Rural Arkansas

A good bit of my extended family lives just outside of Little Rock, Arkansas. My Dad and I just got back from the annual Mitchell Family Reunion. I had never met any of my Arkansan family, nor had I ever been to the Deep South.

I actually like it. The people were nice. Little Rock itself was quaint, but a bit sleepy. My family was very welcoming. And no one called me "boy" even once. (Us Northerners always assume that overt racism is still lurking behind every corner in the South.)

While my Dad usually stays on one of the family farms when he is in town, I opted for the Comfort Inn Downtown, and my Dad wisely chose to join me. Since we had a little freedom from the family, we also got a chance to check out the Clinton Presidential Library and also ventured about an hour outside of Little Rock to spend the day in the town of Hot Springs.

Below are a few photos of my adventure. The first set of photos were taken at and around the family farm where most of the reunion festivites took place. The second set were taken in one of the original bathhouses in Hot Springs that was preserved as a museum by the National Park Service, which felt more like an old school insane asylum than a place for relaxation.

Family Farm

Twin Peaks

“You can’t even see anything,” exclaimed the disappointed Asian tourist upon stepping out of his car atop Twin Peaks.
 
Twin Peaks is perched high above the city of San Francisco. It’s the kind of location that would beacon tourists and travelers from all corners of the globe, promising sweeping 360 degree views of the hilly city below. One might expect to even be able to see from the TransAmerica Pyramid at one end of the city all the way to the Golden Gate Bridge on the other.
 
All of that may be possible if it weren’t for something else that the city is famous for. Fog.
 
Fog creeps in from the north and slowly blankets the city in a deep, seemingly impenetrable grayness. It may be sunny when you leave the office for lunch, but by the time 5:00 rolls around, the fog has already begun its descent.
 
Having spent nearly three years in San Francisco, I grew fond of the summer fog. Its dark, ominous presence slowly engulfing the city like the outstretched fingers of a large hand. It became synonymous with San Francisco in my mind. It was as much a part of the city as cable cars, sourdough bread, or hippies lining Haight St. 
 
Don’t get me wrong: sun-soaked days were always a welcomed occurrence in the city. They offered the chance to finally sit on the beach in bathing suit or leave your apartment without a jacket or sweater in tow.  But for me, the fog is helps define the city.
 
We awake our first full day in the city to cool temperatures, gray skies and low visibility. While you can see a block or two ahead, your vision hits a wall shortly thereafter.  It’s perfect. Jahkedda has a few hours of work to take care of that morning, so I take the opportunity to take in the fog in all its glory. From our apartment on the edge of the Mission, it’s about a 2 mile hike to the top of Twin Peaks. While I have been to Twin Peaks before, it has always been by car. I had never taken the opportunity to conquer the route on foot.
 
Following the rainbow flag-lined portion of Market St past the restaurants, gyms and cafes of the Castro District, the street begins its gradual ascent towards my destination.  The bustling commercial neighborhood slowly morphs into the quietly residential.  The modest single-family houses gradually become larger and more expansive as I make my way further away from sea level.
 
About halfway to the top, I check my map to verify the route. The streets are quiet and the fog is dense. A slight mist begins to develop. Up ahead, a couple appears in the middle of the block and heads in my direction.  Curious of where they came from, I inspect the break in the wall from which they emerged.  I find a steep staircase that leads to some unknown destination. There is no sign, no indication of public or private property, and a low overhang obstructs my view beyond a few stairs.

 I decide that the stairs are roughly headed in the direction of Twin Speaks and I take the plunge. The path leads through a very long, narrow, and seemingly out-of-place park dedicated to a local celebrity. Brightly colored flowers and imposing trees line the hill on either side of the staircase. The stairs continue, seemingly endlessly. The gradation becomes steeper the higher I climb. Continuing forward or turning back are the only options.  I go forward.
 
I emerge from the park in the center of an upper middle class neighborhood, slightly disoriented.  I head towards to the closest visible street, not knowing exactly where I am. Fortunately, it appears that the staircase provided a short-cut through the circuitous route displayed on my map. A sign at the corner points me in the direction of Twin Peaks. 
 
