Out West

I recently found out that I will be moving to Denver this summer for an internship.

Although I'm kind of nervous, I'm also really excited to travel out West. It makes me think about when I went to Colorado this past December, and how impressed I was by the winter mountain scenery.

When we landed at the Denver airport the day after Christmas, the surroundings disappointed me. Rather than seeing mountains erupted from the ground all around me, the terrain was pretty flat. The kind of flat a Midwesterner is much too used to. All I wanted was to see the mountains that make Colorado so exclusive to me.

As we got closer to Breckenridge, the ski resort where we were spending the week, I remembered why I love Colorado so much. In Ohio there are no mountains, no windy roads that force your car to hug each ridge. In Ohio it is flat for miles, with only the occasional McDonalds to disrupt your view.

In Colorado everything was crisp. As we increased in altitude I could still see for miles but there were bulging Mountains interrupting my vision on every side.  It may sound like a distraction but it was one that I preferred.

In the coming days we spent our time skiing down the mile long trails that you only find out west and riding the ski lifts back up to the top in silence, just looking out at the nature surrounding us. It was idyllic. We seemed to be trapped in by the enormousness of the land, and we were okay with that.

We let it keep us hostage for a few days, before we braved the snow and let the mountains disappear in our rearview mirror.

But I'm excited to be enthralled by it again. I'm excited to be distracted by the the grandeur of the Rockies and the magnificence of the scenery. Maybe 3 months I spend in Denver will make me okay with coming back to the flat, boring plains of the Midwest.

But probably not.

The Speeders

I drove to my parents house in Cleveland this weekend.

And ever since I have been making that 4-hour drive from Cincinnati to Cleveland... I have noticed the connection that drivers have with one another.

I take I-71 pretty much the entire way, which is a long time to be on the same, boring, opposite of scenic road.

But it also means that you are surrounded by the same cars--the same drivers--for a long time too.

Almost to the point where you feel like you know them, actually.

"That damn red Volvo is riding my ass again. I thought I got rid of him."

You know, things like that.

Cars are grouped into cliques on the road too. There are the semi truck drivers that kinda stick together, the people who never leave the right lane, the corvettes that race each other. I'm always grouped in with the other people that thing 65 mph is much too slow to be an appropriate speed limit for the highway..."the speeders" as I call us.

The problem with MY group is that they are all out for themselves. And there is a very specific way that the group functions.
There always has to be a leader.

But no one wants to be the leader because no one wants to be the first one that the cop sees and, therefore, gives a ticket. So we play this game where one person will be out in front for a little while and then they will get over and let another person get in front for a while. It seems to be a good system.

Today my group consisted of my blue Ford Focus, a grayish-green Saturn SUV, a dark gray Ford Escape, and a tan Ford Escape. (We love America)

The order started out with the tan Escape in front, then the gray Escape, then me, and finally the Saturn.  This worked for me because I had two cars in front of me, and therefore would have plenty of time to slam on my brakes in case of a highway patrol.

But then the tan Escape decided her time was over, letting the gray Escape pass in front. (I didn't actually see the person in the tan SUV so I can't be sure it was a woman but I feel like most people who drive SUVs are women so I think it's an accurate assumption...but maybe not)

I was still confident about this line up because I still wasn't the leader of the pack...but soon the gray Escape abandoned me too.

He got over in the far right lane and exited the highway quickly and I made a story up in my head about why he would do that. "Bob can't go more than 30 miles without having to go to the bathroom. So typical of him."

This car is an SUV too so why isn't the driver a woman? It could be, but the dark gray was a manly color that my brother would pick so, again, I made an assumption.

This story makes it sound like I have way too much time on my hands...making up stories about people I drive past on the highway. But hey, 4 hours gives me a lot of time to think.

Journey to campus

My walk to campus from my house on one of the typical student side streets of Clifton takes about 10 minutes...depending on how the light signal on Clifton Ave feels like treating me that day. So naturally, I give myself about 9 minutes. 

Stepping out of my house, I walk northeast toward campus, frantically racking my mind wondering if there was anything due for class today. Cars rush past me, mostly those of commuters trying to find a parking spot close to campus, but far enough away that they don't have to pay a meter. While I can't blame them, I hate them for constantly taking the few parking spots close to my house. 

As I get toward the end of my street I look behind me. No cars coming. Lovely. Crossing.

I turn the corner and my route quickly turns 10 shades darker and 20 degrees colder. I'm next to Deaconess Hospital. 

I'm guessing Straight Street next to Deaconess is kind of like what Simba's father was telling him about the shadowy places beyond Pride Rock...

"You must never go there Simba." 

