Summer Road Trip

Despite having spent the bulk of our lives as residents of California, my wife Juneko and I had never visited San Diego, the state’s second largest city. In order to correct this oversight, we decided to make it the destination of a summer road trip. We would follow Highway 1 south from Marin County, stopping for a couple of nights in Morro Bay – another town we had never visited – before continuing on to our final destination. After three nights in San Diego, we then would head back north, stopping for a night in Pismo Beach.

The first leg of our journey took us through one of my favorite cities, Santa Cruz – where we stopped for coffee and pastries – and then through the Big Sur region of the California coast. Here, Highway 1 curves along the shoreline, elevated atop cliffs that drop off into the crashing waves of the Pacific Ocean. This is where Henry Miller and Anaïs Nin lived, where the Manson Family lurked for a while, and where members of the Esalon Institute still meditate and frolic in New Age bliss. The views are amazing, but you have to keep your eyes glued to the road in order to avoid plunging to your death.

Near San Simeon – the location of Hearst Castle – we pulled off the road to take a gander at a long stretch of beach that has become a resting place for a colony of elephant seals. Lined up on the sand like slick, leathery logs of driftwood, the seals lay on the shoreline, taking in the sun while ignoring tourists who stand overhead snapping photos. They (the seals, not the tourists) reminded me of our own lazy dog who likes to bask in the heat on the deck at home. Replace our dog’s legs with flippers and he could join this sea-going pack; though he probably wouldn’t last long. I think these seals are much too rough, vulgar and wild for our civilized chihuahua.

We arrived in Morro Bay around 4pm, and after checking into the motel, we walked a few blocks down to the harbor to take in some sights and eat some dinner. The Morro Bay harbor is a working harbor busy with fishermen hauling in their catches. It is home to a Coast Guard station as well as an abandoned power station with three imposing smoke stacks. It also, incongruously, is a protected wildlife sanctuary. The tour book we carried with us takes a subtly disparaging tone toward the place, describing it as “working-class,” but for me, it was actually a refreshing change of pace from tourist locations like San Francisco’s Fisherman’s Wharf or Seattle’s Pike Place. The Morro Bay harbor is small, uncrowded and unpretentious. While I would not recommend the restaurant that we ate at our first night (I was served a weird, tasteless and unpleasantly mushy dish that was a combination of ground up abalone and scallops; something my wife described as “jackalope”), I would recommend spending a day wandering around the docks. As the men clean their equipment, sea lions swim about, lounge on the piers and bark at one another. Meanwhile, rafts of sea otters float on their backs, cleaning their fur, snoozing and eating. It’s really a very cool sight.

The next day, we went back to the harbor and walked to Morro Bay’s landmark: Morro Rock. Sitting on the coastline and jutting about five hundred feet above the water, Morro Rock is a volcanic plug so distinctive that it has been used for centuries by seamen as a navigation marker, and thus has been dubbed “The Gibraltar of California.” In the early 1900’s nearly half of the rock was blasted away to provide material for the construction of Morro Harbor, but in 1963 it was designated a national landmark. Visitors are not allowed to climb the rock, which is a nesting place for peregrine falcons and other sea birds, but you can hike to its base, becoming acquainted with hundreds of overfed ground squirrels that reside there and beg for food.

Morro Rock looms in the background wherever you go in the town of Morro Bay. It is always there, either appearing in the distance or hiding behind trees or buildings, just waiting to be revealed as you change your perspective. One especially good vantage point comes from taking a short hike up to the top of Black Hill in Morro Bay State Park. If the fog has cleared, from the peak of Black Hill you get panoramic views of the shoreline – punctuated by Morro Rock – as well as the town, the harbor, and in the opposite direction, the other volcanic plugs making up the “Nine Sisters” that stretch all the way down to San Luis Obispo. Climb back down the hill, and you can hike along trails that run along the Morro Estuary. Here you can take in bay views while encountering rabbits, birds and some of the most prosperous succulent plants that I have ever seen in my life. At the Bay View Café, located in the State Park, my wife and I ate clam chowder mixed with green chilies, a plate of fried clams and fish and chips. It was all reasonably priced and quite good.

The next morning we hit the road at around 9am, hoping to get past Los Angeles before 3pm. We had been warned after that time the traffic could become an almost impossible impediment. Despite arriving in the LA region well ahead of deadline (1:30 pm), we nevertheless did end up stuck in a traffic jam on Highway 101 that did not come to an end until we passed through Long Beach. There was nothing we could do except sit tight and repeatedly mutter, “Fuck!” as we spent about three hours slowly inching forward in southern California traffic, finally arriving in San Diego at around 6pm.

I had booked a good online deal at the Hard Rock Hotel in the Gas Lamp Quarter, not quite understanding the atmosphere of the place. It’s a rock and roll themed hotel catering to party-goers and rowdy college students that is apparently bent on encouraging guests to overindulge in booze and sex. Along with wine and liquor, the rooms are stocked with condoms and lubricants! When we checked in, the concierge informed us that as guests, we were invited to attend their rooftop pool party the following evening. “There will be a DJ and half-priced drinks,” he informed us. Then he asked what kind of music we preferred to have piped into our room. When I said, “Punk,” he shot me a confused look. “That’s the first time anyone has asked for that. Sorry, but we don’t have it. Anything else? Heavy Metal perhaps?” My wife suggested Alternative music, which was a genre that did make sense to our friendly host.

Ironically, when the doors of the elevator opened onto our floor, the first thing we were greeted by was a wall sized photo of punk icons Sid and Nancy! In fact, photos of the Sex Pistols, The Ramones and Blondie appear throughout the property. Given this, I think the management of the Hard Rock Hotel needs to rethink some of their policies. I advise them to treat punk rock as something more than just a historical museum piece. Offer the option to have hardcore punk music piped into the rooms. Get rid of the condoms and lubricants and instead stock the mini bars with Guinness, Pabst Blue Ribbon and hypodermic syringes. Drain the pool and invite guests to use it for skateboarding. Instead of rooftop parties, set up faux dive bars with filthy bathrooms and urinals that won’t flush. This would open up a whole new marketing strategy, I assure you.

That night, we ate some terrible tacos at one of the numerous restaurants on 6th Street near the hotel and then spent a few hours sipping drinks and people watching from the front porch of an Irish pub. The Gas Lamp district is a bustling location, crowded with people of varied ages drinking and socializing late into the night. There are a lot of college kids, but also older folks and service members from the nearby Navy and Marine Corps bases. Tough looking, thirty-something men with shaven heads, baseball caps and tattooed arms saunter along next to softer looking, long-haired twenty-something young men dressed in kakis and collared shirts. The young women are dressed up in fancy dresses or dressed down in cut-off shorts and skimpy tops. Tattooed flesh is abundantly on display. Mixed in among the youngsters are middle-aged folks that might be the parents of college students. There is also a heavy law enforcement presence, which might be one of the reasons why the situation on the street did not feel like it was going to spin out of control despite all of the youth, hormones and booze. When I was a teenager, I would have hated this place. Now that I’m fifty four, it was actually quite relaxing to hang out until well past midnight, detached, watching the people pass by.

The next morning we ate breakfast at The Hob Nob Hill Restaurant, a place featured on the TV show Diners, Drive-ins and Dives. The food was fine, but not outstanding. It was the atmosphere of the place that was the real attraction, with its 1950’s style décor and upholstered booths. Afterwards we drove through Balboa Park and went to the world-famous San Diego Zoo. This is the largest zoo I have ever visited (also the most expensive!), covering over one hundred acres and housing more than 3,500 animals including capibaras, elephants, gorillas, and orangutans –and that’s not counting all of the bald, tattooed tough guys who wander the grounds drinking beer with their tattooed wives and tattooed children in tow. We spent about four and a half hours meandering along the paths, throughout the aviaries, and past the enclosures before getting on the “Skyfari” gondola that offers a bird’s eye view of the park from about one hundred feet above the ground.

After leaving the zoo, we ate dinner at another Guy Fieri endorsed restaurant called the Crest Café. I had a vegetarian sandwich that was very tasty and my wife had breakfast tacos, which she said were OK. Afterwards we walked around the Hillcrest neighborhood; a place that felt like a small Haight Ashbury, teeming with a wide and varied assortment of alternative-type people. Taang! Records is located here, and we spent some time browsing through their vinyl, which includes $300 copies of old punk records and $5 CD reissues of old Oi! Classics. The walls of the store are covered with records by bands from the old days: The Mentors, Slaughter and the Dogs, Cock Sparrer, GG Allin. There are posters, cassette tapes, old children’s record players, buttons, patches and all sorts of other punk ephemera for sale. If you are in San Diego, you must visit this place.

For our final day in San Diego, we drove to Coronado Island and visited the Hotel Del Coronado, a national historic landmark that was built in 1888. The hotel is a Victorian style building with red turrets that sit atop its white washed walls. The dark, hardwood interior of the lobby makes you feel as if you are in a cave when you first enter from the front steps, but once you exit the main building toward the rear, sunlight pours out over the lawns, the landscaping and the beach. There is a walkway lined with overpriced bars and food stands stretching along the shore next to the sand. The Hotel Del Coronado has appeared in movies such as Some Like It Hot and My Blue Heaven, and in television shows such as Ghost Story and Baywatch. Rooms at the hotel range from around $300 a night to over $1,000 a night. For that price you could buy some vintage punk vinyl.

