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Of God and Grease part II

kristian@roadsidediaries.org — 2008-06-05T17:53:03-04:00

Now as stated earlier it wouldn’t really be fair to judge a nations food culture by the lowest denominator. And in all fairness I’ve been presented with food worthy of… Of… Of someone really important (and little old me). But it isn’t always easy to find, so I’ll star out by giving a few pointers as to how one succeeds in finding the good food in America.

Ask the locals.

A good first try is always the receptionist or the doorman, depending on the quality of the hotel. They’ll usually be able to tell you of a few places - and often they’ll be able to tell you the different price ranges as well.

Another option is stopping people on the street, the problem about this approach is that they’ll often be so surprised by both you and your accent that they’ll direct you to the nearest McDonald’s, and lets face it: if you wanted foods equivalent to a poke in the eye, you probably wouldn’t have travelled this far to get it.

Last option would be to ask a police officer, which is kind of a fifty/fifty gamble in my experience. In the south they’ll be more than happy to help - but the ones I’ve encountered in the east coast are basically morons. They seem like they would consider arresting you for obstruction of justice if coughed up blood while trying to report like you got shot in the lung. Now That might just be me who’ve had a few bad experiences, but nevertheless, these are my experiences.

The Chamber of Commerce.

If you have access to the internet and you have a good idea of we’re you’re gonna stay for the night, I suggest that you googlesearch the name of the city/neighborhood you’ll be in and add ‘Chamber of Commerce’ to the search. In my experience this will provide you with the names of all the restaurants and cafes in the area, and often - as an added bonus: reviews.

Everything is available on the internet - even a grading of Suzy’s famous Pecan Pie,the one that is only made two times a week and served cold with sour cream on mondays and wednesdays in The Voodoo Tavern in St. Louis Mississippi.

Abe’s Barbecue - Abe’s Spareribs

Robert Johnson used to say he sold his soul to the devil at the crossroads. Well just 250 feet further down the road , Abe - according to local legend offered his to the lord. And no matter how much respect and love for I have for the blues and Mr. Johnson, I’m gonna have to side with Abe and his barbecue ribs on this one.

The Crossroads are located in Clarksdale in the Mississippi Delta, and should you ever be around the neighborhood I recommend you go visit Abe’s Barbecue.

It’s slowcooked pork - maybe been cooking at low heat for roughly seven hours by the time it arrives at my plate. It is joined by it’s wonderful and yet simple sidekick, Miller Lite. In all its greasy goodness it’s been dipped in Abe’s special sweet honey/mustard barbecue sauce, and next to it is a bowl of freshly made coleslaw. Hell, I just might be going back myself.

Champlin’s - The Clam Bake in Point Judith.

South of Providence, against the Atlantic Coast lies a small town that is really most famous for it’s lighthouse; Point Judith. Besides having a beautiful sandy beach there is also culinary reason to visit - actually the food at the Champlin’s restaurant is reason enough by itself.

This was indeed the meal of a lifetime with everything the ocean has to offer. Clams, muscles, Oysters and lobster. Everything on the plate had been caught the same day and had been delivered directly from the fisherman’s boat into the kitchens private loading dock.

It’s served on a brown plastic platter, and everything is mixed into one delightful celebration of the sea. You’ll get a second platter filled with sauces, spice mixes and water to rinse the muscles and oysters before you eat them.

And with every bite the guys took. With every exclamation of pleasure and delight they uttered the more I regretted the fact that I was hungover and didn’t have the same. But I could barely keep down my fish’n’chips - which by the way were delicious as well.

The Pancake Pantry - Pancake Parisienne.

In the Hillsborough of Nashville, Tennessee lies The Pancake Pantry. It’s located a few blocks from the famous Vanderbilt University, and hosts a collection of thrift stores, antique shops, bookstores and restaurants. It also hosts some great microbreweries that have restaurants as well. But on one of the corners of this three block market area is a special gift to those of us who enjoy a little something every once in a while: The Pancake Pantry.

It isn’t impressive to look at - nor is it hideous. It’s just anonymous, which makes it even more strange on first sight. It opens at 8 am and closes at 10 pm. But from around 9 am the line starts forming, and half an hour later there’ll be a 45 minute wait to get in - and this then lasts all day.

Now, on first look it can seem a bit strange that there is a huge line going into an anonymously looking red brick warehouse, but believe me - this is no ordinary place. It is the Pancake Pantry - the Palace of Pancakes, the original sinner of flattened circular goodness, and it comes in so many delightful forms, tastes and even sensations.

Everybody at the table had different sorts of delights, and I was particularly hungry because I had spent 45 minutes playing baseball on a Nintendo Wii (!). I orderes the Pancake Parisienne, briefly described as european style pancakes with strawberrry and cream - and they even threw in a cup of french roast as a little pick me up!

Is was deeeeeee-licious! The pancakes had a bit of vanilla, a little orange just enough cardamom to make you fall in love with whoever was sitting across the table. To top of this feast, they at put whipped cream and strawberry sauce on the top. It was so bloody good that I at this moment, sitting in Washington DC, consider packing up my stuff and get on the train to Nashville for a second serving.

A good tip however is: get there before 9 am, unless you wanna stand in line for 30-45 minutes, although that is a small price to pay.

The black Pearl - Clam Chowder and Bloody Mary.

A twenty minute drive from above mentioned Point Judith, lies the small coastal town of Newport, Rhode Island. The Black Pearl itself is located in the small cosy 18th century harbor environment by the bay. It is an anonymous dark building with a wooden sign hanging lazyli out over the door. It creeks as it should, and when you enter - which is a VERY good idea, considering the quality of the food they have - you’ll enter a small diner with wooden tables and the characteristic smell of the chowder.

Once there, and only had a late lunch, order the White Clam Chowder and a Bloody Mary. It might sound scary but somehow the combination just explodes and sends you off to seafood heaven.

The Chowder itself, is a cream based muscle soup. It has lobster, white wine, maybe a little green but not much. It is served with a few crackers - and should you prefer it the waiter will grind some fresh pepper on top. I did and it was delicious.

Simple, good produce and served in a good atmosphere. And cost roughly 12$ per person. And you’ll be hard pressed to find it better.

Brett Favre’s Steak House - The Brett Favre Signature Steak.

At the foot of Mount Lambeau (Field), lies the steak house owned by former Green Bay Packers quarterback Brett Favre. Like a little stream of crystal clear springwater, Favre Pass - as it is called, ends in the steak house. It honors the Mississippi tradition that Mr. Favre grew up with, which in this case means excellent (an huge amount of) meat - and cajun spices. And with these traditions im ind you really can’t go wrong.

And boy, oh boy did they do it right!

I ordered Brett’s Signature Steak, which is 20 oz (550 grams) of prime beef. It was more tender than some of the Kobe meat I’ve had the pleasure of eating, and the butter sauteed mushrooms and sweet potatoes that accompanied this monstrosity just made things even better!

I ordered (as I have grown accustomed to) a Miller Lite - draught - and just threw myself into the game. And what a fight it was. There in the hall of one of my biggest idols - and it was a hall of tribute, with pictures of his achievements all over the place - I singlehandedly took out what seemed impossible.

It was also, I think, the closest I’ve ever been to death by cow - including once at my grandparents farm where I outran a pissed off bull called Thomas. But had I died it would have been worth it.

The Deepwater Grill - The Black Angus Burger .

Way up north, by the frozen edge of Lake Superior, in the small town of Ashland, lies a microbrewery called The Deepwater. If you should ever find yourself in chicago I suggest you take the 370 mile drive up there. It’ll take you roughly eight hours each way, but I promise you: it’s worth it!

The burger is a freshly baked roll served with just basic tomatoes, lettuce onions and mushrooms. You’ll have a choice of different sides like mashed potatoes, fries or salad. That’ll always be a personal decision - but the important thing in this place is was you drink!

