(Ba)rock 'n' roll in St Paul

It's 10.30 pm. Less than an hour ago, I left the Xcel Energy Center in Downtown St Paul MN.
Over 5 hours ago, I took my spot on the sidewalk, waiting in line to get into the Xcel center to hear Barack Obama deliver his final primary speech.
My girlfriend and i were one of the 20,000 lucky ones to get in. Luckily for the 15,000 left outside, the giant screens outside delivered the words of the big O.in dazzling technisupercolor.

We took our place in line around 4ish, and crowd management was in full swing. With the amount of merchandise vendors and teenagers, I had what was to be my first flashback from my rock festival-going days, and not my last suspicion that politics might be the new (Ba)rock 'n' roll.

We stood, read, watched the helicopters, listened to some pretty imaginative t-shirt sales pitches ("Buy one now while i have your size") until at 6pm, with the line stretching 8 to 10 blocks, the doors open and we started to move slowly forward..

As we approached the door,we were advised what we were allowed and not allowed to bring in; cameras and phones no problem. no flags or banners.
No flags or banners? How come I always see 'em on TV? Guess I'm just naive.

Finally, we're in, and one word springs to mind; Truck - O - Saurus!!!!!!!!

I guess a hockey stadium is a hockey stadium is a hockey stadium, and this one was filling up steadily, feeling just like a stadium event . The last time I was in a stadium was to see the Police, and that wasn't a capacity crowd. Mind you, Stewart Copeland is the son of God.

Before we took our seats, after standing outside for about 3 hours, a bathroom break was called for. On my way, a loud cheer rose from the stadium floor, sending hundreds running to see what the commotion was. Of course, as any rock festival devotee knows, it was nothing more than a TV camera sweeping the crowd.
I was still having trouble adjusting ; political rally! political rally! No two-fingered salutes. No air-guitar. Keep it together, Pats.

Finally sitting , with a good view of all there was to survey. directly above the podium, a bank of multi-directional screens and lights hung from the ceiling, keeping us informed with TV news feeds. As the news showed snippets of the days oratorial action from around the nation and its prospecive candidates, the assembling hordes here in St Paul reacted accordingly; cheering their man, and hissing at the bad guy. Summer, the season of the Punch and Judy show, was finally here.



at 7.31, the news tells us that Barack Obama is just nine delegates away from clinching. An hour and a half to the gig, i mean... the...well what would YOU call it? Anyway, plenty time to scan the terrain.

in the seats directly behind the podium and directly in camera shot, the flag wavers were being rehearsed by the flag-waving guy. ( wait a minute- flags? What sorcery is this?)


" 'kay so it's.....left, right....left, right....."

" Waddya think, Bawb, a bit more wavy, maybe? Huh? Ah c'n make it more wavy lookin'..."

Once the news was over, the screen could then devote itself entirely to heightening the Obama-love. First up was the song "Yes We Can", a song whose lyrical bones are made up of Barack Obama's speeches, the bones of which were in turn made up of Martin Luther King jr.'s speeches and were now being sung with studied emotion by such rock icons as John Legend and ...er...Scarlet Johannsen, and a host of other airbrushed celebs practicing their screenshots. The only one I recognized as having actually earned iconic status was Herbie Hancock ; the other son of God. Presumably different mothers.

"BANNERS, GET Y'BANNERS...."

Time was rolling on and the excitement wqs palpable. No mater how you sliced it, we were all present on a historic night, no matter what happened. At this point none of us knew the exact delegate count.


At 8 o' clock it said this.

At boiling point it said this.....


Of course the crowd here was loving it, being carried on a wave of optimism and hope. Could it be that Rock 'n' Roll could make a difference? Clearly, not on it's own; it would need Barack Obama for that. Mind you, given that Rock 'n' Roll would seem these days to hold the same place in youth consciousness as a candy bar, that's hardly surprising.

"Waddya mean, no beer tent?"

But cynicism is easy, and with a quick scan of the unfolding proceedings, effortlessly squashed.
20,000 people had gathered with faith that the future's looking good, that there is real hope for an improved country and that this guy will light the way.

of course this is common to any political rally, but unlike the concert atmosphere, the common bond goes far beyond fan - adoration. most of the 20,000 people here, along with the 15,000 people outside have at some point sat down and thought " This guy could help us all improve the country we live in." - a far more powerful unifying thought than " Dude, I have all their albums."

Finally, the time had come. At 9.11pm , Barack and Michelle Obama took to the stand. The cheers were long and deafening. Michelle left the stage and Barack took his place.


"Can you tape Law & Order? I'll be home in an hour ..."



5 hours earlier, I had begun my wait. As a friend of mine once said to Dave Van Ronk, "This better be good...." . Once the hysteria had faded a little, he spoke.

Each sentence was concise and to the point, and the man delivered each point with clarity and confidence exuding graciousness, strength and calm, respectful to his opponents, eager to meet the challenges ahead, and in a calm steady voice he declared " Because of you I can stand here and say that I will be the Democratic nominee for the President of the United States of America". In a sea of ecstatic support, incessant chanting, and teenage girls losing their shit, he presented himself as a rock, a beacon in the maelstrom, and I was left thinking," Barack, if you can walk it like you talk it, there's some fine days ahead."