We crossed back over Coronado Bridge for a final visit to Balboa Park, ranked as one of the best parks in the world by the Project for Public Spaces. Balboa Park covers fourteen hundred acres of land, and is home to a variety of museums in addition to the San Diego Zoo. We wandered through the lush grounds of the park for a couple of hours, looking at the Spanish inspired architecture and pausing next to the reflecting pools, before eating some excellent seafood tacos at Oscars Mexican Seafood and then heading back to our hotel for the evening.

The next morning we drove north on Highway 101, thankfully avoiding the awful traffic that delayed us when we were southbound, and headed toward our final overnight destination: Pismo Beach. Our stay here was not during the peak season, so the town was relatively quiet and peaceful. We were told by a shop owner that in July, things get pretty crowded and crazy, so I’m glad we visited when we did. The town is located right on the beach, which features waves for surfers and a long pier for those of us who just want to gaze at the ocean. Bugs Bunny and Daffy Duck intended to vacation here in the cartoon Ali Baba Bunny, but they made a wrong turn at Albuquerque.

If they ever do make it to Pismo, they would enjoy the food at Cracked Crab, on Price Street. I’m still thinking about the deep fried brussel sprouts, a dish that is probably one of the best things I have ever tasted. The chioppino was also incredible, brimming with crab legs, mussels, clams, and shrimp. I felt like one of the otters that we saw in Morro Bay as I dug through the shellfish and stuffed my belly. Juneko had a crab sandwich that was also delicious.

After dinner, Juneko and I walked out into the darkness and onto the city pier, reminiscing about our thirty three years together. We talked about death, love and hope. Engulfed by the evening gloom, listening to the lapping of the ocean waves on the wooden pilings, the two of us gazed out at the black waters stretching out toward the horizon. The sea was virtually indistinguishable from the night sky, making it seem as if we were suspended in the midst of a shadow. Thin lines of white foam formed on the surface of the black water below, outlining waves that moved toward the shore, breaking and disappearing into nothing. Again and again, the same cycle of wave after wave erupted out of the watery void, repeating endlessly. Currents that led nowhere, accomplishing nothing, moved this way and that.

“We’re kinda like that,” I thought.

Datong, The Hanging Monastery and the Yungang Grottoes

On our 5th day in China, we woke at 4am and took a cab to the Beijing airport in order to catch a one hour flight to Datong, a city that was once China’s imperial capital but which is now a gritty metropolis of 3 million people struggling to redefine itself as a tourist destination. Datong’s main industry is coal mining (its nickname is “City of Coal”), but it is also in close proximity to the Hanging Temple and the Yungang Grottoes.

For a city of 3 million people, the Datong airport is unusually small, with only one terminal, which made it very easy to spot our guide, Judy, and our driver for this leg of our sightseeing trip. Our driver was friendly but spoke no English, so he was mostly silent over the course of the day. Judy, on the other hand, spoke fluent English. She had been an English teacher many years ago, but for the past thirteen years she has worked as a tour guide in the Datong area. We could not have had a better guide. She was friendly, informed, and enthusiastic.

Our first stop was to be the Hanging Monastery; a ninety minute drive from the airport. As I mentioned earlier, Datong is a mining town, so the roads are busy with huge coal-filled trucks that frequently slow to a crawl. When this occurs, cars attempt to pass them, driving on the wrong side of the two-lane blacktop into on-coming traffic, squeezing by one another by mere inches. Additionally, there are scores of scooters, mopeds and motorcycles heading the wrong way carrying un-helmeted passengers (sometimes more than one!) who perch precariously on the bikes’ frames and fenders. I expected to see at least one accident at some point during our drive, but luckily that didn’t happen.

The scenery along this first part of the route consisted of decrepit and decaying shops of one sort or another. I presume many were garages or machine shops, as outside, among the piles of dirt and bricks, there were lots of old cars and chunks of metal. Periodically pickup trucks sat stopped by the side of the road, loaded with watermelons for sale.

Eventually the scenery became more attractive with the appearance of thatches of trees and mountain ranges breaking up the horizon. Judy told us that there was a campaign in place to rejuvenate the countryside with lots of trees; and sure enough we saw multiple crews of men and women planting rows and rows of pines. The government had been disappointed by a previous planting campaign in which a large number of trees died because of poor care and so this time around companies were only being paid 30% of their fee up front, with the remainder to be paid over the following five years based on how many of the newly plated pines actually survive.

The Hanging Monastery is located near Mt. Heng, one of five Chinese mountains considered sacred to Taoists. As we pulled off of the winding road into the dirt parking lot, we joined hundreds of other tourists, purchasing tickets and then standing in an hour-long line before climbing up into the monastery itself.

The Hanging Monastery is unique in being dedicated to three different religions: Taoism, Buddhism and Confucianism. In fact, one of the main attractions within are three side-by-side statues dedicated to Lao Tzu, the Buddha and Confucius. The temple itself sits about 250 feet above the valley floor, suspended across a cliff face. Construction was started 1,400 years ago by one man: a monk named Liaoran. The last improvements and repairs were made in 1901. The far left structure sits atop a foundation of brick, but the right side of the monastery looks as if it has been glued to the rock wall. The only visible supports are long, wooden poles that appear to hold up the walkways; although Judy told us that they actually serve no real architectural function. They were just put in place to calm the fears of visitors who might think that the walkways were in danger of collapse! The real supports are hidden wooden beams embedded in the cliff face.  Judy claimed that no one is really certain about how these hidden beams were originally attached to the cliff. This all made me recall that Time Magazine identified the Hanging Monastery as one of the ten most precarious tourist attractions in the world. I was beginning to question the wisdom of actually climbing up onto this structure.

But climb we did. Only 80 people are supposed to be allowed up at at time, and though I didn’t count how many tourists there actually were on the walkways, I do estimate that it was much more than officially allowed. The wooden walkways are very narrow, giving you ample opportunity to peek over the edge to see how far you would fall in case you slipped or were pushed over the edge by the crush of people behind you or were knocked out of the way by those trying get in front of you.

My heart was beating with anxiety the entire time we were up there, and as a result I didn’t really get a chance to look at many of the artifacts or relics housed in the rooms carved into the cliff walls. I was primarily concerned with circling my way along the wooden path back to the exit and planting my feet safely back on the ground below.

After leaving the Hanging Monastery we backtracked to Datong and had noodles in a restaurant before setting off to the Yungang Grottoes; a 30 minute drive from downtown.

The Yungang Grottoes is a Unesco World Heritage site and an obvious tourist attraction. The road was crowded with busses and taxies, and the entry desk was mobbed with people competing with one another in order to purchase tickets. Initially I stood in what I thought was a line, only to have throngs of people push in front of me. The girl behind the counter was obviously exasperated, and when she yelled something in Chinese, the unruly mob fell into order behind me and I was able to pay for our entrance.

As we walked into the attraction, there was a wide open area of newly constructed temples in the style of other, older complexes that we had seen in places like the Forbidden City, the Summer Palace, and at the Llama Temple in Beijing. Here, the buildings were populated with chanting monks who burned incense and yelled at the tourists! A walkway leads along an artificial lakeshore decorated with Buddhist sculptures and then over a bridge that takes you to another walkway running next to a stretch of limestone cliffs less than a mile long. This is where the ancient sculptures are found.

Altogether there are about 53 caves that have been carved into these cliffs, with the oldest one dating back about 2,000 years. Because of the porousness of the stone, many of the carvings have been eroded by seeping water over the centuries. Currently there is a repair process going on to restore the most badly damaged specimens.

The first carvings that we encountered were modest and relatively small in size, but as we continued along the path the carvings became increasingly monumental, consisting of huge caves, some housing central pagodas or enormous Buddha figures chipped into the rock. The construction of the larger carvings began from the top, as the artisans would open apertures high up on the cliff and then work their way inward and downward. Once the carving was completed, they would create an opening at the bottom as an entryway.

Over time, modifications were made to many of the sculptures, with mud facades placed over the rock, which were then painted with bright colors. In some areas this remains, and so in the most well preserved specimens you can still see vivid blues and reds. In others, the paint and mud have fallen away, revealing the round holes that supported wooden dowels used to make mud adhere to the statues.

The walls surrounding the central figures in the caves are covered with carvings of thousands of smaller buddhas and other figures and decorations. Some of the figures look very much like the angels that you would see depicted in Catholic Churches.

Five of the largest buddhas represent Chinese kings. Other buddhas represent the past, present and future: always grouped in threes. The last of the large buddhas is the best preserved. Apparently the cave it originally was within collapsed, thus protecting it from the elements over hundreds of years.

The Yungang Grottoes reinforced my impression of China as a land of sublime wonders. Despite the tourist trappings, these buddha carvings filled me with a sense of awe; like I was in the presence of something holy. The oldest artifacts here were constructed before the birth of Christ, encouraging reflection on the vastness of time. Additionally, there is the awesome impression of vast size and of the immense effort required to carve these enormous figures. The largest carving took 60 years to complete, so there is also an awe inspiring sense of dedication on the part of the sculptors. The fact that when walking into these caves you become engulfed by the darkness also encourages an awareness of your own puniness, while the huge figures, shrouded in shadows, radiate an aura of mystery. In such confined spaces it is impossible to actually see all parts of the sculptures. Many details you can’t see at all, since they lie hidden and beyond any possible line of sight. All of this contributes to the mystery and sublime sense of overwhelming magnitude while in the presence of the largest figures.

