Spring Break in Oaxaca

The idea of visiting Oaxaca began in 2006. I worked with someone who lived there as an expat; he couldn't stop talking about the wonders of Oaxaca. By the 2010s, it felt like every millennial I knew had visited. However, other places were on my travel list, including Mexico City in 2017. Finally, years later, Oaxaca seemed like the perfect spot for Spring Break—highs in the 80s, no humidity. The city is an indigenous cultural heritage site and (accurately) very friendly to tourists. So, Oaxaca.

I conducted endless research on this relatively small city. Modern Airbnbs abound, and everyone has restaurant recommendations. While there's no Uber, taxis are everywhere. There are a limited number of day trip options. Regarding my planning obsession, it was a relatively straightforward trip. We picked a centrally-located Airbnb with a plunge pool for the warm afternoons, made a few dinner reservations, and chose two Airbnb experiences beyond the city limits. The rest of the time was spent walking the streets and taking photos.

Culinary-wise, I wasn't up for the street food, but the two main markets are fun to explore. For nicer dinners, we went to Criollo, Las Quince Letras Restaurante, and Origen. While everything was good enough, these meals didn't live up to my memories of the food in Mexico City. Only Boulenc was truly memorable. We had breakfast on the first day and returned for dinner on the last night. Their pastries were perfect, and honestly, so were their pizza and pastas. Everything was worth whatever kind of wait there might be to get in.

In the "drinking" categories, the coffee shop scene is notably strong in Oaxaca. Marito & Moglie Café, Muss Café, and Kiyo Café were excellent. Mezcal is a whole thing in the region; I highly recommend Mescalería in Situ for mezcal tasting. We went early in the afternoon before anyone else arrived. Otherwise, after the uninspiring multi-course-tasting-menu meals, we looked for more casual bar spots with good food: Sabina Sabe was excellent for cocktails and solid bar food. Also, we found a brewery that wasn't bad (for beer) and had great cocktails and food: La Santísima Flor de Lúpulo.

To break up the time in the city, we planned two Airbnb Experiences. First, we went to Hierve El Agua, a petrified waterfall a few hours outside Oaxaca; the day included a stop for breakfast at home in the mountains, a tour of a family-run textile/weaving workshop, and a tour/tasting at a mezcal distillery. The other experience was a Oaxacan "cooking class" at a home in the more agricultural part of the Valley. I tried to pick up a few things as we made salsa, mole, and tortillas from scratch. I had always worried that these "experiences" were awkward (and tours don't fit my personality), but the hosts knew their target millennial audience; the days were easy and fun.

Photographically, I have never been to a friendlier place for street photography. I'm still working out my thoughts on street photography; I continually analyze these photographic interactions, attentive to power dynamics related to race, class, and gender (and in Oaxaca, through the lens of colonization). While everyone seemed to be understanding and would invite the photos to be taken, I can't know what they were really thinking. But their reactions helped me feel like it was okay. I did my best, was respectful, and enjoyed walking the streets for hours.

The most fascinating part of the trip was March 8th; International Women's Day (always March 8th) overlapped with Oaxaca's festival of the Good Samaritan (celebrated on the fourth Friday of Lent). The day prior, we noticed businesses boarding up their windows and churches installing wooden fences around the buildings. Generally, I was concerned. I couldn't find anything about it on Reddit. We spoke to someone in Spanish and thought she said it was a teachers' protest. That seemed okay.

During the afternoon, as a part of the Good Samaritan celebration, there was a ceremony in the central district, and businesses offered free water to everyone in honor of the biblical story from the Gospel of Luke. During the day, it was a celebration of flowers and sharing, and then, sometime after, there was the International Women's Day march. We visited the zócalo after dark and the following morning. Marchers tore down the barricades around the churches and spray-painted the stone buildings. In the morning, a crew of all men began cleanup work to remove the fencing. Much of the graffiti content targeted the church and pedophiles, naming names. The connection between the events was hard to miss; the juxtaposition was one of my most culturally fascinating, first-hand experiences.