He spoke for exactly one half hour and said goodbye, which was met with the chant "YES WE CAN!" rising from the arena. As an immigrant without full citizenship, I feel my sole chant of "NO I CAN"T" was probably a little lost.

Volunteering in Lima, Peru

Friday May 18 2007

Stayed in Barranco last night, a reasonably affluent neighbourhood with a strong sense of the past; many of the larger streets are dotted with crumbling facades in the Spanish colonial style. Their architectural beauty still shines through although if they don't receive extensive restoration work their days are most definitely numbered.

Although the area has many bars and restaurants and picturesque promenades to attract the tourist, one is well advised to be aware of pick-pockets and crooks - we found only one currency exchange that we trusted not to offer forgeries. It's all too common for the unwitting tourist to receive counterfeit soles. On trying to spend the forgeries, the shopkeeper will call the police, who will in turn demand "payment" from the unhappy traveler to sort everything out - a handy, largely untraceable scam.

Saturday May 19

We are driven to Ate (At-ay) where we will work and live for the week.

According to the 2005 census by the INEI, the district has 419,663 inhabitants and a population density of 5,399.7 persons/km². In 2005, there were 105,190 households in the district. It is the 13th most populated district in Lima.
It's about a half hour from Barranco. From the windows of our combi van, as the cityscape slowly disappeared, we could see from the highway, dusty barren hills with scattered one- or two-room square flat-roofed structures. Most were made of brick. Some of wood, some roofless. They lined the road in a haphazard way and sprawled back and up into the hills until they were no more than specks on the dull brown earth.
"We must be getting close" I thought. I was wrong.

As the road narowed, the neighborhood closed in around us. Small, delapidated corner stores were almost near enough to touch, as were the rickshaw repair shops and the oddly out-of-place looking internet 'cafe".
children, dogs and chickens roamed freely and at times in seemingly equal number, and the smell of urine and faeces intermittently peppered the air, which was becoming increasingly thicker with dust and pollutants.
"This must be it" I thought. Once again I was wrong.

The asphalt, potholed uneven road we had been traveling disappeared and we found ourselves traveling a rough dirt road that belched dust in our wake and greeted us with rocks, holes and and impromptu rubbish piles of bags, animal carcasses and waste - there's no running water here and precious few toilet facilities.

The homes were just feet away from us now and the humble living conditions were within full view.

For the most part, we saw homes of four walls built from brick and mortar, somewhere between 15 to 20 ft square, with a flat roof. Slate is expensive, and many of the roofs are slipshod affairs, some made of reed frames overlapping each other, some of cardboard, plastic sacking or scrap wood.




The area is spreading up into the hills, filling with newcomers from rural areas in search of a better life. These new homes are wooden shacks that straddle a new road flattened from the granite rock. The road is essential if the residents want water which is delivered by truck. The large tank empties via hosepipe to individual 30 gallon barrels outside the homes. 1 sole - about 30 cents, fills the barrel.

As the area spreads, the road needs to be continued. Where this needs to happen, the new residents get together with iron bars, picks and sledgehammers and do this by hand. When we arrived, about two dozen residents, men and women ranging in age from about 15 to fifty, were busy hammering at the granite in the evening sun.



We were met with warm smiles and open arms by the locals, who are glad to see these tall gringos (peruvians are generally smaller than the average westerner) who had come to help out. These people don't actively seek charity. Rather than expect us to do anything for them, it seems they understand that we're here to work by their side and share their workload.

Sunday May 20th

Our main contact in the Ate region was a guy called Dave Costello. Dave is a Catholic priest who is much respected in the area, which is made up of almost 100% devout catholics. Having worked beside Dave, though, it becomes apparent that his main motivation is not so much in the conversion of heathens but more the improvement of living conditions and the furnishing of basic amenities for all, regardless of religious afiliatioon.

We lived with Dave because, frankly , it was safer. This, like many impoverished communities around the world, suffers from it's fair share of street crimes, drug and alcohol abuse, domestic violence, rape and incest. We never walked anywhere alone. Going to the tiny corner store was always done in packs. The store, like all in the area, sold cigarettes singly for 30 centimos - about 10 cents. The gringo who can afford a whole pack of twenty - unthinkable to most residents - is an obvious target for the less scrupulous, not to mention the desperate. Think what else we must have -leather wallets, cell phones, watches, passports ( a huge black market value). We were relatively safe at Dave's house, considerably safer than if we had stayed with local families.

Sunday morning came early, with Dave celebrating mass in the open air in the heart of the district at 7.30 am. For the devout in our group, it was a chance to share mass with the local community. For the rest of us, it was a simple act of solidarity -we were in this together for a short period of time to get some things done. This feeling ws mutual, which became apparent as soon as mass ended; the teenagers who had sang and played guitars during the mass made it clear they wanted the musical ones in our group to play with them and dance while some of the kids gave us home made chocolate which was delicious.

