A bartender mixes drinks July 11 at Brewery City Pizza Co. in Lacey, Wash. The picture has nothing to do with this blog post.
First of all, let me say that I enjoy traveling. That is to say, I like seeing new places and discovering different cities/states/countries, meeting people from NotHere. As far as I'm concerned, last weekend's trip to Lacey, Wash., barely counts as travel as my hotel was a straight shot up I-5, less than 120 miles from home. However, it proved to be more challenging than one might expect.
I was up there to shoot the 30th annual Seattle-to-Portland Bike Ride, in which 10,000 riders make a 204-mile journey from the Emerald City to the Rose City in their choice of one or two days. Two people have completed all 30 rides. Over the weekend, I saw more bikes than I've ever seen in one place before, and just about every conceivable configuration. Well, I didn't see a penny-farthing, but there were racing bikes, mountain bikes, cruisers, tandems, recumbents and more. There was one three-person tandem. One kid rode by on a skate board. One guy did it on a unicycle. But I digress.
In the Portland area there are only two bridges across the Columbia River, and they are notorious choke points during rush hour. I left home around 6:30 on Friday evening, figuring that the afternoon commute would be well finished. After quick stops at the grocery store and gas station, I entered the freeway around 7.
And just about stopped right there. In spite of the late hour, the freeway was still packed with traffic. Seven miles and 45 minutes later, it finally eased up as I crossed the Columbia. Right after the first exit in Vancouver, Wash., there was a sign warning motorists of "event traffic" about 7 miles ahead.
[left] Ken Leon, Scott Campbell and Bhaskar Amancharla toast after a long day of shooting the Seattle-to-Portland Bike Ride June 11 in Lacey, Wash.
I knew immediately that the sign referred to the Clark County Amphitheater. Built in 2003, the 18,000-seat facility is quite nice but perennially loses money, in large part due to the challenge of getting to the venue. (See this recent Oregonian article for more details on that.) It turns out that my trip to Lacey coincided with a sold-out Coldplay concert. Sure enough, after about seven miles of smooth travel I could see traffic backed up again. I hadn't eaten yet, so I pulled off at the next exit for dinner.
Once I resumed my trip things went smoother, and the remaining 100 miles passed by at about the expected pace. I pulled into my hotel in Lacey (on the outskirts of Olympia) just before 10 p.m., anxious to check in to use the facilities and get some rest before my 5:30 wakeup call.
When I entered the lobby, there were two or three uniformed Marines checking into the hotel so I lined up behind them and admired their close-cut hairstyles. A couple more arrived as I waited. When my turn came I gave my name to the harried-looking clerk, who couldn't find my name on her list. Given my non-conforming hairstyle and lack of uniform I never expected to be confused for a Marine, but when I explained that I wasn't with that group she asked me to wait while she checked in the rest of their group. Fair enough. I stepped aside as she continued to deal with the rest of them.
Meanwhile, men (and a couple of women) in uniform kept piling into the lobby. And I'm stuck waiting. I can't go up to my room because I don't have one yet. So I wait. Some of the Marines aren't on the list. Some of the ones that are on the list aren't here yet, but their roommates are. I check my email with the lobby computer. I read the local newspaper. I watch a bit of the too-loud TV in the lobby. I wait.
Finally, all of the Marines except the man in charge have disappeared, and he's trying to sort out something with the desk clerk. He suggests that she check me in because I've been waiting so long. I give her my name again ... I'm not on her list and asks if I'm supposed to be checking in at the hotel on the other side of the parking lot. I'm not. I explain that I'm with the photography group and perhaps I'm listed under my roommate, whom I've never met and has a long, unusual Indian name that I can't remember. And I left those details in the car.
So I run out to the car, grab the information package and return to the desk where she's working with the Marine guy again. Once they finish, I give her the name of my roommate, she looks him up and says that it doesn't have my name there. So she calls him and hands me the phone. Sensibly, he was asleep.
"Uh, hi, I'm Matthew ... I guess I'm supposed to be your roommate this weekend."
"If you say so."
"Well, I guess the desk clerk doesn't have my name, so she phoned you for me."
"Uh, ok."
"Um, yeah."
I handed the receiver back to the clerk who hung it up without speaking to Bhaskar. She gave me a key, and finally my journey was over. First seven miles, 45 minutes. Last seven yards, 35 minutes. Ugh.
