EuroVelo #6 – Vienna to Budapest: 10 Things I Learned From My First Tour

1. Eat regularly, snack often.

Not only did we leave close to lunch hour and have a coffee-heavy, protein-free breakfast of rolls, butter, and jam...but the first day's ride neared 50 miles in cold and wind, and we mainly had prepackaged grocery sandwiches and fruit, along with a couple small candy bars. We learned our lesson as we were all pretty hunger-weak by the end of the day.

That long of a bike ride, plus pulling weight, plus fighting elements = major calorie burn. After Day One, we learned our lesson and packed plenty of snacks in addition to lunch every day. (Not to mention the dumpling-and-pork-heavy dinners that were housed each night. We might not have been the fastest riders, but dammit, we made the Clean Plate Club every night.)

For Ben, a 1.5L glowing jug of Dew provided essential mid-day calories

as well as expressed the trail message: Don't 'F' With Us.

2. Continuing your trip after you get off the bike? Send your luggage ahead.

Carrying an extra 10-15 lbs of travel gear was a fool's errand. Actually, it wasn't terrible for the first few days beyond my inability to figure out a way to keep my 35L backpack from randomly splaying itself on one side or other of my pannier, precipitously throwing off my balance, not to mention making me look like some amateur on my first bike tour (which...was completely accurate).

Next time, I'd either send my luggage ahead (which Pedal Power in Vienna does provide, but you must reserve in advance) or store it long-term via NannyBag or some similar service. Probably because I'm not 23 anymore (which is crushingly depressing) I haven't met anyone who has used one, though...have you?

My last options would be biking in a single weather season (impossible due to this spring's fuck-you-weather) OR taking a modest trip that...doesn't last for a month! I've also heard tell of folks buying powdered detergent, then using water and a non-leaky pannier as a basin in which to wash their clothes.

3. Fitness is great, but it's the consecutive days that'll get you.

I would describe my current level of fitness as pretty high: I generally workout 4 to 5 days a week and have been somewhat of a cardio junkie for almost 10 years, in addition to biking 4 miles roundtrip to work daily. For the trip, I maxed at 30 contiguous miles, and had a week where I biked 90 in addition to my 20 miles of work riding.

That said, three consecutive 35+ mile days was enough to leave me falling asleep before dinner – and besides dinner being the highlight of every day... I never nap. Had we had a fourth consecutive day, I can only imagine it would've been even more rough, as the temperature had edged past 80-degrees. Luckily, we just had a dozen-odd miles to Budapest. Next time, I'll be sure to include some back-to-back or three consecutive long rides. Since coming home, I've been doing a long ride on Sundays followed by 3 or 4 consecutive days of running – and yep...pretty thrashed after day 5. Turns out 30+ miles of cardio is a serious amount!

4. Download the GPS tracks.

While we passed a touring couple who had laminated flipbook-style maps lashed to their handlebars, I can't imagine how much more time I would've spent navigating if I'd had to read a physical map. While the book was essential for getting an idea of how best to break down the trip into daily chunks, and also planning each day's route, the GPS route provided was super easy for real-time navigation.

The only time we suffered because of it was on the first day, where we took the river-side branch of the path when it split into a Y – riding a couple miles to where it dead-ended at a pier full of river barges. The real path was exactly parallel...atop the hill at our side. Later, the path took us across a bridge that was currently walled off from the river dike path for construction – this was more on the delayed construction than the fault of the GPS, and we managed to heave bikes up a hill and over the construction barriers.

A couple of bonus tips: snag a portable phone charger if you're going to keep your GPS on all day. And a bike mount for your phone is useful for the small portions where you need to make consecutive turns. Just don't let it bounce out while hitting a pothole in the middle-of-nowhere Hungary...

The weather beginning to turn – luckily, this wind was at our back.

The wind was so stiff that it was impossible to park your bike without it blowing over.

Which it did. Repeatedly. Into thick, farm lane mud. 

While pissing in a scrubby treeline, still in sight of traffic.

5. Need to make up time or avoid weather? Hop a (regional) train.

Day two saw a forecast that hovered around 45F with heavy rain and dropping temperatures likely after noon. Since we'd already used our only off day in Bratislava to avoid a full day of cold rain, we had two options:

1. leave as early as possible and gut out 45 miles and risk the back half being miserable.
2. leave early, bust ass for 20+ miles to Mosonmagyaróvár, and take a regional train onto Gyor

Since we didn't feel like getting washed out, we opted for #2. (Cold rain is the absolute worst biking weather – I'd take snow and 100F sun above it for sure.) We made it to the Mosonmagyaróvár platform and boarded the train just as the first fat drops were hitting the window pane. The Hungarian railway ticketing machines have an English option, and are quite easy to use – just be sure to buy a ticket for yourself and your bike. The 30-minute journey cost us about $4 a piece – well worth it to stay dry! You might also check with a platform attendant for which car allows bikes. On our train, it was only a single car at the very front. 

By the time we disembarked, we did have to port the bikes about a mile through an increasingly heavy downpour to our hotel. When you're that close to a hot shower, though...you barely feel a drop.

6. Beware weekend traffic.

The EuroVelo routes do a good job of keeping you off roads and away from traffic whenever possible. However, in order to stitch together the greenways, bike paths, and gravel-trails-cutting-through-industrial-wastelands...you have to take a road or two. More, likely, if you do any of the suggested excursions.

In the guide, they're color-coded for traffic amounts, so you can choose the route you're most comfortable with. However, the GPS just suggests the best route – likely accounting for all factors (quality of path, speed, etc.). Most of our road riding was on side streets and the occasional country road – with the exception of the ride from Esztergom to Szentendre, which had multiple road segments alongside the Danube.

