tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1588563123950610212024-02-06T21:37:11.679-08:00Chronicles of BirdmanCharlie Miller, 28, Petaluma, CAhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13061354572142463046noreply@blogger.comBlogger134125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-158856312395061021.post-49107226064239144342013-04-08T18:52:00.001-07:002013-04-08T20:35:07.020-07:00mancave<a href="http://s698.photobucket.com/user/millercb/media/mancave1_690_zps9ca81659.jpg.html" target="_blank"><img alt=" photo mancave1_690_zps9ca81659.jpg" border="0" src="http://i698.photobucket.com/albums/vv346/millercb/mancave1_690_zps9ca81659.jpg" /></a>san francisco, october 2012<br />
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<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/rHbVKn6ieQ8" width="560"></iframe>Charlie Miller, 28, Petaluma, CAhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13061354572142463046noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-158856312395061021.post-68865430022195199442013-04-04T11:01:00.003-07:002013-04-08T18:55:57.611-07:00textile<a href="http://s698.photobucket.com/user/millercb/media/textile_690_zps844e1ba1.jpg.html" target="_blank"><img alt=" photo textile_690_zps844e1ba1.jpg" border="0" src="http://i698.photobucket.com/albums/vv346/millercb/textile_690_zps844e1ba1.jpg" /></a><br />
petaluma, march 2013Charlie Miller, 28, Petaluma, CAhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13061354572142463046noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-158856312395061021.post-10172241055296385942013-03-20T12:41:00.001-07:002013-04-08T18:56:41.197-07:00emma & dewey<a href="http://s698.photobucket.com/user/millercb/media/emma_dewey_690_zps0afa9609.jpg.html" target="_blank"><img alt=" photo emma_dewey_690_zps0afa9609.jpg" border="0" src="http://i698.photobucket.com/albums/vv346/millercb/emma_dewey_690_zps0afa9609.jpg" /></a>
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petaluma, february 2013Charlie Miller, 28, Petaluma, CAhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13061354572142463046noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-158856312395061021.post-50347942344381409132012-08-20T21:14:00.002-07:002012-08-20T21:51:04.329-07:00elk bar campalong the middle fork<br />
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salmon river, idaho, july 2012Charlie Miller, 28, Petaluma, CAhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13061354572142463046noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-158856312395061021.post-44142647818031512192012-08-12T13:05:00.001-07:002012-08-12T13:09:27.437-07:00tony's place<a href="http://s698.photobucket.com/albums/vv346/millercb/?action=view&current=LA_tony_690.jpg" target="_blank"><img alt="Photobucket" border="0" src="http://i698.photobucket.com/albums/vv346/millercb/LA_tony_690.jpg" /></a><br />
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los angeles, may 2012Charlie Miller, 28, Petaluma, CAhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13061354572142463046noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-158856312395061021.post-21891718505736603012012-07-12T21:33:00.002-07:002013-03-20T12:44:02.614-07:00las cascadas<a href="http://s698.photobucket.com/user/millercb/media/Cafayate/cascadas1_690.jpg.html" target="_blank"><img src="http://i698.photobucket.com/albums/vv346/millercb/Cafayate/cascadas1_690.jpg" border="0" alt=" photo cascadas1_690.jpg"/></a>
cafayate, argentina, march 2012Charlie Miller, 28, Petaluma, CAhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13061354572142463046noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-158856312395061021.post-47755439557455977122012-06-08T15:41:00.002-07:002013-03-20T12:49:07.727-07:00angastaco<a href="http://s698.photobucket.com/user/millercb/media/Angastaco/angastaco1.jpg.html" target="_blank"><img src="http://i698.photobucket.com/albums/vv346/millercb/Angastaco/angastaco1.jpg" border="0" alt=" photo angastaco1.jpg"/></a>
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<a href="http://s698.photobucket.com/user/millercb/media/Angastaco/angastaco_triptych.jpg.html" target="_blank"><img src="http://i698.photobucket.com/albums/vv346/millercb/Angastaco/angastaco_triptych.jpg" border="0" alt=" photo angastaco_triptych.jpg"/></a>Charlie Miller, 28, Petaluma, CAhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13061354572142463046noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-158856312395061021.post-35447255751147832982012-05-11T14:56:00.004-07:002012-05-12T10:42:56.200-07:00las ventanas<a href="http://s698.photobucket.com/albums/vv346/millercb/?action=view&current=diptych.jpg" target="_blank"><img alt="Photobucket" border="0" src="http://i698.photobucket.com/albums/vv346/millercb/diptych.jpg" /></a><br />
mexico city, february 2012Charlie Miller, 28, Petaluma, CAhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13061354572142463046noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-158856312395061021.post-35353389178091326752012-03-10T06:12:00.019-08:002012-06-07T14:26:17.217-07:00the argentina fiasco<span style="font-weight: bold;">1.</span><br />
<div style="font-size: 100%;">
<span style="font-size: 85%;"><em>Three months back, in search of wine-related work in Argentina (and having had no luck the couple months previous), I paid for a subscription to WWOOF (World Wide Opportunities on Organic Farms) and began sifting through a database of close to 200 farms in Argentina.</em></span></div>