Ken Leon lines up a shot at O'Blarney's Irish Pub in Lacey, Wash.
The travails of travel Monday, July 13, 2009
Elkton, Oregon Monday, June 16, 2008
Not much time to post right now, but it's been a while.
Last Friday I drove down to Coos Bay, about four hours from Portland on the southern Oregon coast, to shoot a graduation at Southwestern Oregon Community College. For the first time in far too long, it was a nice, warm, sunny day. Unfortunately, I didn't have time to enjoy it.
The fastest route to Coos Bay passes through Eugene to Curtin, where you take OR-38 across the Coast Range to Reedsport, then another 30 miles south to Coos Bay.
I stopped for fuel (auto and human) in Elkton, about 25 miles off I-5 on OR-38. I bought the gas first, and asked the attendant where the best place in town was to eat. I was looking for something quick and not too expensive. "Well that narrows it down to Arlene's," he said, one block away from the gas station.
"You can eat in a booth or at the bar," he added, "but I wouldn't eat at the bar if I was you. The bartender's the ugliest SOB you've ever seen, more chins than China."
I said I'd be sure to tell him you said that. It's probably your brother, I joked.
"No, my brother-in-law. It probably wouldn't go over too well." I decided to sit in a booth and not say anything. Turns out that the girl at the bar was a cute blonde teeny-bopper, so it probably wasn't the same person. I ordered a hot roast beef sandwich. It was fast—on my table in less than 10 minutes—and edible but not particularly good. I took a couple of photos of the main drag, and headed out of town.
California Sunday, May 25, 2008
Rush hour traffic builds May 22 on I-80 heading toward the Bay Bridge May 22 in San Francisco.
Friday morning began with another 4:40 a.m. alarm to get me out to the airport in time for a 7:20 flight. Postponing a shower, I dressed in the dark to avoid waking my roommate.
I realized, as I returned my rental car, that I'd forgotten to fill the tank. D'oh! Not much to do about that now. I headed up to catch a shuttle to the airport.
Just as the bus appeared, I realized that I'd left my suit hanging in the closet at the hotel. Damn. I need that. So I went into the rental hut, and asked whether I might be able to get my car back. Too late, I'd have to rent another. So I tried to call the hotel. The directory that Avis had had the wrong number, so they called 411. That put me through to a fax machine. Geez.
So at 5:30 a.m. I called up my manager (who had probably had about 2 hours sleep, but was also due for an early morning flight). He gave me a number for the hotel. I called them, they put me through to my roommate, who was kind enough to bring my suit down to the front desk. They put it on the next shuttle to the airport, where I picked it up. That crisis averted, I went through security and got on a plane to Oakland.
In Oakland, I got a call from another photographer, Jim, who had been on the same flight. Since it was only about 10 and we didn't have to be at the shoot until 4:30, we decided to check into the hotel (in San Francisco), have some lunch, and then get back to Berkeley before the traffic got bad. We collected our vehicles and drove across the bay to a cute hotel with Japanese decor on Sutter Street.
Driving across the Bay Bridge from San Francisco to Oakland.
After plugging in my battery chargers, I met up with Jim who knew a great Thai restaurant right next to the hotel. Back at the hotel we took an hour or so to shower and get changed then headed back across the Bay Bridge for our shoot in Berkeley.
Having left San Francisco early to beat traffic, we had a couple of hours to kill in Berkeley. After doing a bit of Goodwill hunting, Jim and I stopped at a small coffee shop near the university. As we enjoyed cool drinks in the sun, I got a phone call—no change to today's shoot, but they needed me at San Jose State in the morning, instead of San Francisco State—still in the Bay Area, but about 50 miles south.
Hanging out May 22 at a coffee shop in Berkeley, Calif.
The Berkeley shoot was at the Greek Theatre. I wish I had a picture of it: it's a really cool amphitheater with these huge columns behind the stage, and about 20 feet up they had a bunch of colored flags. Down in the green room there were posters from some really amazing concerts that it's hosted, like the Beastie Boys and Wilco, and dozens more I can't remember. I kind of wish I lived closer.
Anyway, after the shoot, we headed back to the San Francisco hotel, I changed, packed up my stuff, looked up directions, and drove to another hotel in San Jose. I got there about 10 and checked in, then went looking for something to eat. The hotel restaurant was closed, so they recommended a restaurant about two blocks away—a bit expensive, but at nearly 11 p.m. I wasn't going to argue.