Since it was one of the first nice Saturdays of the summer, traffic was heavy, full of travelers likely from the Budapest area getting out of the city for the day. We even incurred a couple honks just for riding on the shoulder (which was definitely, due to road deterioration...not a great place to ride); I thought to myself, "What is this, America?"

7. Everywhere you stay will have dedicated bike parking.

Somehow, this was the biggest surprise for me. I just kinda figured when I was told the rental came with a nice bike lock, that we'd figure out where to lock the bikes most nights. Maybe we'd get lucky and have a courtyard a night or two. A funny thing happened though.

When you're riding a bike for 6-8 hours, you acquire a certain wind-blown, sun-warmed (or rain-doused) look. Maybe wearing some of your gear for the entire week has even given you a certain aromatic je ne sais quoi. So, the first thing each host said upon entering the building was some version of, "So you're on bike? Let me show you the parking."

While it ranged from courtyard bikeracks to a skeleton-key wooden-doored alleyway to squeezing all three bikes together and locking a single mega-lock-chain to a laundry room chain-link fence; without exception every hostel, penzion, and hotel had a spot for bikes. ...just thinking about it makes me ready to go back.

Only had to walk 15 feet from the bottom of the stairs to obtain this garlic soup

(Slovakian specialty) and two pints of Zlatý Bažant – Golden Pheasant.

And yes, those croutons were amazing.

8. ...everywhere you stay will not have a bar or breakfast. But it's great when they do.

Whether it was the copious amounts of pork and dumplings, minimum three medicinal pints of pils, or simple combination of being outside for 6-8 hours while riding 30+ miles...then walking around before and after dinner...I don't think I've ever slept as well or as soundly as I did during the trip. And that includes nights where we shared a room with each other, doubtlessly full of snores and mumbling and squeaky, cheap beds.

When you roll out of bed the next morning, increasingly stiff with each day...God, it's pleasant when you can pull on some pants, walk downstairs, and feast on a European breakfast of bread, cheese, yogurt, poorly scrambled American-style eggs, fruit, juice, and as many coffees as you can pound without triggering your bowels mid-ride.

Otherwise, you've got to figure out your schedule to acquire food and snacks pronto. Grocery store breakfast just isn't the same, and packing on those calories in the morning is gonna make you feel way better when you stop for lunch. Not to mention, most lodging I was able to find was priced comparably with breakfast than without. It's worth it to just eat, and not think.

Oh – and in-house bar? You're going to have a terrible ride or terrible weather one day, and I'm telling you, that pils is medicinal.

9. You'll walk more than you think. With your bike!

Well, maybe you won't. But we did. Not really a fan of biking through busy cities where you are more than likely in some sort of commuter rush hour (or, honestly, any amount of bikes in the EU qualifies as rush hour compared to American bike flow) or just not familiar with cramped streets, drivers, and various transit modes, all while trying to navigate with a phone that is very likely to wobble out of its holder the first time your wheel smacks a lippy cobblestone..

So, most of the time, when biking became unsure close to our destination, we hopped off and walked bikes the rest of the way to the lodging. Sometimes, this was a couple of miles. And yeah...walking a touring bike loaded down with gear, saddlebags, lock, etc...not the most pleasant experience. Not to mention feeling like you're sticking out like a sore thumb while navigating crowded sidewalks, hopping across intersections, and generally being in the way.

Anyways. It feels good to walk after 30+ miles biked; but if you want to get there faster, brave the city routes. Or even smarter – book some shit just blocks off the route. We did so in Komarno, and the 2-minute walk and immediate shower was right as rain.

10. Run into other folks touring? Have them take your photo!

Thanks Jon & April, the most friendly Canadians on the 6! See you in Nantes.

EuroVelo #6 – Vienna to Budapest: Prep, Gear, & Schedule

Rental bikes parked in a Komárno courtyard.
Took me the full week to figure out how to keep my extra bag
from swinging off to one side six times an hour...

Prep
On an average week, I bike 20 miles total to-and-from work, with an odd mile ride to the grocery, pub, or on an errand (in addition to a mix of running and HIIT workouts during the week). Since pleasure rides in Indiana are usually out of the question from November-March, I only started accumulating miles about 6 weeks before leaving. Starting with a couple 10-mile rides, I quickly worked up to a max of 30 miles. My high total for 7 days was about a week out from the trip, where I rode ~90 miles in the span of 6 days. I tweaked my groin near the end of that, meaning I took most of the last 7 days before the trip off.

This amount of prep was sufficient, however, I probably could've done with a couple more back-to-back rides. After 3 consecutive 35-milers near the end of the trip (plus pulling a whole extra bag & a final day high of 85), I was pretty thrashed.

Gear
My resistance to "gear" goes way back to not knowing what the fuck I was doing joining a DIY/punk band at the age of 19. My "gear" was always second-hand, bootleg, soldered and duct-taped together, hand-painted, falling apart – it sounded "right" but definitely worked wrong. Despite my cheap Lutheranism encouraging me to wear ratty zip-ups and various free, leaky windbreakers I've accumulated over my 35 years...I actually bought some decent stuff, mixed in with cheap imitation gear. Knowing the forecast showed a 75-degree day and a 40-degree wind-and-rain combo, I was worried about overpacking and having to carry a bunch of stuff I wouldn't wear, but bike-wise, everything I took was utilized.

