16 March 2008
Atlanta
22/03/08 22:55
There is a certain ease
to living in the south. Atlanta, in spite its vast
amount of poor people, maintains a fascinating
dignity and eloquence that I haven’t seen under such
circumstances. Despite the hot, humid air - and the
fact that Downtown had just been torn apart by a
tornado - they still walk tall, and still smile. The
rhythm in their melodic language and even temper, did
in no way suffer the mood-swings of nature. A living
example of all these wonderful virtues is Homeless
Joe.
He just stood there, hanging. His body bent over from the many years of sleeping on benches and in doorways or whereever he could find shelter. Wearing beat-up sneakers, a pair of torn trainers and a blue’n’black jacket, he spotted us right away. We turned around - not in spite, but merely because we’d taken a wrong turn and hadn’t really noticed him. That’s when we heard his ragged old voice: Excuse me gentlemen, excuse me! We turned around just to realize that although the years had left him ragged and old, they had by no means robbed him of his speed. So, where are you gentlemen from, might I ask? He said and revealed his toothless grin. Denmark, we said mumbling in a mix of surprise and distrust. Homeless Joe lid up. Ahhh, that’s a great country if you don’t mind me saying so. He smiled again, looking as if he’d just met some long lost brothers. We stopped at an intersection due to the don’t walk sign and the giant sized trucks crossing our path.
I see you’re going into town, he said, nodding his head in the direction we were both looking. We nodded and looked tired at each other. Lucky for you, he said, once again flashing his grin. I’m going that way too, to the shelter - it’s just three blocks down. Great place if you ask me, he said affirmingly. Now when you go down to that neighborhood at this hour you’ll be safe, no worries. But when it gets dark, then you definitely don’t wanna go there, that’s for sure. We stopped, looked at his grinning face. Thanks for the heads up, mate. We’ll heed your advice. He looked at us, as if he’d just saved us from the trouble that only two young men traveling can get into - almost fatherly, and said: Now the shelter is such a great place. They really go out of their way to help the poor. How would you feel about helping them and the ones in need.
Homeless Joe got a few dollars, shook our hands and thanked us for helping the shelter. He turned around, walked away and we never saw him again. But the important thing is: he didn’t beg, because the proud people of the south don’t do that. He helped the strangers, the travelers in need. And in return we paid him for volunteering his time to help us. But only because we felt it should be done. Joe never asked for anything but a smile and some consideration for the ones truly in need.
Welcome to Atlanta.
He just stood there, hanging. His body bent over from the many years of sleeping on benches and in doorways or whereever he could find shelter. Wearing beat-up sneakers, a pair of torn trainers and a blue’n’black jacket, he spotted us right away. We turned around - not in spite, but merely because we’d taken a wrong turn and hadn’t really noticed him. That’s when we heard his ragged old voice: Excuse me gentlemen, excuse me! We turned around just to realize that although the years had left him ragged and old, they had by no means robbed him of his speed. So, where are you gentlemen from, might I ask? He said and revealed his toothless grin. Denmark, we said mumbling in a mix of surprise and distrust. Homeless Joe lid up. Ahhh, that’s a great country if you don’t mind me saying so. He smiled again, looking as if he’d just met some long lost brothers. We stopped at an intersection due to the don’t walk sign and the giant sized trucks crossing our path.
I see you’re going into town, he said, nodding his head in the direction we were both looking. We nodded and looked tired at each other. Lucky for you, he said, once again flashing his grin. I’m going that way too, to the shelter - it’s just three blocks down. Great place if you ask me, he said affirmingly. Now when you go down to that neighborhood at this hour you’ll be safe, no worries. But when it gets dark, then you definitely don’t wanna go there, that’s for sure. We stopped, looked at his grinning face. Thanks for the heads up, mate. We’ll heed your advice. He looked at us, as if he’d just saved us from the trouble that only two young men traveling can get into - almost fatherly, and said: Now the shelter is such a great place. They really go out of their way to help the poor. How would you feel about helping them and the ones in need.
Homeless Joe got a few dollars, shook our hands and thanked us for helping the shelter. He turned around, walked away and we never saw him again. But the important thing is: he didn’t beg, because the proud people of the south don’t do that. He helped the strangers, the travelers in need. And in return we paid him for volunteering his time to help us. But only because we felt it should be done. Joe never asked for anything but a smile and some consideration for the ones truly in need.
Welcome to Atlanta.
|
Mixing it up a bit
20/03/08 21:46
I believe that life is
sacred.
I believe that life is an epic experience if you care to look.
I believe that every moment holds value.
I believe that everyone is equally important.
I believe that life in itself is not an event.
I believe that people who treat themselves as an event are abrasive.
I believe that we forget to enjoy.
I believe that we deny ourselves value when insisting on constant categorization.
I believe that we’ve stopped exploring.
I believe we did so one hundred years ago.
I believe we need to re-explore.
I believe I’ll croke from boredom if I don’t.
I believe in creation from exploration.
I believe in exploration as the magic of synthesis.
I believe in the synthesis of my mind with the world that I explore.
I believe in moving.
I believe that life is an epic experience if you care to look.
I believe that every moment holds value.
I believe that everyone is equally important.
I believe that life in itself is not an event.
I believe that people who treat themselves as an event are abrasive.
I believe that we forget to enjoy.
I believe that we deny ourselves value when insisting on constant categorization.
I believe that we’ve stopped exploring.
I believe we did so one hundred years ago.
I believe we need to re-explore.