By the time we were done at the Yungang Grottoes, it was starting to get dark and time for us to check into our hotel in the walled, central portion of Datong. The original city walls are largely gone, but currently there is a renovation project underway to restore them and to make the city more attractive to tourists. This project is not without controversy, as it involves the destruction of old, crumbling residences and the relocation of people to new apartments elsewhere. In fact, there is an entirely new side of the city that looks as if it has been artificially transported from another place. This sparkling clean and modern section of Datong stands in sharp contrast to the old, crumbling section that stands just across the Sanggan River. The controversy and the idealism associated with this project of urban renewal is documented in the film The Chinese Mayor (AKA Datong).

Our hotel was showing its age, and our window looked out onto a run down alleyway filled with rubble and garbage, but we were tired, ready for dinner and a good night’s sleep, so we weren’t too concerned about those things. Judy had told us that the streets of Datong were very safe, but that never-the-less we should not be out past 9pm. I’m not sure why that is, but we took her advise and ended up having dinner in the hotel restaurant after a short stroll around town. The restaurant seemed to be very popular with both young and old locals alike. It was crowded and loud, with a nice view of the main square below. The menu, like in most places that we went in China, consisted of photos of the food, making it easy to point and order what you want. This menu, however, was the size of a phone book, and as we started to leaf through the pages, I witnessed a progressively horrified look spread across my wife Juneko’s face. In addition to sea cucumber and shark fin soup, at this place you could order poached deer fetus, bull penis, whole roasted pigeon, boiled goat head and even monkey meat! Juneko said that she wished she was adventurous enough to try something exotic, but she could not overcome her disgust. I was the same. We definitely are no Anthony Bourdains! We ended up having a very meager dinner consisting of vegetable buns, a weird fried noodle dish sprinkled with sugar, some gross tasting pickled radishes and walnut cakes. Juneko liked the last item. I did not.

The next morning out flight was delayed, so we waited for a couple of hours at the airport. After getting back to Beijing, we dropped our gear back at the hotel and then went to the local Pizza Hut Bistro for pizza and broccoli before resting up in preparation for more Chinese adventures.

The Sublimity of The Forbidden City and The Great Wall


As we disembarked the plane in Beijing, I got my first indication of how hot it was going to be during our three week stay in China. I was wearing a t-shirt and a zip-up hoodie on the flight, but as my wife, Juneko, and I stepped into the 100-plus degree heat, I immediately realized that no sweatshirts would be needed here. Going outside was like entering a misty sauna. On the cab ride to the hotel I asked our driver if the hazy dampness hanging in the air was indication of an impending storm. All he said was “Yeah,” which was not a real answer. He just didn’t understand what I was asking. In fact, the gray mist we were breathing was the infamous Beijing pollution, and the dampness was just normal summer humidity.

Prior to our trip, while still in San Francisco, we had waited 5 hours and 20 minutes at the Chinese consulate to file forms for our visas, so I was prepared for our arrival in Beijing to involve long waits mixed with doses of chaos. Happily, that was not so. Though the Beijing airport was crowded and bustling, things went very smoothly and we were out and into a cab within an hour. The ride took us on a busy, modern freeway, through a few traffic jams and past rows of high-rise buildings; some adorned with familiar names like IKEA, SONY and Mercedes Benz, while most others were marked with Chinese characters. Watching the signs buzz by, I started to understand what it is like to be illiterate. Even though I had a rough sense of the identities of the places passing by my window (office buildings, corporate headquarters, apartment buildings, gas stations and so forth) I was unable to understand the finer details of things. Street signs, billboards and the notices in shop windows were all in a language I could not understand. My first glimpses of Beijing, thus, were of a place at once familiar and mysteriously exotic. I was reminded of the cityscapes in the movie Blade Runner: bright signs written in Chinese characters, tall buildings and dark, oppressive, gray mist.

We stayed at the China National Convention Center Grand Hotel in the northern part of the city, right next to the Olympic Village where the summer games were held in 2008. Looming nearby is the 750 foot-tall Olympic Tower, which serves as a landmark and point of orientation when wandering the area. At The Grand Hotel – and the convention center to which is attached – the staff spoke English, and throughout our stay they were very helpful in arranging transportation, giving us directions, and exchanging cash. Our accommodations were clean and comfortable as well. The hotel has a serviceable gym and an indoor pool, as well as a couple of restaurants with food that is not as great as the folks who serve it. Our first night we ate at the hotel cafe, where I ordered spring rolls and a pot of good green tea while my wife ordered a BLT with fries. I ended up eating most of the BLT, which was weird, as it was made with pickles but no mayonaise. The “bacon” was something more like limp ham. Nevertheless, it was late by that time and we were hungry, so at least we didn’t starve.

The morning after our arrival, we took a stroll to an indoor shopping mall just down the street. Neither the haze nor the heat had dissipated, and so by the time we had walked three blocks, we were soaking wet with perspiration. Luckily the shopping mall was air conditioned and also served as a subway stop, so after a cold drink at Starbucks, we bought cards at the station and took a ride downtown to The Forbidden City, just the first of the four UNESCO World Heritage Sites that we would visit over the course of our stay.

The Forbidden City lies just across a busy roadway north of Tiananmen Square. Exiting the subway we (again drenched in sweat) entered through the Gate of Heavenly Peace, which is adorned with an enormous portrait of Mao Zedong. We were crushed among the crowd of people surging forward as visitors were channeled between barricades and fences along the sidewalk. Entering the main grounds required that we go through a check-point and show our passports to guards who typed our information into a computer. Wherever you go in China, they know who you are, and they know where you’ve been!


The Forbidden City covers over 180 acres and contains 980 buildings with a total of 8,728 rooms. It was built in the 15th Century during the Ming Dynasty and served as home to the Emperor until 1912. Apparently, it was customary for the Emperor to sleep in a different room every night so that potential assassins would never know exactly where he was. That, of course, was in the days before high tech surveillance. In 1860, British and French forces controlled the Forbidden City during the second Opium War. It became a UNESCO World Heritage Site in 1987.


Guidebooks say you should devote two to three hours to this site, but a full day is more realistic. The place is huge, and with the temperature soaring to 111 degrees (and a heat index of 136 degrees!) during our visit, we had to take frequent breaks to sit in the shade and drink water in order to avoid heat stroke. The City is laid out in a series of successive palaces. You pass through gates in the palaces, which open up onto enormous courtyards, one after another. It seems to go on and on, giving visitors the impression of infinitely expanding space. This was once considered to be the center of the world by the Chinese, and the Emperor lived and ruled within its heart. To control this much space, to corral it between walls, moats, gates and palaces was a dramatic symbol of power; something the British and French obviously understood during their occupation in 1860.

After wandering around the palaces, statues and stairways (and periodically seeking shade) for a few hours, we eventually made our way into the Museum of Clocks, which holds a collection of antique Chinese time pieces, some small, some the size of a small house. While the grounds of The Forbidden City demonstrate a mastery of space, the Museum of Clocks demonstrates that the control of time was also of great importance to Chinese rulers. Time and space comprise the backdrop against which all things in our world unfold, and by enclosing both of these dimensions within the walls of this royal location, Chinese Emperors conveyed the scope of their control and power; a power subsequently seized by the British and French, then by the nationalist leader Chiang Kai-shek and finally by the communist revolutionaries led by Mao Zedong.

It was mid-afternoon when we left the Forbidden City, exiting down a road lined with stores and street vendors. We boarded the subway – thankful to dry off in the air conditioning – and tried unsuccessfully to find a vegetarian restaurant that had good reviews in our guidebook. Instead, we ended up in another air conditioned shopping mall where we feasted on vegetarian Subway (brand) sandwiches before taking the other subway (public transportation) back to the hotel. At this point our first full day in China was coming to a close and I felt as if I had been beaten and tortured by a group of the Emperor’s guards. All I wanted to do was drink lots of cold water, take a shower and go to sleep.

I awoke the next morning, which was Friday, thinking it was Thursday. This was because in traveling from North America to Asia, we lost a day. I had a splitting headache – probably from dehydration – and generally felt like crap. I reflected on how glad I was that we were not scheduled to go anywhere until Friday. Then, the phone rang and the front desk clerk said: “Your driver has arrived to take you to The Great Wall.” I guess we were going somewhere after all!

Our driver spoke no English, so a smile and a handshake – and trust on our part that he knew where we wanted to go – had to suffice as an introduction. We boarded the van and set off on the hour and a half trip north to the Mutianyu section of The Great Wall. Our route took us on a superhighway and then onto a series of narow country roads. The tour busses and cars had to squeeze by one another while also endeavoring to avoid collision with unhelmeted riders on scooters and bicycles. The misses were mostly near misses. Our route took us through farmlands lined with orchards and fruit stands selling peaches, cherries and apricots.

We arrived at the gates of the park, and after purchasing tickets, walked down something resembling a main street; although it was not part of a real city, but an artificially constructed attraction. This is when it started to hit me how similar this place is to the US. Sure, there is not yet a Great Wall back home, but if Trump gets his way and there is one someday you can bet that it will be commercialized pretty much the same way as here. Just like in China, it will probably be accompanied by fast food restaurants and folks selling trinkets, souvenirs and t-shirts.