• Columbia quick dry dad pants - yes, these zip into shorts, because I'm An American. They were invaluable, warm, windproof, and never got smelly. The material is very thin, so they pack down nicely. Later in my trip, temps hit 90, and these were my only shorts.
• Cheapo Chinese padded shorts - one of the seams chewed my inner thigh, I got a saddle sore from chafing on my quad on day 7, and my assbones felt like they were on fire halfway through day 1 due to switching from my normal road bike to an upright-style touring bike. Still, without these, it would've doubtless been worse. The fit is nice and they did seem to wick when it was hot.
• SmartWool Merino long-sleeve baselayer - definitely the most expensive piece of clothing I've ever purchased, and turns out the most comfortable. This was exactly as advertised, and the perfect baselayer to wear for a week straight, at which point it only smelled mildly. Merino sheep must be comfy as fuck all the time.
• Pearl Izumi cold-weather wind/waterproof jacket with hood - almost didn't bring this, because it doesn't pack down and is very warm. But I wore it the whole first half of the week over the baselayer, and it was pretty perfect for the cold air, on-and-off rain, and wind (which was always way more intense when we were riding on river dikes). Note: the model I own is 3 years old and this is the closest current match...
• Cotopaxi Sambaya stretch fleece - how the fuck did I never own a fleece before? This one was just ridiculously comfortable, and I was pretty much wearing it at all times off the bike until the temps hit 70. Was also my go-to walking around jacket through the rest of the chilly weather I encountered. Anyways, guess I'm a fleece guy now. I listen to alt-J and wear cargo shorts and drink Stella. 
• Shoes - well, I wore some Puma flats I've had for awhile and got on clearance. They worked out and I may not have looked that stupid. They also don't smell after a day on the bike, and trust me...I breathed deep. 
• Evenings - I had one pair of jeans and plenty of t-shirts, which combined with my fleece and an ultralightweight Cotopaxi zippable windbreaker/shell, kept me comfortable walking to dinner and around town each night.

I don't think I would've changed anything here for the weather, other than getting better padded shorts (lesson learned!). I had my trusty LUNA sockhat but never needed to wear it (except when summiting the Zugspitze) since I had a hood; though it did suffuse my bag with good vibes. In hindsight, I should've shipped my extra bag ahead to Budapest, but didn't arrange it ahead of time. I considered using NannyBag at the last minute, as I had a 60-minute layover on my train from Budapest to Nuremberg, but I'm glad I didn't as that would've been a pretty major hassle, and that time was better used eating falafel...scharf. That said, it's a cool service that I'd revisit when needing to stow luggage in a big city.

Schedule
We picked up bikes from Pedal Power in Vienna on a Monday (€109 for a week; included helmet, pannier, lock, pump, repair kit + spare tubes; another €65 to drop-off in Budapest). In hindsight, I would've picked up earlier so we could leave earlier. C'est la vie!

This is just what we ended up biking each day; more to come on the daily rides.

• Day 1: Vienna -> Bratislava - 42 miles (we probably did closer to 46-50 due to a couple wrong turns...)
• Day 2: off day in Bratislava (it was 38-degrees...& rainy...thus we decided to take an off day)
• Day 3: Bratislava -> Mosonmagyaróvár - 24 miles (then we hopped a train to Győr as the temperature dropped sub-40 and it started raining quite hard at noon; this saved us ~20 miles of not very scenic riding...)
• Day 4: Győr -> Komárno - 37 miles
• Day 5: Komárno -> Esztergom - 36 miles
• Day 6: Esztergom -> Szentendre - 38 miles (we probably did closer to 40 due to riding past a ferry we needed to take...)
• Day 7: Szentendre -> Budapest - 12 miles

I didn't use Strava, but we logged close to 190 miles in 7 days (with 1 off day) – definitely lifetime highs for all of us. I do still have a pang of guilt for taking a train, but the entire train ride (and the mile walk to the hotel) was pouring cold rain, so the afternoon would've been miserable at the very least, or made us all ill at the worst. 

Sabbatical Preface–or–Becoming Bike Dude, Begrudgingly

Well, I suppose it started the way most things do in life – in a bar. Here and there, I'll ride my bike to my local – sometimes straight from work, more often when I don't wanna incur a 10-minute walk – and I'm usually in full bike commuter mode at the bar. Bike lights in pocket, backpack, helmet on head till I find an open hook...

It's not that I want to rub my bike-ness in people's face, but I'm not gonna stow my shit somewhere out of sight, where it could be filched, or more likely, forgotten.

In true introvert style, I'm usually reading a book or magazine, or the occasional inobtrusive people-watching session. I'm friendly with the bartenders, and know a few regulars, but don't have a regular crew or specific night of the week – all these are justifications for rolling solo as a thirtysomething with a genetic inability to make new friends.

EuroVelo 6, Vienna to Budapest.

On this particular weeknight in 2017, I nod at a regular I recognize while wedged up against the bar for too long not to talk, and we end up talking bikes for a few. Game recognize game. Ed references a ride in Europe he and his friends have done and documented on a website. I specifically remember how relaxed he said the ride was, tracing a river valley so flat that his friend ten years older had no issues riding. He writes the URL on a cardboard coaster and we head our respective ways.

The coaster becomes a bookmark in my library book...and then New Yorker issue...and then near a stash of library books. I visit the website at some point, see some photos and strange place names, and file it away in memory.

---

Over the winter, I began several scuttled attempts to plan a sabbatical trip – with a coworker expecting in the summer, it became imperative to take time off sooner than later. My initial sense was to do some serious city-hopping, taking budget flights to cities in the EU that had been on my list to visit for awhile.

At the same time, it seemed most of my time would be spent solo. I remembered the bike voyage I'd heard about, and, without doing any research, threw it out to my best-friend-group-text as an open offer: "Anyone want to join me for a week of my sabbatical? Probably either go to a couple cool cities, or do a leisurely bike thing." Undersold so as not to sound too intimidating – I'm the only regular biker in the crew.

"Great, I guess this is who I am now."
Don't worry...I refuse to wear all spandex, still rock skateboarding shoes,

and no way am I passing you at 30mph on a mixed-use trail. How gauche!
(Ok, I did ride 25mph in Carmel 'cause I wanted to break the speed limit.)