Overall, I'd recommend a visit. Despite the protest, Oaxaca was the most amiable city I've visited outside the US. Things can happen anywhere. I wanted an easy trip after having a pretty unfriendly time in Paris and Amsterdam last spring break. Either way, escaping the northeast winter to be warm in Mexico certainly felt like "Spring Break."

Winter Break, London

In January, I went to London to see a play by my favorite playwright, Annie Baker. As usual, a rather specific combination of art and desire inspired me to travel. I had been to London before but had never really enjoyed the city (somehow, I had missed the things to love about it), so my expectations were minimal. This mindset worked out, as this frigid week in London was one of my best solo trips ever.

While I had no expectations, I did plan many activities I knew I'd enjoy: the play, visits to the Tate Modern, Tate Britain, the Albert and Victoria Museum, the National Portrait Gallery, the British Museum, an experimental visual art gallery, lunch at St. John, dinner with one of my favorite former students, and a day of wet plate collodion photography with a photographer whose work I've admired for years. Indeed, this itinerary seems over-scheduled, but it never felt that way. 

The play was the primary reason for the trip. In 2015, after hearing Annie Baker on Marc Maron's podcast, I immediately went to New York to see her play, "The Flick." As a young woman, it felt like the first time I had experienced theater written, seemingly, for me. Baker is approximately my age, and I saw my late-20s/early-30s thoughts and actions reflected in her writing. I've since read all her plays. The questions she's interested in—how to form lasting relationships, the attempt to find deeper meaning amidst the churn of everyday life, and really, what's the point of doing anything—resonate with me. 

In London, I saw her latest play, "Infinite Life." The audience was filled with women of all ages to see a play overtly about the body, illness, and desire, but more deeply about the beliefs we have that hold the narrative of our lives together and what it would take to fix whatever might be wrong with us, at the core of our beings. During the final scene, I smiled uncontrollably at what might happen and could not hold back tears by the end. Many forms of art can move me, but live theater is so obviously capable of immediate and unpredictable magic.

Otherwise, I walked to take photos during the very few daylight hours, unable to feel my ice-cold hands clutching an even colder metal camera. I punctuated the walks with museum visits to warm up. The Tate Britain had an educationally and historically useful exhibit on: "Women in Revolt: Art, Activism and the Women's Movement in the UK 1970–1990." And the Tate Modern's exhibit, "Capturing the Moment," on the differences between photography and painting was delightful. I had never been to the Victoria and Albert Museum or the National Portrait Gallery before; one could spend all day at the V&A.

The other highlight of the trip was meeting Dave Shrimpton, a wet plate collodion photographer whose work I found on IG in 2017. I've wanted to see this photographic process in person, and I only want to learn from the best. Further, I look at many photographers' work, and rarely do I see someone whose vision is so singular that I would like to see myself through that vision. Dave's photos have exactly that quality, so I promised myself I'd reach out the next time I went to England. Graciously, he agreed to meet, and I took the train to Cambridge for a whole day of photography talk and wet plate collodion. I am very particular about photos of me, and sensitive to the trust that is required. Self-criticism runs deep and dark. But the wet plate process was enthralling and unexpectedly freeing. The photos showed me a version of myself I hadn't seen before. I'm grateful to Dave for the day and the tintypes, and hopefully, we'll get to shoot again the next time I'm over there.

By the end of the week, I didn't want to leave. The trip was light and carefree in a way that my solo trip in the fall had not been. On that trip, I planned for reflection and pushed myself to consider my choices, a recent achievement, and how I want to live the rest of my life. I didn't put any of those high-minded, existential questions and expectations on this trip. Instead, I explored, photographed, and thoroughly enjoyed my own company. For a whole, easy week. 

Fall Break, As Needed

I waited for this trip to come to me. Since my passport was out for renewal all summer, I didn't want to pre-emptively plan any international travel. So, I waited for (domestic) fall break inspiration. And waited. Then, one of my best friends invited me to Vegas for the first weekend of my break. That was all I needed: a start and a reason to get on a plane. From there, it was a bunch of one-way flights. 

