Ring Road 1

I played the Icelandic band Sigur Ros, and his later solo persona, Jonsi, on repeat for a majority of the thousand miles I drove across the island. His haunting melodies form a perfect backdrop to what plays out before you, as if they sprung from the otherworldly landscapes themselves. In a way, they did. Jonsi was born in Reykjavik, and he garnered fame across Iceland before exploding onto the international stage. It’s one example of many dating back to the original Sagas, of this peculiar small isolated place punching above its weight in the arts. I wonder often about this impact, what happens when geography and climate mesh with the human condition. In Iceland, surrounded by lava flows atop lava flows everywhere from a few hundred to a few million years old, cooled by the refreshing mist of a hundred waterfalls, how can you not be inspired to create, to contemplate, to heal, to grow, to connect with something deeper in this fraction of time that is your life? All the things that make the arts, the arts.

Around midnight on my last evening, shivering in the cold, I walked down a deserted road in Snaesfellsnes National Park, flanked by the ocean on one side and a glacier on the other all under the cover of stars. Waiting, waiting, scanning the skies for the Northern Lights, hoping to catch a glimpse of this miracle of nature seen by so few. There was a long period of worry. Perhaps they would not be seen this night. A few people around me went to bed, tired and cold, not really even knowing what they were waiting for. And then clouds started to clear, green light slowly appeared near the horizon, brightening outward in long streaks dancing across the sky, compounding this profound feeling of awe and smallness. From start to finish, this was the most beautiful place I've seen in this life.

What power disbands the Northern Lights,

After their steely play?

The lonely watcher feels an awe,

Of nature’s sway.

One should remember what they thought as they stood under the auroras for the first time, and for me, it was strangely emotional, feeling deeply the many layers that have so encased my heart, beginning, finally, to unravel. That culminated in something that felt a lot like letting go, and the opening epithet in a Junot Diaz book, of course, comes to mind, that where Sandra Cisneros, calmly, from the safety of time and space, floats: there should be stars for wars like ours. I reply, under my breath, looking up with tears in my eyes, full of the bittersweet heavy fullness that comes with recognizing something can be so many true things at once: goodnight dear, goodnight.

Summer

Sitting on a bench at the banks of the Potomac, I looked up and watched plane after plane rise up into the skies above Alexandria. I find this almost therapeutic, the rhythmic rise of man and machine, a symbol of our ordered scheduled world. Behind me was perhaps the oldest settled land in the area, dating back to the Virginia charters. In front of me, the blue brown water flowing past Mount Vernon, out into the Chesapeake and the Atlantic Ocean, like it has for so much longer than man can remember.

Observing airplanes takes on a different tone these days. I have well entrenched memories from places like Doha and Abu Dhabi, watching them take off from the desert out over the Persian Gulf, for months upon months upon months, wishing I was on them, going somewhere, anywhere. But sitting on my bench this afternoon, there was no such feeling. I was at peace, content, full of deep breaths and restful eyes, happy to be where I was. The paradox between eras - though a long and winding road - is a reaffirmation, since reaffirmed again. That the changes I felt pressed to make, were important. That the things I knew deeply, were true. They were true, and I feel gratitude for their veracity and the experience all that brings, challenging an odd fortune cookie once acquired in a different life urging me to settle, because it won't get any better than this. I pulled that worn piece of paper out of my Moleskine and threw it right into the water, watching it bounce with the waves and float away. The date was Wednesday, August 1, discarding last remaining bygone thoughts and dreams into the throes of summer.

If summer in Washington was a sound, it would be the cicadas high up in the trees calling out in the hot afternoons. They follow me across the squares and circles of the city, from the shores in Alexandria right up to my bedroom window, lulling me into a nap, perhaps, and reminding me where I am. 

Washingtonian

The namesake of the street I live, George Washington Riggs (Riggs Place), was a 19^th century businessman born just to the west in Georgetown. Over the course of his life he financed the Mexican-American War, had nine children, was buried in Rock Creek Cemetery, and that is pretty much it. No one in Washington apart from its amateur historians would remember his name, but the street itself is one of the loveliest I’ve seen, quiet and green, with old row houses and tall trees lining the cobblestone sidewalks. I’ve sat out there on my porch and watched summer morph into fall, winter, and spring, and have thought that you can forget about all the short lived things. Being remembered for a beautiful street that generations of families call home is a wonderful thing. 