To my surprise, I got some immediate interest! Uh oh ... now I had to plan it. Back to the bar – as luck would have it, the same week I ran into Ed at (another) local. He gave me a good amount of route detail, as well as informing me the route was part of the EuroVelo system – a network of 15 cross-continent bike routes that cover 42 countries and tens of thousands of kilometers. 

At this point, my obsession with Google Maps took over...and I was off determining day-by-day distance, planning where nights would be spent, and poring over the BikeLine guidebook that Ed recommended, which takes you kilometer-by-kilometer through the entire trip, from alternate routes, to historical tidbits, basic town information, and road/path quality.

5 months later, post-Reddit /biketouring research, learning how to awkwardly wear padded shorts, and 30-mile training rides (after which I'd house a burger like Wimpy himself)...we're about at the eve of departure. After a quick weekend in Vienna, we'll depart down the Danube over the course of a week. Fingers crossed for good weather, good friends, and good cheer. And probably sausages and pivo. Hope to post an update or two from the less-than-beaten path...until then! ✌️

Keep It Modest

[Today's post is part of Think Kit by SmallBox. Today's prompt: We're all writing the story of our lives as we go. How can you make your story interesting in 2016? And if you can't see around the bend, it's okay to dream. Let's make 2016 one of the most riveting parts of our tale, shall we?]

I love planning trips, a meal (usually the day of...), and in the past...even a tour. But I also love living in the moment, wandering to wherever sees or smells good. I guess what I'm saying is – while I like to outline my own story, I prefer to fill in the details day-by-day. Here's a list of three modest things I'd like to accomplish in 2016:

1) Visit an island.

I've got Hawaiian in my genes (more on that later), friends and acquaintances extolling (heck, even living in) Iceland, and Amelia has family in the U.K. Did I mention sometimes I just want to get away? I'm not even going to pick an island right now – let's just say it's gonna happen, one way or another. Time to set up flight alerts.

(I mean, look at this. Photo via Jacinda! Hope it's okay I used this!)

2) Make another record.

Wooves has been sitting on a finished record (forthcoming PEEP – spoiler alert – which is totally my fault) for months. Not to mention, life has taken its toll on our writing & recording schedule. Three friends in different cities moving into their thirties...it's not worth making excuses, but shit gets busy and then you realize it's been 7 months since you played (a pretty dang good) show. But then the Universe hits you with reminders that ...well, creativity is important. And what better scene to embrace it than with two of your oldest friends?

(...the only known photo of Wooves performing?!)

3) See more live music.

While I'm on that wavelength...aside from achieving a life goal by seeing KRAFTWERK (not to mention a pretty sweet Madlib DJ set) – I didn't see a whole lot of music live this year. Indianapolis is still a flyover town for most artists that I seem to be actually excited about seeing perform live. Hoping to rectify that and start off the year strong by seeing two of my favorite current acts in Chicago in February: the previously written up Bitchin' Bajas opening up for the soon-to-be-written-up Holly Herndon. Needless to say, I'm pretty psyched – now to decide whether to roll the dice on Big Ears. Faust is calling...

(Just before Kraftwerk started at Nashville's historic Ryman Theater.)

Light Station No. 496

When I travel, I have a strange habit. Inside my desk drawer, along with a few years’ worth of accumulated Sharpies, spare earplugs, now-arcane thumb drives, and last year’s birthday cards, there are several folders. Each folder contains the paper detritus of a trip or two, loosely bound by a pocket divider or binder clip: bleached receipts, transit cards, tickets, programs, random stickers, maps – any paper good that I could fold up and put in my pocket, until my pocket was too full, when they’d get wedged into my small notebook like an overstuffed pita.

 

Early this fall, Amelia and I took a pretty epic trip to Northern California (referenced in my previous post) – which provided the two paper scraps above. The first was a receipt (old-school dot-matrix printer, if you couldn’t tell) from a hostel in Monterey. At the end of our trip, we made a quick jaunt down the coast to explore parks around Big Sur for a day. Not having the coin to stay in a swanky, cliffside, masseuse-included resort (or a yurt fancier than our own house), we bunked (literally in bunk-beds, albeit with stellar memory-foam mattresses) at a hostel in Monterey.

A year previous, during my first coastal excursion with a group of dude-friends, we’d stayed at the same place. I felt a pull to return, and everything was unchanged, down to the slightly-salty elder sea-hippie at the counter, whose sockhat and sweater were as rumpled as 12 months ago.

Also unchanged? His check-in manner. Only one guest could check in at a time, which initiated an unstoppable-but-friendly 10+ minute sequence that involved an archaic computer system, a thorough facility introduction including safety & door lock warnings, bathroom token explanations, and brief tour of rooms. He also jotted notes down on your receipts indicating rooms and codes and (last year), even drew a brief map indicating a suggested restaurant. In short, the man is a champ...if inefficient.

Because as sure as the wind blows, when one backpacker arrives, they all do. And holding fifty-pound rigs while sitting four parties back in line, watching the check-in sequence over and over must’ve seemed like some sort of torturous performance art. I could only look back sympathetically before we went off in search of unadorned shrimp with some drawn butter and strong cocktail sauce.

---

Further up the coast, well north of the Bay Area, we’d stopped at the only climbable lighthouse on California’s coast. It stands neatly west of the coastal highway, across a couple miles of scorched coastal plain, small shrub stands and cattle woven into the foggy fabric and occasional sun-shower.

(The view from atop Point Arena.)

I have a strange, not unromantic attachment to lighthouses, as do many in landlocked areas, as evidenced by Indiana’s plethora of lighthouse-themed apartment complexes, storage facilities, restaurant/bars, and more. Not that I’m drawn to those simulacrums, or that I have a room full of lighthouse tchotchkes displayed on a prim shelf.