Saturday morning I got to sleep in until 6 before checking out and traveling in convoy to San Jose State University (I still don't know where it is). That job was big, but not as insane as I'd been led to believe. Then, after a quick group stop at Wendy's, we all rushed off to San Francisco State for their main ceremony. We got there just in time for the ceremony, but had plenty of time to get ready as the 3500 or so graduates processed into the stadium. The graduates probably won't remember it, but the band was great, the honorary degrees included Isabel Allende, and the keynote speech was delivered by San Francisco Mayor Gavin Newsom.
The ceremony was long—about four hours—and after some gear/car swapping, it was straight to the airport for me for the last flight home.
[left] A traveler sleeps at San Francisco International Airport May 22. He looks like I felt.
The grad season is only half over, but (barring some last-minute change, which wouldn't surprise me now) the rest are within driving distance of Portland. It will be nice to be back on my home turf.
A couple of days in Phoenix
My grandparents, Ken and Magda Davey, walk hand-in-hand May 21 across a parking lot in Phoenix, Ariz.
After last week's trip to the east coast, I had about 36 hours at home to get caught up and prepare for the next tour. This one promised to be a lot easier, if only because it was out west: shorter, direct flights, all in the same time zone.
Better yet, I got to leave a day early to visit my uncle and cousins in Phoenix, and my grandparents from Toronto who happened to be there visiting them.
My Tuesday afternoon flight to the Grand Canyon state was only a few minutes late. My checked bags arrived promptly, I picked up my rental car, and found light traffic on the Phoenix freeways, even though I arrived at the peak of rush hour.
I spent Tuesday evening and Wednesday with my family, not really doing anything in particular, just catching up. We were happy to stay indoors as it was well over 100°F there. Wednesday evening I went out on Mill Ave. in Tempe with my cousins, giving them an evening away from their daughters. That was fun, especially since I only get to see them once a year or so.
[right] An angelic Lila Schwier sleeps on her mother Audrey's lap. [below] Later, Lila was less of an angel.
Thursday it was back to work again. Rain had moved into the desert, and the temperature had dropped by 30°. I was supposed to be at the Maricopa County Events Center in Sun City West—northwest of Phoenix, a full 50 miles from my uncle's place in Mesa—at 12:30 to shoot two high school ceremonies. That morning I got a call that one of the other shooters, Ken, had missed his flight from Los Angeles, and could I pick him up at the airport at 11:30? No problem. Oh, and by the way, instead of shooting two ceremonies back-to-back in Sun City West, we need you to go to a different ceremony after the first grad. We'll have directions for you there. OK.
We got to the Events Center right on time, and that ceremony went pretty smoothly, at least for me. The second ceremony turned out to be in Casa Grande, southeast of Phoenix, 75 miles away. We had two hours, but knowing that we would have to drive through rush hour traffic, we figured it would be best to get in the neighborhood first, then find something to eat.
It turns out that Casa Grande, or at least the part we were in, is one of those instant bedroom communities that bloom in the desert like wildflowers after a rainfall. As we drove into town, there were helpful direction-finding signs at every intersection, each identifying eight to 10 residential developments being built. We didn't have much time, and without seeing any indication of a retail area, we settled for a gas station convenience store. Ken bought a burrito, I settled for a Coke.
[right] Only in Phoenix can this be considered "A Traditional Irish Pub and Restaurant."
Back at the school, the ceremony that had been planned for the football stadium was hastily being transferred indoors due to the steady rain. Chairs for the grads filled the gymnasium floor, the band was packed into a small space at the back of the gym, and there were some risers for the choir beside the 8-by-16 temporary stage. The gym's grandstands only fit about a third of the expected crowd. A closed-circuit TV system set up in the school's lobby area for the disgruntled remainder of the students' relatives.
Ken and I started getting set up, struggling to figure out how to photograph a two-line ceremony on the crowded, microscopic stage without getting the way of the grads or the video cameras broadcasting the ceremony to those outside the gym. Meanwhile, the other two photographers for the ceremony—who had the job bag with the event details, flash cards, and other things we needed—had missed the exit by about 20 miles. They arrived at the ceremony about 15 minutes before it began, and we scrambled to get them set up for their shots.
I don't know whether it was the weather, the crowded gymnasium, or just the school itself, but it was easily the loudest, most raucous graduation ceremony I've seen to date. There were at least a dozen beach balls and other inflatables bouncing around the sea of mortarboards, and there were tremendous cheers at every possible applause point.