The Deepwater Grill is not only a restaurant, it is also a microbrewery. They brew different beers (obviously) but the one you’ll need for the burger is the Indian Pale Ale. It is one of the best I’ve ever had, and with the enormous black angus beef and the freshly baked, homemade roll it just makes you lean back, grab your beer and think that maybe life just aint that terrible after all.

And after you’ve a had seconds, thirds - whatever you feel appropriate - walk down to Lake Superior and catch the sunset. This is the area the Chippewa indians fell in love with hundreds of years ago, and I have a pretty good idea that the sunset played a big part in that.

The combination of a burger, the cold beer and the golden sunset of Lake Superior is something that every man (and woman) should be allowed to experience.

It really just takes us back to the fact that we don’t need big things. Sometimes getting the small ones right is much better. And for me on that april night, having a burger, serves with fries and a cold beer just made the difference. And as the sun set over Superior I thought to myself.

Hell, this just isn’t too bad after all.

Of God and Grease.

kristian@roadsidediaries.org — 2008-06-03T14:07:30-04:00

I think it’s about time that I share some of the delightful cuisine that we have encountered on our way. Like all other places I’ve been there have been good and bad, but please remember I come for a culture where vegetarianism is considered a mild eating disorder and giving someone a pound of meat is the last step before marriage. So my evaluation might be a bit biased.

I have divided them into two groups: The Greasers and The Champions. The Greasers aren’t necessarily bad, they’re just greasy - and often so does the service. But lets face it - grease is love.

So without (much) further ado I give you:

Kristian’s list of Roadside Greasers:

Burger King - Cornfed beef with grease, served with a side of carelessness and a big glas of ineptitude.

Sometimes when you walk into a Fast Food restaurant every bone, every fiber in your body just begs you to leave and find some real food. Obviously this is in vain - lets face it: if you wanted something that could sustain you wouldn’t be there in the first place.

But this was one of those places. As soon as we came in we get a queasy feeling. The guy swapping the floor is picking his nose, the manager is yelling across the diner that he really needs to stop picking his nose - and the only other customer in there has a contorted look in his eyes, that just gets worse for every time he chews. It looks as if his burger is trying to yank out his teeth, one at a time.

I really don’t think I’ll be going back there any time soon.

Sonic - Dunno, you try ordering a burger through an intercom in a language you don’t understand.

It started like this:

Lady in speaker: “*Scratch*, *rish*, *rish* welcome *scratch*, *beeeep* Sonic, *raaab*. Y’all want mayonnaise?”

I look desperately at Jacob who is trying to apply his knowledge of sanskrit to understand the lady. Especially the mayonnaise threw us of - this in the light of the fact that we hadn’t even ordered yet. But we were hungry as hell and decided to give it a try . So I hesitantly stutter: I would like one Bacon Cheese Burger Menu, a Caesar Salad please and two bottles of water please.

Lady in the speaker: *weeeeeeeep*, *boink*, *phone ringing*, Banana mustard and mayonnaise with the...

And I’m hit by a static noise that almost turns over our car, practically blinds me and definitely messes up Jacob hairdo. Trying to recover from the deafening noise I yell to her:

Kristian: No I just want burgers and fries please!

For two blissful seconds everything is quiet, and then a clear voice comes through the speaker:

Lady in the speaker: I know that Sir, do you want a milkshake, soda or mayonnaise with the order sir?

The blast of clarity is hard, and as this point I am utterly incapable of recovering. I wave the white flag and say:

Kristian: I’ll take a shake, mayo and a coke for the salad please....

Quiet for two seconds...

Lady in the speaker: Thank you Sir, that will be 9.87$. And Sir - you’re heading the wrong way in the drive through - please move your vehicle for the other customers to get out...

It turns out that every entrance to the Sonic diners are a one way street and that each parking spot has a radio and speaker for ordering. I had apparently parked across three of these without noticing.

Oh, and that night we had hamburgers, with a side of fries, Mountain Dew but no Mayo.

The little place in the Adirondacks I can’t remember the name of - Papa Bear burger.

We’d been driving around the Adirondacks all day and were beginning to feel the hunger known only to those who travel the frontiers - those brave enough to actually go where AT & T have no coverage, and where the internet doesn’t support streaming video. We found this little roadside diner - the first one we saw that was open out of season, and decided to go in. It looked like a place you’d find in Twin Peaks: that is - in the later episodes with the spirits and the cabin in the woods, Windom Earle and ‘Fire Walk With Me-Bob’. Great place for a Chef’s Salad, eh?

Well we get in - it’s a nice and comfortable place - and the waiter gives us the menus. Jacob quickly spots the Chef’s Salad and I’m just about to order that as well... But then I see it: up in the top right corner of the two page menu is the burger section. And right there is a burger called ‘The Mama Bear’. It looks good and I mean - it’s a mama bear how dangerous can that be? But wait there is an arrow pointing to the back page of the menu!

As you know, being an explorer takes commitment - so I travel to the last page of the menu. And as I do I am struck by a the beauty of the beast: THE PAPA BEAR BURGER!

It’s a big ass slap of meat, with sauteed onions, mushrooms, bacon and so much gravy that you could probably keep small class supertanker afloat in there. I look at Jacob who just ordered his salad and think to myself that I ought to order the salad. There is no way that I can eat that thing. It looks disgusting, unhealthy, will probably cause respiratory problems from the first bite and without doubt affect my already failing short term memory.

Later driving away from the place I thank god I had a piece of that greasy goodness and try to assure my self that even though I did finish The Papa Bear burger, it’s still not ok for me to devour Jacob as celebratory snack.

Whataburger - The Triple Everything.

I’m not really sure what it was that they served me. I do however remember that every word on the ingredient list was preceded by a ‘triple’, so I think I suffered from either a small stroke or a brain hemorrhage due to excessive intake of grease. But as a rule of thumb: if you should ever find yourself in Pensacola and see a Whataburger on the right side of the road, I suggest you take a sharp left instead. Even if it takes you off a cliff.

Wendy’s - Baconator.

In your average burger you’ll be calculating with a roll, some ground beef, a certain amount of cheese, salads - like tomatoes, pickles, onions - and maybe a wee bit of cheese. So lets assume that we take each of these ingredients and instead insert bacon. You’ll end up with a burger consisting of a roll, some ground beef, bacon, bacon - like bacon, bacon and just a little bit more bacon - oh and a wee bit of bacon.

This celebration of the clotted vein is The Baconator. And if you haven’t tried it please do - it’s delicious.

Red Robin - The Honky Tonk Hot Pork Barbecue Burger.

For the love of God, just look at the name. Of course I’ll try it.

Should you ever find yourself in a position where you are able to avoid this burger, I beg you, please do. Oh, and should you be able to perform an old-school exorcism before you leave I suggest you do - because that really is one mean burger.

The meat is basically shredded pork held together by a patented barbecue grease that - besides being the taste equivalent of being kicked in the nuts - holds it together. It’s served in a sesame bun that is just dry enough to absorb the runaway grease, and then fall apart. And for some odd reason they found it necessary to add gravy to the equation. Bad idea.

The fries kind of looked like the nails for my coffin - I actually did see a hearse driving by while trying to defeat this critter - and tasted like unbaked potato, rolled in salt and molten garlic (which I suspect was what it was).

Huddle House - The Dirt Meal.

I really don’t know what I got, but I’m pretty sure he didn’t either because he was asleep when I got there, and drifted of over the counter the second after he served us. I’m pretty sure there was beef involved, but then again it kinda tasted like to Coca Cola - which really wouldn’t be all bad had it not been for the fact that the Coca Cola tasted dirt.

But the basic lesson from this godforsaken place is that if you ever see an adolescent redneck sleeping across the counter of a small fast food diner in a little worn down craphole of a town - you really shouldn’t wake him up and ask him to cook you dinner.

It all leads me to a passage I read somewhere a long time ago - it might have been the Bible, but I’m not sure:

And the Lord said: behold: I give thee: a butt load of bacon. Behold the dangers and ye shall be fine.