No, my predilection is if I see one that can be ascended – I need to climb that lighthouse. Growing up, my mom’s side of the family would rent a large house or two in North Carolina’s Outer Banks, big enough to stuff 25 or more of us into for a week each summer for the better part of a decade. In-between endless pancake breakfasts, jellyfish counting, and nightly euchre tournaments full of war whoops and dancing, there was always a trip to the famous Hatteras lighthouse.

Driving up through the lot, at an acute angle to the beach, this massive lighthouse almost seemed to rise from the waves, thrust out of the ocean by some giant hand that was unperceivable. In fact, at one point it was delicately moved back from the eroding shore, something that must’ve taken a couple years considering the tons of brick that made up the structure.

There’s a photograph of my younger brother and I atop the lighthouse, out against the railing that now seems very open, beneath 2014’s near-paranoia safety standards. We’re wearing soccer jerseys, wind in hair, sun in eyes, staring into the camera, maybe slightly past down the coast full of battered beach and a bunch of houses that were subsumed by a hurricane in the last decade-and-a-half.

No fog floats around, just sun and youth. I remember looking down at the parking lot and watching the ant-like people scurry back and forth, before looking down the tide as it ran toward the horizon. Time seems to pause when you’re inside a view that used to be the solitary blessing of the keeper. When I’m in a lighthouse, taking the stairs two-by-two to get to the top, I’m momentarily transported back in time to my younger self, looking at the beach, smelling the sea – a temporary fountain of youth.

---

Day #17 of Think Kit.

Think Kit #10: Touching Two Oceans

This year, I touched two oceans. In August I flew to California, and touched the Pacific several times. When we hit the PCH just past Half Moon Bay, we slid down a rope to an abandoned, rocky beach. I ran into the cold waves until my feet were frozen, pulsing with hurt. I sprinted up the warm sand past rusty piles of beer cans and month-old bonfire remains.

I waded past my knees in the much warmer surf off the boardwalk in Santa Barbara, pulling my shorts up in an Urkel-like maneuver until they were scrunched against my pale thighs. The water was more green and yellow than blue, though I spent more time gazing back at the palm trees and distant mountains.

In Venice Beach, we arrived at sunset and low-tide, the sky reflecting off the inch-high waves that felt like quiet velvet barely brushing the tops of your feet. The next day was windy, and the waves were knock-you-down violent. We got in past our waist, saw a small shark nosing about, and moved further down the beach. Occasionally, two waves would catch up to each other like just-full-grown dogs – the force swept my feet out and ground me against the sand, ripping my swimtrunks down to my knees while I surfaced slowly in order to stay clothed.

(Venice Beach, low-tide, looking North. August 2013.)

In November, Amelia & I flew down to Florida to see my parents. In Indian Rocks, after a sandwich and a Yuengling, we walked towards the ominously-colored sky to the beach, the wind whipping a few spare drops like tiny comets. The water was warm, and the low, strong tide was eating a two-foot tall shelf along the lower half of the beach. We walked a few hundred yards in the water until the storm rolled closer in and we broke from the car.

A few days later, we visited some other traveling Hoosiers in Redington Beach. We walked several miles down the beach, wading in and out of the water and passing under a pier where a family was taking family pictures in front of some grizzled pelicans. On Honeymoon Island, the rocks and crushed shells became too sharp to walk barefoot on, so despite the warm water, we put our shoes back on, driving down the causeway and setting up camp chairs to watch the sunset with a fat cigar and a full stomach.

The final night of the trip, Clearwater Beach was abandoned, in full post-Thanksgiving hangover mode. We walked down the beach in the late afternoon and watched a pod of dolphins swim around a couple hundred yards out. One went against the flow of his friends and jumped a full six feet out of the water. After dinner, it was too dark to walk on the beach filled with forgotten sand pits, paunchy jellyfish, and the chill of the ocean at night.

On the boardwalk, past a few lonely vendors selling jewelry and cell phone accessories and face painting, there was a completely empty bandstand blasting music from a lone speaker jauntily propped up on a metal cart.

(Prancing the rocky beach in Florida, December 2013.)

In 2006, I touched the Pacific and Atlantic on two separate tours with Everything, Now!
In 2012, I touched the North Sea while on a European sojourn in Newcastle, and the Pacific in Seattle's Golden Gardens Park, while visiting for my brother's wedding.
Each time has felt distinctly different and ripe with importance, like a clear bell of blessing. A tone that resonates for days inside my body.

I want to make a habit of touching two oceans in a year.

Think Kit #1: Year in Photos

I was thinking about 2013 this past week, and my brain said, "Dang dude, you didn't do that much last year. After all, in 2012, you quit a job, got a new job, went to Europe for 40 days, went to Washington for your brother's wedding, moved, and did a bunch of boring everyday shit in-between." But when I started actually thinking about it, I did cover some ground in 2013: the Year of Doing Shit (Better).

The following images are 97% of what has kept me mostly sane for the past 11 months:

The annual (Wooves) Chicago winter retreat wherein males venture

to the snowy Northlands, raise orderly havoc, consume bacon,

imbibe Belgian birthday brews, and reflect upon the aging process.

Amelia made many photographs this year. Here was the first 

of her showings, in Muncie's Gordy's Fine Art + Gallery.
Her photography also provided reason to visit...

...Portland. Top-to bottom:

–Ken's hero sandwich on ciabatta. Some of the best bread we magically

stumbled upon. I copped his book and my baking skills rose.

--Columbia River overlook somewhere near Multnomah. Nature's trifecta:

Mountains, Trees, Water.

--Prancing the Willamette somewhere south of the city. Temporarily

King of this Abandoned Isthmus.

It's true, Randy came to the Midwest. Tacos and bar-crawls
soon followed. Let's hope he comes back soon.
Or that we get out to Seattle soon. Either way!

Everything, Now! at the 10th anniversary Sunshine of Doom show.
This was a great night. Never knew those songs could sound
that good...I guess it's nice to know we improved in a decade.