Riggs the man joins so many others that came together to breathe life into this 218 year old enterprise that is the nation’s capital. I think of them often when I put my feet to the pavement and walk and walk and walk. Theirs are names like Andrew Mellon, who dying of cancer, bequeathed his art collection to the citizens of the United States, in what is now the National Gallery of Art. One of my favorite buildings in DC, it is a place to go to exit yourself and get swept up in aisles of beautiful things. There is James Smithson, the British scientist and illegitimate child of the aristocracy, who upon his death, donated his entire estate “to found in Washington, under the name of the Smithsonian Institution, an establishment for the increase and diffusion of knowledge among men.” How many millions of young children to date have walked through the Museum of Natural History eyes wide in wonder, all thanks to his great gift to the world. Then there is Peter L’Enfant, the brilliant urban planner sabotaged only by his own ego and pride, who now lies on a peaceful hill in Arlington National Cemetery overlooking the city he designed. He eventually got his own metro station, but died in poverty, a sad end to a man with so much to give. And how to forget George Washington, the city’s initial benefactor, who pushed for the location of the nation’s capital along the waters of the Potomac. Nothing about history is inevitable, nor was this. On numerous occasion the project was nearly abandoned, dismantled, and taken somewhere else. 

Where would I be without all these people? In a city of less splendor, if even a city at all. Cities are the combined force of a million small factors, forged by the choices and compromises of long forgotten people that echo across its buildings, parks, statues, and streets. So it is with the District of Columbia.

All this is the past, but the Washington of 2018 is my city. It feels deliberate, on my terms, for the first time in my life a place I’ve chosen to live because I want to live there, as opposed to letting forces outside yourself decide the twists and turns of your life. One takeaway from the last ten years, most of which have been spent flipping life on its axis, is that we should seek out and live where we want to live, because it is this hodgepodge of people and places that shapes our reality and defines so much of what we become. I look to the future and what I’ll become with optimism and humility, because I've been so very humbled, and yet still know the future is bright, because I feel that as I walk the streets of this city and breath in its air.

Washington to me is infinite meaning, something only visible once you’ve lost what you so deeply believed in, then embraced everything else there was to gain. Mellon, Smithson, and L’Enfant were my brave companions. I walked with them on so many early mornings and rainy nights, when the world felt heavy and when it felt light. It is thanks to them and so many others that I’ve stepped back and, perhaps surprisingly, found a work in progress that is home.

Greek muses

At some point back during university – I think I was 20 or 21 at the time – I wandered down to a tattoo parlor on the drag in Austin and got two Greek phrases stenciled into my arms. I had been immersed in a Greek mythology course for the previous few months, and had a copy of Plato’s Republic lying around, which for some time had hooked me on the Delphic maxims so central to the ancient Greek mindset: “know thyself” and “nothing in excess.” They came out great, simple crisp black lettering, and I’ve always been happy they were there even as the space they occupy in my head has morphed with the times.

The Temple of Apollo, located on a hillside outside Delphi, served as an oracle since around the 8^th century BC, and for centuries accepted gifts from all across the Hellenic world. The phrases, which according to Plato, were carved into the temple walls, are distinctively Greek, emphasizing a world of moderation, reflection, truth and reason. I've always been fascinated with these tenets as they apply to an oracle. It’s as if saying, “before you can receive this guidance, before you can know the answers to your life, you have a few basic things to work through first.” That’s a feeling I’ve embraced countless times over the years, and sitting in front of an ancient oracle like however many have before, it felt especially relevant in the context of this European summer ushering in so much change.

It’s still a holy place, Apollo’s Sanctuary, at least it was for me. Always wanting to avoid crowds and loud voices, I climbed up a trail above Delphi and sat on a cliff looking down on the theatre, the treasury, the temple and the gymnasium. Edith Hamilton’s The Greek Way was my expert guide, coupled with a few of the old citizen philosophers well ahead of their time. There is a reason the classics are still around. 2400 years on they can put everything from the Parthenon to Donald Trump in perspective, and certainly make us ponder the ebbs and flows of humanity.

The Greeks were firsts in human civilization, and when I think about it, I see them embodying much of my idea of true men. The same people who celebrated physical prowess and military victories also reveled in good poetry and long winding conversation that hoped to establish truth. They admired beauty, created art. They were, in my mind, in that wonderful state of balance, where Apollo's reason and restraint leveled out Dionysus' fits of mindless release. This while the rest of the world was so dark, clouded in magic and mysticism and fear. For a brief moment in ancient times, this little city was a bright spark that ignited all that humankind would become. As Hamilton puts it:

“Civilization, a much abused word, stands for a high matter quite apart from telephones and electric lights. It is a matter of imponderables, of delight in the things of the mind, of love of beauty, of honor, grace, courtesy, delicate feeling. Where imponderables are the things of first importance, there is the height of civilization, and if, at the same time, the power to act exists unimpaired, human life has reached a level seldom attained and only seldom surpassed.”