At the end of “main street” we boarded a bus, which thankfully was air-conditioned, and rode up a steep hill to the actual entrance to the attraction. This entrance, again, looked like an artificial village. From our vantage point below the ridges and the peaks we could see the turrets and the snaking lines of the wall above. Never mind the touristy nature of the place, this sight, I must admit, provoked a feeling of awe in me. It was a feeling similar to what I remember experiencing when I first saw Niagara Falls, Wat Arun in Thailand, or La Sagrada Familia in Spain. I had seen pictures of each of these wonders previous to encountering the real sights first-hand, so you might think that upon actually visiting them that they would be robbed of some of their visual novelty and power; that they might pale in comparison to their media representations. For me, that was never the case. Here, standing beneath The Great Wall, it was just the opposite. The images I had previously seen instead primed me to know what to look for. They gave me a frame of perspective that allowed my mind to start grasping the magnitude of what it was that we were now in the presence of.

The Great Wall is over 13,000 miles long; over four times as length of the US. Viewing the mountainous ridges along which this structure rests, my heart raced and my breathing halted. At first I saw the closest structures – the restored watchtowers and battlements directly above – but as my eyes traced the lines of the fortification, I was overwhelmed by its seeming endlessness. The Wall goes on and on. One watchtower is connected to another, each one looking smaller than the last until the Wall disappears into the hazy distance. The terrain here is steep and rugged, making me wonder about both the mechanics and the logic of constructing such an enormous structure in this particular location. It was, of course, not built all at once. It was begun around 200 BC, with construction continuing over hundreds of years, as various segments went up piece by piece until they were at last connected together. But why here? Why in a place where the mountains stand as a natural barrier? Mongol invaders during their 13th Century conquest of Beijing just went around the Wall anyway, so the barrier was not even effective. These thoughts only added to the uncanniness of the whole experience of looking at The Wall. Hundreds of years of persistent effort, expense and labor have resulted in an architectural artifact both absurd in its conception and awesome in its execution.

A gondola took us up the side of the mountain to The Wall itself. The view from the gondola was of the surrounding forested mountains and the valley below. A woman in the car behind us had a panic attack, crying in terror as we ascended upwards. When we disembarked, she was still weeping, but being comforted by her family. Fear of heights, I guess.

It was a short walk from the gondola to the first of the watchtowers, where we rested in the shade, drinking water and seeking relief from the sun. The place was busy with tourists – we heard Spanish, German, English, French as well as Chinese being spoken – but it wasn’t as crowded as we had seen in some pictures. Perhaps the heat was keeping people away. In any case, everyone was soaking wet and commenting on how hot it was. It was probably well over 100 degrees. I overheard a woman say to her partner that she’d like to walk to the top of the ridge, but was sure that she would pass out if she tried. I felt exactly the same. There was no way that I was going to be able to go very far.

From our starting point we could travel in two directions. One direction would take us up the ridge to what looked like an amazing vantage point overlooking the valley. However, I would only be able to make that trip if I got a piggy-back ride and if we had an overnight stay at the top. The other direction was more level, so that is direction in which we walked for a couple of hours. During that time I alternated between feeling awful and feeling exhilarated: we were actually on The Great Wall! I turned to Juneko a few times to declare, “We’re in China!” Amazing.

Soaked through and through we made our way back down to the exit, which involved a toboggan ride to the bottom. The toboggan ride was kind of silly, but better than suffering through further sweatiness while hiking down the mountainside. After reuniting with out driver we hit the road, arriving back in Beijing in time to get caught in their terrible afternoon traffic. That evening we had an $8 dinner of seafood rice and pork buns before turning in for the night.

According to Kant, the sublime experience occurs in two variations: the mathematical and the dynamic. The mathematical sublime has to do with the awe inspiring sense of infinity arising from an encounter with seemingly endless repetition. The dynamic sublime involves the sense of awe we feel when in the presence of seemingly infinite power. The Forbidden City and The Great Wall each provoked both of these sorts of experiences in me. The wide open courtyards and the palaces of The Forbidden City drew my mind toward thoughts of numerical infinity while also encouraging me to contemplate the enormous political power required to marshall the forces required to construct and control the grounds. The breathtaking scale of The Great Wall, with its battlements that stretch into an unseeable distance, likewise left me awestruck in contemplation of the enormous, seemingly infinite, amount of will, labor and administrative power required to complete such a monumental project. These Chinese monuments are truly sublime in both of the Kantian senses.

And there were more sublime sights yet to see. The next ones would be The Summer Palace, The Hanging Monastery and the Yungang Grottoes near Datong. I’ll write about those in a future posting.

Welcome to Beijing, China.

The word “monumental” sums up my impression of China. From the Great Wall to The Forbidden City; from The Summer Palace to The Temple of Heaven; from The Hanging Monastery to the Yungang Grottoes; the sites we visited during our summer trip to China were without exception monumental both in their mammoth scale and historic importance. This massive country, home to the world’s largest population of human beings, is also home to the world’s largest number of UNESCO World Heritage sights. They say everything is big in Texas, but the state of Texas would fit about 15 times over into the People’s Republic of China.

I’ll save my descriptions and impressions of China’s awe-inspiring cultural sights for a future blog posting. In this posting, I’d like to set the scene, sketching out some of the everyday details of what it was like to be in China, how it was different from home and explain both what endeared and annoyed me about the place. In short, what I’ll describe here is my own experience of culture shock.

My wife and I were in and around Beijing for three weeks this August, seeing the sights and attending the 24th World Congress of Philosophy. I was invited to participate in a session on the philosophy of humor at the Congress, giving us an opportunity not only to meet some interesting scholars but also to explore a city we had never been to before. Initially, I had some apprehension about the trip, as China is notoriously restrictive of free speech and expression; harsh in its treatment of those who the government deems subversive. How was this going to affect the free exchange of ideas that are a necessary part of a philosophy conference? I worried about what could happen to Westerners like ourselves who might say or do the wrong things in a totalitarian, communist country with unfamiliar rules and customs. Were we taking a chance with our freedom? Could we end up in a Chinese jail?

These worries started to get put to the side once we arrived in the country and we experienced the friendliness of the Chinese people. Beijing is a city of 22 million people – more than twice the size of New York City – yet the people we encountered had the good natured affability that you would expect to find in a small town. Often, when we were on the street, examining our maps and trying to figure out how to get to a location, strangers would approach us and offer directions. Despite the fact that few of the Chinese people we met had much English (and we had even less Chinese) through cell phone translation programs and hand gestures, we had little trouble communicating with the Beijingers who came to our assistance. My suspicious American nature initially made me wary of their intentions, but it turned out that they wanted nothing more than to be helpful and welcoming to us. If I had to single out one thing that I loved about China the most, the good-natured people would be at the top of the list.

We apparently were a novelty to the good people of Beijing. Strangers would often stop and ask to snap photos with us. Sometimes I would realize, while sitting on the subway or standing in a park, that I was being photographed by children who were watching me and giggling. Teenagers and adults alike would stare, laugh, and then approach us, snapping away with their cameras or cell phones before joining us to take a selfie. It was all very good-natured and prompted by the fact that they see so few non-Chinese faces, even in a city the size of Beijing. We felt like celebrities! I learned that by smiling and saying “Nee-how” (“Hello” in Mandarin) the ice was immediately broken with kids, adults and old-folks alike.

While the people of Beijing are friendly and curious, there are also always lots of them around, which often caused me to feel crowded and tense. On the street, the subway, the parks, in restaurants and at the stores, there were always hordes of bodies maneuvering around one another in a constant flow of movement and noise. One of the lessons I learned quite early on during our visit was that these hordes have an aggravating practice of ignoring the idea of queuing up for services. Whether it is waiting for the subway or waiting to pay for something at a store counter, I consistently found that I had to push my way insistently to the front in order to get anything done. And it’s not that there was any rudeness involved in this ritual. It just seems that standing in a line for anything is not a part of the Beijing custom. People seem to operate on the principle that if there is any open space somewhere ahead, one must move forward to fill it, even if someone else is standing ahead of you. In order to get anything done, you must take on the qualities of water, flowing ever forward and around the obstacles that appear in your vicinity. When you do so, there are no hard feelings, there is no anger, no accusations of impoliteness or impropriety from bystanders. It is as if the laws of physics have taken over.

This is also what happens with traffic on the streets. Despite the fact that Beijing has an excellent subway system, the roads are always congested with lots of cars, motorcycles and scooters. My understanding is that this is something that has been amplified in recent times with increasing economic prosperity, and as a result traffic jams have become a constant part of life. The cars, scooters and motorcycles on the roads – like the people in the shops – move ever forward to fill any spaces that appear in front of them, ignoring traffic rules, pedestrians, and safety concerns. I never saw any traffic police during our entire stay in Beijing. Drivers toot their horns regularly to warn those on foot to get out of the way as they blast through red lights, crosswalks and as they race down the shoulder of the street. Motorcycles and scooters zoom the wrong way down the road and weave around pedestrians on the sidewalk, abruptly stopping in front of you as riders park their vehicles wherever they can find space. Helmets appear to be optional. Aggravating things is the fact that most of the scooters are electric, so they don’t make any noise as they approach from behind. At night many of them don’t bother to switch on their headlights, zooming along like silent torpedoes seeking a human target. 700 people a day are killed in traffic accidents in China (260,000 a year), mostly pedestrians and motorcyclists, and I can see why. Being hit by a car was the most dangerous threat that we faced during our Chinese visit.