At that time of the morning, a fellow volunteer and I grabbed guitars and delivered a fairly bleary-eyed version of Stand By Me and a few other things, and then danced with some of our new friends. We proved no match for their energy at that time of the morning, and were glad of the invite back to one of the local women's home to sit and enjoy coffee.

When we got there, we sat on long wooden benches at a table in the center of here one-room home under a roof of plastic sack and cardboard. The home quickly filled up with 12 gringos and at least as many locals eager to interact with us. We were served sweet coffee in paper cups, bread rolls with goats cheese, and a sweet pastry i couldn't quite recognise, we were acutely aware that although this was a modest presentation by our standards, it was far more food than any of these folks could afford comfortably, we accepted graciously , eager not to offend. We each introduced ourselves in broken Spanish and English, and after about an hour, headed off in the wake of much hugging and expressions of thanks on both sides.We gringos were moved and uplifted by the warmth and open-heartedness of our hosts.



We later learned that the woman of the house had only borrowed the table for our visit, and returned it after we had left.

MOnday 21st

At 8.30, we went to the building site to work on the new church/community center. We spent five days with the bricklayers and the foreman/conractor, Sulka.

Sulka is a middle aged, good humored father of two with an eagerness to please his employer, and a keen curiosity for the english language. In fact between us, the main entertainment between us all was the swapping of spanish and english words and phrases.

Emir, at 29, is the youngest on site and worked with speed and accuracy and enjoyed sharing a joke. Also a phenomenal soccer player.

Santiago, or "machucha" as he was introduced to me, is by far the oldest at 59 ( the average life expectancy in this region is in around 55) and worked harder than most men I've ever seen, only lifting his head from his job in response to a question from Sulka, or a break for water -
always much welcome in the 80 degree heat with a throat full of dust. I learned later that "Machucha" meant something like "old man"

More than once did Machucha see me struggle with a 50 kilo bag of mortar mix only to lift it out of my hands with apparent ease and deliver it to it's destination without breaking a sweat, and return to his wall, putting the next brick in place. Everyday he started a half hour before me and finished a half hour after I left in the evening.

These skilled laborers were earning 40 soles a day, about 13 USD or 10 EUR.



Byy the end of the week we had raise the walls to roof level, at which point the Peruvian contingent took making the structure earthquake-proof using steel rods and concrete/gravel mix.

At the end of the week , we all ate dinner at a newly finished soup kitchen that a previous group of volunteers worked on earlier in the previous year.

A representative from each group said a few words before parting. We thanked the guys we'd worked with for the camaraderie, the little bit of Spanish we picked up and for welcoming us with such openness. They thanked us in turn, but before they did, they thanked God for the work.

East Coast Tour in March

New London

New London, NH hadn't seen this much snow since 1876. It also hadn't seen the band i was in town with ( the Cathie Ryan Band). It was my first time there also, so we were all just getting to know each other; 3 musicians, about 5 feet of snow and nearly 1,000 students and faculty members n historic New London.

The Colby Sawyer College made sure we were fed and housed for a couple of nights, and we spent most of our time off ooh-ing and aaah-ing at the picture -postcard scenery.
It's a small town with one "tavern" and store fronts that are really modified colonials or brownstone houses. Norman Rockwell comes to mind, as does, on this particular visit, the urgent need for ear-muffs. The wind harassed every physical protrusion into submission, and sunk the temperatures to any number you can think of as long as it's preceded by a minus sign.

The gig was good, with a strong number of the 1,000 strong student body and faculty listening attentively as the wind outside was no doubt skinning some unwitting mammal to the bone.

As cold as it was though I was glad I had been outside earlier to see the turquoise of the mid-day sky slowly deepen as the day grew longer, and watch the sun slowly disappear behind virgin snow.

As with most of New England, you're never too far from history, especially in communities of this size - it's hard for an outsider to deduce which came first, the town or the college.
In small towns like this one, it feels as if the pilgrims are not quite a thing of the past, but that they had just popped out for a minute, and rather than hear anybody say "The British are coming", one might be more likely to hear "The british are over there, turn left at the coffee house - you can't miss 'em".
Although the word "quaint" doesn't quite cut it here, the town does have a life outside of it's picture-postcard quality .......

( oh but it's so cuuuute....)

In season it attracts skiers, and so needs a hotel, an Inn, a coffee house, and a ski supply store, all of which are housed in colonial style houses, thus maintaining New London's old-world feel.

All in all, New London may not be a destination in itself unless you're a skier, or just of a curious nature, but definitely worthy of a leg-stretching break in a long drive and a few good lungfuls of mountain air.

Newark, New Jersey

It was late and wet when we arrived at the Robert Treat Hotel in Newark. The lobby was a hive of activity; from the bar, dance music pumped it's hypnotic beat for the drunken revelers. The reception area was non-stop, with a small swarm of new check-ins eager to get to their beds.
While waiting in line, I couldn't help but notice a certain "vibe". Many young men were either over dressed or under-wearing what looked like low-brow high-end suits and hats, while maintaining slightly shifty demeanors. Maybe I'm a little over-imaginative, but I got the impression that any one of them would know how to use a baseball bat in a less than sportsman-like fashion.