And the people cheered. And those who did not heed the Lords warnings and had a second - they cheered no more. Alas they were screwed over by cardiac arrest and are now feasting at the diner upstairs.

Should there be any need for elaboration on my part please let me know - and this is not all the places we’ve dined in. The list goes on to thirty or forty. These are just representative of what we’ve tried and done.

The Corner of 6th Ave and Central Park South - or reclaiming history.

kristian@roadsidediaries.org — 2008-05-28T13:34:09-04:00

New York, New York indeed. The intensity is overwhelming. For every step you take a cascade of light hits you, engulfing what ever is left of the fragile identity that fights to survive within this all consuming plurality.

It’s identity lies in the constant movement of a million souls - all roaming around with the goal of getting somewhere, not in the specific moment, not on the specific day - maybe, and only maybe, they’ll get there in a lifetime. They strive towards the abstract of something dictated by the unknown. They move to avoid the almost ritual devouring of whatever slows down.

As the remnants of the lost souls roam around at night trying to regain the footing of the once prideful existence amongst these predators of predators, the spirit watches in delight as zealots command the fearful initiates into the submission.

Movement is the religion on this secluded place. The spirit of Manhattan has been forced out by the all embracing spirit of the finite - a descendant of The ancient God of Time. In the blind worship of impressions it is hard not to lose yourself - not to be blinded by the light of the grandeur.

But the real art in this temple of multiplicity is to hold on to yourself. With the mind in a state of constant alert, and the senses always challenged by the flow of change, the steady contemplation - the quiet moments in which we define ourselves become as futile as the breath of fresh air.

The traffic is like a nest of snakes, worming its way in an unseen order. The yellow cars weave in and out of traffic with the easy of a lustful thought.

But I will not be blinded - I will not lose myself in the candid flare of this deceitful religion. I will stay true to my own history and leave respectfully. I will keep myself and my demons - in all its imperfectness, with the sole reason that it is mine. Impressed, yes - seduced, no.

It is my firm belief - and I might be an anachronistic, romantic, no good softie SOB - that a community with that little social interaction is not a community. How to you form bonds in the middle of a river, how do you form yourself when you have no time to see, taste or reflect?

It’s time to take back history.

The Legend of Howie.

kristian@roadsidediaries.org — 2008-05-22T00:01:13-04:00

I’ve been reading the news back home again, which is never a good idea when you’re traveling the way I do. Whenever I’m introduced to something new I do my best to understand it - to almost to a point of liking it. This obviously has it’s drawbacks as I often will neglect critical question in the pursuit of other peoples views. But on the other hand; being invasively critical never really opened any doors either.

Well, reading the news back home got me pretty steamed about several things to be honest. But in the interest of keeping this little bundle of joy well under ten pages I’ll focus on one of the items: the news themselves. And oh the shame, the pity the horror...

When reading news in the danish online news community (which is the same as the newspaper), it struck me: this is just another case of Howie! And now you might ask (which would be fair), who in the name of santa’s dented old jingle bells is Howie?

Well you see, Howie is and old adversary of mine. He isn’t an enemy, just kind of a someone I bump into once in while. He comes in many forms and shapes - he has a lot of different meanings - often about diverse subjects. The one thing that seems to be the most special thing about Howie though: I’m the only one who knows he exists. He’s kind of an axiom in my life. He’ll guarantee me the validity of the world as an existing place constituted by real things, in the common sense meaning of course - which holds a certain duality to it, but that’s just Howie’s wicked sense of humor.

Whenever I see something happen, e.g. as a consequence of something else - like in the term causality - imagine a ball dropping, a cueball rolling into the eightball etc. I usually assume that it is due to physics. This is my common sense perception - or understanding of the world. It’s not moral, it’s not oppressive (I mean people are free to claim whatever the heck they want). I mean who cares why a cueball moves, it’s the fact that it does move that matters.

Well, it seems that the same perception rules in the news media in Denmark at the moment. They are very keen on reporting what s going on in the american elections - in fact you’re better of with their numbers than the american news stations, who as a matter of pride seem to serve either DNC or GOP. The danish media on the other hand seem hellbent on reporting things without having the slightest clue as to why they’re actually happening

Hello Howie!

Howie is the secret entity that screws over every visible fact due to misconceptions by the the percieving. Whenever people claim fact due to personal views, I just refer to it as agrument ad Howie. He is the unification of all things immeasurable claimed as part of fact. He is a sly son of a bitch that’ll trick you into believing something based solely on your personal views. He’ll make you assert that seeking inspiration or knowledge before passing judgement is irrelevant - you already know what you need to know.

He is the little bastard who whispers in your ear that those people are wrong and as such their misery is right. In his own right he would probably be a good speechwriter for the reverend Fred Phelps or other mongers of one sided rhetoric and hatred. And once again, I digress...

Back on track we go, sorry about that.

Well, the danish media have gotten into a really bad habit of analyzing everything from a danish point of view - even the mechanics of foreign states. It’s like they’ve been hit by a collective brain hemorrhage, or bitten by The Bat of Righteousness - who happens to be the sidekick of Howie (myth has it he used to be a solipsistic hermit, and flying round infecting people with the seal of the righteousness was a punishment from Howie).

Now in regards to who is winning - be it in eight ball or as the the topic in question: the democratic nominee race - stating who wins really wont take a genius. We know that one of them will eventually come out with the most votes, and we can be pretty sure if the eight ball is hit by the que ball, then it will be affected. It really doesn’t take particularly smart fellow to state this as a fact.

The thing is about these examples - they in themselves are not given motives, and are judged by the laws of causality (who ever wrote them I don’t know but I obviously claim Howie did - on the grounds that he told me). When trying to explain why people vote, or why they pass certain laws - we really need to stop listening to old Howie. He’s always offering his opinion about stuff he doesn’t really understand. Always telling you that it’s just like back home, or just like the time when you did the thing with the guy and everybody was like... You catch my drift, right?

The newspapers in Denmark will tell you that Obama just won this, and that Hilary just won that, but what they haven’t seemed to pick up yet is why the hell it happens. They really haven’t bothered to ask anyone - or as I hope: they haven’t yet found out that they’re wrong by ignorance. The thought of them not printing something due to complexity just pisses me even more off. They really haven’t bothered to analyze why people vote like do and as such leave their readers hanging on to the perception that things are the same.

Well hello Howie!

There is a general misconception that either you’re a rightwing powermonger with a lust for war or a reasonably thinking democrat who would love nothing more than to cuddle up with the growing (morally righteous) european powerblock. This isn’t really the case. I know Howie will say that republican beliefs are based on christianity - an argument actually used with force by George Washington when he left office in the late 18th century, when trying to establish a link to morality from the republic.

He will also tell you that in order to be a member of the Republican Party you’ll need to be a registered gun owner and have a verified disrespect for the value of human life - but an obvious undying love for the unborn. He’ll probably add to the fact that as such you’ll be a strong opponent of political nuances - because with only two parties someone has to.

Again - as this cannot be stressed enough - do not listen to him.

Within the parties are a multitude of voters and states. They all hold claim to several beliefs, but one is the core belief: no one tells us what to do. This stands universal with both democrats and republican voters. They don’t vote for the same things, but the people who I’ve had the pleasure of talking to all vote against one thing: the all powerful state.

The thing is that when applying your own morals to another system of beliefs (and no I do not condone the abuse of women or any other group that examples may provide), you will generally fail to understand - and with the failure to understand, you deprive yourself the basis for change - or at least a very important tool for change.

Understanding is not the same as accepting, this is an important thing to keep in mind. But at least trying without relying on the advice of old Howie seems at the very least a reasonable option, because claiming to be right by default - basically puts us back in ‘ye olde crusade days’, or at least could start a concern that we never really left.

Uhm, kinda lost track again - didn’t I?

The distinction here, in order to understand the issue becomes what one could refer to voting for positives or negatives. By positives one would be affirming what the right thing is by actually voting for it - we do it a lot in Europe. We gather around, trying to define some kind of common good, and then we pass laws to ensure that people do the common good. By listening to Howie we tend to get caught up in it. Howie becomes the validator of the right to pass laws, that dictate the right thing to do.

