Lake Tahoe - Smoky Images

A Ghostly Abyss

Lake Tahoe - Smoky Images is a 3 part photo essay on the duality of disaster. As is typically the case when I travel, I had to jettison my expectations within the first few minutes of arriving at a destination. The last time I visited Lake Tahoe was in 1999. I was under 30, recently rejected from a job in Rome I had wanted more than any other job before or since, and had just visited the Napa Valley for the first time. I lost my only black and white roll of film on that visit 15 years ago. I had to make amends for that misfiring roll of film, and shoot the clear, blue skies, and wondrous mountains in full color as well as black and white (the lost roll). As we neared the infamous Donner Pass, we saw the smoke. In just a few more moments, the sky was opaque with grey smoke and the aroma of an acrid campfire. Juliet and I talked about how many of our friends love the smell of burning wood, and that they might be in for some sort of nesting, fireplace vacation if they had been here to experience it. As for me and my wife, we basically loathe the smell of smoke (of any kind). For a brief second we can tolerate it, but our sensitive respiratory and olfactory systems break down quickly from there. In this case, we had a 25,000 acre, and growing, conflagration to manage.

By the time we drove into our hotel property, in the purportedly stunning town of Incline Village, Nevada, visibility was less than 300 feet, and I felt  like what Dante described so beautifully in The Divine Comedy, 

Midway upon the journey of our life,
I found myself within a forest dark,
For the straight foreward pathway had been lost

So much for long exposure photos of the Milky Way. So much for sitting under the cool night air and relaxing in the warm outdoor jacuzzi. We got into our room and headed immediately to the beach. The chestnuts, pine nuts, branches, grass, forest creatures, and this vacation, were all roasting over an open fire. The air stank with misery and menace. The waves were vigorous on the lovely sandy beach. According to the guy managing the boat dock (where one may rent motor boats or schedule private charters on the hotel catamaran) there are gorgeous mountains directly in front of us, and encircling the lake. All we could see was an odd Abyss (see the first image) and a few boats bobbing in the rough surf. It was easy to understand the size and depth of this lake, simply because I had not experienced such waves on a lake since the last time to the Great Lakes. It was now time to figure out our latest recipe for vacation Lemonade. So, we immediately started drinking, and started querying the locals for dinner spots. We would up at a place called BITE and enjoyed some of the best "American Tapas" (as they label them) I have tasted. The fried chicken sliders alone are worthy of the trip.

We left the restaurant and awaited the hotel shuttle to bring our buzzed and oxygen-starved bodies back to the room. We noticed a few stars that were bright enough to shine through the lingering smoke. It appeared the evening breeze had shifted, and the fires, some 50 miles away, were now sending their noxious vapors into other areas. There was a glimmer of hope that tomorrow might be free of fumes. As we drifted to sleep on the shore of Lake Tahoe, I could not help but think once again of Dante when I pondered my hopes for the coming days.

"Abandon all hope, ye who enter here"

....to be continued

The Italy Rules

The Gondolier

The Italy Rules are my set of guidelines for the first-time and infrequent Italy traveler. I have traveled to, lived, and worked in Italy frequently over the past 20 years. In this time I evolved from a curious tourist to hardened, salty, veteran of the trials, travails, and pitfalls, of one of the world's most visited countries. One usually dreams of Italy for years before finally setting their foot into the proverbial boot. The dream usually crashes in much less time. This post is really for the traveler who has not been deep into the Amazon or climbed to base camps in Nepal. This post is for those of you who enjoy modern conveniences, large bathrooms, and the amenities of a comfortable Western life. For the most part, I am you. I love my big bed, my central heat and air, and my very fast wi-fi connection. However, Italy is reason enough for me forego these luxuries for a few weeks or months out of every year.

One of my dearest friends is half American and half German. He is the model of organization and efficiency. He said to me just the other night that one of the reasons he loves Italy is because it is chaos. Yes, he loved the chaos, and if you have any hope of really embracing la vita Italiana you'd better be ready to embrace chaos as well. I am 100% confident there will be detractors of my post, and let them come. The information I am going to share with you here is well won. I have been down many paths of serious consternation in Italy and if you listen to me, you can likely avoid most of these, and perhaps even enjoy a bit the ones you cannot avoid.