I believe I’ll croke from boredom if I don’t.
I believe in creation from exploration.
I believe in exploration as the magic of synthesis.
I believe in the synthesis of my mind with the world that I explore.
I believe in moving.
Hooking up with the locals
20/03/08 01:52
Arriving in a recently
tornado-struck city has a certain ring to it. And
when you’re arriving by plane the ringing gets a bit
louder. So it was with a special kind of expectation
that we made our descent to Atlanta after spending
ten mind-numbing hours in a plane (kudos to the
flight attendants who did a good job keeping my
caffeine-buzz going through the entire flight).
Getting through customs was smooth sailing (it probably helped that I was hiding absolutely nothing), and ninety minutes after we landed, we were sitting in the shuttle from the airport, going downtown. We’ve settled in at a cosy rather anonymous tourist class hotel (they call themselves “Unique” which, in terms of marketing, can be anything in the spectre from topless roaches doing backstrokes in your cereals to an unrequested upgrade)) in Cone street. It’s a lovely place, and at the moment the closest you’ll get to downtown without violating the police lockdown.
Our shopping trip was cut short by the gigantic Westin buildings' inability to hold on to its windows. They were dropping from the skies, and the police decided it was simply too dangerous to let anyone into the vicinity of the buildings. Fair call, and although I can’t be completely sure, I don’t think my insurance will cover me trespassing and being lobotomized by a 2 x3 feet pieces of falling glass.
Two things have been a pleasure getting acquainted with: the people living here and Marta. I’ve often heard of “Southern Hospitality” but must admit that I’m taken back by the level of courtesy that everyone shows a tourist (apparently it’s quite obvious). I’ve never had to look at a sign for more than thirty seconds before a local stopped an asked if I needed help. This has been in the “Five Points” transit station and even in a local mall (which seems to have the size of my hometown). In Lenox Square - the nation sized shopping mall, it took a guard on a Sedgeway below 10 seconds to sneak up on me and help (I really do think Sedgeways would be the Ninjas choice of transportation, being completely quiet and easily masking the overweight of the guard).
But great service nevertheless - but next time gimme a small “Guard incoming”-cough, or you’ll be strapping me onto the hood of the Sedgeway and driving me out of the mall humming “Amaziing Grace”.
Marta is the charming - and very well functioning - shuttle system going to and from Downtown Atlanta. It’s cheap, reliant and very, very clean. The only thing I have a hard time getting is the pricing. 1.75$ for a one way trip and 4$ for a return trip just seems strange. We spent a few minutes discussing wether it was a trap or not, and finally decided on the solution that made the least sense. A polite young man informed us of the “obvious” advantages of the expensive model, and since neither of us could really understand his rhythmic Atlanta accent, we decided to heed his advice (or what we thought it was), and pay up. Oh, and we ended up paying the polite young man as well - seemed the poor fellow had lost his wallet/forgotten his moneclip/[Insert random excuse]. But again, he was awfully helpful.
And so are everybody else. Now I just need the windows to stop falling from the skies, and I’ll be able to get out there and meet them.
Getting through customs was smooth sailing (it probably helped that I was hiding absolutely nothing), and ninety minutes after we landed, we were sitting in the shuttle from the airport, going downtown. We’ve settled in at a cosy rather anonymous tourist class hotel (they call themselves “Unique” which, in terms of marketing, can be anything in the spectre from topless roaches doing backstrokes in your cereals to an unrequested upgrade)) in Cone street. It’s a lovely place, and at the moment the closest you’ll get to downtown without violating the police lockdown.
Our shopping trip was cut short by the gigantic Westin buildings' inability to hold on to its windows. They were dropping from the skies, and the police decided it was simply too dangerous to let anyone into the vicinity of the buildings. Fair call, and although I can’t be completely sure, I don’t think my insurance will cover me trespassing and being lobotomized by a 2 x3 feet pieces of falling glass.
Two things have been a pleasure getting acquainted with: the people living here and Marta. I’ve often heard of “Southern Hospitality” but must admit that I’m taken back by the level of courtesy that everyone shows a tourist (apparently it’s quite obvious). I’ve never had to look at a sign for more than thirty seconds before a local stopped an asked if I needed help. This has been in the “Five Points” transit station and even in a local mall (which seems to have the size of my hometown). In Lenox Square - the nation sized shopping mall, it took a guard on a Sedgeway below 10 seconds to sneak up on me and help (I really do think Sedgeways would be the Ninjas choice of transportation, being completely quiet and easily masking the overweight of the guard).
But great service nevertheless - but next time gimme a small “Guard incoming”-cough, or you’ll be strapping me onto the hood of the Sedgeway and driving me out of the mall humming “Amaziing Grace”.
Marta is the charming - and very well functioning - shuttle system going to and from Downtown Atlanta. It’s cheap, reliant and very, very clean. The only thing I have a hard time getting is the pricing. 1.75$ for a one way trip and 4$ for a return trip just seems strange. We spent a few minutes discussing wether it was a trap or not, and finally decided on the solution that made the least sense. A polite young man informed us of the “obvious” advantages of the expensive model, and since neither of us could really understand his rhythmic Atlanta accent, we decided to heed his advice (or what we thought it was), and pay up. Oh, and we ended up paying the polite young man as well - seemed the poor fellow had lost his wallet/forgotten his moneclip/[Insert random excuse]. But again, he was awfully helpful.
And so are everybody else. Now I just need the windows to stop falling from the skies, and I’ll be able to get out there and meet them.