Travel – Page 5 – Britt Skrabanek

1am in a cab on a school night

It was raining just so.

Like a melody I knew well, but couldn’t place. The kind I wanted to hear over and over again for the rest of my life.

I was crossing a bridge in a cab at 1am. I was alone with a cab driver.

There was water all around. A river beneath and the rain above.

The windows of the cab were speckled with gorgeous rain drops that shined with the city lights. It was like a painting that would never stay the same, no matter how much you wanted it to.

It was blurry, but it was beautiful.

I had just left a group of friends and Mr. H was out of town. I never do this anymore…stay out late on a school night.

But, this was a night I would never forget. One that changed me, from one side of the river to the other.

My thoughts were rampant. I had to say goodbye to an old piece of me that night, a wild piece that no longer existed.

And this transformation all happened in a cab with a guy I didn’t know.

Even now I couldn’t tell you what his name was. But he had a Russian accent. That I can remember.

We got to talking about the usual which turned into the unusual. These things happen in the middle of the night.

Somehow we got onto art, writing in particular. I told him about my struggle with writing novels full-time…I don’t know why. When you’re talking to a stranger, one that you’re paying for a short period of time, there is safety in that.

Also, I knew that he would understand. He was a professional listener after all.

You see, every cab ride I’ve taken late at night has been like jazz music to me. Slow, other-worldly—honest and sexy.

Toward the end of our ride, we talked about robots. Yeah, robots.

Again, these things happen in the middle of the night.

The cab driver told me that soon cabs would be taken over by robots. And while that would have made me snicker ten years ago, it doesn’t now.

I said: “It’s a damn shame.”

“You think so?”

“Yes, because I’ve always loved cab conversations.”

He said: “Thank you.”

I swiped my card and tipped him well. Then I shut the door and he drove away. The cab vanished behind a thick veil of misty Portland rain until it was just me standing alone on my curb, trying to balance in my boots.

I stumbled inside to write this gibberish in my journal. I almost forgot about it until I came across it. The writing was sloppy, almost not mine.

But the story was pretty special.

Like a melody I knew well, but couldn’t place. The kind I wanted to hear over and over again for the rest of my life.

This was the song I had stuck in my head that night… “All Things to All Men” by The Cinematic Orchestra featuring Roots Manuva. I played it while I wrote this blog post.

Strangely enough I found the perfect video on YouTube that has Russian subtitles—the language of my cab driver.

Pretty amazing world we live in. We’re not all that different, are we?

Bend…Beer Mecca

For the longest time, I didn’t like beer. Because I was doing it wrong.

Like most youngsters in the US drinking under the legal age of 21 (gasp!), I drank what I could get my hands on. Typically that was watered down piss masquerading as beer which guaranteed a blinding hangover.

The first time I had real beer was in Munich when I studied abroad in college. I was on a bike tour and we stopped at the English Gardens for a beer break. Never one to like beer previously, someone recommended I try a Radler—half lemonade, half beer.

Though I was skeptical, I was soon enjoying my second glass, a changed woman forever. You see, I’m half Czech and part Irish, and a love for beer is in my blood.

Besides water, tea, and coffee, that’s all I drink now. Occasionally a little wine or a Moscow Mule, but I’m all about phenomenal beer.

When we moved to Portland last year, Bend was on our getaway list. For Mr. H’s birthday last weekend, we finally went. (If you missed last week’s post about Bend’s nature, be sure to check out Beautiful Misery.)

If you bring up Bend around any Portlander, you will get the same response from everyone…I love Bend!

And, we could see why.

Besides the high desert climate with soul-stopping ~~mountain~~ volcano views, Bend is a small, laid back town with happy people who have a knack for two lovely things. Food and beer.

While one can certainly take the predetermined Bend Ale Trail around town, we narrowed it down to three breweries that were non-negotiable.

BONEYARD

To tell you how much we love Boneyard Beer, we go to specific restaurants in Portland JUST because they have their glorious IPA.

Why? Because you can’t buy it in any store. Seriously, my boss even tried buying it for me for my birthday since it’s my favorite—and he just plain couldn’t.

You’ll notice in the picture above that the brewery is located in an old auto repair shop. People cram into the tiny tasting room, stand around because there is nowhere to sit, and drink delicious beer.

It’s not a fancy place to hang out it and be seen. It’s all about the beer.

And that rebellious no-frills atmosphere made us adore Boneyard even more. In case you couldn’t tell by the ridiculously goofy smiles we have on our little faces.

CRUX

But if you want amazing beer with some frills, Crux Fermentation Project is the place to be. Earlier that day was our epic hike at Smith Rock, so we were ready for lots of food and beer.

When we walked up, we were afraid there was a private event going on. There was a tent outside with people drinking beer everywhere. Not just adults, but entire families were hanging out.

We had stumbled upon their Sundowner Hour, with specials a half hour before and after sunset. And that particular day was crystal clear and sunny.

So we joined the sunset party, which consisted of everyone enjoying damn good beer and waiting for the big show. An amazing sunset.

It was a celebration of nature and beer. Everyone stood around watching the sunset together, smiling and quiet, sharing an unbeatable moment.

SILVER MOON

On our last night, based on several recommendations by fellow beer enthusiasts in Portland, we headed over to Silver Moon Brewing. A dive bar through and through, locals with thick beards and/or cowboy hats filled the place.

With St. Paddy’s just a few days off, we lucked out with a live performance by Five Pint Mary, an Irish/Celtic/Eastern Euro rock band from Bend. By the end of the night, everyone was dancing, including yours truly.