Under normal circumstances, the 8 p.m. ceremony would have wrapped up around 10 but, mercifully, the fire marshal decided that there were too many people in the building, so the administration dispensed with all of the remaining speeches and went straight to the presentation of diplomas.
We were back to the hotel a bit before 11. We delivered our job bag to the war room, had some pizza and went to bed.
[left] Audrey and Julia read Letters Home May 21 in Phoenix.
Connecticut Wednesday, May 21, 2008
This is about all I saw of Connecticut this time around: I-84 near Middlebury.
One of the consequences of this whirlwind tour of the country is that I don't really get to see any of it. After dinner in New York on Saturday, I drove an hour and a half through a maze of freeways en route to Danbury, Conn.
Near the western edge of the state, Danbury is a small city that you've heard of but can't remember why. It turns out that, among other things, Danbury is the headquarters for a number of well-known companies: Scholastic Publishing, Praxair, and Ethan Allen Interiors.
Farooq Kathwari, president of Ethan Allen, was the honorary doctorate recipient at Western Connecticut State University's graduation last Sunday, which is what brought me to town.
For this particular event, the challenges thrown my way had nothing to do with travel, it was the event itself.
It should have been pretty straightforward: about 750 graduates in a single-line ceremony with two of us on hand to shoot pictures of them as they received their diplomas and a portrait just afterwards.
The night before the ceremony I checked the details and discovered that the ceremony would be held at WCSU's west campus, not the main campus as I had originally thought. This was actually more convenient for me as it was closer to the hotel.
I arrived at the event site at 8:30 a.m., the requisite two hours before the shoot was supposed to start, only to find that my paperwork was wrong, the ceremony would start at 10, not 10:30. No problem, we still had plenty of time. My partner wasn't there yet, but the hotel manager had indicated that she checked in, so I wasn't worried. I wondered if she might be headed to the other campus, but I didn't have her phone number so I just started getting ready for the ceremony.
I tried to get hold of the university's contact person, but she didn't answer her phone. I left a message, and talked to the alternate contact who was right at hand. He gave me the details of the ceremony--which direction the grads would be walking, where the presenter would stand, etc., and, as we were now within an hour of the ceremony I started preparing my partner's shot as well.
The clock continued to tick, and there was still no sign of my partner, so I started making phone calls. I looked at the job sheet for the ceremony: the regional manager's name was there, but no phone number. I looked in my kit for the company directory: it was missing. I looked at the other paperwork for some numbers: nothing. So I called the emergency 1-800 number listed on the job sheet ... no answer. I called the alternate emergency number ... no answer, not even an opportunity to leave a voice mail.
Hmmm... I have a ceremony coming up in about 30 minutes, and I'm the only one here. Realizing that it was about 6:30 a.m. on the west coast, I tried to call the Pacific Northwest regional manager--no answer. I called the only other name I had in my phone: a mid-west regional manager who had saved my butt the previous weekend when the airline lost my luggage. He didn't answer, so I left a message.
A couple minutes later, he called back, said he was shooting a race, and he'd be able to get me a phone number in a few minutes. With about 20 minutes to spare, I got another number I could call. With that number, I finally got hold of someone who knew what was going on.
It turns out that my partner for the event was sick. She'd called the regional manager and the university contact, but neither of those had bothered to pass that information along to me. An hour before the ceremony's start time the RM had dispatched one of the shooters another event to cover my shoot, but he was coming from somewhere in Massachusetts, 1.5 hours away.
The procession began, and Greg wasn't there. The provost's welcome, national anthem, president's congratulations, student speaker, honorary doctorate, and keynote speech all came and went without any sign of him. The grads started marching across the stage, and he still wasn't there.
I guess Greg arrived about 10 minutes after the grads started walking across the stage, and he jumped right in and started shooting. The university's coordinator cycled the ones he missed back into line, so he got everybody, although the order was completely messed up. I feel sorry for whoever it is back in Iowa that will have to sort them out. I won't bore you with details of the other technical issues that plagued the event.
Waterbury, Conn., locals hang out at Boru's Bar & Grill May 18. "What's the camera for?" they asked. "Taking pictures."
After the ceremony, Greg and I headed to Hartford for our flights home. Greg--who is also from Portland--had less than three hours to make the 1.5 hour drive, return his rental, check in, get through security and onto the plane. Lunch was out of the question, so we parted ways.