Now, without further ado, I give you, The Italy Rules:

1. Do NOT Over-Schedule - Italians typically accomplish about 4 things per day in their lives and have a damn fine time getting from 1 to 4. Do not attempt to do more than the locals do and you will be happy. Here is what an exceptional first 2 days in Italy look like: (this is not a derogatory comment about Italians, it is praise for the art of good living)

Day 1 - Arrive in Rome - Meet your guide (you will be 100% happier than you can imagine if you hire a personal guide) Check  in Hotel or Apt -   (away from sites at least 10 min walk)- Have long lunch - see 1 site - have cocktails - eat dinner

Day 2 - have good coffee outside of hotel and nowhere near any sites - go to first site of day (perhaps the Vatican) - have very long lunch - go to another site (maybe the Borghese gallery) - walk around eating gelato at a few places  or get another coffee - rest for a bit - have cocktails (called aperitivo and usually includes little snacks and is best taken out on some street-side cafe but not in Piazza Navona, or Campo dei Fiori - go over to Monti and enjoy a glass of wine at one of the many little wine bars in that hood) - have an evening stroll in your finest travel threads - eat a wonderful dinner at around 9 PM - you won't starve if you had a proper aperitivo , and you won't look like British granny arriving too early.

2. Do NOT Over-Travel - You may think you can do all of Italy in 2 weeks, but you cannot. You may think you must see all you can because you may not come back again to Italy. If you rush from town to town, hang around tourists and touristy places, and eat shitty tourist food you may indeed not ever come back. Here is my itinerary suggestion for the first-time Italy traveler.

2 Weeks - if you can't go for two weeks, go somewhere else and save Italy for when you can make a real commitment. Italy requires commitment

Arrive Rome - follow above plan...Rome is 4 days at a minimum including arrival day so let's say 5 in total counting departure day

Florence - Now, I don't love Florence, but there are things that must be seen and frankly, if I say skip it, I will get more hate mail than I care to read. Take the train from Rome and spend 2 nights in Florence. Make sure  to book any museums, churches, and  touristic sites in advance. I have no time to give you links to all this, and half the fun of travel is planning to me, so Google how to do it, and do it. Waiting in line sucks no matter where you are. Waiting in line on an expensive Italian vacation is a hell that would make Dante cringe. Hit a couple of great sites in Florence on Day 2 then get yourself a car and drive to...

Wine Country! - Real Tuscany happens in the hills. I would take 2-3 days to do Chianti (Radda and Panzano) - Montalcino and Pienza - San Gimignano - spend 1 day exploring each of these options (do not rush and make sure to eat well)

Bologna/Parma - go here and eat all the classics like Ravioli, Tortellini, Prosciutto, Parmigiano, and Balsamic - great towns, easy to drive in and out, and not nearly the number of foreign tourists (1-2 days)

Venice - I really love things about Venice but you MUST stay away from the central tourist areas - you MUST go to the islands (take the early ferries so you can get back to Venice by 2PM lunch and avoid paying for expensive island food) See the sites as early as they open, then wander around enjoying your day while the hordes crowd around eating shitty ice cream and wearing horrible clothes. Eat lots of seafood, drink loads of wine in the wine bars everyday before dinner. Stare at the wonders of water travel before flying home.

This is in my opinion an aggressive itinerary. Any more stuff than this and you will hate it. If you plan to return to Italy then just do Rome 6 days Florence 2 Siena 2 - Tuscan Wine Country 4 :-)

10 Things to Know and Myths busted

1. Pizza in Rome is an anytime meal (lunch and snack hours best). Pizza south of Rome is generally eaten only at dinner as the ovens are not fired up until evening. There are some Rome pizzerias that serve only at night but those serve whole round pizzas. The tasty square kind served throughout the day by the slice are fun to mix and match. Order by weight and eat on the go.

2. You do not have to order every course in a restaurant. Order what you want to eat. Be adventurous. Look around you and order things you see on the tables. Pointing works if your Italian is non-existent.

3. Breakfast in Italy is not hearty unless you are staying at a nice hotel or agriturismo. If you love breakfast (like me) buy some meat and cheese at the store and shove it down before leaving your hotel each day. Then order coffee and a pastry like everyone else. (you need not order food to enjoy a great coffee if you prefer to skip the sweets)

4. Do everything you can to make sure your own telephone works in Italy. Set up an international plan on your phone and get lots of texts and data. Getting an Italian phone can be done, but visits to the phone store wastes a ton of time. Use your US phone and budget the extra $100 bucks it may add to your bill

5. Pack lightly - Italy is a small country with lots of small spaces. I can offer suggestions how to pack if you ask me directly. However, for this piece I will simply say if you bring too much to Italy, you will hate yourself, and old ladies on public transportation will hate you! My travel friends and I compete on who can bring the least shit on a trip. It's a worthy competition.