On the other hand, we never felt the threat of violent crime during our visit. None of the neighborhoods we visited felt dangerous and we never worried about our safety, even when wandering the dark alleys of the city’s hutongs (the old neighborhoods at the center of Beijing) at night. While I’m sure that there is crime in Beijing, the presence of so many police, guards and cameras on the streets goes a long way to deter bad behavior. Additionally, there are metal detectors and checkpoints at subway entrances and at the entrances to certain buildings, museums and attractions. We had the definite feeling of being safe, but we also had the feeling of being in a police state. The eyes of the authorities are everywhere; even at the philosophy conference, where in addition to cameras, metal detectors and guards there were also riot police stationed near the downstairs entrances to the convention center, looking bored as they leaned on their shields. I imagine there must be an official government rule that when a certain number of people gather in one place, a certain number of riot police must also be on duty. Given that the conference was a very large one – with around 8,000 attendees – it would figure that there would be worries about things getting out of hand. After all, you know how rowdy philosopher professors can get.

Two scarce sights were litter and homeless people. We saw one man sleeping in a tunnel near the shopping mall, but we were not sure that he was actually homeless. There were no tent cities or encampments anywhere we went in the city. Likewise, litter in the streets was almost non-existent. This probably was due to the fact that just about everywhere we went, workers were picking up rubbish, painting fences and emptying garbage cans. Maybe this also accounts for the invisibility of homeless people. Perhaps the government puts them to work sprucing up the streets. Apparently, Beijing’s unemployment rate is below 4%, so assigning citizens to cleaning duty may be something that kills three birds with one stone. In any case, I don’t think I have ever been in a city this size that was so spotless. Chalk another one up for communism!

Upon our arrival in Beijing, the city was in the midst of a heatwave, with temperatures soaring to 111 degrees. When you combine this with high humidity and the haze of the city’s smog, the conditions were not so good for walking around. Within a block, I would be soaked with perspiration, dripping wet and uncomfortable for the rest of the day. It was on this trip I really did discover my physical limits when it comes to heat exposure. After a sweltering visit to the Forbidden City on our first day (where the temperature soared to 111 degrees, and the ambient temperature was a blistering 136 degrees) and then, on the second day, to The Great Wall, I felt as if I had been beaten with a bag of hammers. My body ached, I was fatigued, and all I wanted to do was sit in an air conditioned hotel room sipping chilled bottled water. Luckily, the heat wave passed after the third day, the temperatures dipped to a more reasonable level, and the rest of our excursions took place under more comfortable conditions. The hazy smog even cleared on some days, revealing the blue skies above.

The food we sampled in Beijing ranged from mediocre to gross. Much of what we ate was bland (various noodle dishes and rice dishes), while a few things were outright awful (a squid dish cooked in some sort of tomato sauce; some kind of deep fried pasta with sugar sprinkled on top). There were some things that we were just not going to try at all (poached deer fetus; bull penis). Some meals were pretty good (baked tilapia; an eggplant dish; a vegetarian version of kung pao chicken), but overall the food was forgettable. Both my wife and I developed persistent diarrhea that to one degree or another haunted us for our entire three week visit. Whether this was due to the food or the local water, I’m not sure, but over the course of our stay we increasingly found ourselves visiting a Pizza Hut Bistro in the mall near our hotel, hoping to avoid strange foods that did weird things to our insides. The Pizza Hut Bistro was unlike any Pizza Hut in the US, as it served roasted broccoli, sandwiches, beer, wine and even escargot! While part of me felt ashamed for eating in an American fast food joint while in China, another part of me didn’t care. Give me dough, cheese and Coca-Cola!

It is well known that the Chinese government blocks and censors the country’s media, but it was a bit startling to actually experience this on a day-to-day basis. Sites like Facebook, Worldcat, and Google were inaccessible on my computer, although my wife did find that she could get to some of them on her cell phone. This caused a bit of annoyance and inconvenience when trying to communicate with family and friends back home. Strangely, WordPress was not blocked, which made me wonder about the consistency and logic of Chinese internet censorship. In a country that is inviting large numbers of foreign scholars to gather and mix with Chinese scholars in order to discuss controversial philosophical, social and cultural issues, does it make much sense to block social media? Apparently the Chinese people know how to circumvent much of the media censorship anyway, so it all seems like an absurd, losing battle. The silliness of it all was dramatized during our visit when government censors forbade the posting of pictures of Winnie the Pooh because the cartoon character seems to resemble the Chinese president, Xi Jinping! Who knew that Winnie the Pooh was so dangerously subversive?

While we did have access to international television programming in our hotel room, the TV screen would mysteriously go blank whenever stories that were unfavorable toward the Chinese government appeared. The first time it happened we were watching CNN, and I initially thought it was just a problem with the signal. But repeatedly, when any program that could be interpreted as critical of China appeared on TV, the screen would go black until the offending segment was over and some other segment had begun. Coincidence? Probably not.

Construction was constant while we were in China, continuing 24 hours a day, everywhere that we went. The night after we arrived at our hotel – which was attached to the China National Convention Center, right next to the Olympic Village – I noticed a strange sound emanating from the walls of our room. At sunrise, I realized that the sound was actually coming from a vacant lot across the street. It was the racket of three backhoes as they smashed up and excavated a full square city block of concrete foundation. This noise went on non-stop (for 3 weeks!) until shortly before we left Beijing. On the other side of the hotel, a new building was going up where workers swarmed like ants all day and all night long. When we visited Datong for an overnight stay, we were amazed to see an enormous portion of the old city being demolished on one side of the freeway while on the other side an entirely new section was being erected. Row after row of brand new apartment buildings and towers – bearing names like “London” and “Edinburgh” – rose, sparkling clean, new and uninhabited. Our guide told us that the city government was moving the entire population from one place to another in a drive toward modernization. Everywhere we went, things were being built up and torn down; an indication of the hectic nature of China’s current physical and cultural transformation.

In conjunction with all of this construction there were temporary barriers and fences that popped up overnight, making it hard to predict which walking routes would be accessible from day-to-day. One evening, when we were trying to get back to our hotel on foot, we got trapped in a newly erected fenced-off corridor that channeled us to a guard station where we were forbidden to pass. We had to turn around and back-track our way to where we had started in order to find a route out of the unfamiliar gauntlet. Sometimes these barriers had nothing to do with construction, but simply with crowd control, as we experienced when we tried to cross the street near Tiananmen Square by walking around an obstacle that was blocking a crosswalk. Immediately a chorus of shouts went up from the twenty or so police officers and guards loitering on the corner, directing us to fall back in line with the crowd being conducted along the sidewalk and through a check-point. It seems that in China, a lot of energy goes into channeling masses of people here and there, sometimes in unpredictable ways.

If one just highlighted the tall buildings, the chain stores, shopping malls, crowds, and luxury cars, Beijing would not seem much different from any modern, Western city in the US or Europe. It has bright lights, urban buzz, and lots of young people walking around with their faces buried in cell phones. There are Starbucks coffee shops, KFCs, Pizza Huts, Subways and McDonalds all over the place.  Underneath this surface, however, it is different. Everyday life is more monitored and controlled than it is in the West; for better and for worse. On the one hand, the Chinese censorship of free speech and the media seems silly and unnecessary to me. Couldn’t government personnel more effectively be put to use policing traffic in the streets rather than censoring internet traffic and appearances of Winnie the Pooh online? On the other hand, it may be the constant awareness of being monitored and watched that keeps the violent crime rate so low and the streets so clean in China. In fact, this is a trade-off that many people in my own country might be willing to make, although I’m not one of them.

China is currently in a state of transition, and my observations about the everyday rhythms of Beijing, I think, indicate something about the nature of the changes the country is undergoing. China is starting to open up to the outside world. It is inviting outside investment, encouraging private ownership of real estate, and it is attempting to become more involved in world-wide intellectual culture. But this process of opening up also drags behind it a long history of suspicion of the West (much of it well justified), and a fear of the potentially destructive consequences that go along with increasing individual freedom. I get the sense that China wants to engage more intimately with the rest of the world, but that it does not want at the same time to absorb all of the world’s evils. It is trying to open up, but it is trying to do so slowly so that it doesn’t sacrifice its own unique virtues.

And it certainly is the case that China has much to be proud of and much that it should preserve as it moves toward modernization. Even a Westerner like me – who dislikes the chaos of Chinese traffic, who detests their censorship, who is uncomfortable with their weather and who dislikes the food – can see that China is a culture that has much to teach the rest of the world even as it learns new lessons. It is a culture that draws upon thousands of years of accumulated wisdom, and we in the West should pay attention to what that wisdom has to offer.

In my next post I’ll reflect on some of the incredible, monumental cultural sites that we visited in and around Beijing.

Seattle APA 2017

The 91st annual meeting of the Pacific Division of the American Philosophical Association was once again held in Seattle, Washington this year. I was invited to present a paper, “Humor, Nihilism and Film,” to the International Association for the Philosophy of Humor, which met as a part of the conference.

My last visit to Seattle was also the first time I had ever been to the city. My wife and I had a great time, so we looked forward to seeing the place once again. Deciding to try something new this time around, instead of flying we travelled the 800 miles by car, with stops in Ashland and Portland. After the conference we drove back to the Bay Area in one day; a test of endurance that proved, due to torrential and blinding rain, to be the biggest challenge of the entire journey.

The quickest route from Marin County to Seattle is to get on Interstate Route 5, point the car north, and hit the accelerator while dodging 18 wheel big rigs and Highway Patrol speed traps. Route 5 through California is straight, long and mostly boring, cutting through farmland and rural towns up until you reach the area around Mt. Shasta, near the California/Oregon border. It is here that the road begins to get more interesting and curvy while the scenery becomes more awe-inspiring. As we climbed in elevation through the Cascades, we were treated to beautiful views of Mt. Shasta, Black Butte, and breathtaking vistas from the mountainous pass into Oregon.