In the US the traditional method will be the voting of negatives; you vote for what people can’t do - but as stressed to a point of exhaustion: voting for what people have to do is an absolute, top of the line ‘no no’. The perception of a person voting for positives like universal health care, free education - the classic welfare state benefits, tends to be that the lack of these rights is an infringement of universal rights belonging to the individual - and as such anyone opposing these would be morally wrong. But again, that really is Howie whispering the sentiments of an insecure preadolescent fighting for what his hormones dictate is right into your ear.

The voter going for the negatives on the other hand would argue that the positive freedom of one man can be an infringement of the other. He’s not saying that he doesn’t want to help, just that he doesn’t want to be forced to help - or at least he doesn’t want anybody but himself to be able to define when and how to help. He doesn’t pass judgement in the sense that he wants everyone to do as him - but he argues that he at least should have the choice. He doesn’t tell Howie to get bent - nobody really does that. He does however accept the fact that Howie shouldn’t get to legislate - him being anything but the voice of reason and all.

In order to understand the american voter - republican or democrat - this is a critical notion.

And on that note I shall retire. I will be picking up this notion again but now Howie is once again holding my hand, and it’s time for us to share a cold beer and reminisce about the good old days.

The Concept of Dreaming part II

kristian@roadsidediaries.org — 2008-05-15T16:49:37-04:00

What amazes me about these cultural microcosms that seem to constitute the american society is that they - unlike in Europe - really aren’t that geographically specific. They will meet up in churches, synagogues, bars or sports stadiums. They’ll have barbecues in the back yard of a cousins friends house a 100 miles away from their home, and they will be friends solely because someone has vouched for them.

So if they say they don’t wanna help, they’re saying they want do it when forced to help. They sure as hell will help though. We went out for a beer with Nathan and Luc, our current hosts - great night out but by the way. The next morning, somewhat hung over I meet Nathan in the kitchen. As I’m just in there to restock on water I ask what he is doing up so early.

It turns out that one of his friend’s father has cancer and the family - due to lack of proper insurance is facing a large debt from the hospital bills. Not really much choice but to lend the money and hope he survives, is there?

Well, his friends, family, colleagues - his cultural microcosm - are doing something. Nathan on that dreadful morning, was on his way to help build a stage for a benefit they were doing, in order to raise money for the guy. They were all coming together as a community, not a state, to help the person and family in need.

Obviously impressed I ask Nathan if this is a common gesture. His answer is simple - and remember that this is a guy that really doesn’t care much for state, taxes and federal government. I should hope so... - and then he shrugs and adds - ... But of course they’re Irish... He smiles and leaves to help a man in need. But he does it because he wants to, not because he has to.

The resentment against being told what to do really does seem to come from their ancestors - as culture and tradition usually does. They were fugitives from oppression and a stagnated society.

People truly believe that if you are unhappy, then you have the possibility on moving to a place that shares your own values - and in many cases this is actually possible. Obviously the truly abandoned and poor people are the ones who are left outside of the communities.

The interesting thing about these communities is that the one of the only place they meet up are at the markets. Through standard market transactions they are somewhat intertwined. The hing is - and everyone realizes this - that there is a huge difference between being morally self sufficient, and being materially self sufficient.

Seeing the microcosms all of a sudden acting dependent on each other, puts the role of the state into a more valid perspective. They need the state to secure their transactions, and even more fundamentally - to allow this transaction of product to take place.

They need the state to interact with other cultural microcosms - with markets as a prime example. The state is there to, literally - and in no way metaphorically - open the world. It needs to secure roads, electricity, security - primarily against foreign enemies as the local law enforcement is often chosen by the people themselves.

It is not there to secure or create beliefs or values as one would expect, that is from a european point of view. As mentioned earlier, the reluctance against higher taxes - even in regards to securing welfare - is in no way to be seen as reluctance to help. It is, plain and simple, a reluctance against being told what to do. The welfare model, like the scandinavian one, is heavily founded in a specific set of values - and this is what they oppose.

A question now comes to mind regarding the immediate connection to part one of this blog:

How does all this relate to the media and democratic nomination proces?

Well, first of all: it does.

In order to understand the elections, one needs to accept the fact that society and the role of the state is fundamentally different in the US - at least when comparing to Europe. The role of the state, and hence the role of the politicians is immensely different.

In Europe we will tend to vote for the people who can guarantee both our safety from outside threats, but just as well on the politicians who represent our views within the state. In the US the vast majority will vote for whoever seems the best bet to secure the way of life that they like, ie. whoever will secure their independent lifestyle within a chosen microcosm.

And this as - in my opinion - the key to understanding the process. If someone talks about raising taxes, raising welfare etc they are in fact telling you what to do. The are legislating in an area where the government and state essentially have no business. It’s not a question of helping or not helping - it’s a question of choosing to help for yourself. It’s a matter of defining what is right for you and your family - not for everyone else.

Now, a case could (and should) be made about the impact of the religious right. In Europe they are vilified and portrayed as self serving crusaders, with a lust for power (whether or not this is true I’ll stay out of). The important thing is that they seem to get backing from a large amount of the american society - a presumption stemming in the fact that the current president got elected twice.

But the crucial point isn’t really that the majority of the american people are religious zealots. The point is that they will vote against whoever wants to tell them what to do - ironically they end up voting along with the christian right wing, but that is probably more a result of a two party system, than them being fundamentalists.

Alas... Once again I digress...

The media I said, right - here goes.

As the voter doesn’t really see the politicians role as that of a traditional european legislator - more like a person making sure that microcosms can exist independently, at least culturally - it would also make some very interesting changes in the way one criticizes the media: especially in Europe.

Now before anyone gets all psyched up about the view that people should mind their own business, lets just calm down. There is no such thing as a perfect society, and I for one, really don’t understand how one gets away with disregarding views as being foreign. The point of a democracy is to listen (and with no intent of being humorous) ant then discarding. Hopefully only due to the fact that you disagree.

The aversion towards being told was to do is, in my opinion, one of the reasons that american debate and coverage really isn’t that much about what a candidate wants to do. It’s often just as much about how the hell he’ll go about doing it. In saying that you intend to legislate you will not only be targeted by your political adversaries but also by those with whom you share values. Because the fundamental value seems to be that you can be anything, and no one has the right to stop you. Only after that does other values take effect.

This fear and loathing of legislating anything with a slight resemblance to morals or values then again affects the media. Because if very few candidates actually say anything, then the talking parrots - and I truly am grateful that they at least are pretty - that we call ‘News anchors’ have no news. So what you’ll do is get a commentator to visit you in the studio to tell the american people what they’re really saying when they’re basically not saying anything.

These commentators are - in all fairness - often open proponents of a given candidate so there really isn’t any intention of deluding the viewer with a sense objectivity. And as long as each side have a representative trying to ‘unmask’ the meaning of both the spoken and unspoken policies, one could presume that this is to be considered a joust among equals.

Well it’s not.

Obviously it’s fair to a lot of people; the anchorman, the commentator (a whole new market pseudo market it seems) - even the candidates seem to acknowledge this habit as an acceptable part of the modern day democracy. And for that mother of all unholy, self sustaining, parasitic triumvirates - things are ok. In fact only one thing has been left out the equation. Guessed who?

The annoying cattle that this whole shebang used be about: the voters!

Oh, and don’t get me started on what happens when corporations and special interests join in - it’s a veritable daisy chain of modern day debauchery....

As I seem to have worked up a steam, I might as well stop for now. Part III will be about what actually does happen when corporation and special interests decide to join the chain gang.

But for now,it’s mashed potatoe time. And that should be entailed by a comatose state on the couch.