6 Hire Guides - expats, especially ones with blogs about food, wine, and life in Italy are wonderful. I can suggest guides for many regions and a little investment will go a long way to your overall success as a first-time Italy traveler.

7. Plan heavily but be flexible - Do your research and have contingencies if something sucks. If you hate Rome, leave early. If you love Radda in Chianti and want to stay an extra day..stay! An old friend always said "never leave a good party hoping the next one might be better" if the place you are is stealing your heart, then let it be stolen.

8. Cab drivers in Rome suck...really bad! use the buses, the metro, and the trains. Walk if you can and have time (and you should). If you must use a cab make sure and ask them the fare in advance...which also sucks. Driving in Rome is also pure unadulterated hell and should be avoided.

9. Italians are not circus animals and they do not want to do tricks for you. Don't ask them to twirl pizza, throw pasta against a wall, or sing some fucking folk song for your listening pleasure. Keeping this in mind, Italians can be entitled, lazy, and intentionally vague. The fact is that all people are people and generally, people prefer to do things in their own way. Respect this and yourself. Don't give or take shit.

9. Try not to dress badly, but you do not have to wear a dress or suit everywhere. Italians frequently wear ugly clothes and have bad hair like we do, they just have their own ways to do it. Hipster glasses are standard and t-shirts are common among many. However, looking like an extra from Duck Dynasty is not cool. Somewhere between Mad Men, Anderson Cooper, and Honey boo-boo should suffice.

10. Don't spit, put your feet on things, go barefoot in public (or really ever outside of the beach). Do not flip anyone off, or try to buy anyone's attention in any way at a bar, restaurant, or airport counter.

These are the Italy Rules and you must abide by them. No matter what, you will have moments that are so sublime they will hardly be done justice by your memories, just as you will have days that will just suck. Italy is slow. Italians are less and less hopeful of their country, and the monuments are starting to decay faster than they can be repaired. I believe in all of this that Italy will have its generational renaissance and will continue to be one of the finest collections of art, people, and culture on the planet.

I look forward to your comments.

Father Figures and Ford Mustangs - Part 2

A Classic

This is the continuation of Father Figures and Ford Mustangs Part 1

The speedometer only went to 85  in those days, and it had been pegged since before the last gear change. Andrew's eyes were fixed firmly on the road, while Kelly and Angie vied for rearview mirror territorial supremacy. Mike nervously glanced from the girls, to the road, to the speedometer, and around again, while his palms filled with sweat that he wiped against the gelled sides of his hair. EAGLE 97 had been playing horrible music all night, and when Mister Mister's Kyrie made its third pass for the evening, Andrew reached his right hand from the wheel, and without so much as a peek at the dash, he quickly pushed the milky gray cassette tape into the deck.

As if it had been pre-cued, the first few notes of George Michael's Father Figure began to pop and hiss as it pushed loudly from the factory sound system. In 1988 anyone who was anyone had a "system". An Alpine head unit, class A amps, Kicker subs, and the ability to rattle windows in a windowless high school, were all prerequisites for having one's car considered "dope." Andrew's Mustang had no aftermarket audio equipment. Unbeknownst to the student body, the car was a lease, and no meddling with factory installed components was allowed.

Had the car belonged to anyone else at the school, they would likely have been labeled a "poser"; however, no one would have had the sack to apply that label to Andrew. While not particularly gifted athletically, he played every sport. A pretty boy in the eyes of even the most cynical and jilted teenagers, he won Homecoming King by a record margin. In a redneck town, where the sale of alcohol was divided along religious boundaries, and the property taxes along racial ones, his popularity knew no borders. The night Mike Tyson knocked out Michael Spinks quicker than boy's first orgasm, every manner of race, creed, and political faction was watching at Andrew's place.

He had the world on his plate, yet Mike always thought Andrew seemed sad underneath his polished exterior. Until this moment at least. As the intro began to Father Figure, Andrew once again moved his right hand from the steering wheel to the dash, where he quickly spun the volume knob up to its max. George Michael's first words were met with an atonal uprising from 3 directions. Andrew and the two girls began belting out the tune as if they had staged the curtain to go up at precisely 125 MPH. Mike was immediately appalled by the dissonant lack of harmony, and then became downright frightened when Andrew removed both hands from the wheel and began to plead with the rushing air, pulling both fists in tight as he wailed to the muggy night air.

"That's all I wanted, just to seeee my baaaaaaby's blue-eyed shine (all making sounds trying to imitate the orchestration...and failing) This time i think that my lover Understands me  (all: UNDERSTANDS ME (yelling) If we have faith in each other Then we can be Strong.......