Along the way through this region of California, we began to see signs proclaiming that we had entered the State of Jefferson; a proposed 51st US state. The push to carve this state out from Northern California and Southern Oregon dates all the way back to 1941, but recently there has been a renewed burst of enthusiasm, with the Siskiyou Board of Supervisors voting in 2013 for cessation from California. While much of the motivation behind the creation of Jefferson is rooted in the feeling that this area of California is more conservative – more “red” – than the rest of the state, there is, apparently, also an alternative, punk-inspired energy associated with the movement as well. On a recent visit to Yreka, the proposed capital of Jefferson, a friend of mine discovered a flyer authored by “Jefferson Crew,” a coalition that strives to foster a sense of community among small town punk scenes in the area:

Passing through Jefferson, we entered into Oregon and stopped for the night in Ashland. We had visited this destination many times before; both as a convenient stop while on motorcycle rides and as attendees at the town’s famous Shakespeare Festival. This time around we had dinner with a friend who had recently moved here with his wife and his new family. We had pints and mushroom burgers at the Standing Stone Brewing Company before turning in for the night and then continuing our quest.

A short, 300 mile northward jaunt took us to Portland, where we stayed the night at The Kennedy School, an elementary school, first opened in 1915, that has now been converted into a boutique hotel. The classrooms (complete with chalk boards) have been converted into rooms, the cafeteria into a restaurant, the offices into bars, and the gymnasium into a movie theatre. The school is located in the middle of a suburban area, and serves as a meeting place for locals, conference goers and travelers. Visitors wander the hallways, sipping beer and wine that has been made on the premises, browsing the restored decorations, antique equipment and old photos, or lounging in the soaking pool. That evening, after a salmon dinner, we went to see Rouge One at the movie theater, relaxing in one of the very comfortable couches that serve as audience seating. The seating was so comfortable, in fact, that I fell asleep halfway through the film.

The next day we set out on the final leg of our journey, arriving in Seattle after braving our way through a torrential downpour that made things downright terrifying. Visibility was only a few feet, and I spent much of this part of the drive keeping my eyes on the glowing red tail lights of the car in front of me, hoping that they didn’t drift off of the freeway while we played follow the leader. Happily, as the skies cleared, and as we saw signs for Sleater-Kinney Road, we knew that we were getting close to our destination.

The APA Conference was, once again, held at the Westin Hotel, in downtown Seattle. I’ve written in previous postings about how the character of the APA has changed over the years. It has evolved from an organization that was at one time mostly unwelcoming to non-analytic philosophers into one that now seems enthusiastically to embrace a wide range of continental and non-western perspectives. In addition to the session on humor and philosophy that I participated in, I attended a fascinating panel discussion that addressed Hegel’s response to nihilism, another panel on the positive aspects of negative emotions (like envy and disgust), and a really interesting symposium addressing inconsistencies in the arguments of Socrates as he is depicted in the early Platonic dialogues. Conversation was lively and people were friendly.  I had the chance to meet and chat with an advisor of mine who I had not seen in many years, as well as discussing potential book projects with a commissioning editor from Palgrave Macmillan. This felt the way a conference ought to feel. We were able to mix with people of like interests, gaining exposure to new perspectives, and sharing ideas with others. The conference was certainly a success.

On our previous trip, we didn’t explore the downtown sections of Seattle too extensively, but this time we spent more time walking the streets and exploring various neighborhoods. One of the places we visited was  Left Bank Books, an anarchist collective that sits on prime real estate, right in the middle of the tourist area at Pike Place Market. I love the fact that this radical, independent bookseller is nestled among overpriced restaurants and souvenir shops, sitting right down the street from the very first Starbucks cafe. It has an amazing selection of literature, ranging from poetry, to philosophy to history to fanzines. While there, I purchased a copy of Beating the Fascists and dropped off a couple of copies of my own book, The Nihilist: A Philosophical Novel. 

Afterwards, we walked up to Belltown, where I dropped off more copies of the novel at Singles Going Steady, an incredible punk rock record/DVD/memorabilia shop. I spent a while talking with the guy working the counter who, as it turns out, originally comes from my own home of Marin County. We reminisced about old times, sharing memories and swapping opinions about our favorite bands. Afterwards, across the street, my wife and I played videogames and pinball at Shortys, a hipster bar with lots of atmosphere, good pints and friendly staff. We also went shopping at Gr8Gear, an old-time, no nonsense army/navy surplus store where we were attended to by a very friendly Sikh man who helped us find the correct sized hats and pants while also recounting his adventures in the navy. We then wrapped things up by joining a street march and protest that was conveniently winding its way through the streets as we emerged from the store. While the protest was no “battle in Seattle,” it was, I think, an appropriate capstone to our visit.

I’m looking forward to seeing Seattle again. After this second visit, I feel as if I’m more familiar with the lay out of the city and the areas that I would like to return to for further exploration. The place feels friendly, and the culture is agreeable to my tastes. If they could just dial the rainfall back a notch and raise the temperature, I could even imagine living here.


Mammoth Lakes

John and JunekoWith the summer quickly coming to an end, my wife and I decided to take a four day vacation in Mammoth Lakes, CA. This is a destination we had never been to before, although when we were teenagers we did make an abortive attempt to visit. In those pre-internet, teenage days our paper map was more misleading than helpful, and we ended up wandering about on the west side of the Sierras, looking for a nonexistent route that would take us to Devil’s Postpile National Monument – which sits on the east side of the Sierras – and on to the town of Mammoth Lakes. This time around, as middle-aged adults, we were wiser and equipped with Google Maps, so the 300 mile motorcycle ride unfolded smoothly and without too many confused meanderings.

Our route took us east on highway 4, through California’s Central Valley and Gold Country, over Tioga Pass in Yosemite National Park, and then south to Mammoth Lakes on highway 394. We followed a slightly more circuitous route on our return trip, adding another 100 miles in order to avoid too much backtracking. 400 miles is too much distance to cover during one day in the saddle, and by the end of the trip my rear end was bruised and sore. My wife was sore as well, but she avoided the lasting, visible damage that I incurred. I think I either need to travel fewer miles or get a pair of inflatable pants in order to continue these long distance rides.

FZ1My bike is a 2005 Yamaha FZ1. The guys at the shop refer to it as “the last of the good FZ1’s” due to the fact that 2005 was the final year in which this particular model was carbureted. All models since have fuel-injection; a feature which I personally believe would be a benefit to me, since at high altitudes – like we experienced on our ride to Mammoth Lakes – my Yamaha has a tendency to hesitate during acceleration, making it necessary to vigorously rev the throttle in order to raise the engine’s rpms to avoid stalling. Fuel injection, as I understand it, would eliminate this problem.

Other than that issue, the FZ1 is a great bike. It has a 1000 cc inline four engine that is very powerful, making around 130 peak horsepower. It is relatively light and maneuverable, and despite my complaints about developing a sore butt during our latest trip, it is also quite comfortable for two-up riding. Just avoid super long distances in one go and you should be OK. I’ve modified the FZ1 with a 4 into 1 Yoshimura exhaust (complete with a new jet kit that also probably doesn’t help with high altitude performance), and a Corbin “Gunfighter” seat. I’ve replaced the sprockets, chain and various oil seals here and there. The only really major repair the motorcycle has required during its 50,000 mile life  is replacement of the fuel pump.  Overall, this is the most reliable bike I’ve ever owned. It has safely taken my wife and me on many memorable rides over the years, and although I have been looking for something new, it is with some feelings of hesitancy and regret that I consider selling the FZ1. I’m so used to this bike that I’m not really sure that I want to let it go.


The first leg of our trip took us on Highway 4. Running east/west between the SF Bay Area and the foothills of the Sierras, it is a route we found attractive mostly for its directness to our intended destination. There are a few interesting sights along the way, of course. Traveling through the Delta region, we passed over some picturesque bridges that span waterways cutting through the lush farmland of the western portion of the Central Valley. The smell of cow manure and chemical fertilizers hang in the air in these places, stirred up by the tractors that plow fields of crops while sending plumes of dirt and dust into the air. This, by the way, is why there is an elevated incidence of lung cancer in the Central Valley: particulate matter suspended in the air from farming.

The city of Stockton lies right between the Delta and the approach to the Sierra foothills. Stopping there long enough to get our bearings straight, we lingered in a neighborhood that was a cross between rural farmland and urban ghetto, parking beneath a sign that read “Vandals will be prosecuted.” There was a surveillance camera atop the sign, and as we looked over our map, a number of cars carrying young men drove past us, scrutinizing our presence. We felt like we might become victims of a drive-by shooting, so we rode over to a gas station where I tried to get directions. This, however, was the kind of place where: 1) Most of the people I tried to talk to ignored me, and 2) No one seemed to have any idea of what lay outside of the city limits. There was, finally, one young man who reassured me that we were probably headed in the right direction. Once we got around the detours and road construction that were causing us some confusion we would be headed roughly where we wanted to go. It turned out that he was right, and we eventually did find our way to Copperopolis, the first town marking our departure from the Central Valley and our entrance into California’s Gold Country.