Ps: Oops, no pictures in post - my bad :D

The Bounties of The Black Pearl

kristian@roadsidediaries.org — 2008-05-12T00:40:30-04:00

You feel like sitting down for a bit, Luc asks me - and I swear I can see some mischief in his eyes. It’s a saturday afternoon and we’re walking around Newport, a small coastal town in Rhode Island. Jacob isn’t here, he was simply to hung over to endure the 25 minute drive from Providence, so we left him there, standing all red eyed and pale skinned, but with the spirit of a soldier who knows he is doomed, and yet urges his comrades to move on. Valiantly we see him waving goodbye to us in the rearview mirror, but we agree that his sacrifice must not be in vain.

Sure, I say and look around to see what dangers can possible lurk in the shadows of this idyllic little town (having read a lot of Stephen King I know these are the most dangerous of them all). He crosses the street and opens the door to a small, black, wooden building - the shape of a shotgun shack, only older than the the term itself. As I enter I notice the old sign hanging suspended over the door: “Welcome to The Black Pearl”.

You remember I told you about the local chowder, he continues as we sit down at a small table at the far end of the rectangular room - just next to an old couple enjoying a fresh lobster salad and a glass of cool white wine. I recollect talking to him about the cuisine of Rhode Island, and especially how good the seafood is, so I nod reluctantly - not sure if I really need food right now.

Well this is where you get the best damn chowder, and I think I’ll have a Bloody Mary to go along, he says with a smile to the waitress taking our orders. When in Rome, I think to myself and order the same, fearing the repercussions from my body, should I actually choose to drink it. We sit and talk about the history of the area and especially all the lovely food that will be available to us during the next week.

As it turns out Rhode Island is an oasis of delightful food. They have the italian cuisine in the italian part of Providence, they have direct access to the atlantic which provide them with all the different fish and lobsters you could ever wish for, and to top it of the have and almost endless number of bars all around the cities. And just as important: it’s 60 x 77 kilometers in size so everything is available to you on any given day.

But at this very moment the waitress, henceforth known as my guardian angel comes in with my freshly made clam chowder and, after getting my permission, grinds some fresh black pepper on top of it. I look at Luc who is already well into his bowl, and decide to go for it. And in the name of all that’s sacred: if you are ever in Boston (40 minutes by train), New York City (150 minutes by train) or anywhere near the state of Rhode Island do yourself the favor of staying a night, travel to Newport, go to The Black Pearl and order a clam chowder. It is a simple cream based chowder made from clams, potatoes and some seasonings I could not identify. But it was worth the travel and more so.

The Bloody Mary just made it all the better. It was in the spicy end of the Bloody Marys I’ve had, but as a compliment to the fresh pepper and the potatoes and cream it was just perfect. When we leave the establishment full but not overeaten and just a wee bit light headed from meeting Mary I have to concede that Luc was right: They do serve the best damn clam chowder right here in Newport, Rhode Island.

Tomorrow I’ll be serving Luc and Nathan, with whom we are staying, a traditional danish meal: Meatballs with potatoes and a fresh parsley gravy based on butter and milk. Hopefully they’ll enjoy it just half as much as I enjoyed the clam chowder.

The Concept of Dreaming part I

kristian@roadsidediaries.org — 2008-05-05T22:42:43-04:00

At this point in our travels I can't help but think about the things we've experienced - it might be a bit sketchy, but hang on and you should be fine.

One can read books, write essays, theorize of justice, love or even hatred before visiting - hell it can be done without ever visiting. I seek to judge people by their own standards and not my own, which obviously not objective as my interpretation will always be there. But it is, again in my opinion the best way to understand.

That is what made this journey so fascinating. The US is a country towards which we all have feelings, both good and bad - but with the amount of TV,music, movies, food and whatever you can get, that we’re receiving from the US it is impossible not to feel. And this was (and is) a strong motivational force behind this journey: the attempt to talk to americans.

No agenda in dialogue, no pre(mis)conception as to why people do what they do. Only the perception of what they are doing. By following and listening to the sounds, watching the everyday motions or just experiencing the horizons of the american scenery. The common perceptions of the american individual is that of a strong willed, self centered individual who cares only for himself and his family.

No question about it - this is the place to be if you want to be yourself. This is the country of self expression and individuality, especially compared to Europe.

They’re every bit as social as anything I’ve ever seen. The prejudice/expectation of the society as an almost anti-social place has no place in the real world. I do however have to reemphasize the focus of the query - a query that was never aimed to be scientific, but more that of letting the natives themselves explain to me through their own words what they saw and felt.

By just hanging out with people in the circles they normally fare in, we have been welcomed as guests, and have experienced unlimited hospitality and a enthusiasm for our project that - at least the strength of it - was unexpected.

So what have I found?

I have found communities based on values. America is still big enough to house people of almost opposite opinions. It differs frm Europe in the sense that we - in our seperate countries - are forced to live by values that not all of us agree with. We endure this because we have no choice; there is basically nowhere we can go if we disagree. That possibility still exists in the US - at least geographically. We have had the pleasure of christian hospitality several places. It has not been the christianity so often depicted in the media - the condemning one of the pastor Fred Phelps and his family.

It has been the hospitality of people who believe in not only the values of the bible, but also the word. The reason to emphasize the values are simple: we have also had the pleasure of visiting the ‘not-so-religious’, even atheists. In those circles the hospitality has been the same. The values of treating each other with respect - although disagreeing (through dialogue) - stands just as strong in these communities.
Every community we have visited seems as a tight knit group of individuals who share not only the same values, but also the same beliefs. And the beliefs are the issue when trying to grasp the american dream: at the foundation of all this lies the innate belief that every man gets to decide for himself. And once he has decided he can voice out his beliefs amongst equals, and usually he’ll end up amongst people who not only share his values but also his beliefs.

These groups of people - be they a town or even a parish in the suburbs of a midsized town - stick together and help each other. They are a close knit group coexisting through not only the same values, but also through the same beliefs - be it the Bible, Torah or Darwin’s thoughts on evolution that create the foundation. Within these small conclaves they find the security that entire nations in Europe so desperately seek.

But even though their beliefs are often expressed in the same way, they always differ on other points. There is always something that will keep them from joining up, always something that makes it utterly impossible to live in harmony. Luckily the country is big enough to keep different factions far from each other.

A point could be made that this is not a country - especially in Europe, the role of the state is viewed in a totally different view. Helping in the US seems to be the role of society, not the state. The society in which you reside will keep you afloat. The people with whom you share a core of beliefs will help you in the way that you and they agree upon. Different groups have different ways of helping, but they will help.

In Europe, the role of the state is seen as much more. It is - one could argue - much more invasive. It will tell its citizens what is the right thing to do - how to help. This in turns sounds insane to the average american: they would agree that you always help the people you know who need it, but certainly you cannot be held responsible for someone to who you have no ties.

The issue as such isn’t with helping or solidarity within the different microcosms that constitute the societies - it’s the fact that they totally, utterly disagree on how to help people. And the state has no role in deciding this for individual and hence society.

I think this is enough for now, but I’ve been discussing the role of the media in the light of these things - especially with the democratic nominations going on. In a few days I’ll try to explain the mechanics of the these elections seen through the lenses of the microcosms that constitute the american dream and society.

End of part one.

Ramblings on democracy and campaigns:

kristian@roadsidediaries.org — 2008-04-23T21:23:59-05:00

I had the pleasure of researching the democratic nominees and their campaign bids. For the last three to four days they have aggressively debated what it would take for Mrs. Clinton to keep a reasonable claim to the democratic nomination. Mr. Obama’s backers claimed that she should step down right away, or at least if she didn’t win the Pennsylvania primaries with at least a margin of ten percent.

Mrs. Clinton’s supporters denied this, and said that she would still hold a legitimate claim should she win by only five percent. No one thought Mr. Obama would win, it was merely a question of wether it would be considered a defeat.

Big drama.

Well, it would seem that she actually did win by ten percent. Now the same people who claim that the percentage didn’t or did matter have effectively switched arguments. Mrs. Clinton’s supporters claim that the ten percent margin was of vital importance and Mr. Obama’s claim that it was to be expected and that she actually should have won by 15 percent to claim a victory.