It never sees light, it's always cold, and it's probably best avoided at night.

This is the point along the walk where I debate whether I wore the right coat. It is probably the only place in Cincinnati where snow still lays next to the sidewalk in June because it never got warm enough melt. Although it's mostly students, the usual old, homeless woman with no teeth sometimes asks me for a cigarette. I told you yesterday lady, I don't smoke. And honestly, you probably shouldn't either.

When I finally reach Clifton Ave I don't mind waiting at the traffic light because it gives me a few minutes to thaw before I finish my journey to campus. Students from Hughes high school are huddled in groups next to me, talking, laughing, happy to be free from the strict rules of the classrooms that detain them all day. When the walk light comes on, they cross with me. I vear left toward McMicken, they turn right to board the Metro bus. 

The last couple hundred yards are spent dodging those UC students on bikes and the ones that are so glued to their cell phones that they trip every couple of steps, not noticing the uneven sidewalks. When I finally reach McMicken Hall, I look up at the clock tower above TUC. I can't see the exact time, but it  appears that I'm right on time. 

Maybe I'll try my journey in 8 minutes tomorrow.

Dreaming of warmer weather

Spring Break for Ohio students is supposed to be a time when they can leave the clouds and snow of Ohio for warmth and beaches off the coast of somewhere.

That's what I was looking forward to this spring.

I pulled out my suitcase a week before my flight and packed it with my cutest summer outfits in anticipation of warmer weather. My flowery jumper that I got in London, my new jean shorts from American Eagle, and my sparkle-y, purple summer dress all made the cut. I looked at the weather for the week before I was supposed to get there--upper 70s and sunny the whole time. Perfect.

However, as it got closer to the day of my departure, San Francisco grew colder and colder. Maybe it was just wishful thinking that made me decide to keep the warmer weather clothes in my suitcase instead of replacing them with sweatshirts and long sleeve shirts--but I'm assuming it was mostly denial.

The first day in San Francisco was 65 degrees and sunny, much better than the wintery mix Ohio was receiving at the same time, but the wind made it feel pretty chilly. A hoodie and jacket was required the whole day, and I was still at a constant uncomfortable temperature.

The wind wasn't the biggest problem though, that came Tuesday night.

Tuesday started off nice and sunny, still windy though of course. Still, it was a pretty nice day. We went to rent bikes to ride along the bay to the Golden Gate Bridge. "We are closing early tonight," said the man at the bike shop, "we're supposed to get some rain." It seemed weird to me that they were shutting down just because of a little rain but I figured since biking is an outdoor activity, it kind of made sense.

We went down to my boyfriend's friend's house in Santa Clara later to meet up with some people for dinner. We joked with them about the dreary weather.

"I looked out the window of my office this afternoon and thought it was already 7:00. Then I decided I better ride my bike home fast before the storm rolled in."

The "storm" he was referring to was the cloud covered sky with the occasional misty rain. Sure it was an annoying feeling but I'm used to the Cincinnati storms with a constant 3-hour down pour of rain combined with 30 mph winds so you can't even use an umbrella without it turning inside out.

Anyway, somehow the conversation turned to us bringing the bad weather with us.

We left for dinner a couple hours later and it was lightly raining. The driver turned on his wind shield wipers, hoping that they still worked but not positive because it had been so long since he had used them the last time.

"Seriously though," he said, "it hasn't rained in at least 2 months."

That was comforting to think about.

"And last week it was 78 and sunny all week."

That makes us feel even better.

Yes, the cold weather and rain was a little bit of a bummer. But don't worry I still wore my summer clothes, freezing my butt off but looking good doing it. Of course I wish it was warmer for vacation but I guess I'm fortunate, I'm from Ohio, I'm certainly used to the uncertainty of weather.

City girl in a tourist's world.

I've always said that I'm a city girl. And that statement is still true today, it has just become more complicated than that.

This realization is very relevant at the moment as I travel around California, a place I had never been until now. Thinking about this trip for a while now, I assumed San Francisco would be the perfect place for me. It's young, hip, modern and the mild weather is much more predictable than my bipolar home state of Ohio.

However, my first day in San Francisco made me doubt my previous thoughts. To be fair, I was still jet lagged from an exhausting day of traveling the day before.

Me and my boyfriend Brett left Dayton, Ohio at 5 p.m. on Saturday and reached Chicago around 5:00 p.m. Central Time. Our layover was only an hour so we grabbed some food and were excited to get back on a plane and get to San Francisco. Excited, that is, until they informed us that our gate door wasn't working so they would have to move us to another gate "as soon as another one opened up." I don't work at Chicago airport but even I knew that another gate wasn't opening up any time soon.