On the way to the airport, my taxi driver – his name was, I'm not kidding, Socrates – talked with me about Greek philosophy, the economic crisis, and a new generation ignorant to its heritage. I carried with me a little trinket of Apollo holding his lyre and a small marbled head of the tragedian Sophocles. I imagine, somewhere, some future time where I'll place them both on my shelf by a stack of books and look up at them while I read. They are reminders of a different time. And as I wander through the world staring out at the many excesses of our day, it is something I can't help feeling wonderful romanticized nostalgia for.

Arabian Sands

I didn't get out much in Abu Dhabi. I didn't make many friends or do many of the things you are supposed to do, yet I was there a year, and looked back on it favorably during the last morning sunrise, watching that golden desert sun light up the tall flashy buildings on Reem Island, the sprinklers flood the grass of a soccer pitch adjacent to my hotel. It often perplexed me, often made me feel stagnant and like I was running in place, but now I find myself en route to Washington DC one marathon richer, knowing the Arabic alphabet and an assortment of words, better traveled and better read and better loved, and being able to afford one of the best degrees money can buy. That too is Abu Dhabi, one of the great enablers of my life.

I find many parallels in perspective in Wilfred Thesiger's Arabian Sands, which chronicled his travels across the UAE's empty quarter in the late 1940s. He did falconry with the country's founding father, endured an almost incessant hunger and thirst, and found himself multiple times in the middle of tribal feuds. He was also remarkably prescient when it comes to what the region would become once infused with oil wealth and cars. The fast food joints, the child obesity, and the general excess are things I feel would break his heart if he were alive today. His account is a tribute to a dying way of life, now dead, a Bedouin heritage the many Emirati children of today will never know or understand.  

For him it was a grand open space to be, and I too found great comfort in the desert and its great expanse, rolling dunes as far as you can see. A recent trip alone out into the empty quarter - via the comforts of a car as opposed to Thesiger's camels - was one of the better days spent in the UAE. On the way back in the middle of the night I many times stopped on highways and looked up at the stars, just listening to the quiet in my head and engineering my goodbye.

It's possible I'll look back from Meridian Hill Park or the National Mall and say I should have stayed longer. But I expect I'll look back on these conflicting times and see an urgency to create something new and sturdier, to create more, to realize the possibilities I know are there. In the background, my mind drifts back to hot summer runs along the corniche, the strange pubs that drew all kinds of shady patrons, the hazy sunsets clouded out by sand and dust, the calls to prayer in the earliest morning hours. It also drifts back to the many temporary people that call Abu Dhabi home, the countless who struggle there to an incomprehensible degree, but also those whose lives have been enabled from their own brief sojourn in the gulf, like mine. 

Little belated reviews

Every year when filing my taxes, I am forced to establish what they call "physical presence" by proving all my travel overseas. It is one of the more pleasurable aspects of the tax filing process, if indeed there is such a thing. Looking back through e-ticket confirmations, I'm reminded of a progression of events, the full depth of a year, that is easy enough to forget. Now in February it already feels a very long time ago.

In going through this process recently, I was reminded of a lovely little island in Malaysia, for instance, which led to snowy views of Pikes Peak. An absurd bachelor party in Toronto came to mind as well, alongside familiar walks on New York City streets. I remembered wandering a few campuses in Washington D.C., before settling in for lively happy hours. And I can still feel the weight of gut wrenching decisions, tearful calls, and painful nights awake alone with jet leg, dictating what would or what wouldn't come next when all the buzz came to an end.

My best friend got married in Italy just a few months later, and I am reminded of watching love swarm in a garden on a perfect day in June. We drank wine, smoked cigars, and listened to kind words, relishing moments that could only ever end too soon. It is a great honor to be invited to witness the most intimate and sentimental moments of life, and I was honored to be there, as the groom put on his suit and tied his shoes, as he drank a last beer in the piazza prior to his vows, as he said those vows that sent an entire garden to tears, and the many moments of quiet in between.

The sunsets, there were more than a few, a few last ones by the sea in Colombo, a glorious one over the hills around Petra, and all those many days after work where it lights up the desert sky above Abu Dhabi. And the beers, there were many of those too, craft beer in West Jerusalem, hoppy beer at a strange factory in Austria, Lion Beer by the water in Sri Lanka, or Shiner Beer in Austin that perfectly complements some spicy Tex Mex.

