Midwest Adventures- Milwaukee

By Megan

Milwaukee- land of Solomon Juneau, the self-proclaimed first white guy spotted in the area; Leif the Discoverer of Iceland, and of course, a town synonymous with beer.  It seemed ever-so-close to Chicago (my current stomping grounds) and therefore warranted a visit on an early-fall Saturday.  So, my travel bud  and I hopped on a Megabus and drifted our way up to the state up north with dreams of strong brews and delicious cheese.

The first stop was the Milwaukee Public Market located in the posh Third Ward.  It seemed to call out to picnic provisioners and lost souls alike, so we crossed over the bridge and landed smack dab in what my version of shoppers heaven might look like.  I grabbed first for some nutmeg nuts to grind fresh, feeding a recent baking addiction.  And while paying for my delicious treasure, I quickly realized that it was the cleanest market I had ever visited.  Unlike Barcelona's Boqueria, the floor was spotless.  There were few, if any, identifiable tourists and I didn't fear for the life of my purse.

It didn't even smell like a market, but I was soon distracted by a quiet gentleman who helped us pick out a cheddar (a test of the five-year cheddar taught me that I wasn't ready for that degree of sharpness) and a local muenster, known as the world's best sandwich cheese (pretty damn good when eaten with raisins too, just so you know).  A fresh loaf of bread and some award winning fire-brewed (whatever that means) root beer later, and our indoor picnic was set.

We stowed the leftovers for later and set out to explore the city on foot.  Neither of us were too interested in seeing the Warhol exhibit at the museum, but I heard the museum structure itself was worth the hike.  It was one of the most literal translations of a boat onto an architectural structure that I have ever seen, except the 'hull' was made up of windows over looking Lake Michigan.

It was early afternoon at this point, and the sun called for a nap in the park next to the art museum, so we obeyed. Finally, it was time to get down to business and grab a brewsky.  I paired a Rocky's Revenge (Nut Brown Ale) with mac' n' cheese, and my bud had a famous Spotted Cow.  At the brat eating contest, I lamented the absence of my camera while teams of four scarfed down bun and dogs as fast as possible.  Quote from a contestant, "Yeah baby!  That's how you eat a brat!"- insert loud frat boy voice here, please.

Brewsky number two was a Furthermore's Fatty Bombalatty which I enjoyed with even more cheese, which I knew was a lot of cheese, but was seemed worth it- especially since I don't know when I'll be back next .  The bus ride back to Chicago was uneventful, except for the stomach ache.  All-in-all, Milwaukee made for the perfect escape form the city, which I would highly recommend, especially the cheese over indulgence.