Since I could start my Fall Break a few days before the weekend, I added two nights in San Francisco. The flights to the West Coast and Vegas made more sense this way, somehow. From Vegas, I decided on a road trip down the Oregon coast to the Redwoods. Only in the road trip leg did I realize that I had planned a vacation with three ways that help me process: miles of walking in cities not my own, talking to one of my best friends, and hours on the road listening to music and podcasts.

I've written fondly about San Francisco on this blog many times. Since my first visit at nineteen, I've always felt connected to the place. Twenty years of academia later, I've realized that the connection I felt was historical imagining: I can feel as though I know a city I have never been to but have studied. My academic knowledge of the past can map the city, envision the architecture and attire, and imagine the place in different decades or centuries. I come to a location with some historical understanding, then layer my contemporary visual wanderings on top. 

While 2017 was the last time I went to San Francisco, I have visited the city more than any other city outside my northeast corridor. Yet, I realized I had never been there alone. There was always a guy. This realization overlaps with a more significant realization about my adult life, but I digress. I wondered if my love of the city was about the place or the experiences with people. Had I conflated or confused what came from what? I decided to check.

I landed very early on Thursday morning, checked into my hotel, and headed to the Conservatory of Flowers. Then I stopped for a beer at Toronado, meandered through SFMOMA, and continued with miles of walking until sunset. The next day, I wandered down to the Mission at sunrise for two of my usual bakery stops: Craftsman and Wolves, and Tartine. Then, I stopped for an early morning visit to Pier 24 Photography. It was so enjoyable to spend hours with just photos; nothing else, just photos, everywhere.

Next, I trekked over to the Oakland Museum of California to see a bunch of photos. I last visited that museum in 2013; it's interesting, with a strange mix of exhibits. Finally, after another stop at Toronado, I decided to head out to the Sutro Baths. I go there every visit, and while I didn't feel like it this time, I went. I've decided it's some kind of pilgrimage. I climbed, I photographed. Then I watched the sunset from Alamo Square, near my hotel. 

I walked 12 miles each day. I observed daily life in the spirit of street photography. I shot through rolls of film like I haven't since March. And, there was still the feeling I've always had for the city. I know it's hard not to like one of the country's most picturesque cities. But, yet again, I felt at ease and connected. It wasn't the people; it was the place and possibility.

On Saturday morning, I flew to Vegas. While I've been to Vegas twice, neither trip was conventional, and, apparently, I've never been on the strip. This was a somewhat unexpected realization; nothing and no one in my life had required me to go to Vegas (well, I had missed one family event due to a combination of the pandemic and my work schedule). Thus, I had to figure out my thoughts about Vegas. My take, which reflects my views on travel and culture, is that you should go to New Orleans instead—no further explanation. 

While I say that, my friend and I had a fantastic time: we had dinner at Wakuda in the Venetian and Momofuku in the Cosmo, a half-day at the pool, watched the Phillies game at Circa, a nice lunch at Esther's Kitchen, and generally chilled out as much as possible. Both San Francisco and Vegas were unseasonably warm in the 90s and without a cloud in the sky. Honestly, I don't remember the last time I sat by a pool in the sun; usually, that's not my style. But it was excellent and so needed.

Monday morning, I woke up and took a two-hour flight to Eugene, OR. I barely researched this "road trip" part of the vacation; I mapped a bunch of stops and picked Airbnbs between Florence, OR, and Eureka, CA. The purpose of this leg of the trip was primarily photography, yet I enjoyed the whole feeling of movement that only a road trip can provide. 

After my two-hour drive to the coast, I realized my east-coast driving style was so out of step. Why was no one speeding? Did they have nothing to do? Why weren't they in a hurry? I realized that I actually had nothing to do and nowhere to be. So, I calmed down, drove the speed limit, and took my time for the next six days.

