the hairy eye ball and barked at me, sadly enough, in perfect English to "put a shirt on" lest I sully the view for the white people trying to take pictures of the cathedral and "quaint" Mexicans dutifully going about their lives in spite of the thousands of Nuveau-Maxmillians ruining their beautiful way of life.

I had to leave. Back on the bikes and plenty of sun to knock off some kilometers from mañana´s ride into Queretaro. Get directions out of town at the Pemex station. As it happened the careterra wound its way up the mountains overlooking the town I so desperately wanted to love again, and leave at the same time. Climbed to the top with an hour of sunlight left. As we reached the scenic overlook I saw the same mad look in Matt´s eyes that I must have displayed and we tore off of the road up the small dirt path to the top of the mountain. A group of old men in cowboy hats smile and gawk as if we were from some distant planet as the three unshaven gringos tear ass off the road and up the dusty mountainside.

The beauty of old San Miguel de Allende awaited us as we grinded our way to the top of the dusty mule track. The last 200 meters we were forced to walk the rigs up the loose gravel and broken glass. We were rewarded beyond our wildest expectations when the view of San Miguel was given to us at the crest. From here you could see the jagged blue mountains we crossed just days before bathed in the orange light of the setting sun bleeding into a long lonely plateau nestling the old town into the mountain where we stood in awe. This single moment redeemed everything.

All of the ugly tourists and retirees polluting the town were now gone from sight, reduced to nothing amidst the twinkling lights coming, one by one, to replace the setting sun. Broken bottles and broken hearts were scattered all about the ground at our feet where couples came to makeout and kids came to drink beer in the clouds above San Miguel. Here we decided to make camp, and bask in the splendor that lied before our eyes. It was here that I finally saw the town were Neal died and heard the jazz again. As if I were in love for the first time.

Letter from the Prodigal Son

Pappa Bear,

Hard to believe that seven months have passed since you dropped me off at the Greyhound station in Columbus. Seven months, but it seems like an eternity. Passing the grassy plains of Kansas through the mountains of Utah, not knowing if I would have a job or home waiting for me at the end of the line, I had no idea where or how my journey would end. Alas, here it is. Queretaro, Mexico. Onward to Mexico City.

When I left you back in May it was quite a low point for me creatively and personally. My first movie was a flop, my writing was not amounting to shit, and I was barely on speaking terms with my best friend - and little brother - as it were.

It became apparent to me that I needed to change certain aspects of my life. In order to accomplish this I had to remove myself from that which was comfortable and secure in order to challenge myself physically, mentally, and spiritually. To what extent I have succeeded I do not know, as only time can be the judge of this. I do know, however, without a doubt that the past seven months have been the most fruitful period of my 28 years on the planet. My ability to accomplish this has come in no small part because of your support, guidance and infinite pools of patience. Thank you dad. Thank you very much.

In five days I will be on a plane back to Columbus. Although I am not ready to leave Mexico and my life on the road - I cannot wait for the joyous reunion at the end of the line.

With much love, Aaron.

P.S. In regards to your question regarding a Christmas gift, I do not have any specific material possessions in mind at the moment. However, in the next month I plan to embark upon another journey that could be aided by a belated version of the Christmas-time orgy of gift giving.

P.P.S. If you would like to view a picture of your son´s naked ass displayed on the world wide web visit www.hobofabby.blogspot.com.

P.P.P.S. If mom somehow manages to see the picture assure her that I am in fact not gay.

A Day with the Virgin

December 12, 2005. Guanajuato, Mexico.

Morning. A magnificent view of the steep rolling hills of Guanajuato unrolls itself before our waking eyes. The bright Mexican sun bathes the landscape in spleandor calling the gentle shades of green and blue adorning the small adobe houses to life. Countless dogs sound countless staccotto alarms rousting the town and its adopted vagrants from their gentle slumber. Amidst the rumble of fireworks echoing through the nearby mountains we pack up quickly, and jump off of the roof of the parking garage to voin the festivities. First, there is business at hand.

Beautiful as they may be, the cobble stone street of Guanajuato are brutal on our bicycles. Karl´s rear hub is just about shot, and my front rack - the last one remaining not held together by zip ties and duct tape - is badly cracked and may be beyond repair. Luckily I find an open hardware store on the way into the town´s center that sells the necessary parts - zip ties and duct tape - to perform the emergency operation. Fifteen minutes and half a roll of high quality Mexican duct tape later I have my rig back in operation. Next. Secure lodging. Breaking the cardinal rule of vagabonding (you never pay for lodging unless absolutely necessary) we secure a cheap hotel early in the day so we can stash the bikes and make our way through the crowded streets of the festival without the loaded touring rigs. Onward to the Feast of the Virgin.