The fog is dense. The street is quiet. There are no people. No cars. No signs of life.  I start to feel that I’m all alone in the world. The sidewalk disappears. I hug the edge of the road as the path snakes its way to the top. A car of tourists emerges, slowly making its way back down the hill. I continue forward.

 Opting for the steep makeshift trail up the side of the hill instead of following the winding road to the top, I reach the nearly 1000ft summit a bit winded. There are already a few people there that morning: a few tourists frustrated by the fog and 2 or 3 men alone in their parked cars waiting for someone or something.  
 
There is an observation deck replete with coin operated telescopes, whose presence seems almost laughable in a fog so dense. The only thing to see from that vantage point is the nothingness that exists just beyond wherever I’m standing, an impenetrable wall of gray.

Vans of tourists come and go.  Workers tinker with the telecommunication station on the premises. Individuals sit with their car doors open smoking a cigarette, perhaps as a way to escape the hectic world below, if only for a few minutes. The fog remains.  The foreign tourist was right: “You can’t even see anything.” 
 
But maybe that’s exactly the point.

Seattle Photos

A few shots from our month in Seattle:
 

Denny Park

Kayaking Puget Sound

Urban Beehive

Bookbindery Restaurant

Isla Bonita Restaurant, Bainbridge Island

On Puget Sound

Seattle

59 degrees, overcast skies, persistent drizzle. 

I stepped off the plane from the Dominican Republic on June 1, 2011 completely unprepared. First order of business upon arrival was a trip to Old Navy to supplement my tropical wardrobe with attire more suitable for a “summer” in Seattle: long-sleeved shirts, a hoodie, and an extra pack of undershirts for good measure. 

Seattle is not just a city. It’s a way of life. A life in which climate plays a leading role, especially when it comes to the city’s food and drink culture. Seattle residents put a premium on fresh, locally produced meats and produce, as demonstrated by restaurant menus and the innumerable farmers markets throughout the city.  Local farms fueled by the temperate climate and predictable rains in the region dramatically reduce the number of miles from crop to table, which is at the heart of the food culture there.  However those cool temperatures and only periodic sunshine also help make Seattle one of the most caffeinated cities in the world. While the European-style espresso bars offering small shots of strong black liquid certainly exist, in the birthplace of Starbucks, residents seek large cups and free refills to help them get through the day. It is not uncommon for multiple cafés to compete for business on the same block. Surveying residents to determine the best cup of joe is a fool’s errand. With so many possibilities, everyone has their favorite. 

Seattle’s other addiction, not counting medical marijuana of course, is craft beer.  While Washington State has built a robust export market for its stellar red wines, the local brewmaster is clearly the hometown favorite.  The average grocery store has a better selection of local beers than most places on the East Coast offer of beers of any type.  A house party is almost as likely to serve bottles of homebrew as the professional variety.  Tastings, food pairings and street festivals throughout the year all pay homage to the sudsy stuff.

Beer makes sense in a place like Seattle. Wine and liquor are of course popular, but beer speaks to the anti-establishment sensibilities at the core of the city. Wine is too bourgeois, liquor too flashy. A pint of beer sits comfortably in the hand of a happy hour reveler dressed in layers of wrinkled shirts and tattered jeans, who just happens to be a Senior Manager at Microsoft.  But not just any beer. This is Seattle, not Pittsburgh. A can of PBR just won’t do. It needs to be brewed onsite from locally farmed ingredients and water fresh from the Cascade Mountains. 

Anything short of that is simply unacceptable.

Still Here

We've conquered a lot of territory since our last blog post nearly 2 years ago. We've moved back to DC, spent a month in Seattle, 2 weeks in France, a long weekend in Philadelphia, and I recently spent a a week in Tunisia. At some point in the midst of all of that travel we got married. Next week we're headed to California and I may be traveling to St. Petersburg, Russia shortly thereafter.

Much ground has been covered, but there is still much ahead of us. We will try to recap the highlights of past adventures while at the same time posting the accounts of new ones.