I spent one night in Coos Bay, OR, and saw the sunset at Cape Arago State Park. The next day, I drove south for four and a half hours in the rain. While the weather made the stops down the coast a bit shorter, I did stop in the Redwoods in Orick. It was drizzling and misty, but it created all the atmosphere I wanted for photos. I tried my best between the raindrops and cleaning off my lens filter. 

With some foresight, I had booked an Airbnb by the beach for two nights in Arcata. I was able to walk the beach for two sunrises and two sunsets. Walking became part of my writing routine this summer, and this habit has carried over into the Fall. I walked the deserted beach for hours in either direction. California beaches are unfamiliar to me; they differ from the South Carolina beach I know best. Maybe it was the fog, the wild dunes, the randomly creeping tide I wasn't expecting, the massive driftwood, or the ankle-high seaweed piles, but I had never seen it all quite like that. Perhaps this is why it's called the "Lost Coast." Now, I'm obsessed with the idea of seeing the rest of that specific coastal region.

From Arcata, I spent two nights on the way back north and stopped in a different part of the Redwoods. I spent the last night next to the beach in Oregon before flying out. 

I had intended the trip to be a time of reflection. With a significant thing out of the way, I'm able to think about the rest of my life. This summer, during my "healthy-habits-only, focused, writing state of mind," I read most of Rick Rubin's The Creative Act: A Way of Being. It was the self-help-ish book I needed. While I'm hesitant to call myself an artist, I've always thought I was on the edge of the label as a teacher of many things and a just-for-fun photographer. Either way, I needed creativity this summer. One of his recommendations for artists is to change their surroundings. It doesn't really matter where you go; go somewhere different, and you'll have different ideas. I knew I had to travel for the break, and this trip allowed me the time and mental space to wait for insights and better ideas. 

In recent months, I've been thinking about David Foster Wallace's 2005 Kenyon College commencement speech: "This is Water." I return to this quote in my head almost daily:

“The real value of a real education, which has almost nothing to do with knowledge, and everything to do with simple awareness...

It is unimaginably hard to do this, to stay conscious and alive in the adult world, day in and day out.”  

At the very least, I noticed and looked as much as possible. I drove, walked, wrote, thought, meditated, and photographed. I saw light that made me smile uncontrollably. I wandered very, very slowly through giant, thousand-year-old trees in the rain. And, while I haven't solved all of the "big" life questions I've been thinking about, perhaps the start is there. Indeed, with space and time, there was insight.

Spring Break in Paris and Amsterdam

The last time I traveled internationally by myself was six years ago. While I've made a few solo trips in the US since then, there's something entirely different and self-affirming about traveling alone abroad. My Philly street sense makes me feel aware enough in most places in the US, but being in another country is a smidge different. It’s a touch more engaged. A next level of solitude can be achieved in an unfamiliar country. A particular genre of mental interiority becomes available when you're so out of place. 

This trip developed because I had part of an Iceland Air flight credit from 2020 to use. Given that I have been to Iceland twice, and I wanted to go somewhere other than the original plan (at this time), I looked at Iceland Air destinations. So, Paris. I had never been to Paris; the city wasn't a place I had romanticized or idealized. But, I knew I should visit at some point, as a person who studies history and loves photography.

As I do, I conducted more than a bit of research. A rarity, I asked actual people for recommendations. Apparently, it is challenging to give advice for Paris, but I gleaned a few ideas. Otherwise, I went with my usual travel plan: stay in a safe, busy-at-night neighborhood, book art museums, research restaurants and coffee shops, and find points of photographic interest. Airbnb-wise, I picked spots in the 2nd and the 1st. Both were tiny Parisian apartments; the second one had a small terrace in a six-story Haussmann apartment building next to the Louvre.

I arrived on Friday afternoon, and after checking into my Airbnb, I went to the Louvre since it's open late on Fridays. I figured I'd be tired or not, but if I had a ticket, I'd make myself do something with part of that first day. Also, when I arrived, it was sunny; really, it was one of two times I saw the sun all week. After the museum, I stopped for dinner at a wine bar near my Airbnb.