<span style="font-size: 85%;"><span style="font-size: 85%;"></span></span><br />
<div style="font-size: 100%;">
<span style="font-size: 85%;"><em>WWOOF puts people in touch with farms. If there's a farm I have interest in I'm able to contact them and see if they need another pair of hands. If they take me, I work in exchange for food and a bed.</em></span></div>
<span style="font-size: 85%;"><span style="font-size: 85%;"></span></span><br />
<div style="font-size: 100%;">
<span style="font-size: 85%;"><em>There were three farms dealing in wine. I sent out some e-mails and received a couple responses, one of which came from a girl who told me that her father had been growing grapes and making wine for years, and she said they'd be happy to host me. Without knowing much more than that I told her I'd see them in March and I bought a plane ticket.</em></span></div>
<span style="font-size: 85%;"><span style="font-size: 85%;"></span></span><br />
<div style="font-size: 100%;">
<span style="font-size: 85%;"><em>As the departure date neared I wondered just what I was getting into. I sent a couple more e-mails to the girl with questions about the farm and in return received a little more information, but came to realize that no matter how much I got out of her the true nature of the place would remain a mystery until I arrived there.</em></span></div>
<div style="font-size: 100%; font-weight: bold;">
<span style="font-size: 85%;">2.</span></div>
<span style="font-size: 85%;">A couple months ago with the little information I had, I got onto the computer and looked for the family's property and I found it. The out of focus satellite imagery showed me a couple of small buildings on the side of the road in the middle of what looked like a sad, barren land. It made me nervous. But as I sit here in the front row on the second level of a double-decker bus and look out through the bug-splattered windshield onto a beautiful countryside, I think that from a satellite even the Grand Canyon probably looks miserable, like not much more than a ditch in the desert. The land in San Juan is dry at times with a dead horse and dogs on the side of the road, but when its not dry its green with tall wispy trees, the Andes a day's walk to the left, and little clumps of attractive deteriorating buildings with the light catching the clothes hanging.</span><br />
<div style="font-size: 100%;">
<span style="font-size: 85%;">The worries that came from the computer search are alleviated. The bus arrives to the San Juan terminal where I catch another, smaller bus that takes me forty minutes deeper into the country past small homes with vineyards in the frontyard. The locals ride down the roads on horse-drawn carts, and the hot breeze smells of fermentation.</span></div>
<div style="font-size: 100%; font-weight: bold;">
<span style="font-size: 85%;">3.</span></div>
<span style="font-size: 85%;">I wait on the front steps of a church on the plaza in the town where I'll be living for the next six weeks. A truck that looks like a little boat on wheels pulls up and with a thud it comes to a stop. The farmer with whom I'll be living gets out, says hello, and gives me a hug. He's a big, handsome guy, rugged and dirty, and wearing those woven leather sandals that only a big, handsome, rugged guy can pull off. As we drive the 4 km to his house I try my Spanish on him. I ask him how long he's been making wine and he says his whole life, that it's a tradition. I ask him what types of grapes he works with and he says Cabernet Sauvignon and a couple others I've never heard of. And then, in his thick Argentine accent that I can only hardly understand, he says something about a French boy.</span><br />
<div style="font-size: 100%;">
<span style="font-size: 85%;">We arrive to the property and park across the street from the house in the shade of a eucalyptus tree. We cross the street and in the frontyard there are two horses, an old junked car with the windows busted out, concrete chunks in piles, a large wagon wheel, cigarette packs in the dirt, two huge palm trees with bees swarming around them, about a dozen blue, plastic trash cans, a bunch of broken wooden crates, and a pitbull comes running out barking at me.<br />We enter the house and beside the dining table there is a guy and girl standing there with their hands folded. I introduce myself. They're French. We all sit down for lunch, chicken in a red sauce. There's a mix of Spanish, French, and English spoken at the table, though the farmer speaks no English. I say to the couple, 'I see that your bags are packed. Are you arriving or leaving?'<br />'Leaving,' the girl tells me. 'My boyfriend has been sick,' and she takes the back of her hand and strokes his cheek with it. He never says a word.<br />The girl asks if I study winemaking, and I say no, and the farmer perks up with a look of concern, and I explain that in a way I am studying, by means of reading books and hopping the equator every year, traveling the world and making wine. But the farmer shows no look of relief. He keeps his head down and gnaws every last bit of meat from the ckicken bones.</span></div>
<span style="font-size: 85%;"><span style="font-size: 85%;"></span></span><br />
<div style="font-size: 100%;">
<span style="font-size: 85%;">After lunch we have a siesta. The farmer shows me to my room, a small room with a bed and nothing else at the end of the hall. I'm happy to lie down and have a rest. It's hot and I stick to the bed with sweat. I fall asleep for around an hour and wake up to the sound of car doors slamming. I sit up and look out the window, and the farmer is driving off with the Frenchies. 'Bon voyage,' I think.</span></div>