Our layover soon turned from an hour...to an hour and a half...to 2 hours...

Finally they found us another gate and we were off... 90 minutes later than scheduled.

We arrived in San Francisco around 11 p.m.... not in the mood to see the city quite yet.

The next morning we were meeting my friends in the city at 8:30 a.m. for breakfast. Not only am I not a morning person, but I also got no sleep the night before because I was still on Ohio time. Needless to say, the Me that got 4 hours of sleep was not happy with this plan.

However, somehow I got myself there...only 10 minutes late. We went to this little hole in the wall breakfast place near the bay and I was quickly overwhelmed with how fast-paced it was. The workers there were just yelling telling people where to sit down. We were ordered to take a seat in a table out front. Fine with us, we were in a hurry too. A middle-aged woman with a heavy spanish accent took our drink orders. Seconds later, a younger version of her came over and took our food orders nodding and scribbling so quickly I wondered how she would possibly get our orders right.

She didn't.

Our food came out no more than 10 minutes later--seriously, fast-paced!

I had ordered french toast with a side of eggs and bacon. My french toast came by itself but I was hungry so I started eating, hoping they would bring my sides shortly.

The bill came first. So we paid it and I told my friends I would ask her about my side dishes when she came back. She vanished for a few minutes but the next time she walked by I asked her about my eggs and bacon.

"What? Yes," she replied and walked away. It wasn't a  yes or no question.

A few seconds later she came back and asked if it would be okay to give me my eggs and bacon to go. I honestly wasn't hungry anymore so I just asked her if she could take the cost of the sides off my bill. Since we already paid, I wasn't quite sure how that was going to work.

She came back with one of the $5 bills I gave her and gave it back to me, saying that is what she took off for the eggs and bacon. I'm pretty sure my side dishes did not add up to $5 but we were trying to get out of there so I just took is and we called it even.

The rest of the day was spent doing touristy things--going to Alcatraz, walking along the piers, shopping downtown. Although it was fun and I was glad to have seen those things, I found myself more depressed than anything.

There were thousands of people packed into the dirty streets along the pier, most of whom did not speak english. Tourists didn't mind looking like tourists wearing their "I love San Francisco" t-shirts and eating every snack food that was sold from a cart.

A mixture of music rang out around the crowds of people, not from a radio though. Less fortunate people stood on every corner making this music, hoping that someone would walk by and put a dollar in their cup.

Other homeless people were less creative, searching the trash cans for a left over bread bowl that someone discarded after scraping out all of the clam chowder.

I can't say I was shocked by what I saw. Obviously homeless people have a better chance of getting money from tourists than they do from locals that are rushing to and from work. Still, it depressed me.

I guess it's not really fair when I think about it because I suppose the point that I'm trying to make is that I know that homelessness is out there, I just don't want it displayed in front of me.

The next day we went to another part of the city--a no tourist zone. The buildings were new, modern lofts where wealthy business professionals lived so that they could walk to the office. The streets were lined with Panera's and Starbucks'--my kind of neighborhood. I liked the cleanliness and the space that the area offered. That's when I knew that maybe San Francisco is the place for me--I just need to be here as a local, not a tourist.

Maybe city girl isn't the right term-- high-class-neighborhood-near-downtown girl seems more accurate.

Disconnected

There's something about Snowshoe, West Virginia that keeps making me go back. 

I'm usually a city girl but this little ski town is a welcomed exception to that rule. 

My family started skiing there about 5 years ago because it is one of the best resorts in the east and not too far from where my brother lives in Marietta, OH. But what makes the mountain unique is it's complete disconnect from reality. 

Snowshoe is located in a federally regulated "quiet zone" by the National Radio Astronomy Observatory. I know what you're thinking because I was thinking the same thing a few years ago...what the hell does that mean?

Basically it means that the second you start inching your way up the narrow, curvy roads of the 4,848 foot mountain, you will lose all cell phone and internet signal until you return to the bottom days later.

In a society like ours that sounds terrifying, right? How can I go a whole weekend without being able to Google a question the second I think of it? It sounds impossible at first but it's actually oddly relieving. 

The last time I was at Snowshoe was two weekends ago with my boyfriend, my friend from high school, my brother, his friends from high school, and his friend from work. Needless to say, we had quite the crowd. It was the first time I had gone to Snowshoe without my parents and I was excited to spend it with my close friends. 

Since the hotels there don't have wireless internet, we cheated a little bit by bringing my brothers router and plugging it into the ethernet in the room. But I mean, can anyone really expect 7 20-somethings to share one ethernet cord for the whole weekend? Didn't think so.

A rare thing happened in that hotel room that weekend though. 