Nothing and Everything

By Lisa
Some days, nothing much happens.
August 26, 2004.  I woke from strange dreams involving campgrounds and serial killers when my mother poked her head in the door of my old bedroom and asked, “What time do you need me to wake you up?”
It was a big day.  I was leaving on my adventure: a solo road trip around the United States.  The fact that I was doing this on my own, for the next six weeks, with a sketchy route plan, amazed everyone – especially me.  I had always pretended to enjoy spontaneous adventure, but not-so-secretly I liked schedules and lots of planning.  I had always talked about wanting to see the world on my own, but somehow, something always came up to get me out of actually doing it.  You know the refrain: “I would love to do it, I just can’t,” followed by a shake of the head, apparent regret masking relief.
This time the excuses had evaporated.  I had a couple of months of absolute freedom between taking the bar exam and starting my law firm job.  I had a good car, a little money saved and a great job lined up.  There was a nagging voice (an ex-boyfriend) asking me, “When are you ever going to have this chance again?”
I had to do it.  My reputation as a fun-loving, independent woman who made her own life happen – the reputation that fooled even me sometimes – was on the line.
To drown out my internal dialogue about whether I was capable of spending six weeks by myself, pitching a tent, and dealing with car trouble, I planned.  I researched cities, National Parks, driving times.  I called friends all over the country to see if they’d be around when I thought I might drive through.  In the end, I had a rough plan that would get me from Rhode Island to parts previously unknown and back again.
After breakfast, it was time to go.  I was an hour later than I had “planned,” due to lingering over coffee. I was delaying departure.  I was nervous.  It didn’t matter, I rationalized, because I didn’t have anywhere to be.  My first destination was Chicago, which I would reach on the second day.
I said goodbye to my parents.  “Call when you get there,” my mom shouted, waving, as I got into the car.  “Where is there?” I asked.  She shrugged, and waved again.  “Wherever you get.”
Around the corner, I stopped for gas.  A full tank of gas is important, I told myself, as I pumped perhaps a gallon into the recently filled tank.  I wandered into the station store, poked around at the snack foods.  When the cashier started watching me with suspicion, I got back into my car.  I turned the key in the ignition.  I didn’t have to go, I told myself.
I shushed my doubtful internal voice with some self-taunting (“what, are you scared?”) and took Rte. 95 out of Rhode Island and across Connecticut.  This part of the journey was easy; I had traveled it many times to and from New York.  I cut around New York City, buzzed through New Jersey, and sailed into Pennsylvania.  I listened to George Carlin and U2 at top volume.  I got stuck in horrendous standstill traffic on Rte. 80 in Pennsylvania.  I ate the lunch I had packed, and munched on goldfish crackers.  And as the miles – and hours – ticked by, the temptation to turn around and head to the safety of home slowly seeped away.
Thirteen hours later, when I pulled into a Comfort Inn (that I hadn’t known existed until I saw it from the highway) in Youngstown, Ohio (a town I had never heard of), nothing much had happened.  I hadn’t seen anything exciting or met any interesting characters.
And yet…even with all that hadn’t happened, what I felt that night in Ohio was not bored, or lonely, or anxious, or doubtful.  I felt energized, excited.
Free.
I think it’s because I sensed what was around the corner.  The day nothing much happened was a preamble to many days of wonder and discovery.  On that day, I didn’t just drive 600 miles; I also took a crucial first step.  Now, five years later, I can’t imagine my life without regular solo travel, and letting the winds take me where they will.
Some days, nothing much happens…and everything changes.

When the Going Gets Tough...

By Erica

End of April, 2007: the end of the shittiest semester of my life. In the past four months, I've practically given myself Generalized Anxiety Disorder, lost one of my best friends, jeopardized my relationship with my partner, cried myself to sleep in the evenings, been unable to sleep through the night, and dealt with the seemingly constant onslaught of questions. Where will I go after graduation in a year? What do I want to do with my life? Where will I be this summer? What will I be doing for work? How will I pay rent? How will I get anywhere? How do I expect to survive if I don't go for a Master's degree? When am I going to visit everyone I've ever promised to visit, in spite of my financial limitations? I've reached the point where every day is horrible, every night is worse, and I don't see how it can possibly end. What I need is a break, a chance to run away and start it all over again.
I grew up traveling, really. My parents ensured that I was used to flying, driving, and busing at an early age- my first "vacation" on a plane happened when I was 10 months old- and when Dad's conferences and trainings took him around the world, he took the rest of us with him. Other kids grew up dreaming about visiting far-off or exotic lands; I grew up actually going to them. My first transatlantic flight took me to Australia at age 7, where I trekked through a tropical rainforest, BBQed under the stars in the Great Australian Desert, and learned to play the didgeridoo. Each time I stepped into the airport, lugged my stuff onto a plane, or even snapped a luggage tag neatly around my bag handle was the beginning of an exciting adventure. To this day, the prospect of traveling, especially on a plane, is irresistible. The moment the plane's wheels leave the ground and we begin the steep climb up into the atmosphere, something inside me changes and loosens and is left on the ground below. In high school, bored with the rural area I lived in, I dreamed about putting a few necessities- contact lenses, toothbrush, change of underwear- into a bag, climbing in the car, and then just driving. Going somewhere, anywhere, that was far away and where I could start over.

This spring, all I want to do is fulfill that old fantasy. I want to fuck school, fuck obligations, and fuck emotional ties and just get the hell away.

Serendipity strikes one day, just as I'm packing up to head home for the unplanned, terrifyingly uncommitted summer ahead. I get a message from my old supervisor, offering me a temporary job at her organization, and it doesn't start until June. At the same time, a request comes in from a collective in Toronto. They want me to come and participate on a panel about social change and engagement, at the end of May. Suddenly, the next three weeks begin to take shape.