Room key in hand, i took the elevator to floor 12. The room was small and comfortable with ambient noise bleeding in from the hallway; running, some garrulous laughter, arguing.
Next door, a high whistling sound that oscillated in pitch, emanated from behind the wall periodically through the night, leading me to conclude that my neighbor was either a shortwave radio enthusiast or a dolphin.

Next morning before soundcheck i took a 12th floor look over Newark. The weather - grey and rainy - gave the place a kind of Dickensian feel, and somehow, it fit the mood of the place; a work-a-day place with a rainbow of characters braving the elements, and a beautiful symphony hall, just around the corner from the hotel- if you ever find yourself in the area and in the mood for a show, check out this venue in all it's finery.

Not quite Dickensian but old-school none the less are the pump attendants at the gas stations in the Garden state. No card-swiping action here; just like the old days you get to say things like 'fill 'er up' or "just gimme twennie bucks". You won't find THAT in the brochures I tells ya....

Washington DC

Far more informed accounts of the various historic sites of DC are available to the curious reader, so i'll stick to my personal experience and not even try to compete with those most learned tomes.
I had a few days off on my east coast tour, and decided to hit the nation's capital for a look-see


Between the monuments and museums, there was way too much ground to cover in the 2 and a half days until my next gig, but keeping in mind that fortune favors the brave, I just started at one end and covered what I could.


Not knowing my way around town, I picked a train stop downtown and went in search of breakfast to fuel the first half of my 2 and a half day culture-sprint. The sunny March morning streamed down through the office buildings, and the many many suits moved fast and deliberately - the denim jeans could be counted on one hand. I settled for a sandwich from a chain sandwich place and watched the suits feeding - it was about lunch time. As one of the the few denim wearers in the area, i felt like I should be in a camouflaged tent with binoculars lest I disturb the button-down wildlife, but the place was comfortable so I just sat and wondered at the fast-paced uniformity parading before me.

Onward to the Monuments, and the second most noticeable sight on the horizon was the seemingly never ending stream of school groups and families, and just like me , they wandered with a slightly upward gaze, in awe of the impeccable craftsmanship that towered above us, drawing each one of us in - one hand clutching a camera, one finger poised on the shutter button.
The monuments themselves are awe inspiring in stature,and for reasons mentioned earlier, i'm not about to catalogue them here. But.....

Suffice to say that the Washington monument is both awesome and interesting in the story of it's development which was stunted about halfway due to the war, and also the financial contribution of a Catholic organsation - something the protestant monument developers took umbrage with. The Lincoln monument, especially the Colorado marble seated statue of the man himself seems to project a quiet, noble serenity, and the 7 acre FDR memorial provides much food for thought, peppered as it is with quotes from his speeches.

So ended day 1


As a a starting point the next morning, the Smithsonian, in all it's glory, was an obvious starting point - from the castle information center and it's serene flower gardens, it's a short jaunt to the air and space museum. On the way there, though, I couldn't resist a quick detour into the Hirshhorn museum of Modern art - a beautiful cylindrical building with an eclectic collection of artists over three floors.
The building itself is an experience - literally walking in circles past paintings and sculptures and video installations draws the viewer ever inward the work of Louise Nevelson spring into memory.

Onward , speedily, to the aforementioned Air and Space Museum , the most visited museum in the world, where hordes of teens and exasperated teachers and parents milled around in ordered chaos between sattelites, military aircraft and impressively large models of unimaginably large planets.



Because the American History Museum is under renovation, a small microcosm of it's contents are housed in one corner of the Air and Space Museum.
I'm not sure that I'm fully tuned in to the subtler nuances of American culture through the ages, so maybe it will always escape me me how President Lincoln's hat and a baseball signed by Babe Ruth shares space with Jerry Seinfeld's puffy shirt and a laptop used by Sarah Jessica Parker's character in Sex and the City.

All this learning is hungry work, so it came time to feed the ol' noodle.
The food court consisted of three major Mcfranchises laid out in a "pay here- pickup there"/communist russia style arrangement, maximising the easy flow of burger-chomping school kids with matching school sweaters.
It didn't warrant sticking around too long, so with a burger and fries gone and already forgotten , it was time to head back out there.....

The amount of information available here, from the wright brothers, through the world wars and into the universe and man's exploration of the heavens, is almost overwhelming, and a hell of a lot of fun and definitely worthy of spending one whole day, should you have the mind to. My mind was fried by the time I got to something to do with comets, so before a complete meltdown occurred, I decided to hit the Museum of African Art, located on the Smithsonian Castle grounds.

A small building with a bright, spacious, modern interior, it includes tribal art from mostly eastern and central africa, ranging from the slightly disturbing (masks made of skin), to the incredibly beautiful, displaying a breathtaking level of craftsmanship (ivory bracelets carved with the minutest detail). As well as that, the schoolkid-free environment served as a great way to decompress after the hectic Air and Space experience.
with weary limbs and feet that were begging for mercy, I decided to call it a day.

For the last day, I figured I'd split it in half; in the morning, the natural history museum, in the afternoon, the Holocaust Museum.