<div style="font-size: 100%; font-weight: bold;">
<span style="font-size: 85%;">4.</span></div>
<span style="font-size: 100%;">There are 6 or 7 or 8 dogs living on the property. The day I arrived it was the big, white mama pitbull with big, droopy nipples hanging from her belly that gave me a scare. The little hairs growing out of her are so short and semi-transluscent that all the imperfections of the skin are apparent - the sores and rashes, the red spots and parasites.</span><br />
<div style="font-size: 100%;">
<span style="font-size: 85%;">There are a couple of twin dogs that look like the cutest, dirtiest stuffed animals you've ever seen. They've got little black eyes and blonde curly hair, but they're easy to tell apart because one of them has a gray cowlick on top of its head and what I think might be a broken leg.</span></div>
<span style="font-size: 85%;"><span style="font-size: 85%;"></span></span><br />
<div style="font-size: 100%;">
<span style="font-size: 85%;">There are a couple little black dogs and another pitbull that's always tied up behind the pigsty, and then there's the little guy, a pitbull puppy that couldn't be older than a couple months. He's the cutest thing, half the size of a housecat. He walks along slowly on his little bowed legs that extend out from his broad shoulders, barking and barking like a little wind-up toy. He's got bugs on him like sequins and what looks like a white pillbug living inside one of his ears.<br />After lunch with the French couple the farmer went out back and tossed the chicken bones on the ground along with napkins and the dogs came running and fought for the bones, and the little guy had the napkins.<br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">5.</span><br />In the months leading up to Argentina I worked as a ranch hand for some friends on their property in Petaluma, California, what once was a functioning dairy. One of my jobs in the time I worked there was to strip the milking barn of all the old machinery. It took a couple days and afterward I power-washed the place, and what remained was an awesome space, a building with beautiful concrete walls, a pitched roof and wooden beams running across, nice and cool even on a hot day. The hours I spent imagining what I'd do with the space if it were mine! The wine cellar I would build, and the wine that would result!</span></div>
<span style="font-size: 85%;"><span style="font-size: 85%;"></span></span><br />
<div style="font-size: 100%;">
<span style="font-size: 85%;">Part of the fun was imagining how I'd make it work in such a small area and with little money. Without a pump I'd have to use gravity to my advantage, so the fermenters would be higher, positioned on a satge of some sort, and post-ferment I'd rack the wine off the skins by siphoning directly to the barrels positioned at the base of the stage. And the old basket press could fit there! And that wall there, eventually it'd be lined with bottles of wine from vintages past, slowly collecting dust in the dim, cellar light. (O! The Romance!)</span></div>
<span style="font-size: 85%;"><span style="font-size: 85%;"></span></span><br />
<div style="font-size: 100%;">
<span style="font-size: 85%;">So, I was excited to see how this humble farmer in Argentina was making it work.</span></div>
<span style="font-size: 85%;"><span style="font-size: 85%;"></span></span><br />
<div style="font-size: 100%;">
<span style="font-size: 85%;">The farmer arrived back from dropping the French couple at the bus stop and he offered up a little tour. I was eager to see the wine cellar, and we stepped out the door and into the front yard, and there we were in the cellar. All the blue trash cans I'd seen served as fermenters. Some had grapes in them already and they sat in the sun and put out a sour stink, and the others were scattered about the yard on their sides in the dirt. The wooden crates I'd seen were for collecting grapes, and what I hadn't noticed was an ancient destemmer in the corner and a basket press tangled in the weeds.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: 85%;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 85%;"><span style="font-weight: bold;"><br /></span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 85%;"><span style="font-weight: bold;">6.</span><br />Half the grapes on the property are grown how you're probably accustomed to seeing them, in rows and across a wire, clusters hanging just above the knees. The other half are trained up what are called <span style="font-style: italic;">parrals</span>, up poles to a height overhead with wires connecting the tops of the poles in a grid. Before maturation the vineyard looks like a field of grapes trees, but once mature it can create the effect of a roof of vines, clusters hanging from the ceiling. It's a wonderful space to be in, all shaded and traqnquil. </span></div>