Afternoon. The streets of Guanajuato are a buzz with activity. Kids, dressed in traditional garb of the feast, dart past old Indian women selling roasted corn on the corners. Scores of beautiful young girls with deep brown eyes line up to buy fresh-cut flowers on the street to leave as offerings in the shrines dedicated to the Virgin throughout the city. Lonely old men sing sing sad songs along with the juke boxes of dimly lit cantinas, their forelorn voices drifting through the swinging doors into the passing throngs of revelers unable to share their sorrows on this beautiful day.

I make my way through the crowds, sampling fresh pineapple sprinkled with chile powder and fresh baked pastries before meeting up with my comrades at the social epicenter of Guanajuato, el centro. From here we proceed up the winding narrow cobbled streets past the constant temptation of fresh sugar cane, steamed garbanzo beans, and fried pork skins smothered in hot sauce. Small rickety carnival rides whirled all around us beckoning the excitement of our youth from its reclusive slumber on this day of infinite joy and hope.

Karl´s tender Canadian bowells yet again objected to the myriad of holiday treats and we make haste to a public restroom, which ironically costs more than the tacos that made the side trip necessary. As Matt and I wait outside for Karl´s bacteria-laden large intestine to purge its demons a bottle of tequila is passed in our direction by a group of giggling Mexican girls eager to test out their English on a couple of unshaven Gringos types. We were happy to oblige.

Evening. The setting sun casts a soft purple hue upon the hills that once inspired a young Diego Rivera. The vendors have now packed up their carts and the smell of fried fish and cotton candy is gone from the air. Replacing them on the cobbled streets are families walking back to thier homes with young mothers carrying tired babies with painted faces in their loving arms.

Back at the hotel I strip the heavy bags off of my touring rig and take the now featherweight bicycle back into the newly deserted city. Racing through the beautiful streets of the past five centuries into the night - dipping down into the pitch black tunnells of the old silver mines I feel alive. Alive as only I can feel on this day, in this place. December 12, 2005. Guanajuato, Mexico.

Return to Guanajuato

I am back in Guanajuato. Feast of the Virgen de Guadalupe. Spent yesterday afternoon amidst the marching bands presiding over makeshift parades winding through the narrow cobbled streets of a Mexico I was never able to forget. Visions of the past were quickly resurected. Visions of a beautiful place etched in the most sacred quarters of my mind.

Here amidst the pools of radiant sunlight bathing the terra cotta tiles and gentle pastel walls of history - deep, and sad - I was granted the most rare opportunity to walk through a dream. A dream of my own past love. And loss. And resurection the realm of reality. A reality with which I am now in love.

Wake up on the side of a hill, on abandoned railroad tracks in the warm morning sun. A young boy brings me a cup of warm cider. Ride into town looking for the Diego Rivera museum and my comrades and I befriend an expatraite expainter pisssing away an inheritance in a pool of cheap mezcal. By the time we find it the museum has closed. This is my reality.

White Room

Two days in small white room.
Vomiting like William S. but
not in Tangiers.
Pales filled with bile as architectural acoutremants
to a French colonial style
with style.
The virgen is swept past in a
blur
of exctasy.
Knock three times on the door and
they
hand you a wafer of
divinity.
And you're still a junkie
coming off smack
in
your big white room, in Spanish Colonial
eternity.

A Moment Lost - and Found

I awoke just before my comrades. On the beach just south of Mulege. The eastern sky was on fire with deep, vibrant reds and purples. On the rocky beach a young couple clad in Grundens patched a small gill net as I crept past not wanting to disturb the pelican perched at the water's edge providing the foreground in the money shot composed in my mind of the glorious morning. Kneeling down to carefully frame the pelican standing guard over the ruby red sonrisa I disturbed the serenity of the scene, and the bird flew past the two fishermen who briefly looked up from their needles. The moment was lost, and the boys were already packing up their gear.

La Escuela de la Vida

The Saskatoon Kid has never been to college, but speaks better Spanish than anyone paying thousands of dollars for an education amongst the drab blackboards of academia; the intense coral blue skies of Mexico provide the halls for his intensive language immersion program.

Absolute Proof

Proof, that God does exist, and has, in fact dropped acid at least once in her life.

Valle de los Cirios

Matt explores the rocky landscape around our campsite in the valle de los cirios near Cataviña.

Zen of Riding

Spinning in tight circles, the crank becomes an extention of your legs, transfering pure energy through the drivetrain to the pavement below; propelling the sights, smells, sounds, and emotions at a speed dictated by the powers of the body for the delight of the soul.

Follow the Kid

The Saskatoon Kid leads the way south down Highway 1 into the mountains near Punta Prieta.

Smoke on the Water

It was early in the morning and none of us had slept well that night. Just after we had settled into sleep under the crumbling walls of an abandoned building near El Faro Beach a man walked silently past our clandestine campsite, stopped at the crumbled foundation of a building just meters from my sleeping bag, picked up a small package and left silently into the night. The Saskatoon Kid was unphased, strumming "Smoke on the Water" on his newly acquired pink guitar.