It doesn’t matter if you can’t dance or don’t know how to dance to such music, everyone was moving. Here’s a little tipsy video clip I shot…

All around Bend gets a huge thumbs up from us. We shall return when our bellies and livers are ready.

Beautiful Misery

Dramatic title, I know.

Don’t worry. This isn’t about Kathy Bates breaking somebody’s ankles with a sledgehammer. (Shudder.)

This post is about this other crazy bitch…

Yep, you’re reading that right.

Misery Ridge Trail. Most difficult.

And, we hiked it.

Wondering if the trail lived up to its name? I would have my ass and legs tell you, but we’re still not on speaking terms.

At around 3,000 feet in elevation, the huffing and puffing as you climb this steep trail humbles even the savviest hikers. There was seriously a moment when I wanted to stop, turn around, and give up.

Yeah, me.

Yet, determination came from somewhere inside. I thought of nothing else but making it to the top. Everything faded away and it was only me, Mr. H, and nature—bound together, beneath the bright sky.

Eventually, we conquered that damn rock.

We were still in Oregon—Smith Rock, to be exact—but it seemed like Mars. The high desert was so different from the mossy wonderland we were used to.

In central Oregon, there is still a hint of what lies on the other side of the mountains. It’s half desert, half forest.

And, holy shit is it gorgeous!

A climbers paradise, every time you look up, you see one human or a whole group of humans hanging on the side of the giant rock.

They move with slow precision, choosing each movement as if their life depends on it.

Because it does. One false move is all it takes for these daring climbers to have a really bad day.

Which is why medical huts with crutches and stretchers are strategically placed throughout the park.

At the start of our adventure on Misery Ridge Trail, it was all about this deep internal discovery. What we were truly capable of when fatigue and doubt set in.

After all of that was done and the trail leveled out, our breath slowed and our smiles returned. But we were different, walking with a newfound energy, almost bouncing the rest of the way.

Hell, I even skipped a few times. And obviously, a Yoga tradition was a must.

There were times of difficulty, but we never gave up. There were times when I slipped and his hand was right there.

Climbing that rock together was a bit of a defining moment, a beautiful misery where it was only us against the rest of it.

Kind of like life. Hmm…

How about you guys…any defining travel/sport/adventure moments that changed you in some way?

My Awakening City

I’m a sucker for cities on a weekend morning. With nobody rushing off to work, the restless streets are hushed and vacant.

I started a new Saturday morning tradition.

I drag my ass out of bed, then get dressed in mismatched Yoga clothes. I wander over to the boulangerie right when they open, before the line goes out the door.

I grab a fresh chocolate hazelnut croissant and a latte. Their comforting smells warm me.

This morning I felt inspired to capture my awakening city.

I took the kind of photos I could never take during the day, without people thinking I’m Crazy Stalker Lady.

If any of the local businesses in my neighborhood look at their security cameras, they’ll either think I’m planning a heist or just another starry-eyed tourist.

Let them think what they want. I had to share this beautiful secret.

Sleepy bakers are preparing for the pandemonium, not yet cloaked in flour or sweating beneath their aprons. Though that will all change soon enough.

A couple shares a quiet cup of coffee together, enjoying the empty cafe before they begin their day.

The library on the corner awaits the invasion of eager minds. The chairs sit still, watching over the books as they sleep.

Cutlery echoes from the restaurant opening for brunch. The sandwich board sign is set out, directing crowds inside for hot food and cozy conversation.

The tavern is unusually silent and clean. Liquor bottles rest against one another behind the bar. The old fireplace is cool, but you can still catch a hint of wood in the air.

Slowly, darkness succumbs to morning light. A runner flies past me, more cars ease down the street, and doors swing open to welcome the day.

My city is awake.

Across the Sound

There’s something so awesomely crazy about driving, transporting your car on water, then driving away again. I mean, how often do you get to do that?

Okay, some get to do it often. The people of Seattle sure do.

For the rest of us, it’s kind of a miraculous feeling.

It was a few minutes before 8am last Saturday when me, Mr. H, and our car, Uschi, loaded onto the Edmonds-Kingston ferry in Washington.

We stepped out of the car to stretch our legs and watched the serene world go by through the big windows inside.

I love the inside of ferries, don’t you? They’re always so retro and battered, a great backdrop for some impromptu modeling shots.

I had been on a ferry once, maybe twice before, when I was a pup back in Southern California. But nothing could prepare me for taking a ferry across the Puget Sound on a January morning.

We scurried onto the freezing deck like a couple of kids.

It reminded me of running into the living room on Christmas morning, sneaking around at the crack of dawn so I could check out the pretty presents under the tree before Dad woke up.

Every possible shade of blue, purple, and grey surrounded me. Like I had opened a box of crayons with only a few options.

But I wasn’t disappointed. It was just too beautiful.

Where does the water end? Where does the sky begin? I wanted to cry—my eyes barely knew how to handle visions like this…

Others on the boat were just as hypnotized as we were. Bundled up couples strolled the deck, physically attached to each other in some way, their bodies begging for warmth.

A man who has probably taken this route every single day for years couldn’t resist the temptation to step outside in the biting cold.

To marvel at all of it—the majesty, the simplicity.

Even with all of this power, somehow the Sound was soundless. Here was a welcoming haven from the boisterous world we knew all too well.

The water danced, only because it wanted to. The wind whispered poetry. The birds played it cool.

It was a foreign land, an exquisite secret. Nobody gets to stay here…you can only pass through.

We felt honored to be here, to breathe in this unexpected bliss as we glided across the Sound.