Bread. I'm obsessed. And not just any kind.
Ken Forkish helped me take my stylings to a new level.
I probably ate this loaf in three days.

(Salted butter is the only kind of butter.)

Amelia prepped, peeled, sliced, and froze 80% of these peaches by herself.

And canned numerous other produce we were fortunate enough to receive.

All this in a house without air conditioning. Y'all are spoiled...

We lost countless brain cells this summer from heat exhaustion.

I'm not even sure I have digested California enough to write about it.

8 days, up to 7 dudes at once. Turning or nearing 30.

Pacific Coast Highway, San Fran, Venice Beach.

Redwoods. Ocean. Sky. Mountains.

Old friends. Older friends.

Hey! I booked a show for my favorite band, Landing.

It was fantastic. They were fantastic.

It was also the day I returned from California.

I ate a giant torta and zoned out to their drone-pop melodies.

Not only do we buy cars (well, just one) but we clean up, too.
Goofy prom pictures may have later resulted from too much

good food and good drink.

Chicago became a bit of a haven this fall.

We did a lot of walking and eating, the two

most important things in life aside from good friends

–which exist there in plenty. 

Amelia showed more photos in Ft. Wayne this fall.

We journeyed up for the opening, and stayed afterwards

to hang out with a great group of artists, creatives, and other 

adults who proved that getting out of Indy can be artistically refreshing.

Ft. Wayne, I take back all ill things I've said about you.

Oh yeah, I kept baking. My mom mailed me a reed banneton,

which may have changed my life.

Between Record Club, starting some shifts at LUNA,

pilgrimages to Reckless Records, and ... well, moving way
closer to LUNA – it was a heavy vinyl year.

We rang in Thanksgiving with my parents in Florida. 

2014, where will you take me? I hesitate to predict,

but hope that I can project continued adventures.

Feast At Beast (Or, How I Spent My Entire Tax Return In Under 3 Hours)

This past Monday we returned from Portland, a trip necessitated by Amelia presenting her latest photographic work at Photo Lucida. Being the gentleman I am, I asked, "Hey, can I go?" and "Hey, can we go out early so it's like a vacation?"

I must've been very persuasive, because she agreed immediately. We arrived the weekend before the conference started so we could explore. Exploring, for us, basically means walking around, riding transit, people & place watching, and ... eating and drinking. Since Portland is a magical land of eating and drinking, I was pretty psyched for at least the last 3 months before the trip.

A couple weeks ago, I was looking at menus online to kill some time, when my brain ratcheted back to a New Yorker article about underground restaurants. Though it mainly focused on some metal-listening, long-haired, absurd-family-history L.A.-based chef–it also mentioned a Portland couple who served out of their home until they became famous enough to open their own joint. Some Googling gave me her name (Naomi Pomeroy). Well, apparently the former joint (or two) from the article, along with their relationship, ended; but, she had recently opened a new place.

That place is Beast.

Intrigued by the weekly rotating prix fixe menu (and steep price), I hemmed and hawed and left it alone. Plenty of places to eat, right? But it stuck in my craw (and after all, I'd been sitting on a Christmas bonus, my first ever, for awhile)–and a couple days later, minutes after my sink exploded at the tail end of prepping Chicken Milanese, the hot oil popping while I struggled against a rusted-open water main beneath the sink, I plopped in my credit card numbers and made a reservation for Friday at 6:00p.m. After all, I think someone once told me that, "You only live once."

(For your vicarious experience; the full menu with wine pairings. To replicate our experience, please lick the entirety of your screen at this blog juncture, and continue reading.)

After a morning spent feasting on breakfast and wandering Portland's oldest graveyard, we bussed it up to the Alberta St. and walked a few miles up-and-down the shop-and-gallery littered area. After happening on a nice exhibit and curated book selection at Ampersand, we proceeded to walk...and walk, until the gray sky produced rain drops as big as a saucer.

At 4pm, we caved and went in to a coffeeshop to drink coffee and read. Then, we hoofed it back towards the neighborhood to the north, (stopping in real quick at the well-curated Little Axe record shop, where I failed to pounce on a near mint Palais Schaumburg translucent red original pressing LP...damn!) where Beast is located next to an understated sushi joint, in the middle of a possibly-mid-century brick strip that looked well-kept, but didn't stand out with it's darkly-painted brick and modest exerior, minus the bright purple "THIS RESTAURANT SERVES FOIE GRAS" sign in the door. It was three minutes to 6:00, and I was nervous about being early, but the rain started again and we entered.

(You should watch this video and revel in the dancing and sheer 80's production.)

About as big as a bungalow, but without walls, the high-ceilinged, matte-black-walled space was comprised of one long communal table (seating around 18), one shorter communal table (an 8-top), a minimalist black wardrobe without doors, and an enormous, wood-topped, industrial table used for prepping and plating, as well as a brief kitchen area and warming oven, with a doorway to perhaps an extended galley kitchen, and a curtain covering the restroom entrance at the rear of the room. A skylight lit the space nicely, even on the grayest of Portland days (otherwise, the weather was pretty beautiful).

Everything seemed a bit intimidating, but only because I've never experienced a dinner or atmosphere that was exactly like Beast. Our tablemates were an older couple who occasionally shared a joke or observation, but were otherwise wrapped up in rehashing old tales, and a younger couple who seemed to be on a date, and faced each other instead of the table to such an angle that the male's elbow was jabbed in Amelia's arm the entire meal. They also had cell phones out for a ridiculous part of the meal...and didn't know what St. Bernardus Abt 12 was. Sheesh!

(Yes, I'm a beer snob. Well, not snob...but you should know what you're doing in a place like this...right?)