Once more, the most prominent display at the natural history museum were the hordes of fledgling bipeds with their matching school sweaters and cacophonous social rituals. Navigating through the swarm, the ground floor serves as a walk through the earth's pre-history with it's plant and animal fossils, and on into the world of todays mammals - an enlightening stroll with plenty of interactive exhibits aimed mainly at the aforementioned bipeds, but distracting enough for the hopelessly immature.

Upstairs, the minerals and gemstones on display are breathtaking, and the explanation of how they were formed is educational and fascinating without being overly technical.\

Altogether, an educational celebration of the earth's rich cornucopia of life and it's delicate balance.

A few blacks away, the holocaust museum.

Having left the museum, about a block away, I spotted a headline at a news stall declaring that Willie Nelson suggested in a recent radio interview that maybe the attacks on the World Trade Center were an inside job. "Oh c'mon Willie", I thought, " that's unthinkable..."

Alexandria VA

Alexandria VA, a satellite town of the capital, has it's morning and evening migration of suits, and once that's done with , seems to get on with the business of being a picturesque, historic downtown with quaint shop fronts and eateries, and a pretty laid back feel.

We played one night there, and for my days off, it was easier just to hang in a hotel there and avail of the easy commute into the capital.

The first of the many eateries to catch my eye was Eamonn's - " A Dublin Chipper" the logo proclaimed. I snorted a cynical snort, but rebuked myself immediately, and decided to sample some of the fare on offer.

The small comfortable interior is reminiscent of a Dublin pub; hardwood floors and wooden paneling, and the similarity didn't stop there; one lone Guiness tap stood by the register. hmmmm........



I ordered fish and chips and a pint of the old country's most famous brew.

The battered cod and chips ( what the rest of the world calls french fries) were cooked to perfection and came complete with malt vinegar, salt and pepper, and the Guinness was excellent - cool ,smooth and creamy, and for a fish and chip shop to get it right is no mean feat, given that so many bars get it wrong.
My earlier cynicism was sent yelping for the door with it's tail between it's legs and a look of hard-earned humility, and once out of he way I was left to chow down with little else to distract me from the humble yet mighty feast before me.

The following night , it was time to explore something a little more exotic.
La Tascas , across the street, is a large luxurious Tapas bar with exceedingly friendly staff and a broad menu. one menu item springs to mind; the sauted spinach with pine nuts and raisins, yummy. Probably some others would spring to mind if the sangria hadn't been so good. 'Guess I'll just have to go back....




Damn you. sweet liquor....

A few blocks away, one of Aexandria's more historic eateries occupies a quiet corner just off of the main drag; The Gadsby Tavern boasts from it's sandwich board that " George Washington ate here". It did not clarify, however, if George enjoyed the experience or not, and there was more town to see.
The main downtown area is a pleasure to walk around, soaking up the quiet pedestrian pace, browsing the shop fronts and side streets, and were it not for the siren-like call of the capital's many museums, I could easily have indulged in long lazy days exploring the sights and sounds of this historic harbor town. Maybe next time.

Milwaukee

Er....me?

Aah... Milwaukee. For some reason , these two words (is the first one a word?) seem to go together. Although I've only ever set foot in it twice, I feel as though we've known each other a long long time.
The first trip saw me almost completely confined to the festival grounds, and were it not for a good friend and Milwaukee native hatching an escape plan, I might never have sampled some of the older, hipper neighborhoods with the cool coffeehouses and old factory buildings now boasting prime studio and loft space. Milwaukee's industrial roots are no distant memory, making it's atmosphere old-world but in no way romanticized. It's charm is real and gritty. It's people, at least the ones I met, down-to-earth and plain old friendly.

On my second trip, the first night was spent at the Old Towne Inn, right down town , lending an opportunity for some real exploring. The weather was bitter cold, naturally, it being early March. but having just flown from DC, something of a rude awakening for the extremities of a weary traveler.

Brrrrrr......

The Inn is a modest and friendly a affair with a basement bar called The Speakeasy that oozed with unassuming character(s), but more on that later. Once checked in to the room, it was time to check out the town. As eager we were to explore , we were also eager not to freeze to death, so we swung around the first available corner to find, luckily enough, the Rockbottom Brewing Co.

It's big and it's got beer in it

A fine array of crafted beers in a fine old building with a large restaurant leading to a comfortable bar. A friendly, knowledgeable bar tender gave us the grand tour of there homebrewed beverages and left us to our devices.

Later that evening , we found Buck Bradley's, for the carnivore, great Brats and hot dogs in the dining area, and afterwards, a digestif at the longest bar in the city, or so we are led to believe.

That's pretty long.....

After a leisurely stroll around the downtown to take in the night air, it was time for a nightcap at the hotel's "Speakeasy" bar before bed. There we found the perfect people-watching experience to end the evening; the friendly barman nodded a heavily dreadlocked hello. We ordered a drink at the bar and wondered if we were blending in with the loosely scattered clientele, a melange of budget traveler, savvy local and nighthawk. Although the name "Speakeasy" can only be a cosmetic in this day and age, I was hard pressed to think of a more fitting alternative. Maybe it was the basement setting or the late hour, but I had a sneaking feeling that I was getting away with something............