I, on the other hand, had a later flight and my empty stomach wouldn't be ignored. Halfway from Danbury to Hartford, I pulled off the highway in Waterbury to find a bite to eat.
Eschewing the fast food joints at the freeway exit, I drove towards the downtown area. It was pretty quiet at 2 p.m. on a Sunday afternoon, but Boru's Bar & Grill was open. I was a bit out of place in my suit and tie, but I sat down at the bar anyway, as the half-dozen locals started throwing beer coasters at each other. I don't think there was any particular occasion, but they were pretty boisterous.
The menu described the hamburger as "so good it will change your life," so I ordered one of those and a coke. I'm not sure it was that good, but it was the best I've had in a while. Maybe if I'd ordered the cheeseburger.
Minneapolis/St. Paul (MSP) is a major hub for Northwest Airlines. I don't know when they started painting their fleet with the "nwa" logo, but that always meant something different to me.
After lunch I headed off to Bradley Airport for my return flight to Portland (via Minneapolis). Sure enough, there was Greg waiting at my gate. He'd missed his flight and spent the rest of the time trying to rearrange another way home.
We got back to Portland around 11:30 PDT and I went straight home to bed.
More airports, more planes Monday, May 19, 2008
After shooting golf Monday and Tuesday last week, Wednesday was a welcome day back in the office—buying some groceries, charging batteries, answering emails, making phone calls.
Thursday was supposed to be basically a day off. All I had to do was take a case of camera gear to the FedEx outlet around the corner from my place. I had visions of taking a bike ride, doing some shopping, and maybe doing some housework. I slept in a bit, did laundry, and arranged some personal travel (Yay! more airplanes!) in the morning. The call with the address for the camera case finally came around noon. Just as I was about to walk over to Kinko's, I got another call—the powers that be decided it was more important to ship the case to California instead, so I had to drive to the airport to ship it "next flight guaranteed."
After getting that taken care of, I spent the rest of the afternoon arranging this week's travel and packing. So much for a day off.
Early Friday morning it was back to the airport for a flight to Newark.
This weekend's trip had its own challenges, but the travel itself was reasonably sane. I flew out to Newark via Minneapolis on Friday. Both of those legs are only about 2.5 hours in the air, and they were only about 1.5 hours late on the back end. My hotel was right at the airport, so that was convenient, and I got there at an entirely reasonable 8:30 p.m. I went down to the hotel restaurant and had a huge plate of chicken Parmesan on linguine, and went back to my hotel room.
For these overnight trips, EPG sets us up two to a room, and so you never know who you're going to be rooming with. Actually, I have the name of the person, but I haven't been sharing a room with anyone I've ever met before. For my night in Newark I was sharing a room with ... let's call him Jack.
Jack is from Seattle. He appears to be in his mid- to late-30s, but he said he's been shooting grads for 25 years, so who knows.
When I got back up to my room after dinner on Friday night, Jack was just moving in. We introduced ourselves as we consumed every outlet in the room with our various battery chargers and ironed our well-traveled shirts.
Jack—who had been on the road continuously for more than a week—raved on about this girl that he'd been on a self-imposed 6-week timeout with, but who was now asking when he would be back and then there was this girl he visited up in Toronto last week and how he wasn't properly expressing his emotions and this and that and whatever.
As I booted up my computer to check my email before bed, Jack warned me that he snores loudly, and also mentioned that he likes to go to sleep with one of those ambient sounds things playing. Tonight's track had a subliminal inspirational message, he said. Figuring that it could only be better than the sound of the air conditioner and that I was tired enough to sleep through anything, I said it wouldn't be a problem.
Jack turned on the sound, which began with crickets chirping, and then added another track of some electronic tumbling sound with deep strings behind it. Two chords in a descending major second, which then repeated. At that moment—about two hours after he had checked in—Jack realized that he'd left his car parked in the hotel entrance and went to move it.
He wasn't back for nearly an hour. When he came back into the room, he was again raving about his girl, who had called him "at just the right time" with, apparently, just the right news. So he went on about that for a while.
Meanwhile, the "sound" has been playing the whole time. Two chords in a descending major second, over and over and over again. I left it playing while he was gone, in an attempt to acclimate to it.
We turned out the lights around 11:30 to the sound of tumbling electrons in a descending major second.
An hour and a half later, Jack was fast asleep and I was not. Thankfully, I heard it fade into the distance as the track ended.