Admitted - I don’t use my days searching for info, but I do try to stay in touch with current events. The strange thing is, I’ve given up on following the democratic nomination race through the media. Every where I look there is political commentator ready to tell me what is going on, but this is never in regards to politics of the individual candidates.

They’re always trying to influence or flat out manipulate me with their analysis, or trying to establish an agenda for whatever camp they represent. I readily accept the fact that objective news is a near impossibility, but for crying out loud do we have to live without news?

Everything has become hearsay and it seems the candidates will send out the human equivalents of parrots to get their message across. Somebody should pound those guys with a reality stick before putting them on TV.

I think that politics of the modern day era is basically designed from the point of view that you need to control the agenda. This in itself really isn’t all that bad, but there are some huge problems with the way it seems to be working right now.

Historically we’ve had the premiss of freedom of speech, which is a very commendable principle. The freedom of speech - amongst others- secures a political candidate the right and possibility to express different views to an audience of peers. The expression of views include two major components:

A basic premiss that tells us how the candidate sees the world, i.e. what problems are out there, what are their causes and what will they entail. Traditionally we would agree on this, and then let the election be concerning the areas mentioned in part two:

How to fix the problems, i.e. once we’ve agreed on a certain definition of the world we discuss how to fix the problems. Politics were traditionally about how we should solve problems.

These are the two important components, and discussing these was the foundation of any discussion amongst peers, and hereafter an election. These days are over.

The politicians of the modern day era seem to have lost confidence in their peers, and are simply trying to avoid them making any decisions. We no longer get to decide what are to be considered problems - the politicians are basically trying to exclude the voters from taking a stand. They refuse to answer critical questions and instead try to redefine the agenda into a something noncritical.

They would rather spend their time criticizing opponents instead of explaining their own plans for the future. A candidate can actually win without plans, but just by discrediting the other guy.

Now I also admit that I am in no way a saint. But if we judge the politicians by the system to which they themselves swear, they would fail. Epicly bloody fail.

They are nothing but power hungry predators.

They make me sad and they make me sick.

Shame on them.

I’ll lay of the news for a while now. But I would like to serve a final message to all the commentators and spin doctors out there:

Contemplating the clarity.

kristian@roadsidediaries.org — 2008-04-20T22:00:43-05:00

The road to serenity is always long and filled with obstacles. I was however surprised to see that the road would be roughly 250 miles long and take us to Ashland, Wisconsin. For the last five weeks we’ve been on the road. We’ve seen much, heard much, tasted even more and felt an unimaginable range of feelings. We’ve participated in the celebration of Jesus’ return. We’ve lived the life of the rebellious artist, trying to understand the life of the true boheme. So many people, so many views and somehow we carry it all with us.

Although we move around and often seem as though we leave people and places behind us, we never really let go. We hang on to the memories and lessons learnt and try to prepare for whatever our journey might bring our way. Desperately we try to make room for new sensations, new experiences and the forever changing color of the horizon. Our primary means of this ‘cleansing’ is writing.

As if rinsing our bodies in a fresh spring, we shed ourselves of experiences had through our writing. The expression becomes necessary to comprehend. Everyday we travel through uncharted territory and everyday we seek the catharsis that lies in understanding. We fight to put theme and thesis in the context that they deserve.

And this - like the road we’ve traveled - leads me to Ashland.

Ashland, the first glimpse of serenity in a long time. It isn’t as if we’ve had a hard time or have been treated badly anywhere. Everyone we’ve stumbled upon has helped in any way possible for them. Strangers go out of their way to make sure we have a bed - others take a day off from work to make sure that we are shown around.

They will make sure to show us the old white tree in the forest named ‘Grandfather’, make sure that we taste the exquisite broiled whitefish, served with a particular brew from a local microbrewery, obviously brewed on herbs and plants only found locally. And in an art gallery in Washburn, and small town up the coast, I find myself talking to the hearing impaired volunteer about the wonders of teaching the elementary school kids the words and language of the native american tribe that used to own the land - the Ojibway.

I learn of the fox and the squirrel, and learn about the travel made by The Original Man. I learn how he walked the earth in wonder and named all the beings and plants. I learn of his travels with his friend the Wolf. I learn of brotherhood and equality and how Gichie Manitou told them that they had to travel separate paths, although they would endure the same torments on these paths. I learn to see The White Tree, ‘Grandfather’ in a new light, and I try to learn the importance of understanding nature as it is in front of me - as my brother.

Three hours later I’m back in Ashland, standing at a lake named Superior, watching the sun slowly descent on the horizon and giving the last of its warmth to its beloved children. I slowly freeze and wonder when man and wolf will walk the path together again, if ever. I once again feel the need for the cleansing. It is as if I haven’t really been rinsed from the path that I have walked. Somehow something is still there. I have walked the path and named the plants, named the beings and everything that the light would show me.

Here, sitting on the shore of Lake Superior I have named serenity as well. And tonight I will sleep well, aware of the wolf and the fact that he is my brother.

The Coming and the Going.

kristian@roadsidediaries.org — 2008-04-15T23:45:31-05:00

As we move from place to place and people to people it slowly dawns upon us what we are up to. I never imagined how strongly the lives and dreams of the people we meet would affect me. Although we rarely spend more than one or two days with the people we meet, we get a glimpse of them and their culture that is rather unique.

We get the privilege of first impressions, and as such rarely have time to examine what people tell or show us. And as we also chose to trust our hosts as truthful people. We often report from their lives as they see it, and may by doing that neglect other points of view. We’ve had several people asking about our lack of perspective - they want us to criticize, or at the very least take a stance on whatever issues we come across.

The reason we chose not to do this is, that it isn’t very interesting in regards to our project. We are here in search of the american dream, and as such I think it’s vital that we chose to see the world as our host sees it. If we are serious about painting a portrait from the ground up, we can - and should - not put our own values into a portrait.

A perfect example is our trip to the 9th Ward with Andy, a volunteer from the Common Ground movement in New Orleans. The points that are made in regards to the rebuilding of the city are reports of genuine hurt and a feeling of being abandoned. Whether or not the local and federal government have actually abandoned them - or at the very least haven’t prioritized them, is certainly an open discussion, no doubt about that. What is not open to discussion is whether these people feel abandoned, because they sure as hell do.

Andy tells us how he has been held up at gunpoint because he tried to help a local rebuild the shattered remains of his past (and future), Red stands at the levee and asks why the government will take his money but not help him. Will and Jeanne tells us of the many unnecessary troubles they’ve had. The FBI had their organization under surveillance while they where doing relief work. Imagine a government organ spending its time monitoring people helping instead of just helping, it’s ridiculous in all its horror.

We meet a lot of people with these feelings, and as such they become an important part of portraying a spectrum of the american society, namely the one slowly evolving outside the state. It is in no way a revolutionary movement, they do not seek to overthrow anything. They are an extremely diverse group of people who meet up to help, and who share the feeling that their government has failed them, and that the only help they will get is from themselves.

That feeling is not one I want to criticize.

The point is that if we are to portray the american dream one piece at a time, we need to stay true to the feelings that we meet, because these are a crucial factor in showing the hopes and visions that live so strongly in every citizen of this country.

You can disagree with dreams, but not with emotion, and in order to show the perceived we must stay true to the perceiving.

The living and dying in New Orleans

kristian@roadsidediaries.org — 2008-04-08T17:15:31-05:00

New Orleans is hurting. She is bleeding from the wounds she got two years ago, and she still needs help. The problem is that a lot of her suitors never really wanted her - they wanted her name, her reputation. Her soul never mattered to them as they merely wanted to put her in a cage and show her to passers by. The prestige of possessing beauty is more important than living with it. And as such they’ll try to make replicas and plastic imitations to put up all over the city claiming to have her, but they don’t - and they probably never will.

The beauty is not in the appearance but in the spirit, in the will to live and enjoy.