At this point, Andrew turns the actual song down so that he and the girls can hear themselves singing more clearly. They all take in mighty breaths of hot 100 MPH wind, and begin belting out the chorus, while stunned bovine and night owls sought shelter.

"I will be your Father Figure, put your tiny hand in mine, I will be your preacher teacher, anything you had in mind" Then Andrew goes off script and cuts to the end... no hands on the wheel, eyes closed, knees guiding the path. "I will be YOUR...YOUR Teacher....and I'll be your Daddy" suddenly, his hips swayed right and the Mustang veered violently towards the ditch!

Mike, without hesitation, ripped his hands from his wind-blasted coiffure and grabbed for the wheel. His head met a lunging Angie's as they both attempted to steer a new course for these rock n' roll refugees. Andrew calmly came to from his bacchanal, applied the brakes deftly, and just as the right front wheel reached the edge of the pavement, he steered the black Mustang back onto the asphalt.

Kelly spoke up and said, " I need to pee" as Angie and Mike reeled from their collision. Unconsciously, Mike went back to pushing against his slick-downed sideburns. They were less than a mile from town after the near-accident. They eased their way back along Betchnik road pulled into the local convenience store chain, "My Brother's Place" on the outskirts of town.

"I thought we were going to crash Mike exclaimed." "I didn't" said Andrew, with a wry smile and a quick glance in the rearview at the two beautiful girls climbing out to visit the restroom.

"Oh yeah, why is that?" Mike asked indignantly, with far more confidence than this group would typically allow him.

Without a word, Andrew reached down, and with one hand pushed the eject button on the tape player.  He caught the projectile with the same hand in a move he must have made a thousand times, and in the same motion, flicked the cassette onto Mike's lap, and said "because we had FAITH son....because we had FAY-THU- FAY-THU Faith!"

Father Figures and Ford Mustangs

Twilight Road - Ellis County

Father Figures and Ford Mustangs is series of fiction on the actions and dreams of a young man, reared in rural Texas. The series is part of my upcoming book and my first piece of new prose for The Housewrighter.

Mike pushed hard on the sides of his head, attempting to hold his hair flat against the force of the wind blowing from the open convertible top. His chemically straightened mop was no match for Ellis county roads at high rates of speed. He was reluctant to grasp the top of his overgrown bangs so he didn't come off  like Audrey Hepburn on a scooter in Roman Holiday. He knew he still looked completely ridiculous, but his self-conscious calculations could not be restrained, and so he continued to push, looking more and more like he was covering his ears to block the shriek of a passing ambulance. With his hands occupied, the bolo tie round his neck swished back-and-forth across his gaunt torso. While he was the second tallest guy in his class of 300, he thought his height insignificant supported by a mere 155 pounds. The discounted Guess jeans he wore were easily a 1/2 inch too short for gangly legs. The black and white printed rayon shirt made his pale skin appear pearlescent, and his dark brown eyes seemed as black and one-dimensional as a shark's. Still, a booming voice, laser -wit, and a fervent curiosity made him gregarious enough to ask questions that well-heeled kids would not have asked. He did not belong in this fast-moving foursome, but he was good company, especially when no one else was around. He would later understand the true nature of being the sidekick.

Angie, in the backseat, let her flowing raven locks whip with the gale. Mike noticed how the ends of her hair slapped aggressively at her high cheekbones, and yet she did nothing to prevent it. She was locked into the music, the speed, and sadly Mike thought, the driver. Andrew was cool without equal, handsome beyond reproach, and was the first to sport a real navy bomber jacket after the release of Top Gun. The enormous question vexing Mike on this evening, besides was this particular high-speed junket through Garret, TX going to be his last, was: who did he love more, Angie or Andrew?

Only a year prior, in his sophomore year, Mike was an honor student, addicted to basketball, board games, and vocabulary words. Cool was a manifestation of his own ideas, the path he followed was cut through the marsh of his own nightly imaginings. The wants of puberty, the need for physical release, and the camaraderie associated with the other sex was not yet a concern. The Bard, Juan, and the two Dereks had been his usual companions. Their carefully planned weekends involved premature pattern baldness beer buys, campouts, drinking truth, masturbation dares, and the kind of unity that could only be disrupted by oxygen inhalation and sunrises. He often wondered how this could change, and frequently, he just questioned why his friends could be so short-sided. Why did they need girlfriends, and what was he missing? Mother tried to reassure him that his time would come, he would love and be loved, and that all of this would be a bad dream. Accepting that was basically self-mutilation. Acknowledging that life would get better, once it got bigger, was a copout. He had no capacity for patience, nor strategy. If being cool was now the game, then the game was on, and he would simply be what he needed to be, when he needed to be it.