Some crusty bread and salted butter was brought around, and the service began with a description of the first wine. We smiled like we understood what the hell anything meant, but I'm no wine expert. That said, I feel like I can judge when something is decent-to-good, and everything served was well-beyond "good." Some key terms I remember floating around were "late harvest" and "plum notes" and "this is the 2010"...after which I nodded and said, "Sounds great." And they were.

First course was a curried spring carrot veloute, smooth to a decadent extent. I imagined the world's perfect sieve; they must have had it in the kitchen. The curry was barely present, enough to make the soup a beautiful pale yellow, and the fried leeks & tarragon chive oil provided texture, color, and added richness to the soup. After practically wiping my bowl clean, I finished my wine and said to Amelia, "If  the rest is like this soup...that's a great sign."

The charcuterie course was next, with a chicken liver mousse that was incredibly airy, a pork rillette that was creamy and bright. The espelette cured duck breast was intense, smoky, and fatty; like the world's best bacon had been shrunk down, it's flavor codified and hue darkened. There was steak tartare, which I had for the second time, creamy and pure with a quail egg nestled on top. The highlight, and what we were supposed to eat last, was the foie gras bon bon. It sat on a peanut shortbread, and was topped with a gelatin sheet; and was nothing short of amazing–the sweet, buttery shortbread playing off the rich, creamy, cool foie gras and citrus gelatin like the world's best, tiniest ice cream sandwich. Except with fattened liver–an overload of ridiculously delicious meats. Luckily, there were some light greens and pickled radishes before...

(I may be morally opposed to foie gras ... but I'm a weak human, and consumed & loved it.)

Not quite the main course. An amuse bouche–I'd read the term, and knew it, but hadn't had one unless stealing cheese cubes off a student salad bar counts. (Or was there one at Vij's in Vancouver...alas.) It was a spoonful of sour cherry sorbet with sweet vermouth. Intensely sour, yet creamy and sweet–it could've been the best thing we had, but it was gone in 15 seconds. This was so good I mentally conceived kidnapping the person who'd thought up the flavor combination, and convincing them to manufacture it in my kitchen for my personal consumption.

The main was next–a medium-rare Carman Ranch sirloin, on a bed of risotto, with a few greens nestled next door. The meat was perfect, the risotto rich and tender, but with textural contrasts of some tempura-fried lovage, crispy maitakes (my vocabulary must've expanded 30% by this point of the meal), and al-dente young asparagus. I nominated myself for an award after remembering the crusty bread, tearing a hunk off, and sopping up as much red wine jus as the crust would hold, merely a jus-vehicle for my mouth. During this course, the mastery of texture really became apparent, with the bitter, barely crunchy greens alongside the melt-worthy sirloin, atop the creamy ramp-specked risotto with just-crunchy asparagus, and crispy lovage and maitakes. Just chewing any combination was a feeling of pleasure.

The wine was flowing–we'd made it halfway through. Course four may have been the best–a cooled-down salad of kale rabe (kale stalks harvested post-flowering) with a lemon-anchovy vinaigrette applied judiciously and tossed expertly, some garlic-heavy crouton bits, and a seven-minute soft-boiled egg that had the mouthfeel of silk. After the richness of the main, this was the perfect course to cut-through my now-buzzed taste-buds, and practically announce itself with flavor.

(Photo via Beast's site. A wonderful, intimate space.)

A cheese plate came next: a mozz-y, slightly sour cow's; a pale yellow funky English soft with bitter rind; and a candy-smooth semi-hard goat's that melted in your mouth. Rich honey, a booze-poached prune, and some olive oil crackers salvaged me from floating off towards the skylight in dairy-induced ecstasy.

Though we could barely look at dessert, one bite of the rhubarb clafoutis, a warm, almost bread-pudding or brulee-consistency dish, drizzled with cardamom-laced carmel that I'd lick off of my cat's dirty paw and vanilla bean ice cream–well, one bite was all you needed to know that you'd be eating all of the bites, and then looking in your neighbor's dish to see if they scraped all of that carmel sauce out of the bottom.

Service was ridiculously excellent (one waitress was from Indiana–I think her and Amelia got a kick out of shared heritage); pacing absolutely perfect (from bread-crust to putting on my jacket, two hours and forty-five minutes elapsed); and the wine pairing was more than worth the add-on. The bill came on a heavy, shorn sheet of paper, along with two dark-chocolate dipped, salted butter cookies in the shape of tiny pigs. I wrote down a tip and said, "I'm gonna make reservations for myself next Friday."

I didn't; but as soon as I know I'm going back, I'll be making reservations immediately. We waltzed out the door after thanking the kitchen, and knew that that was the best meal we'd ever eaten. Definitely filling, with not an off-note anywhere, from service to plate–and the textures and courses played off of each other like a perfectly sequenced novel or album. It was an experience I won't soon forget, and despite the cost, one that was worth every penny; and we couldn't help but to rehash the meal immediately while waiting for & taking the bus back to where we were staying in the Southeast.

(And yes; we were proud of very-likely being the only bus-riders to-and-fro the restaurant that night. Public transit rules!)

Appetite for...Learnin'

(Cross-posted via the SmallBox blog.)

I don't wanna be that guy, but I love learning. In my mind's eye, I'm constantly walking around in tweed, sucking thoughtfully on a pipe while carefully considering matters of academia. In real life, though–it's more of a melange. A stack of New Yorker magazines a foot high lies under my lamp, overfilling my brain with media criticism, international intrigue, and thoughtful profiles.

I've been known to keep the same book checked out from the library for over a year–usually for mastering a series of recipes. As a kid, I memorized baseball statistics for random regurgitation–a trait that recurs each time I check Baseball Reference to see how many triples Robin Yount hit for as Brewer.

(126 triples despite non-aerodynamic hair.)