Just as I was slipping into a badly-needed sleep, the crickets came back. The track was on repeat. Damn.
Half an hour later, as the music box continued its eternal descending major seconds, I decided that politeness be damned: Jack was snoring and I wasn't going to get any sleep if that sound kept playing. So I got up and turned the infernal thing off.
Fifteen minutes later, Jack snored himself awake, got up, and turned the #@^% thing back on! I rolled over and buried my head in the pillows.
I guess I fell asleep somewhere around 2:30. The alarm went off at 5:40 with the inspirational sound still playing. I don't know if there was a subliminal message in that tape, but I didn't feel particularly inspired.
I shaved and showered and came out of the bathroom to hear the alarm going off again. "I keep hitting the snooze button so it keeps me on time," said a well-refreshed Jack, who had gone to the trouble of writing out the morning's schedule.
I turned on the TV to get caught up on the news while I dressed.
"Do you mind if we don't watch news?" asked Jack. "I don't want to see anything bad."
Well OK then. I turned the TV off.
Ohio Trip—Day 3: flying home
[above] A dozen planes queue up on the tarmac at Philadelphia International Airport (PHL) May 11, waiting for their turn on the runway. I think there were five or six more in front of my plane when I took this photo.
I've decided that I really don't like flying through Philadelphia. While it wasn't as bad as my first experience with that airport, the second go-around could hardly be described as a pleasure. (According to Flightstats.com, the two flights that I took out of Philadelphia—US 1156 and US 3915—have among the worst records for being on time: both 0.1 on a scale of 0-5.)
After a brief night's sleep in West Chester, Ohio, I headed back to Oxford only to realize that I'd left two of my three camera batteries in the chargers back at the hotel. Since it was 45 minutes to get back there, and not between Oxford and Columbus, I had them ship the batteries back to me in Portland. For the shoot, I used my spare battery and another photographer's spare. That was the extent of the excitement for that job.
From there, I made the two-hour drive back to Columbus for my plane home. As before the plane into PHL was on time (or pretty close), but my next plane was delayed. We boarded pretty much on time, but then sat on the taxiway for close to an hour before taking off.
For the next six hours, I had two views to choose from.
I got home around 11:30 and went straight to bed to get some rest before my next early morning call time.
Riding the train Monday, October 29, 2007
This weekend I took a trip up to Seattle to visit Kim. But rather than drive, I decided to take the train. It was the first time I'd taken the train in a few years, and it reminded me of how much there is to love about riding the train.
For a single traveler, the cost of the train ($76 round-trip, + $8 parking in Portland) isn't much more than the cost of gas these days, let alone the wear and tear on the car. The seats are wider than an airplane or bus, and you can wander around the train as much as you please. They have plugs for your laptop.
You do have to travel on Amtrak's schedule instead of your own, but you can sleep or work or whatever while you ride. And for me, at least, the stations are in very convenient locations at both ends of the trip.
As I rode up on Saturday morning I spent time processing some photos from Friday's work. It was a gorgeous day, and the scenery for much of the trip is beautiful. It is particularly nice between Olympia and Tacoma as the train runs alongside Puget Sound; the fall foliage across the water was radiant in the cool autumn sunshine.
Just as I finished my work and reached for my camera, though, we arrived in Tacoma where it was somewhat foggy and we promptly headed a ways inland. Sunday, too, was nice, but I took the evening train back to Portland in the dark.
Nathan spent most of the trip to Seattle walking up and down the train with his mother.
People, coming and going Friday, October 12, 2007
Anne and Alberto head to the departures level at Pearson International's new Terminal 1 Sunday to catch a flight back to Mexico.
Any event that brings a large, mature family together these days means a lot of people coming and going from various parts of the world.
Ken and Magda Davey's 60th wedding anniversary celebrations brought 24 family members to Toronto from England, the United States, and Mexico, as well as other parts of Canada.
Listen to Magda describe all the people expected for the event:
Of course, people arriving means people leaving again. Of the out-of-town guests, Anne and Alberto were the first to depart at lunchtime on Sunday. Some of the English guests left Sunday evening. My parents left Monday morning, as did Stuart and Sue. Gillian left Monday night, I think, and I came back here Wednesday evening. Stanley, Ann, and Pat should have left today.
(left) Anne hams it up for the camera as she hugs her mother goodbye.