Kelly had money. Her Dooney and Bourke purse collection made the blue-collar girls seethe with envy. She often changed purses between classes depending on the temperature in the upcoming window-less classrooms. The small clutch worked much better with the cashmere sweater for English class, while the full-strap in bright pink was very cute with a lab apron in chemistry. She drove a red Saab convertible with a manual transmission. Her aggression with the stick followed her to the bedroom, Mike supposed. She was bitchy in an adult way, in a Mother sort of capacity. Humor, sarcasm, and prodding could sometimes bring her to offer an uncomfortable smile, but typically, she simply pushed at her hair, or tugged at her skirt, when confronted with a confusing (i.e. intelligent) remark. All of this being said, he still imagined her naked on occasions when he felt slighted, and that was often. It mattered little, as she was only want to be wooed by Andrew's class. Older, wealthier, and of preferable genetic stock, there would be no consideration of less, not without more Mad Dog, and much, much more privacy.

The 1987 Mustang GT 5.0 was the most spectacular car on the market. 3 boys drove them in Ellis county. A bright red convertible with black top owned by the most elegant guy in school, a blue and grey two-tone hardtop driven by the quiet farmer turned drug merchant, and the most wonderful of all, the black on black convertible currently carving a contrail of high-speed exhaust near the Boggy Creek bridge. $28,000.00 seemed like such a deal for 225 horses of guaranteed copulation. Andrew was very secure in himself, so long as he had his entourage. Mike was always quick to volunteer for posse duty, and on this night, there was nowhere else on earth he would have chosen to be.

The Housewrighter est Arrivé

Like a force of nature, here comes The Housewrighter

 At long last, the site I have envisioned since 2010 is a reality. For those of you here from The Blissful Adventurer, thank you for your amazing support over the years. I hope you will enjoy this new iteration of my work and share once again in the comments and details of what I am posting.

What the hell is a Housewrighter? That is a great question. A friend of mine in San Francisco suggested that my previous site sounded like a new age retreat, and that I am far from new age. I agreed with him immediately, and set out to find a new name to better illustrate what I do. He mentioned that my surname carried a lot of weight, and that perhaps something incorporating it would be better for branding. While I generally despise marketing terms, I trusted him, and within a couple of days I had come up with this:

Housewrighter  - (n) A person, who through the use of words and images, foments intrigue, elation, and possibly even derision, in his/her readers. see Housewright (v) 

Housewrighting is, in essence, what I do. Since I was a child my opinions and beliefs lived beside me in the wide-open. Give me a pulpit to preach, and I will share the joys of travel, the beauty in nature, and my belief that the fastest way to a peaceful planet, is to sit down with people we do not know, and share a meal.

My stories come from a rural upbringing in Bristol, TX, living abroad in Italy, and traveling the planet, looking for community, in hungry men and women.

I once called myself a "Wine Evangelist". I believed that drinking wine in a group of semi-hostile companions would bring harmony to the table in short-order. I now know,  it is really the act of dining (with or without the wine) that can assuage the nasty nature of man. I do not travel to check places off a list. I travel to see the vision of a people, and the condition of a place with my own lenses, and my own hunting-and-pecking fingers.

Travel for me is a place where there is joy. The joy burns out the pain, and is the most calming of therapies I've ever known. My photography is an outcropping of this joy, and it now has an existence of its own. I subscribe to a philosophy learned from the great Sam Krisch, I don't intend to capture images that necessarily convey what I see when I press the shutter, I intend to capture images that suggest how I felt, when I saw them. This is the quintessential crux of my work. I will not attempt to communicate information to you from a journalistic perspective, absent of editorial content. I am going to deliver a message intended to show you something beautiful, from what sometimes are the most banal of situations, and in my own words, filtered through my imagination. Fact and Fiction are shared alike here, and the lines will frequently be grayed between these poles.

This is travel! Whether in my town, 40 miles away in San Francisco, or 8000+ in Hong Kong, I am always traveling. Because I take myself away from that which is known, and walk right the fuck into something where I have no idea what I will find. This is my adventure, my joy, and mostly my hope for the rest of my existence.

Won't you join me on this path, at least for a bit? Come aboard, pour yourself a glass of bubbles, eat something, and get lost with me.

And if you do, prepare to be Housewrighted.