I remember Donald Trump getting elected President one morning under the covers later on in the year, and felt sad, at people's willingness to be aroused by fear and by hate. I don't know why people choose these things, in their own lives, or in their elections, but I am reminded by all the ancient ruins of this last year, that empires rise and fall. Indeed, wandering the Forum in Rome on a quiet morning, or stumbling across some marble columns in the middle of Beirut, force these thoughts upon you. I wonder if 100 years from now people will look back at this moment, and see some significance in it all.

I welcomed 2016 at the Intercontinental Hotel in Austin with a bedazzling kiss and an intoxicating night. I wandered my old city and drove across my old state, before bidding it farewell again. A year later I waved 2016 goodbye in the middle of the Alps, looking up at snowy mountain peaks lit by fireworks, staying warm but enjoying the cold, held by a familiar hand.

While there is plenty to be uncertain about, things that often spoil my mood or leave me wide awake in the night, I cannot help but feel gratitude in these tallies, for the simplest of things: to see the world in its many shades, to love, and to be free.

The Holy Land

It was in a used bookstore off Shats Street that I found a spectacular section of old Jerusalem books occupying three or four of their own little shelves. Coated in that lovely worn smell, tucked away in a hidden basement nook, I was introduced to W. H. Bartlett and Karl Baedeker, two 19th century British travelers who compiled guides from their trips to the Holy Land. Their common names are bound to be lost if not quite lost already to the long passages of time.

I never read the travelogues of today, the Lonely Planet reference guides that every backpacker clutches like a Bible across the world's main thoroughfares and monuments. I always find them a nuisance, like cell phones, keeping eyes glued to a screen rather than the foreign views and escapades going on around you, which themselves offer far more insight. However flipping through these pages, looking at outdated maps, it provided some fascinating perspective on the Old City just outside my door, a bridge between different times. There is no mistaking, then or now, that elation one feels rising up over the Judean hills knowing Jerusalem itself is near, and that soon you'll be seeing it for the first time.

"We pursued our way along the wild and stony path - an hour yet remained - one of strange and indescribable excitement. I had stood alone within the awful circle of the Coliseum, when faintly touched by the light of the rising moon, and had watching the lunar rainbow spanning the eternal foam which rises from the base of Niagara; but this nocturnal approach to the ancient capitol of Judea, across her bleak and desolate hills, awoke a more sublimed thrilling emotion. The walls of that city, the scene of events which must ever remain the most touching in their influence upon the human heart, which I had so long and earnestly hoped to see, were, after one disappointment, at length at hand."

I guess when you first walk through Jaffa Gate, like I did, they did, and others so long ago, you get the sense the city holds more feeling than any one man can possibly take in. The centerpiece of three religions, existing both in heaven and on earth, Jerusalem is long an object to the world's desire, but impossible to possess. And all this you feel walking amongst the ruin: at the Western Wall where orthodox Jews in hats and suits chant, clap, and bob back and forth while looking up at their holiest site; in the Church of the Holy Sepulchre where people bend over, pray, and dip their precious objects in holy water; at the Dome of the Rock, closed for Eid Al Adha; and at the Israeli Defense Forces outpost at the Eastern gates that feel like sitting targets amidst so much hostility.

A few days before in Tel Aviv, an old Jewish woman who ran a lovely little poster shop sold me a tourism magnet from the 1930s exclaiming, "Visit Palestine!" It raised a few questions about territory, politics, and this whole 3000 year old situation, which she was more than happy to oblige. "It's complicated," she said, "and I just want peace," and those words stuck with me at the bars that night and in the four quarters of Jerusalem and later that week walking amongst blown out buildings in Beirut. We often forget the human element of complex quagmires driven by fear and hate. I wonder how many people on all sides just want the simple things that this woman wants to see for the world just outside her shop door. How do you forge that necessary empathy on both sides of the wall to a level that makes any difference?

Taken as a whole, it was educational, and I felt the heavy weight of a million previous journeys from across the world, all seeking out meaning in short little lives, all directed at this singular place. But while most go seeking the celestial, I sought out something else. Something about what makes us human sits in this troubled spot of earth, and that's another thing worth seeing if you claim you want to see the world.

Just days after I stood outside the Damascus Gate, a man was shot dead in the very spot. How many people have died for religion in Jerusalem, from the Bible to the Crusades to their present day manifestations? How many unmarked graves layer the walls and city streets? How many more will have to go too soon before it is all said and done? You cannot visit Jerusalem without appreciating man's supreme need for higher belief. You also can't help but notice the faults in it.