The next day, on Saturday, I walked to markets, went to the Pompidou, had a long lunch in the Marais, broke my nearly two-year-long vegetarian turn, stopped at a coffee shop, wandered through a paparazzi situation for Paris Fashion Week, and meandered home. I usually walk ten to twelve miles per day on city trips; I try to maximize the daylight hours for photos. 

For some reason, I decided to attend a Catholic mass in French on Sunday. While I'm not Catholic, I wanted a familiar/unfamiliar feeling of community in an old church. I found a Gothic church from the 1400s, known for its singing, nearby my Airbnb. I only understood a little of the program (Latin and Italian got me somewhere near a vague sense of what was happening), but it didn't matter. A feeling of the past mixed with stranger status in a freezing cold Gothic church was what I was after. After church, I walked around a seemingly closed but busy city. Things do shut down on Sunday, but people are out. I stopped at L'As du Fallafel on a recommendation, and it was absolutely worth the short wait. 

Since I didn't want to spend a whole week in Paris, I broke it up with two nights in Amsterdam. Monday morning, I had an early train ride to Amsterdam. I woke at sunrise to walk to Gare du Nord and settled in for a three-and-a-half-hour train ride. I arrived in Amsterdam and saw just about the only sunshine I would see there; the bright light outside the train station lasted about fifteen minutes. I walked around markets, had a stroopwafel, found a coffee shop to catch up on emails, and then checked into my hotel. Then, I went to a photo exhibit at FOAM (Fotografiemuseum Amsterdam) which brought me to tears. The exhibition, “House of Bondage,” was South African photographer Ernest Cole's work on apartheid. Whereas I've studied apartheid, the photos offered me the details and intricacies of daily life and struggle. 

On Tuesday, I had tickets to the Rijksmuseum and the Stedelijk. Both museums were fantastic and filled with art I had never seen in the US. Honestly, the Louvre isn't my style at all, but these two museums had unbelievable collections that kept me wandering for hours. Afterward, I stopped at Mikkeller Beer, had a nice dinner, and walked home in the rain.

The next day after checking out of my hotel, I stopped for coffee, had herring from a street vendor, and found a beer bar in the red-light district. I paused to write my postcards. Then, I took the train back to Paris and walked to my Airbnb in the 1st. With one full day left in Paris, I went to the Musée d'Orsay and the photograph museum, Jeu de Paume, and walked around the Eiffel Tower. After about twelve miles of wandering, I felt I had done my best with Paris. Perhaps I’m set on Paris for a while. 

The ability to travel alone is something I never want to lose. Choose your own adventure, every moment. Walk and linger for photos at your own pace. I forged my ability to travel alone in the wake of a difficult breakup. That first experience helped rebuild my sense of self, and for that travel outcome, I am grateful. While every trip doesn't have to be a solo trip, checking in with yourself is good practice. And, sometimes, I have to travel far away to reconnect.

Grand Teton and Yellowstone and Glacier

In August 2021, I took a plane for the first time since January 2020. Throughout the pandemic, my trips were within driving distance and limited. But, vaccinated and all, we thought it was possible to take a real vacation within the United States. Despite the newspaper articles about overly crowded National Parks, we planned a trip to visit Grand Teton, Yellowstone, and Glacier.

Flying to Salt Lake City made the most sense for the route. We started in SLC for one night. After coffee at Publik Coffee Roasters, we wandered around the eerie and empty Temple Square. The Mormon Temple was under construction but still looming.

Food and alcohol wise, the SLC Reddit revealed that there's a real fast-food burgers scene and strange alcohol laws. That first night we hit the Crown Burgers drive-thru and went to Fischer Brewing Company. Breweries can't serve beers over 5% ABV on draft; perhaps relatedly, I don't think I had any memorable Utah beer.