During a time when everyone is so obsessed with being accessible at all times, it's hard to spend 30 minutes with friends without someone checking their email, texting, or looking on Twitter. But that weekend, with our unreliable internet and lack of cell phone signal, we were able to spend 3 interrupted hours together talking, drinking, and playing card games, with our cell phones out of reach. 

It sounds like something so simple but the sad truth is, it takes special circumstances to bring people together like that. It took each of us over 6 hours to get to the mountain but we were able to make the most of what we had because of what we didn't have. 

I did use my cell phone that weekend...to take pictures. I have pictures of the pink, orange sky during the hour of sunset. I have a picture of me and my friend Jessica--me with my snowboard and her with skis--standing at the top of the packed mountain just before lunch time. I have pictures of the 7 of us in our small but manageable room playing Cards Against Humanity until well past midnight.  

That weekend, instead of focusing on my phone, Facebook, Twitter, and my email, I focused on my friends and the short time that we had together. 

The moral of the story is that I may have lost my cell phone signal, but I actually gained a lot more. 

Train station without the trains

“There’s that place from that movie!” I said to my boyfriend, Brett, as I slapped his arm, refusing to tear my eyes away from the window.

“Right. But where are we going? You have to read the directions,” he said.

“You know that movie? What’s it called? The one that took place in Cincinnati!”

“The Ides of March! Now tell me what exit we need to get off.”

While many people who grew up in Cincinnati spent much of their childhood at the Museum Center in the Union Terminal, my first glimpse of it was driving down I-75 trying to find Moerlein Lager House. That was my first real glimpse of it anyway. The first time I actually saw it was behind Ryan Goesling in the Ides of March. And honestly, I was mostly looking at Ryan.

I personally think that public transportation is something that the United States needs to pay much more attention to, so I was kind of fascinated with the historic-train station element of Union Terminal. But as soon as I walked in the door, I realized that maybe that’s just the history of it.

Union Terminal is hardly still a train station. It has the grand train station architecture, with high ceilings and detailed archways, but other than that it has been completely converted into a museum center. I guess that’s why Union Terminal is merely the name of the building now while the signs outside read, “Welcome to the Cincinnati Museum Center”.

            Sunday afternoon at the Museum Center was pretty quiet but that could have been partially due to the rare Cincinnati blizzard that was going on outside. The grand entrance way was almost silent, besides the occasional happy scream of a child that was usually followed by laughter. 

            The man and woman sitting at the front desk looked at me, half smiling, expecting that I would walk toward them to purchase a ticket for one of the museums. But I didn’t. I was more interested in seeing the historic train station part of the place—secretly hoping the atmosphere would remind me of the hustle and bustle of the Victoria Train Station in London, a place I love.

            As I passed the gift shop and the empty cafeteria, I looked around for signs that would point me in the direction of the train station. Walking toward the centric, grand staircase that led to the Omnimax Theater, I finally found a sign. It was about 12 inches wide and 6 inches tall—barely noticeable—and all it said was Amtrax à.

I didn’t bother going through the door. The size of the sign alone told me that it was nothing to get excited about. Disappointed, I returned to the ticket counter and purchased a ticket for the Cincinnati History Museum, hoping it would give me a glimpse of what this station used to be.

The first exhibit in the Cincinnati History Museum did exactly that. It features a train display showing where the passenger and freight trains used to travel around the city. A young brother and sister were running from the riverfront display to the much-elevated Mt. Adams display, watching the trains pass the old Cincinnati industries. I watched the train go around and around semi-wishing I lived in Cincinnati back then.

The museum then led into an exhibit about the impact of war on Cincinnati. Since I’m kind of a history buff, I decided that it would be worth checking out.

It’s probably important to note that I really don’t like museums. My parents love them so I spent many hours of my childhood staring at artwork that I didn’t understand and important documents behind glass that I didn’t find worth reading. Needless to say, now when I do have the occasional walk through a museum, most of my time is spent glancing over the displays rather than reading them thoroughly.

Honestly, that’s mostly what I did in the Cincinnati History Museum too. Until one picture really caught my eye.  It was a standalone picture blown up to poster board size that rested on an easel near the end of the war section. The black and white image displayed thousands of people packed into the main entrance of union terminal, signs hanging above them that read “Welcome Home”. Some people wore suits, some wore military uniforms, some were in groups, some were individuals, but everyone looked really happy.

That’s when I realized that the train station aspect of the Museum Center isn’t only its history. It’s a major part of Union Terminal and Cincinnati as a whole. Maybe Cincinnati is a little out of touch with public transportation, but at least it has these museums and resources to teach children about what made Cincinnati the city it is today.