Ah.....St Paul, Minnesota....

Saint Paul MN

A sporadically updated account of a city and it's stuff

So here I am,

It's lunch time and I'm in the Ginkgo Coffee House on Snelling and Minnehaha.
I've played solo shows here in the past and, between many of us lone guitar-slinger/troubador types, Ginkgo's is "on the map" as one of the better places to play.

As I sit, the salsa wrap stares up at me from beside my tea, and as soon as I'm done with letting you good folk know about this place, their destiny will indeed manifest.


Local radio spills from behind the counter with it's eclectic mix of acoustic and jazz sounds. The baristas groove along, and the patrons relax in an altogether 'lunch time at Ginkgo's" kind of a way.

Ok, I need to eat, so I'll sign off. You should come here. It's good. Heck, I'll even give you directions, just holler.

A Saint Paul Moment

I was in a bank, taking care of bussiness.i handed my driver's licence to the clerk and saw a thin smile I knew well. I awaited some variation on a remark i was all too familiar with; "Patrick O'Brien? Don't tell me - you're Irish.' or something to that effect.
However, the blond blue-eyed 20-something in front of me looked up and said with a smile " Patrick O'Brien? I know how you feel - my name is Bjorn Iverson".

And sometimes indeed, Scandinavian myth and lore did not seem so far away:
One Saturday motning I found myself in a mall needing change, so i hit an early saturday morning popcorn store to break a twenty. I approached the counter, where a long, spotty kid with dark hair made himself busy with a loose array of cookies, candies and popcorn. Rustling sounds came from some back room - the sound of stacking boxes and plastic wrap. I approached the first kid.
"How much are the cookies?" I inquire. The kid stares at the cookies for a second, then turns to the rustling noises;
"Hey Thor, how much for the cookies?"

Thor? Really? C'mon.....really?
Thor did indeed appear from the back room, a lot thinner than I expected, and without any evidence of Sturm, Drang, anvil or hammer, he says "cookies are one seventy three." and returned to stacking boxes.

A little more about St Paul

Walking around downtown st paul is a bit like looking at someone with a really interesting face - someone on a train you just can't figure out " maybe he's a doctor. A sailor maybe? lion tamer?monk?". A face as enigmatic as a ghost and as rooted in the earth as an oak tree.

Walking east on Kellog boulevard, The ultra modern science center- all concrete and polished steel, boasts an imax screen and cutting edge traveling exhibits and overlooks the mighty MIssissippi.

Immediatetly across the street , the St Paul public library stands grand and proud, funded by James J Hill, railroad mogul who made his fortune in the days of the pioneer, and whose mansion is now open to the public on Summit Avenue.

Kellog Boulevard is clean and broad and all together modern, but right below, running along the banks of the river, is Shpehard Road and it's accompanying rail line, leading cargo trains right through town clanging their arrival and chuffing their way westward like steel horses from another time.

That's the kind of juxtaposition that happens a lot in this city; buildings that stand serenely as testament to another time, house ultra modern stores and clubs and restaurants - products of the modern world encased in architecture evoking the roaring '20s.

A dip into the RNC

I was suffering from a bad case of Ballneck - that unfortunate affliction that arises when a beard left neglected tends to curl at the edges, thereby resembling pubic hair.

But Ballneck or not, it was summer in Saint Paul and therefore practically a public violation to be indoors when you could be outside, not to mention that it was the day of the Democratic protest march from the State Capitol to the site of the RNC Convention. This was people-watchin ground zero, so the beard would have to wait.

I gotta admit a weakness here; i'm prone to cynicism, especially at any kind of formally organised event; weddings, funerals, protest marches, so I tried to remain ongaurd and nip any derisory comments in the bud as soon as I felt 'em germinating. It wasn't always easy, and I thought I was doomed right out of the gate when my first encounter was with a clutch of young-hip "where's the revolt?"teen-rebels ; ("I'm not scared of mace - I've been maced before", she said hopefuly.)
They did have the hippest chants, though, so they added a refreshing respite from the old "Wadda we want? - When do we wannit?" routine.


Fashionistas

At the gathering point, the State Capitol, police presence was low key, and the atmosphere was calm - hardly anyone saw the armed security on the opposite roof and most of the fun was on the stage where outraged democrats delivered outraged speeches to a crowd of outraged democrats.



"What he said...."


By the time we all got moving, I had seen as much as i could of the interesting banners in the 15,000- strong crowd ( mainstream media estimated 10,000. democrat march organizers said 30, 000. 15's about right).
We started to move and tv cameras were switched on and headed straight for the young anarchists with their flags and bandanas and acne -almost sorta threatening-lookin', and great network news fodder. Ooops! Didn't I say something about cynicicsm? Sorry. I'll be good.


The whole thing went off without a hitch. Police on horseback, police in riot gear and police on bicycles populated every intersection, watching the river of angst-ridden teens, disillusioned voters and seasoned " just-happy-to-represent" democrats followed the designated route through the downtown area .