CopperopolisImagine driving onto a movie set that is supposed to depict a small, clean American town and you will no doubt picture in your mind something like Copperopolis. As we exited the highway and entered the village, my wife and I thought at first that what we were looking at was a brand new suburban housing development. After stopping to fill up for gas and giving the place a closer look, however, it turns out that this was actually Copperopolis itself. Although originally founded in 1860, the town has been completely rebuilt from the ground up. As their website proudly states, this is “A whole new town with a historic past.” Tidy as a pin, and artificial as a movie set, Copperopolis consists of a nice little central square, complete with bandstand and gazebo, surrounded by brand new buildings fashioned in an old west style. As we rode around the downtown, we saw no people. The place looked abandoned except that there were sandwich board signs out in front of some of the businesses assuring visitors that they were open and operating. We passed by some restaurants, a day spa, an art store and an ice cream parlor. Honestly, it felt weird. I was reminded of the movie A Boy and His Dog, in which the main character finds himself held captive below ground in a comical yet menacing facimile of an all American town. To be fair, Copperopolis certainly feels safer than Stockton, and it sits in an ideal location to cater to visitors to Gold Country.

SonoraDeparting Copperopolis, we hit highway 49 and traveled south. The temperature had suddenly spiked to an almost unbearable degree, and so we stopped in Sonora for refreshments. Sonora is a charming old mining town, first established in 1848. Years ago, we spent a mini-vacation here, staying the night and attending a very lively karaoke performance put on by local singing talent. I still recall our amusement when listening to a long-haired redneck’s rendition of Aerosmith’s “Dream On,” during which he strained beyond his own abilities to hit the high notes of the vocal crescendo. There was also an older woman who sang Soft Cell’s “Tainted Love” in a flat monotone that was reminiscent of the Flying Lizards. This time around, we stopped at The Heart Rock Cafe downtown, right along Washington Street. Air conditioning, bagels and cold drinks energized us to continue our journey down highway 49 and then onto highway 120, which would take us through Yosemite National Park.

RoadHighway 120 is beautifully scenic, though arid at points. There is an ascent into the Sierras around Big Oak Flat that is quite spectacular.  The road winds higher and higher, it becomes hotter and hotter, and the view of the scenery below becomes more and more panoramic. Other than the heat, the one annoyance of traveling this route is the fact of frequent traffic stoppages due to road maintenance. I’ve lost count of the number of times that we sat in the blazing heat for 1o or 15 minutes, waiting uncomfortably for the road to open so that an escort vehicle could lead us past construction areas. Regardless, the countryside is beautiful and once we reached the top of the winding rise at Big Oak Flat, it was a pretty straight shot through Groveland and on to the entrance to Yosemite.

Yosemite ValleyThe views from Highway 120 in Yosemite National Park are absolutely spectacular! What begins, from the west side, as a heavily forested road finally gives way, toward the east side, to breathtaking views of rocky peaks, alpine lakes and granite mountains. As we cruised at a leisurely pace along this road, I found myself overcome with a sense of ease and well being. Despite loads of tourists, the presence of this landscape transported me mentally into of a serene world where things are simple and uncomplicated, yet monumental and awe inspiring all at once. All I had to do was go on autopilot, maneuvering the motorcycle down the roadway, easing through curve after curve, while a vast valley of rock unfolded before my eyes. These formations, formed by millions of J&Jyears of glacial activity, lay there, meaningless and uncaring. This is about as permanent as anything that I will ever experience in my lifetime. Here, I had the feeling of being in the presence of something bigger than myself. I suppose that’s the feeling religious people cherish; but while their God is beyond this world, mine is within it and made of stone. The Hindus claim that God, or Brahman, is “Thou before which all words recoil,” suggesting that the infinite nature of the Holy is something that human language is incapable of conveying. This is how I feel about the grandeur of Yosemite. Words cannot describe it.

Tioga PassThe descent through Tioga Pass, out of Yosemite and then south on highway 395 was the last leg of our journey to our final destination. This is a section of road that I had never traveled before. It is quite scenic, certainly, but in contrast to the views we had just witnessed, the long, straight, fast road made me more impatient for our arrival at Mammoth Lakes than anything else. Besides, my backside was definitely aching and my stomach growling.

The town of Mammoth Lakes is, I’ve heard, the single most popular destination for skiers in the US. During the summer months, it appears also to be extremely popular with mountain bikers, as the ski runs, devoid of snow, now become paths that are tackled by hundreds of two wheeled adventurers. The town reminds me of Lake Tahoe, with hotels and restaurants spread over a 25 square mile area that is surrounded by forests, mountains and lakes. So while you are, in a sense, amongst nature, you are not at all far from the buzz of civilization. Families with kids and tourists are in abundance. During our stay I consistently heard British, German and Japanese accents in the crowds of shoppers and restaurant patrons. There is a Starbucks. There is a Von’s grocery store. We stayed at the Westin Hotel in The Village, a small, central collection of hotels and shops that serves as a hub of activity near hiking trails and the entrance to Devil’s Postpile National Monument, which was to be the location of our first hike the following day.

After an excellent meal at Gomez’s, where my wife had fajitas and I had a really good fish dish called “Wahoo Mexicana” (which, incidentally was so good that I had it again the night before our departure), we walked around town a bit, only to discover that the 8,000 foot altitude was robbing us of oxygen. Yes, this is the high country, and you need to acclimate. Both my wife and I were huffing and puffing as we climbed the high flight of stairs to the hotel, and the next morning when I went for a swim in the hotel pool, my heart was pounding in my chest like pneumatic hammer.

On day two in Mammoth, we caught a bus from The Village to the Adventure Center, where we then boarded a park bus to go into Devil’s Postpile. Tourist information suggests that you take public transportation to the entrance of the national monument, but what they don’t tell you is that the town busses stop running at around 5pm, which was after the time that we finally came out of the park. Luckily, the park bus gathered up us few stragglers and gave us a lift back to town at the end of the day. Otherwise, we would have been facing a 5 mile hike back to the hotel.

Unless you have a permit to camp in the park, you are not allowed to bring in your personal vehicle, and so the park busses ferry hundreds of hikers into the valley each day. The ride is a bit unnerving, as the roads are little more than winding, single track fire lanes that are shared by full-sized busses going in opposite directions and piloted by drivers who seem very confident in their abilities to drive fast. Radio communications between busses alert them to oncoming vehicles along the way so that they don’t have unexpected encounters as they barrel up and down the steep and narrow roadways.

PostpileOnce off the bus, the hike out to Devil’s Postpile itself was short and easy. The postpile is a curious array of volcanic columns that, upon cooling, formed into regular, hexagonal basalt posts jutting out of the earth about 60 feet into the sky. They look artificial; as if extruded from the ground by a massive Playdough Fun Factory. Hiking up a trail to the side of the feature allows you to view the posts from the top. From this perspective they form a surface that looks like a tiled floor stretching to a cliff and sudden drop off. Though Top of Postpilenot on the spectacular scale of Yosemite’s natural wonders – like Half-Dome or El Capitan – Devil’s Postpile is amazing in its own way. Here you feel like you are peeking at a mere portion of the Earth’s inner power, frozen as it bursts through the crust. Standing at its base, I imagined traveling downwards, along the path of one of these posts, finally diving into a sea of molten rock at the center of the planet. Paff!

Rainbow FallsFrom the postpile, it is about a 2 mile hike out to Rainbow Falls, an almost perfect, 100 foot high waterfall that cuts through a river canyon. The trail to the falls leads through a forest, much of which was burned by a massive fire in the 1990s, but which is now in the process of rejuvenation. The vistas are vast and well worth the exertion of the high altitude hike; although here, as in most places that we hiked, there is a veritable traffic jam of people on the trails.

Warning SignIn order to avoid the rude surprise of a missed bus, on our second full day in Mammoth we took the motorcycle up Lake Mary Road in order to hike around Horseshoe Lake and then up to McLeod Lake. This region is studded with a variety of small lakes and sits at an altitude that allows for some wonderful views. One of the first surprises that greeted us were signs warning against swimming in the water or even sitting on the beaches. Apparently, during recent earthquakes, poisonous gasses were released from the ground, and they now seep up and collect in low lying areas, potentially causing anything from headaches to death! As testament to this hazard, there are swathes of dead trees near Horseshoe Lake that have been killed by exposure to the natural toxins. Despite all of this, the lake was filled with swimmers and kayakers, and the beaches were well populated with sunbathers and picnickers. I didn’t see any dead bodies, so either these people were lucky or the signs are a hoax.

McLeod LakeThe highlight of the day was the hike out to McLeod Lake. Up a steep, forested rise, it sits less than a mile from Horseshoe Lake. Nestled among the trees, this small alpine lake was uncrowded and the waters were warm enough to dangle your feet in. Surrounded by mountains and silence as we sat on its shores, I could imagine that we were far away from civilization. This was perhaps the most relaxing part of our visit.

Half DomeAfter a good meal and a good night’s sleep, we mounted the FZ1 and headed back through Yosemite on our return trip to the Bay Area. Along with perhaps a thousand tourists, we took a quick detour down into Yosemite Valley in order to view some sights that we had not seen for many years: El Capitan, Half DomeYosemite Falls. The scene from this lower, valley level perspective really put me into a state of awe. Standing there, staring upwards, I felt very tiny. It was not just the fact that my body was so small in comparison to the rock formations towering above, but also my conception of the time frame over which these features had been formed. My own life, in comparison, is nothing but a blip on history’s radar screen. The granite that makes up El Capitan, on the other hand, is over 100 million years old. During the hundreds of years that people have been visiting this place, I’m just one of billions of human ants that have appeared and then disappeared, briefly standing in the shadows of this peak.