When Katrina hit New Orleans roughly 40% of the inhabitants were left without a home. They were forced to move from the city as fugitives from a war, and many of them never returned. The 9th Ward of New Orleans was all but obliterated by the flooding caused by the rise in sea level and the governments failure to secure the levee (although they had known for years that it was insufficient). Both on local and federal level there seem to be a incompetence and disregard bordering on malice towards the inhabitants who are still homeless.

When the residents from the 9th ward tried to return home they found the 9th ward to be in lockdown. They were refused admittance to their old neighborhood without a clear reason - basically only that it was unsafe, and that the entire ward was being demolished to make room for waterfront casinos and residential housing - a housing that the former inhabitants had no possibility of paying for, and they would as a direct consequence be unable to return home. In fact the City Counsel told them in rather direct terms that they were no longer welcome in New Orleans.

Apparently local authorities saw Katrina as a somewhat convenient way of getting rid of lower income classes and ‘scaling things up a bit’. Several real estate tycoons wanted to develop profitable casinos and convention centers along the shore as well, so everything was getting set up to in adherence to the Spain/Italy pre-WW II way, ie. solving problems by getting rid of them.

They haven’t succeeded yet. They haven’t stopped trying, but the opposition is getting stronger.

We met Andy at a bar in the French Quarter. He had just returned from a two month involuntary vacation in Los Angeles caused by massive surgery to his stomach and intestines due to living with a lacerated ulcer for a longer period of time. The ulcer was caused by working as a volunteer in the 9th ward, cleaning up and then rebuilding it. He worked all eighteen months without pay.

He arrived 6 months after Katrina, and basically just wanted to help people in need - and he ended up staying for eighteen months. When they started the clean up process, and keep in mind that this was half a year after Katrina, they were finding the bloated bodies of humans and animals alike. Although the government claimed to have recovered the bodies, and that they had even marked all the houses in the area as ‘checked’ (they had a system of ‘x-ing’ the houses checked), the volunteers told a different story.

It was evident that no one had entered the houses. No one had bothered to check if there were bodies inside (rumor has it this grounded in the fact that they were gonna demolish it, but that is unsubstantiated). The authorities spent their time trying to keep the volunteers out of the area instead of trying to help cleaning it up. Several times the volunteers were held up at gunpoint and forced to leave the area.

In spite of all this treachery, deceit and what seems to be a clear cut case of ill will the people of New Orleans keep smiling at life. They’re still in love with her. They accept her as flawed but insist that it’s a vital part of her beauty. They keep going out at night listening to music and drinking cold Abitas. They keep creating New Orleans by enjoying it, and that is what she is.

New Orleans it the unification. In her ldim lights we are the same. In the deafening sound of a Bourbon Street jazzbar we are all poets and lovers, regardless of income, regardless of standing. And please, let’s keep it that way.

But just because you see them smiling, don’t assume they’re okay.

Cajun cooking and the spices of life

kristian@roadsidediaries.org — 2008-04-03T19:01:27-05:00

The smell of spice and seafood slowly envelopes me as I cross Chartres Street, a block or two from Canal Street. I’m in the French Quarters of New Orleans, Louisiana.

Ten minutes later I’m sitting in a little bar having a cold beer, enjoying a plate of ‘Cajun Pasta Bayou’, which seems to be a cajun shrimp menu with lots of fresh spices, mushrooms and served in a cream sauce with fresh linguini. ‘It’s just something the cook whipped up’ the waiter tells me, smiling, as I compliment the food. Jacob looks very pleased with his ‘Gumbo’ which is the cajun version of bouillabaisse, added a lot of spice I presume by looking at his face. He’s trying to put out the fire in his mouth with crackers. Futile but worth a try.

I’m looking out the window at the locals, who have started the preparations, pushing around barrels of beer and carrying around the industrial size sacks of pretzels that will be served when the humid heat lowers. They’re all grinning, these lovable sellers of leisure and temptation. Next to me someone orders a Mint Julip, reminding me of another thing I’ll have to give a go, but not now.

We pay the waiter and go for a stroll and decide to locate the bar where we are meeting up with a journalist later. The ladies of Bourbon Street are slowly coming to life and are starting to appear on the streets as the dawn of a new evening in The Big Easy starts to spread its rays of light. Music starts to play in every bar, in every window and you can see the smiles starting to appear in the faces of yesterdays casualties.

Every bar, every cafe, every restaurant we pass is inspected to see what temptations they have chosen for the night - be it a menu, a beer, a cocktail or a lap dance. Everything is a possibility, everything must be felt, tasted, seen, loved - it’s New Orleans and here I come.

The Beauty of Seaside revisited.

kristian@roadsidediaries.org — 2008-03-31T16:25:14-05:00

We went to a place called Seaside the other day. It’s a thirty minute drive from Panama City. Just take the road west towards Pensacola and be ready to go left when the road splits. At some point you’ll get to a place called Alys Beach, just go on through (beware of rich people in polo shirts crossing), and you’ll get to Seaside in ten minutes tops. Now the thing about Seaside is that it’s in every thinkable way unique. There are very strict rules on what kind of buildings are built - in fact you’ll need a permit to build, and the aesthetics are very important when they consider your application. This creates a township where no two buildings are alike, but still within the same conceptual scheme.

It really does create a very pure and distinct expression for the entire town, and I really like the fact that the developer has insisted that no high-risers were to be built at the beaches (for those who haven’t been to Panama City Beach, imagine a 20 mile stretch with no access to the beautiful beaches unless you are residing in one of the apartment complexes or hotels. And should you try to walk through a parking lot, chances are that a local, employed by the owners, will come running to inform you that you’re trespassing).

But obviously this purity comes at a steep price. The price starts at roughly on million dollars and ends at the same time that you run out of imagination. A five bedroom condo with 5.5 bathrooms (?!), will set you back roughly four million dollars. So it really isn’t something you buy on a whim. But should you be able to afford it, you’ll have access to the luxuries beaches, cafes, bull-courts, small parks etc. that seem be a must in this place - and although luxurious, a cup of coffee is still 15% cheaper than in Denmark.

But beauty standing alone, almost out of context can seem cruel.

The day before arriving at Seaside, I read an article in the local newspaper that said 50000 people, primarily kids and retirees were about to lose their health insurance. Nobody argued against the numbers, the disagreement regarded what was to be done about it. The US are heading into a recession (or getting some wind in the face/taking a break/at the bottom of a steep hill if you don’t like using the “R”-word), so obviously there aren’t as many funds to spread around at the moment, due to lower tax income. And when there are less funds available, budgets need to be cut, or taxes need to be raised - that’s pretty simple as well. And it was fairly obvious that the raising of taxes really doesn’t comply all that much with the Florida mindset. So it ended with budget cuts. And those budget cuts ended up happening in health care, nothing unusual about that either.

This is where I start to wonder, and in many ways lose interest in the beauty of Seaside. It’s uniqueness and architectural innovations begin to be contrasted to the world instead of connected to it. It becomes ad pure place in the crystalized, cold sense of the word and turns into something that divides, almost monopolizes beauty instead of sharing it.

The formal beauty - especially in this case - almost becomes vulgar. Instead of being soothing and uniting it becomes the opposite: the expression of a segregation of the people of a nation. Enjoying a glass of red wine in a five million dollar condo, whilst people within forty miles are dying from lack of simple medical treatments isolates a place like Seaside.

Of course I’m very susceptible to contrasts, and coming almost straight from hurricane stricken Atlanta, things will probably hit me a little stronger. But being in the magnificent town square of Seaside, I couldn’t help but wonder: standing outside of Seaside, having just been stripped of basic necessities such as health care, how cold must the beauty of Seaside not seem? It’s 68 degrees, the sun is shining, kids are running around having the time of their lives and still, looking at it in all it’s purity, I felt no warmth.

Works of art are created in a context. They are the embodiment of formal beauty but at the same time a part of their environment. That’s what make them truly special. Seaside is lacking the latter. It holds the beauty but withholds it as well, making it unreachable to some but even worse: a goal to others.