When I get home at the beginning of May, I start calling people all over the eastern part of the US and Canada. Hannah in Philly; Gayle in Plainfield; Liz in NYC; Jocelyn in Toronto; Lisa in Schenectady; Emma in Saratoga Springs. "Remember how I planned to visit?" I say. "How about I actually do it?" I'm still quite financially limited; all I can afford is the $50 plane ticket to Philadelphia. But that's enough to get me on the road. It's enough to get me the hell away.

I only carry two small shoulderbags, somehow managing to fit three weeks' worth of clothes and supplies therein, and two skeins of yarn that I want to use to expand my knitting knowledge. My passport, for the trip to Toronto, is tucked into a side pocket, and my near-worthless debit card is in my jeans. For the first time in my life, I'll be traveling without family and without heading to university. On one hand, that feels wrong: I feel like I'm too young for this. At the same time, however, I'm 20. I'm going to university in a foreign country. And, for the first time in my life, the one thing I need and crave more than anything is to be completely unfettered and alone.

My first stop is to visit my sister at her college. Mom gives me lots of hugs and kisses, hands me a bag of cookies to give Hannah when I land, and gives me that look that says that she's a little jealous. "Be safe," she says, "and say hi to Hannah for us!" Because at this point, we all know that Hannah's stressed. In spite of everything- finishing her first year, about to start finals, and living with the roommate from Hell- but she's got an air mattress and extra food on her meal plan, and she wants to see me, so we spend a couple of days banging around Philadelphia together. We goof off in a mosaic-tiled house called the Magic Garden, meet up with an aunt and uncle for delicious Italian food, and celebrate May Day on her campus. She introduces me to the Dean of Admissions at her school's graduate social work program. By the time I've decided to head to upstate New York, I've also decided that having any sort of buffer in my savings account is useless. Since airfare's out of the question, in spite of that leaving-the-ground good feeling, I start checking out Amtrak.

The next three weeks are absolutely liberating. I've got an idea of when I'm traveling to where- a few days in Schenectady, a few more in Toronto, then five in Plainfield, and so on- but the means are never certain until a few days before. Everyone's patient with me and my uncertain arrival times, and the fact that I look a little like a hobo. With no razors allowed on the airplane and no checked bag, I have no razors. My hair- chopped to baby-dyke length in the fall- is scraggly and threatening to mullet, I have no makeup, and the only shoes I brought are a phenomenally smelly pair of Birkenstocks. Every night I write in my journal, as I've been doing since I was sixteen, and every day my knitting grows more and more on the circular needles I bought in Philly. I have no homework, no employment demands, and no one's asking me anything about my future. In Schenectady I play with a four-year-old who's practicing her letters and teach her to make dandelion chains, and in the evenings, Lisa and I tell stories and decompress each other. Emma, in Saratoga Springs, is finishing her finals, so we spend sixteen hours a day at the computer lab. She makes graphics on the screens, I play B'loons until my eyes sting, and we break only to go to Coldstone for ice cream. In Toronto, it's 80F- somehow the spring is slipping by- and Jocelyn takes me around the University of Toronto's campus until I can hardly walk. Liz and I spend our time in New York City watching Scrubs; when she has a job interview, I walk around and around Central Park, watching the joggers and letting my mind drift. Finally, I go to Plainfield, and Gayle and I spend five days in the house my mother grew up in- a house I haven't been to in the seven years since my grandfather died. Gayle has to help pay for my bus ticket home when it's all over, because three weeks of Amtrak and Greyhound takes its toll on the student bank account, and before I leave she lets me use her washing machine and drier. And when I get home to New Hampshire, about to start work for the summer and register for the GREs and start grad school applications and research my thesis topic and all the billions of things I'd been weighed down by just a few weeks before, I feel better.

Obviously, the vacation isn't a magic pill. The things that were wrong before I left are still wrong. My friend and I never really speak again, I'm still under a lot of pressure to figure out my future, and my partner and I still have problems to work out. Going away for a few weeks doesn't really change anything you go back to, if all the things you left are depending on you to make them happen. But being gone for that time, being untethered and on my own, has been a literal lifesaver. For the first time since January, I'm sleeping consistently and without the soporific effect of tears. I can think about the future without panicking, and I'm even feeling comfortable with the idea of making decisions about graduate school and career options. Instead of waking up and hoping to cope with the day, I'm waking up and somewhat excited about what the day may bring. The trip's given me a chance to regroup, collect my thoughts, and restart.

For the first time in four months, I'm ready.