" 'Scuse me, d'you see a riot come through here?

Later that evening it was time to take a load off in the shadow of the cathedral, where TrueBluemInnesota.com had set up a Jumbotron screen that displayed messages on social and political awareness.

Bob Parker

This is Bob. Bob's a larger than life kinda guy, although Bob doesn't see it like that. Bob is a bit like the city of St Paul itself.

St Paul doesn't meet you off the bus, and smile an exagerrated smile, swingin' it's jazz hands telling you how much you'll love it here, like Times Square or Disneyland. It'll just shake your hand, say hi, and if you find yourself loving the place, great, glad to have you.

Bob is a super- talented chef, bartender and host par excellence. although he'd never tell you. I've been lucky enough to experience all of the above first hand, which is the only way I was going to find out.

Bob likes to do things right, and then make it better. If he wanted to communicate with the dead, he wouldn't get a medium - he'd get a large. When he cooks a tenderloin, it doesn't melt in your mouth, it evaporates.

So when he told me he made the best Martini in the world, I didn't question his ability, but I did wonder at the unadorned boast. So i had to push it a little bit and ask him how he had come to his conclusion.

"Well," he said as we sat on a stoop, watching the neighborhood kids on their bikes, " I've made it in Beijing, Hong Kong, Istanbul, Seattle, London, Paris, New York....", and continued to name every major European and American capital he had worked in "...and every time , the customer has said "that's the best Martini I've ever tasted." I can't argue with that. The content of the boast was staggering, but more memorable was the shrugging delivery - humble to a fault - that just lent weight to the story.

Bob was taught to make the martini by Dick Foehrenbacher, who worked at the Algonquin Hotel, New York City, and was the Martini maker of choice for Dorothy Parker in her venomous heyday.

I've watched Bob prepare the martini, and quite a ritual it was to behold - the tilting of glasses, the igniting of lemon zest - the detail I expect from Bob, and an intrinsic part of the fun, and darned if it wasn't the best martini i'd ever tasted, but like I had to admit to Bob, I'm no connoisseur. What do I know?
What do I know indeed? Well, as a friend of mine defines a good wine with a non chalant " If you like it. it's good.", I'm still left with " It's the best martini I've ever tasted."
Next time you're in St Paul, you won't have to take my word for it.

Morning in Glacier

We headed north from Helena at about 11.30pm, after my show. We figured we'd get to glacier at around 4am in plenty time for sunrise.

Once we were off the interstate, we found ourselves winding through little towns that could be described as sleepy at anytime, but right now were literally asleep. Not even a teen reveler in search of fast food - which would have proved fruitless anyway - could be sen on the deserted sidewalks, and crafts stores boasting "authentic native americana" were barely visible in the dark, their neon signs sleeping in grey slumber.

We made it to St Mary Lake in plenty time, but not knowing exactly what time the sun would rise, we erred on the side of caution, and made it out onto our eastward overlook of the lake for 5.30 am, pitch dark and perfectly still. As we stood facing the Eastern horizon, we were aware somehow of the silent majestic mountains behind us, spreading around us and the lake in a loose embrace, sloping down to the banks with tall pines tat waited like us for the approaching sun, which at this point had sent up a thin band of gold across the edge of the horizon, slowly (very slowly) bleeding into the inky black, which slowly surrendered to azure.

Behind us, the quiet mountains were wearing tips of gold, as they've done on countless mornings, and the lake was beginning to stir; a cold breeze rippled the surface, and a family of ducks began their day, appearing from the bank and cutting their V formation into the water.

The tall pines stood like us, watching the slow procession of color rise from the horizon, and flanked each side of the lake like a silent choir bearing witness to the silent proclamation for the day ahead. The morning was upon us, and cold and tired , we hit the hay,and drifted into sleep, with shades of gold and blue behind our eyes, and the sound of breezes running through the pines.

The Hidden Lake Trail

HIdden Lake, the shortest and and easiest trail in the park, does not skrimp on spectacular views.
I guess it's called Hidden Lake because reaching the lake itself involves descending a soft gradient, allowing the mountains to surround you on every side.
Before reaching the lake, though, the partially board walked flat and grassy path into the mountain range is enough to banish any thoughts of the modern world from recent memory, at least mine; band mates and tour itineraries seemed to belong to some alter ego, and he was welcome to 'em. I was busy making new friends........



I met these two on a grassy bank, as did everybody else, about five minutes into the trail. Mom seemed to be shielding junior from a persistent breeze that blew over the rise, and as a steady stream of us t-shirt wearing bi-peds stopped to click a photo, exclaiming a cutesy "Aww" or two, Mom and junior sat completely non-plussed, with an exprssion that could have been described as boredom were it not for their quiet serenity. "Yes , they will gawp" they seemed to be thinking ' and they will click, "aaaw", and "ooh", and then they will pass. So be it."

Sure enough that's exactly what we all did, with a fresh batch of us slightly awkwad looking camera pointers coming up the rear.....