Panama City, Florida

kristian@roadsidediaries.org — 2008-03-28T14:05:36-05:00

The sweet music of Georgia has left my ears. I haven’t heard the soothing, yet often utterly incomprehensible accent of the local who presumes that I’m a native and with the intend of being polite, starts a conversation. This often results in me being completely befuddled and desperate to recover, by trying to find out what we’re talking about as we talk.

Sometimes I succeed, sometimes I don’t. But almost every time I seem to order something more than I wanted, like an extra side of fries and buffalo wings for my Trippledecker mega bacon-cheese burger, and apparently extra sugar in my Sweet Georgia Tea (apologies to those at home unable to get sugar due to a world shortage, I must’ve gotten it all).

After a few days in Florida (truly) The Sunshine State, I’ve succeeded in lowering my blood sugar levels again (at least to that of a six year old who just hammered his way through a pound of chocolate-caffein ice cream). Luckily I found a gym at the last hotel we stayed at and managed to get some training time - which I celebrated with a Bacon Cheeseburger at Hardee’s in Crawfordville, Florida.

Crawfordville was incredible. Upon entering you can feel changes in the time/space continuum. It's as if everything is turned down a notch. At one place we visited, the guy behind the counter was literally asleep when we entered, and as soon as he had served us, and was sure that we didn’t need anything else he fell asleep again, this time face down at the counter. The food was terrible, and Jacob swore his coke tasted as if it had been scraped off the ground (I politely, though firmly declined to taste it). After finishing our ‘food’ we left the “Huddle House” without waking the waiter, and talked about how much we missed the hospitality of Georgia.

Panama City is a lovely place. It doesn’t have the atmosphere of learning that we found in Athens, but it sure has the leisure. We seem to have landed in a group of liberals and artists, staying at the home of Mark - a semi retired pharmacist, artist and civil liberties activist. So all in all a crowd quite similar to ourselves. We’ve been here less than 24 hours and so far we’ve attended a gay movie night at the local art gallery, been invited to hook up with three different people and are being greeted at the coffee bar, that our host Mark prefers, by the waitress with “So what are you guys up to today?”. So the hospitality of the locals seem endless (at least we haven’t met the boundaries yet)

The Coffee bar is called “Trigo”, and should you ever find yourself within driving distance of Panama City I suggest that you go there. I got a serving of croissants and a Cafe Latte today that would have made Proust change the content of the famous tea and Madeleine cookie scene, and no I didn’t dunk my croissant!

Apparently spring break is in town, but I must admit that I haven’t seen anything of it yet. I think we’ll go have a look later, but I must admit that if I wanted to experience drunk young people making asses of themselves I would’ve stayed in Denmark.

One thing that really helps set an easygoing atmosphere is the 25 mph speed limit they have. It’s impossible to go anywhere in a hurry, and it seems that everyone is just cruising around with their windows down. And if it gets a bit too warm you just follow Harrison Road down to the Civic Center, which is by the sea. The soft, yet soothing winds will do you good. As the truly inept dane I am, I succeeded in getting my hands sunburnt while reading the newspaper. But at least the top of my head doesn’t have that luminous red shrimp-like color anymore.

Athens, Georgia

kristian@roadsidediaries.org — 2008-03-24T15:06:04-04:00

I don’t really know what I expected from Athens. It’s often described as an intellectual town, a center of arts and creativity. And that isn’t wrong, it’s just that it’s so much more. We took the Greyhound from Atlanta, basically because we wanted to try and travel by bus, and the Greyhound is the archetype of that kind of travel.

The trip from Atlanta isn’t much to write about. The road is surrounded by a vast amount of trees, making it virtually impossible to see anything beside adumbrations of the multitude of townships and apartment complexes lying along the route. Funny thing is, that you hardly even notice that you’ve reached Athens until the bus takes sharp left turn and stops at an anonymous building and the driver says “Athens, Georgia folks”.

The station is empty, I’ve never seen anyone in there but the stout southern gentleman behind the counter. But his “How’re-y’all-doing”, instantly puts a smile on my face. The rhythm of the southern accent - as far as I know, the “Southern Drawl” - just makes you feel welcome.

When you walk out the main entrance and hit Broad Street, just turn left and follow the road up the hill. It really has a small town feel to it, and the five minute walk to campus is a lovely little stroll (If you turn right and walk down hill, you’ll get to a lot of cheap motels).

After five minutes walking (if you turn left for the scenic route), you will get to an intersection with a small Starbucks on one corner. At this point you’ll wanna turn right and cross the street (or quickly get a cup of coffee in Starbucks, and bring it along). After crossing the street you’ll be staring directly at the University of Georgia Campus.

At this point (providing you have the good fortune of arriving on a remotely sunny day), I recommend that you sit down in the middle of the small park and just relax. It’s like stepping into a movie or maybe even a dream. The buildings are well kept, the architecture aspires to be classical in it’s greco-roman style. For me it brought connotations to how I’ve always imagined it must have felt sitting in Aristotle's Elysium, sipping whatever the heck they served, and just learning through debates. It has an innocence to it that I haven’t seen before - and the students have an unspoiled appearance, and an admiration of learning provided by the curiosity of youth, but also inspired by their surroundings.

We sat there for an hour or so until Eric picked us up - he no longer resides in the campus dormitories, but instead shares a flat a few miles from the Downtown/campus area in a lovely apartment complex called “The Athens Lodge”.

Living at Eric’s was excellent. He had two couches we could crash, and he had the kind of TV that wars are fought over (I myself have started lesser conflicts over the right to watch Soccer on a 20’ TV, so I suppose larger scale skirmishes are a definite possibility with this TV). He spent the entire two days with us, driving us to and from shops, restaurants and even took the time to give us a four hour tour of campus, on saturday.

In Addition to all this, he invited us to meet his friends, and I actually got half through my serving of chicken nugget without noticing that the others were saying grace. Luckily they have a sense of humor. Sunday Eric brought us along for the Easter sermon at The First Baptist Church of Watkinsville, which was an amazing experience. Coming from a Lutheran Protestant church, in which the basic premiss is Original sin, and all the joys you can get out of that [Insert Irony marker], a baptist sermon is very uplifting. It’s about the individual celebrating his faith and his love for Jesus. I’m not a Christian myself, but I find the baptists’ ways of celebrating their faith a bit more inviting than the “Ye are all profoundly screwed” of the Lutheran Church. I once got whacked on the back of the head by a senior citizen sitting behind, me for not saying the correct Grace in church (in her defense the grace I was saying was waaaaaay off). At this sermon people fell to their knees, stood up, yelled ‘Amen’ at will - whatever they felt appropriate, whaterver they needed to do to express their faith. For me, that’s a big plus.

After the sermon we went back to Eric’s friends apartment along with some more friends and family. We had a big lunch with (a kind of) creamed corn, grilled chicken, macaroni and cheese (should you ever find yourself within arms reach, I suggest you try some of Megans homemade Mac’n’cheese). It was a wonderful afternoon, a lot like a traditional danish family gathering (almost missed the ‘Akvavit’, but only almost). They were kind enough to say grace before I got the food on my plate, which saved me form embarrassing myself again, so the afternoon passed without any bloopers from my side.

Unfortunately, we are unable to get a rental car in Athens, and will be traveling back to Atlanta to spend the night. Tomorrow we'll pick up a car at the airport and head south for Mexican Gulf, and some seafood. I'm very excited about that, as food is my favorite dish :p

Atlanta

kristian@roadsidediaries.org — 2008-03-22T22:55:32-04:00

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.

Mixing it up a bit

kristian@roadsidediaries.org — 2008-03-20T21:46:18-04:00

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.

Hooking up with the locals

kristian@roadsidediaries.org — 2008-03-20T01:52:07-04:00

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.

Update

kristian@roadsidediaries.org — 2008-03-14T14:33:53+01:00

Getting ready. Wont have time to blog until I land in Atlanta, since I'm finishing the script for a movie that a friend will be directing this summer.