“Thou before which all words recoil.”


A Nihilist’s Impressions of Spain

The very first thing I noticed upon leaving the airport in Madrid was how much graffiti there is in Spain. It is everywhere. It is on walls, windows and cars. It is in bad neighborhoods as well as in good neighborhoods. It is on government buildings, businesses and personal residences. It is in the cities and in the country. It is ubiquitous. Our friend Anselmo told me the reason why there is so much graffiti here is because the Spanish people are not afraid to express themselves. “In America,” he said, “I have seen students led out of high school classrooms in handcuffs for no good reason. This would never happen in Spain. We are not afraid of the police. We say and do what we feel.”

The idea that the Spanish people are unafraid to express themselves helps me tie together my experiences of this country during a 3 week visit this summer. This was my first time traveling to Spain, and during our vacation my wife and I stayed in Madrid, Granada, Valencia and Barcelona, so we had a chance to briefly sample a few differing regions of the country.  The impression I came away with in general is of a culture exceedingly enthusiastic about forms of expression that are bodily, kinetic and bordering on primal. Though the cities and towns we visited are all very old, the place feels like it is pulsating with youth, activity, vitality and movement.  Graffiti is one especially permanent and visible manifestation of this ethos, however it does not end there.

My wife had visited Spain about 8 years previous, and one of the things that she found shocking was that hardcore pornography appears on regular television. When we stayed at a hotel in Valencia, I saw this with my own eyes while flipping through the channels in our room. I came across a number of stations broadcasting not only male and female nudity, but close up images of sexual penetration. One program I stumbled across focused only on the torsos of a man and a woman. There were no faces; only bodies grinding away in embarrassing (and quite frankly hilarious) detail. Keep in mind that this was not cable, but regular broadcast TV. It was one click away from another channel airing children’s cartoons.

Nudity is also at home on Spanish beaches. I must have a bit of a prudish streak, since I found it unnerving to see so many women, both young and old, going topless while at the seashore and at public swimming pools. Young female flesh appears side by side with old female flesh without any indication of self-consciousness or concern,  just as male flesh, both old and young, does the same. The rational part of me affirms this sort of display as an indication of a healthy and natural comfort with the body and with aging. My discomfort with this behavior is, I recognize, just an irrational expression of my own cultural upbringing. After all, everyone is born naked.

Bullfighting is as traditionally Spanish as baseball is American, and yet it appears that this is one form of cultural expression now quite controversial in Spain. Emotions run high about this activity among Spaniards, with some defending bullfighting as an art while others condemn it as animal cruelty. Apparently, the city of Barcelona has made the practice illegal, while in most other cities bullfights take place as part of local festivals. We were unable to make it to a bullfight during our visit, but I really was interested in seeing one. The idea of a person doing ritualized battle with a bull in an arena while being cheered on by crowds is as strange and foreign to me as porn on broadcast TV or public nudity. It is something with which I am not comfortable, but which also has an exotic feel that exudes the Spanish preoccupation with corporeality, movement and bodily expression. Human beings and bulls are placed in a ring, paired together as beasts who exercise the brute force of their bodies for the entertainment of the audience. It is almost as if this highly ritualized performance is an attempt to, ironically, strip away all civilization and return participants to a primal state of animality.

Now, if free expression in Spain consisted only of graffiti, pornography, public nudity and killing bulls in a ring you might question the worthiness of Spanish culture. However, food, art, religion, dance and music are also forms of expression that Spanish people are extremely passionate about, and which are accompanied by a pronounced emphasis on bodily engagement.

While in Spain, I ate more squid, “pulpo” (octopus) and other forms of seafood than I have ever previously consumed in my life. I ate seafood paella, pulpo on potatoes, and calamari both in sandwiches and on its own. The flavor, the texture and the odor of spanish food are among the most wonderfully appealing of Spain’s offerings.I did not care to sample the roasted suckling pig that the city of Segovia is famous for, however, nor did I eat much of the ham that, like graffiti, is to be found everywhere in Spain. Tying in with the bodily, primal nature of Spanish culture, it was interesting to observe that in supermarkets, ham is carved directly off of the intact legs of pigs, which are prominently displayed with their hoofs still attached. Like public nudity, I found this to be unnerving, but perhaps also a healthy sign that the Spanish people are comfortable with, and aware of, where their meat products come from. There is no denying that the tasty “jamon” you are eating is made possible by the death of an animal when you see its fur and hoofs hanging there right in front of you.

The art galleries and cathedrals of Spain are filled with paintings that give creative expression to the bodily and fleshy nature of the Spanish view of life. I found that the more churches and art galleries we visited, the more blurry my memories of particular paintings and pieces of architecture became. There is just so much extraordinary, awe-inspiring art and architecture here that my feeble mind became overwhelmed. What I was left with, however, was a sense of the fragility of the human body, a feeling for its passions, its sufferings and its finitude. Paintings by Goya, such as Saturn Devouring His Son, are vivid in my memory, as well as the creepy, fleshy and hellish paintings of Hieronymus Bosch, such as The Garden of Earthly Delights, which we saw hanging in the Prado. We viewed countless paintings of Christ on the Cross as well as countless tombs of artists, political figures and religious luminaries. We saw paintings by Velazquez, El Greco, Picasso, Dali, among many, many others. Death, bodily suffering, tragedy and the absurdity of life were constant themes in the artwork that we viewed at various places throughout our visit.

Tragic themes and bodily engagement were also key to the flamenco performance that we attended at a place in Madrid called Casa Patas. I was not all that enthusiastic about going to see a dancing show, but my wife was insistent that this would be a memorable and moving event. She was right. As the show progressed, I felt myself being swept up into the passionate intensity of the performers. A woman and man did the dancing, but just as integral to the show were the musicians: one on percussion, two on guitar and two singing and clapping. All of the performers were attuned to one another, shouting, yelping and encouraging each other as their intensity built to a crescendo. The dancers danced alone, but as they did so they watched the other members of their troop with intense scrutiny. As they stomped out rhythms with their feet, they danced faster and more passionately, sweating and contorting their faces into expressions that became looks of ecstasy as the show came to its culmination. The musicians as well became progressively more and more ecstatic, seemingly lost in the music, the movements and the overwhelming intensity of the performance. At points I felt like I was watching something that I shouldn’t be seeing. It seemed as if the performers were oblivious to the audience, and that they had been transported into some other intimate, private world. As the show came to an end, I wondered how they could go on for so long in this manner. I myself felt wrung out and exhausted just being an observer!

Bodily expression, movement and an awareness of finitude are the themes that kept coming back to me again and again as we made our way around Spain. This truly felt, to me, like a culture struggling with the “truth” of nihilism. The historical significance of this preoccupation became more clear to me when I told our Spanish friends that I wanted to make a visit to Valle De Los Caidos (The Valley of the Fallen), otherwise known as the Franco Monument. This, it turns out, is one of the few things that raises the hackles of Spanish people and provokes a reaction of embarrassment and disgust. Commissioned by the dictator Francisco Franco, who ruled Spain from 1936 until his death in 1975, this monument is an awe-inspiring piece of fascist architecture. It is located about 30 miles north of Madrid in the mountains, and serves as a functioning Catholic Basilica and Benedictine Monastery, as well as Franco’s tomb. A stone cross, the tallest in the world, sits on the mountain top. At the base of the mountain, a Roman-style facade acts as an entry way to the interior of the structure, which burrows deep into the mountain, opening into a space that is more vast in square footage than St. Peter’s Basilica in Rome. As you enter, you are greeted by fascist styled statues of the Angel Gabriel wielding his sword, tapestries of the Apocalypse, statues depicting the “allegory of the armed forces,” and murals of military battles. On one side of the church’s altar Francisco Franco is buried and on the other side lies Jose Antonio Primo de Rivera, the founder of the Spanish fascist party. Our friend Anselmo tells me that Franco is buried face down so that if it turns out he is not in fact dead, he will start digging his way to the center of the earth!

Franco claimed that this was intended as a monument to peace, but to my eyes it looks more like a glorification of might and warfare. When I told our friends that I wanted to see this monument, they said, “That is like wanting to visit Hitler’s grave!” They did drive us up there, but they themselves refused to go inside. I also noticed that they avoided telling anyone afterwards where we had been. This is a place that opens up some very uncomfortable memories for Spaniards. It is a place that many Spaniards would like to see obliterated and forgotten.

In his book Ghosts of Spain, Giles Tremlett reports on how Valle De Los Caidos still serves as a beacon for fascists from around Europe, and it is just this legacy that explains why progressive, modern, left-leaning Spaniards are incapable of looking at the Franco Monument as fascinating, awe-inspiring or beautiful. It just seems too painful for them to recall that this was a country that until 1975 was fascist. The Franco Monument, with all of its Apollonian structure, control, and ponderous gravity, is a symbol of everything that Spanish culture today seems to be reacting against. As a t-shirt I saw in a Madrid street market suggests, the Spanish people now want to “drink, eat and fuck.” They want to be free of the oppression that came from almost 4 decades of fascist rule. The Dionysian energy that was bottled up for so long now wants to come to the surface and find its expression freely and without hinderance. Of course this energy was never absent, even under Franco. It was always there. It can be detected in the kinetic movements of flamenco and bull fighting. It can be experienced in the paintings of Goya and El Greco. You can taste it in Spanish food. The difference is that now it is also apparent in the liberated nature of everyday life where graffiti, pornography and public nudity are ubiquitous.