The next day we set out for Grand Teton. It's a four-and-a-half-hour drive. We stopped in Garden City, UT, for a raspberry shake. I was checking Google reviews to find the best place for shakes and saw a review from a woman I know from Instagram via the film photography community; she and her husband are retired and switched to RV life. I messaged her, we laughed at the smallness of the world, and she offered a few recommendations for Glacier.

In Grand Teton, we stayed a bit north and east in Moran. Before heading to the motel, we stopped in Jackson for BBQ at Bubba's Bar-B-Que Restaurant (very good). The following day we woke up before sunrise to avoid traffic and take a six-mile hike in the park. The smoke from several wildfires made the conditions overcast, but the venture was still gorgeous and quiet. We drove to the Grand Teton Lodge in the afternoon and had beers as an unreal thunderstorm rolled through.

Early the next morning, we stopped at Leeks Marina on the way north to Yellowstone. We took the south entrance into Yellowstone before heading west out of the park. Staying within Yellowstone is limited and requires too much planning, even for me. So we stayed in the tiny touristy town of West Yellowstone, MT. In town, we saw signs for the Smoking Waters Mountain Man Rendezvous and stopped by their strange gathering. I'm not sure what was being celebrated, but there were hides and rocks and drums.

Since getting into the park before sunrise worked for Teton, we kept with that plan for the rest of the trip. We made it to trailheads in the dark and were the only ones on the trail. The first morning was Fairy Falls Trail and Grand Prismatic Springs, and a stop at Old Faithful on the way out, and the second was Uncle Tom's Trail to Artist Point. One afternoon, we drove up to Big Sky, MT; we went to Beehive Basin Brewing and stopped for some of the best BBQ I've ever had at Riverhouse BBQ in Gallatin Gateway, MT.

Next, we drove six and a half hours to Kalispell, MT. Again, staying in Glacier is limited, so I found an Airbnb about 45 minutes from the west entrance. On the long drive to Kalispell, we stopped at the small mining down to Anaconda, MT, Evel Knievel's grave in Butte, MT, and the Garden of One Thousand Buddhas in Arlee, MT.

The first morning we hiked Avalanche Trail. The entire hike up was in the dark and surprisingly crowded. If we had been any later, we wouldn't have found parking at the trailhead. On my photo friend's recommendation, the following day, we drove to the east side of the park to East Glacier Park Village. We hiked around Two Medicine Lake; we were the only people for hours. We followed the wrong trail at one point, and I learned I could not ford a creek with several cameras. That hike was gorgeous and positively Fall-like for mid-August. The difference between the two sides of the park was striking; the west side of Glacier seemed like the Rockies, but the west side of the park side felt more like Acadia in Maine.

That afternoon, we walked around a rainy Kalispell. We went to Big Mountain Ciderworks, Bias Brewing, and Kalispell Brewing Co. I can't quite liken Kalispell to anywhere else I've been; perhaps a little bit like Flagstaff.

After Glacier, we drove through Idaho and stayed one night in Salmon, ID. That drive took a bit longer than expected since some roads were only gravel, and we had to turn around. The night in Salmon was to break up the long drive to southern Idaho. But, Salmon was quirky and pleasant.

The next stop was two nights in Sun Valley. We visited Hemingway's Grave on the first day and stopped at Sawtooth Tap Room and Sun Valley Brewing Co. The following day we went to Craters of the Moon. My brother took a cross-country road trip after college and sent me postcards from every stop. Craters was one of the many places I had always wanted to visit because of his photos. Caves (and bats) and spatter cones make it one of the most unique geological places I've been to in the US.

After Sun Valley, we went back to SLC for two nights. During the day, we tried to drive to Spiral Jetty and Sun Tunnels, but we didn't make it. The gravel roads were too rough, and there was no cell phone service. On the last night in SLC, we met up with one of my favorite former students and her boyfriend. It was lovely to catch up with her after many years of emails.

In all, the trip was days and days of new sights and places. I visited two states I had yet to go to: Wyoming and Utah. I shot fourteen rolls of 35mm and nineteen rolls of medium format. After seventeen months of a pandemic, all of it was welcome.

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