This year, I felt like I learned a great deal–though I always feel like my appetite for learning makes me more cognizant of the exponential growth of things I don't know. Here's a quick run-down on five of 2012's life lessons:

• To bake seriously–get a bench knife immediately. And when the retail shop hasn't heard of a bench knife, call it by its other name, "pastry scraper." Not only is it minimally cool and stainless steel, but you'll feel like a bad-ass when you utilize it to shape a perfectly round boule.

(Clean off immediately after using unless you want yer dough to turn to concrete.)

• When flying internationally, allow for more than 3 hours layover time. Airlines will sell any combination of tickets to anyone, and customs agents will look at you like the poor (and getting ready to be way-more-poor) sap that you are. Also, flying through Heathrow is a fool's errand.

• Drumming is hard. Keeping 8 songs in your head at once is even harder. The only thing that makes it easier? Practicing all the time. Despite my ungainly, quasi-proficiency, I'm convinced that becoming a "good drummer" is about as likely as shape-shifting into a giraffe. But! That doesn't mean I can't develop my own flavor...

(This is what I drum like in my head.)

• Buying a bed is totally worth it. After waking up & feeling like hot trash for a number of months (and having said I'd buy a bed for multiple years)–we finally bit the bullet late this Fall on a low-platform & firm foam memory mattress. Now, each morning I feel outstanding, and every night, I exclaim loud enough for my neighbors to hear, "This bed is @#$%^&! awesome."

(Elli & Silva post-American breakfast.)

• Couchsurfing has been restorative to my sense of & belief in humanity. Though we tried & failed to utilize it overseas, we've hosted guests here in Indianapolis. Guests that have been intelligent, charming, and way closer to old friends than wandering strangers. Best of all, they're a great antidote to the constant stream of negative media, screaming neighbors (pre-move!), and the general feeling of dissatisfaction that can wedge into your life like an invisible splinter. I hope 2013 brings a flood of similar experiences.

(Part of SmallBox's ThinkKit project.)

Random People Treating Me Like A King (or, How I Read The Prompt Wrong)

Somewhere, in the fog between reading the ThinkKit prompt this morning, turning it over in my mind all day, till it was a polished, tiny, hard pebble; somewhere, I forgot what I actually read. I had been musing on people I met in 2012–so I'll be bullheaded and write on that anyway. After all, I prefer not to think about who I'll meet in 2013, lest I make some list of artists and musicians and writers who, save for their overextended ambition and possibly oversized egos, are just altered manifestations of ourselves. They shower, drink bad coffee, and develop hangnails just like the lot of us. If I'm going to meet someone new, let them be like a seed-pod in the wind.

People that ruled this year (that I did not know were going to rule).

• Mainz Roommates: Amelia's best friend was studying on a Fulbright in Mainz...so we decided to visit and kick-off a Euro-trip. Not only was Lydia an amazing host, translator, map-reader, and traveller; her roommates let us interrupt their studious lifestyle for over a week. They gave up their bedroom(s), cooked us an amazing meal (and a hangover breakfast to boot), refused to let me buy a round of beer, didn't complain when we showered daily, talked late into a couple evenings about all aspects of life, and were remarkably quiet while I lay in a bed with the worst 36-hour flu of my life (complete with hallucinations).

• Tim in Berlin: Tim rented us the spare room in his flat. Not only was it remarkably clean & in a s super-sweet location; but he went above and beyond. He let us do laundry (and use his detergent), printed out train tickets for us, and had a binder full of cool stuff to do. Definitely one of the reasons that, as soon as we left, we were scheming how to get back to the city.

• Pieter: Ok, so I'd met Pieter before. He was an exchange student from Belgium while I was in high-school, when I still had a buzz-cut, no music or artistic sense or taste, and generally, was merely another shitstain from Kokomo sucking up valuable resources. 

We met up again over the Summer five years previous, when I was able to host him while he travelled across the States. We bonded over him introducing me to Refused (while still in high school), as well as our quasi-bohemian lifestyles that were well beyond the norm of the factory town I spent high school in.

Wanting to head back to Belgium while overseas, I reached out to see if we could visit & impede on his life for a couple days. Amelia was nervous as she had only met him for a minute or so; her nervousness was contagious, and while rhythmically swaying on a train for eight-hours, we wondered, "Will we have anything in common? Will we be in the way?" and the like.

Only ten minutes into the visit, we felt ridiculous for our case of the nerves. Not only was Pieter (and Daphne, his better half) the most humble & generous host we could've imagined (cooking us dinner...immediately! driving to Antwerp with us, buying drinks at the music-venue hop...I could go on & on), but we rarely lacked for things to talk about. And that's quite an achievement for two self-conscious Americans with niche interests and a tendency towards clamming up. Needless to say, we can't wait to host them in Indianapolis, or wherever we hang our hats.

• Couchsurfers: We hosted a 2-piece Italian band, and a brother & sister from Bordeaux this Summer. Sometimes, you need to bend over backwards for people you don't know. Extend into the universe a kindness, that, you hope will be like a perfectly thrown boomerang, and return to you in the interminable future. Thank you, Elli & Silva, Clement & Zoe, for restoring a sense of hope for the world, and humanity in general. Thanks for being literate, cultural, interesting conversationalists–––and thanks most of all for eating my food and drinking my beer. The world isn't such a large place when you meet great people through the kaleidoscopic Internet.

• Okay, this is turning into a who's-who of our trip, and I don't want to ruin my future, unborn blog entries by continuing this sappy trail of Thanks. Amelia's family in the UK (who housed us, fed us, and put up with our shenanigans & constantly wet shoes) should be mentioned, too. I believe I drunkenly murmured more than once, "If the world ends, this is where I wanna be." Not even sure where I was, but I maintain that sentence is scientific truth wherever it comes out of your lips. 

All I know is that getting along with random people, distant non-relatives, and sweaty travelers like they're old friends is one of the distinct pleasures of being human. 

(Part of SmallBox's ThinkKit project.)