On the way to Matheson Tuesday, October 09, 2007
Peter Ginn drives north on Highway 11 Oct. 4 en route to his home town of Matheson, Ontario.Knowing that I wouldn't get any decent food until I arrived in Toronto four or five hours later, I was desperate to find something quick to keep me going through the rest of the afternoon. Fortunately, there was a Tim Hortons outlet right beside the gate, and better yet, there was only one person in line. Great, I thought, I'll just pop over there for a muffin or something.
Finally the cashier rang up the pilot's order (a coffee, black), and turned to me. I bought a muffin with no options, paid in exact change, made no small talk, didn't leave a tip, and walked straight onto the plane.The fall leaves were at their peak Oct. 4 as we drove up to Northern Ontario.
(left) Peter Ginn lights a fire. (above) Anne Ginn talks on the telephone.Additional photos Thursday, July 26, 2007
Sunlight filters through the mossy trees in Potlatch State Park near Hoodsport, Wash.
I added a couple of Stacey's photos to the trip map. I really like this one. Check "Potlatch State Park" and "On the road" here.
BC Trip, July 2007 -- map & photos posted Wednesday, July 25, 2007
Lions Gate Bridge, Vancouver
I just finished (?) the map of our recent BC trip. Click on the symbols to see photos or read about things that happened at those points.
If you want to follow the trip chronologically, go clockwise. You might have to zoom in on some areas to be able to click on all the points, or you can just click on the links in the pane to the left of the map.
To see the map of the trip, complete with stories and photos, click here.
Living on Mexican time Friday, April 27, 2007
Anne Ginn and her father, Peter, wait for her fiance to pick them up at the airport in Mexico City, Apr. 18, 2007.
Yes, I realize that this post is a few days before the previous one, but that one seemed more pressing at the time. For the sake of continuity, I´m going to go back and blog the rest of this trip in chronological order.
I love flying to Latin America. It never ceases to amaze me how you can get on a plane in Houston or L.A., fly for a few hours, and get off the plane in a totally different world—different climate, different language, different food, different money, different music, different smell ... different.
I timed my flights to arrive shortly after my parents´flight from Toronto. After I collected my bags and cleared customs and immigration, I stepped outside the secure area of the terminal. It didn't take long to spot my sister and mother, leaning on a pillar in the terminal. That, apparently, was lucky. My dad was waiting at the next gate over, where the signs said I would be coming out.
After we found Dad and gathered all our belongings together, it was just a matter of waiting for Anne´s boyfriend, Alberto, who had left with the car to visit one of his clients.
And we waited, and waited, and waited. Two hours after he was expected, he finally arrived, attributing his tardiness to traffic.
The five of us, with three large pieces of luggage, piled into Alberto´s early-90's Dodge Shadow, and held on for the ride. The vehicle struggled to clear the numerous speed bumps that control traffic on Mexico´s roads, but it made it over the pass between the D.F. and Ocoyoacac.
On the ride, we discovered that my bottle of contact solution had opened in-flight and completely drained, and my sunscreen had partially-exploded all over the inside of the bag I'd (thankfully) put it in. Since I wanted to wear my contacts again, we had to stop on the way home to get some more solution. Fortunately, there was a Wal-Mart on the way.
We finally arrived at Anne and Alberto´s place around 9 p.m. (my flight landed about 3:30). Anne cooked us up a quick supper, showed us to our room, and we went to bed to the sound of dogs barking all around the neighborhood.
Driving in LA Sunday, April 08, 2007
Todd Spoth (left), Shawn Lynch and Corey Perrine change a flat tire en route to shooting boxing in La Habra, Calif., Apr. 5.
This is the first time I've spent an extended period in the Los Angeles area. Sports Shooter Academy is based at a hotel in Irvine (in Orange County, east of downtown), but we've been traveling all over the east side to photograph events: La Habra, Fullerton, Long Beach, Newport Beach, and Irvine for me.
I haven't been driving, but I have been riding with, and sometimes navigating for, others who are also unfamiliar with the area.
Thursday was particularly challenging. After our morning classes, Shawn, Kasia, and I piled into the Corolla that Todd and Corey had rented and headed off to find La Habra. Vague directions, unanticipated exits on the left, unsigned splits in the road, and a flat tire all conspired against us. The pit crew did a great job on the tire, though, changing it in less than seven minutes. And even with the 55 mph limit on the tire, we arrived at the gym ahead of the SSA faculty.
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