Heading onward in the afternoon sun, the fresh breeze fills the senses with the scent of wildflowers and the faint sounds of shallow brooks feeding the lake below, and as we walked surrounded by the grazing goats, swaying grasses and foraging marmots, we very naturally slipped into a slower, easier gait. Each step became a little more care free, and as one step led into another, the HIdden Lake came into view.......



The slightly hazy view was due to the forest fires that raged in other parts of the state, and we were left to imagine what kind of views a crystal clear atmosphere might have offered.


We headed down for a closer look, and the babbling brook we had heard earlier seemed like a good spot to take a load off, soak up he sights and sounds and forage in our backpacks for nuts and berries.
We ate to the sound of whispering pines, laughing, paddling children, exasperated parents, and birdsong, and for dessert, a long slow stretch across the warm rocks.




WE re-traced our steps back to the trail head, this time with the pre-lunch downward gradient turned on it's head and laughing at our burning thigh muscles. More than once on the climb didi i think of the bee in the jelly jar, and the valiant explorer of the downward trek was beginning to feel pretty whooped, and ready to run along home for milk and cookies.

On the way home we were treated to a lesson in love.......



Stage right , three males fight for the right to hold a tender hoof in theirs. Stage left, a wily pugilist lets 'em tire themselves out - looks like he's seen all this before.....

The whole trail is only 3 miles in total, and with very little gradient issues (none, if you choose not to descend to the lake shore), an easy stroll that does the heart and the soul good.

Grinnell Glacier Trail

Feeling a little emboldened by the relative ease with which we completed the Hidden Lake Trail, and after night's sleep so deep i think I left a permanent indentation on the mattress, I was ready for bigger things; the Grinnell Glacier Trail.
In any case, it's Glacier National Park, so where better to go see a glacier. The Park Ranger informed us that if we don't check one out now, we only have ten years before Glacier National Park would be more appropriately called Meltwater Park.
The Grinnell Trail is 12 miles around with a strong gradient in places and after teh first mile is constant.

As we came to the end of that first flat mile on a a narrow wooded path, we stepped out into the morning sun and a lakeside clearing , the blue of the rippling lake to our left, the slow incline to Grinnell Glacier to our right
The sunlit blue of the lake was not the only thing to or left:



There he was, about 20 feet from us, and the valiant explorer of yesterday's lake descent froze, clenching everything that could be clenched, with a million questions racing forward, screaming for attention like a class room of 10 year olds that all needing the bathroom at once:
"Does he see us?", "will he attack?", "What do we do?","Is he alone?" "Is my underwear clean?", "Is there anything behind us?","should we run?",""Which way should we run?"," Is my underwear still clean?", " "Is it too late to run?"

The bear seemed far more concerned with whatever he could find in the long grass to be bothered with us. As a matter of fact, he had a similar demeanor to the goats of yesterday; "more of these odd t-shirt types, must be that time of year" he seemed to be thinking, so we quietly and swiftly walked past with one eye over our shoulder and our pulse rates slowly relaxing.

The views on the steady incline became more and more spectacular, and somewhere up ahead within the next six miles, Grinnell Glacier itself. About half way up, we started to run into some early birds who were already on their way down, their faces red and sweating. "keep going" they panted heavily, "it's worth it."

What do they mean; "keep going" ? Of course we'll keep going. It's not Kilimanjaro we're climbing here. But , with each half mile, it started to sink in; this incline is not going away, and to our tired legs, it seemed to be getting steeper, and each mile seemed to be getting longer as we struggled in the midday sun.
The last half mile was tantalizing indeed. With each twist and turn , we expected the next corner turned to reveal panoramic views of the mighty glacier, complete with orchestral score blaring from the heavens, but instead , for what seemed an eternity, we were met with more rock and sheep droppings - i was starting to feel like a cross between Grizzly Adams and Franz Kafka.

Finally, our tired and parched bodies passed over a rocky ridge, and we were met with a welcome cold breeze from below. The glacier,or rather, what remains of it, hung below us in it's own meltwater, serene and beautiful, translucent and smooth as glass, sheltered as it was by the mountains on each side.



We stretched out on the flat slabs, warm from the sun, that ran down to the waters edge. I swung my water bottle into the freezing cold water, and no sooner was it full to the brim than i had it to my lips, dead bugs, bits of trees and all - i was parched, and to hell with the consequences ( don't try this at home.)
Luckily for me there were no consequences, save for the nagging suspicion at the back of my mind that at some point later in the day, i would be lying in the fetal position halfway down a mountain, screaming in agony and surrounded by strangers wondering why this strange Irish chap seemed to be having labor pains.

Thankfully, the descent from the glacier was uneventful and pleasant , and we found that we had evolved into the panting hikers, who said to others on the trail "Keep going. It's worth it."
Towards the end of the trail, we heard more tales of bear sightings from awkward, nervous t-shirt types like me, and at the end of the day, i had made some assumptions:

Most of us are nervous around bears, and rightly so.
Bears are not scared of us, and if anything, bemused by us, just like the goats.
The glaciers are nearly gone through no fault of the bears or the goats.
- as are polar bears, elephants, tigers....the list goes on.
Maybe our lasting legacy on this earth will be a complete absence of hundreds of previously thriving species, and an abundance of t-shirts.