A Sweet Farewell in Ensendada

In Ensenada, on the 20th of November, we unknowingly stumbled upon a parade, complete with cotton candy and all of the trimmings. The joy of the afternoon was short lived as Erica gave us the news that she would be returning home the following morning.

Ensenada Squat

It was here, just south of Ensenada, on the back porch of some rich gringo's beach home, where four tired drifters made their home for the evening; watching the Saskatoon Kid breakdance on their balcony before falling asleep to the sweet cacaphony of waves crashing onto the rocks below.

Pink Bikes and Pretty Girls II

In the afternoon under a fat California sun The Saskatoon Kid and the Girl from NYC passed the day amongst the graffitti artists of LA's Venice Beach. One day later she joined our band of hobos to head south to old Mexico.

Thanksgiving in Baja California

A light rain awoke me during the night as I slept under the stars in the desert ghost town of San Augustine. Gathered up my gear and made my way to a rusty old cot under a small porch in the abandoned highway camp at the edge of nowhere, Baja California. In the morning I made a cup of bitter instant coffee that was left in my pannier from an MRE given to me up the line at a US Forest Service outpost while crossing the San Marcos Pass north of Santa Barbara. That day seemed like a lifetime ago as I sipped the soulless instant coffee freeze-dried for the other American boys stranded in the desert, thinking of home. Thanksgiving day, away from those I love and their bountiful feast of turkey, oyster dressing, dry white wine and dry humor. Sadness crept into my heart like a chill from a door left adjar long into the night.

Roberto, the lone occupant of San Augustine, made his way down to the abandoned highway camp to bid us a good morning. Noticing the remnants of our campfire and empty caguama from the night before he began reminiscing with us in form of slightly-comprehensible Spanish peppered with outdated English phrases gleaned from American television programming of long nights spent in the desert smoking la mota and drinking caguamas. He spoke of his home in the desert and the children and grandchildren he has not seen in years. Karl made us a bowl of oatmeal as I listened to our host and drank the cup of coffee, trying to forget the bitter taste longing. Matt was still feeling ill with Morocco Belly and declined the oatmeal and coffee.

After breakfast we packed up our dusty gear and set off for Cataviña, the only town offering fresh water and groceries within a day's ride. The 37 kilometers passed quickly through the beautiful desertscape from San Augustine to Cataviña. The brilliant colors of the desert sky were subdued in the early morning by a thin grey layer of clouds that made the ride through the otherwise scorching desert cool and plesant. Just before reaching town we stopped at a small Mad Max-like encampment, that we had mistook for Cataviña, not wanting to pass up our last chance to buy food and water for nearly 100 kilometers. A door opened to greet us revealing a hunched-over man deprived of balance and equilibrium. We offered a hearty "buenos dias" yet the man just stared straight through us for what seemed like an eternity as a long trail of snot fell from his nose through his thick, gnarled whiskers in a long sinewy band to the dusty ground by his feet.

"Donde esta Cataviña?" I prompted him. As if stung by an invisible bee he instantly came to life and responded joyfully that town was a mere two kilometers down the line. A hearty round of "adioses" and "que te viajes biens" were exchanged before we pushed on to the actual town of Cataviña - a post-apocalyptic preview which consisted of little more than an gaudy gringo-friendly hotel, an abandoned Pemex station attended to by a man selling fuel out of large greasy plastic drums, two cafes, and a small overpriced market that served as the social epicenter of the town.

At the market we ran into a couple of fellow escaped mental patients - or touring cyclists, rather - making the now cliche trip from Alaska to Argentina. They were a prudent German couple sporting slick bicycles with internally-geared hubs, fancy tear-resistent waterproof Ortlieb panniers loaded down with nearly eight liters of water and every other piece of concievable touring gear one could procure in an industrialized nation. I was most impressed with their special removable kickstands which, as they pointed out to me, also served to ward off unfriendly dogs along the road. When I asked if they had been forced to use their club on any of the overly-friendly Mexican stray dogs they looked at each othere for a moment and responed with a pensive "no."

After purchasing a two cans of beans, an avocado, a pack of flour tortillas, a caguama and a gallon of filtered water I took a seat on the dusty front stoop of the market to prepare my Thanksgiving feast. It was here that I met Baja California's answer to Howard Hughes - a famous inventor and close personal friend of both Mae West and Maralyn Monroe. He was a hard luck drifter with rotting fingernails eating a bologna sandwich on white Bimbo bread without the benefit of front teeth. How he wound up here, penniless and destitude, in the hot desert sun was not part of his canned story awaiting any English speaker willing to listen. The inventor of the bendable straw, the pop top can, the modern clothes pin, and strangely enough, training wheels never regretted his decision to be paid two cents per straw rather than the ten cents per pack he was originally offered for his ground-breaking advancement in the soda arts. That moment, as I listened to his tale of fame and fortune, woe and regret, I was a world away from home, but exactly where I needed to be.