<span style="font-size: 85%;">My first morning in San Juan the farmer and I have a silent breakfast of bread, butter, and tea. Then we go outside and gather all the wooden crates we can find, stack them on a sleigh built of tree branches, attach the sleigh to the tractor, and the farmer rubs a couple of frayed wires together and the tractor comes to life.<br />We begin work on the less mature plot of <span style="font-style: italic;">parrals</span>. It's my first time picking grapes, and the farmer fills crates more than twice as fast as I do and I'm self-conscious about this, but I notice that he picks everything in sight, the biggest clusters of the least ripe grapes, and this strikes me as odd.<br />Funny that I should be reading Steinbeck's </span><span style="font-size: 85%; font-style: italic;">The Grapes of Wrath</span><span style="font-size: 85%;">, the story of a family - one of thousands - forced off their land and fed the idea that great things lay waiting for them in California. There's the promise of work in the vineyards and the Joad family </span><span style="font-size: 85%; font-style: italic;">just can't wait to get their hands on some grapes</span><span style="font-size: 85%;">!<br />Never have I very seriously romanticized the prospect of picking grapes. Having worked in the Napa Valley, having seen the bright lights over the vineyards at all hours of the night and the frost and the fog in the morning, and knowing that they're out there in the heat of the day and with little shade, and for hours and hours and for little pay - I've never much looked forward to picking grapes.<br />It's not long before the negativity begins to creep in. It doesn't take a whole lot of concentration to pick grapes, and so my mind is free to marinate on the intricacies of what-the-fuck-am-I-doing-here? And I battle with it. </span><span style="font-size: 85%; font-style: italic;">This is South America, after all. You've come to live in a poor town with a poor family. This is rustic not because rustic is fashionable but because there is no other option. If you want to make wine you have to pick grapes and there aren't any lowly minorities here to do it for you. This is hard but not really all that hard. </span><span style="font-size: 85%;">And then in my dad's voice,</span><span style="font-size: 85%; font-style: italic;"> Toughen up, this is what you signed up for</span><span style="font-size: 85%;">.<br />Maybe it'd be easier if the stakes were higher, if I had a family to feed, or if I didn't have my parents there to catch me if I fall, or if I'd come out of Great Depression, Dust Bowl-era Oklahoma. But none of these are the case, and I find myself getting down and hoping the Joads don't ever make it to California.<br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">7.</span><br />That night, sitting down at the dinner table I go to sit beside the farmer and he barks at me that </span><span style="font-size: 85%; font-style: italic;">that chair is his daughter's</span><span style="font-size: 85%;">! I apologize and move down a seat and from then on that's where I will sit.<br />We eat in silence, except that the TV is always on(dubbed-over American cop dramas), and it's above and behind me and always during meals the family(a rotating cast of characters, 2 sons, 2 daughters, and is there a wife/mother or not?) is always looking at me - not right at me - but just over my head.<br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">8.</span><span style="font-weight: bold;"></span><br />The next morning it's the same routine. It's out to the vines to finish the plot from yesterday. But the farmer leaves me to it. I'm left to finish the work on my own and I pick up right where I left off - in the middle of the vineyard and very much inside my head.<br />I make attempts at cheering up. I whistle, I sing, I appreciate the view, and I try to keep on that thought: This really isn't all that hard. But with my arms overhead for hours and my shirt always catching in the sweat at the center of my back, and bending over to lug the crate, and the grape juice sticky on my hands and the bees swarming because of it, I just can't do it, my brain is only strong enough to keep me from the negativity for a second at a time. I wonder if I've still got the fire in my belly for this whole winemaking thing. Maybe I just came to Argentina because it gave me an excuse to stop through Mexico and see a girl.<br />A couple of the dogs are out there with me - the one with the broken leg rolls in the grass at my feet, and the white pitbull roams. Typically pitbulls kind of put me off, but this one seems sweet, and I think it's because I'm comparing her with the farmer. He comes out to check on me and he says something. I don't understand and I tell him so and he repeats the same words but twice as loud as if it's a hearing problem keeping me from understanding.<br />Never since the time he first picked me up has he looked like that cool, handsome guy in the slightest. Now he is only sad looking with a sullen face, dark expression, closed posture. I try to see the first guy but I can't.<br />In </span><span style="font-size: 85%; font-style: italic;">The Grapes of Wrath<span style="font-style: italic;"> </span></span><span style="font-size: 85%;">there's a character named Casy, a former preacher and always deep thinker. He accompanies the Joad family as they struggle to make it out west, and he brings up that idea of having to put one foot in front of the other - it is what it is and you just keep going. The idea provides some comfort but brings to mind other thoughts. When is bailing justified? When is something bad enough that with the bail there is no tail between the legs? When is it not shameful to get out, not a bail but a proper escape, trouble averted, a wise move, a rescuing of the self? When is it alright to leave others high and dry? What is the spectrum and where does this experience land?<br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">9.</span><br />In the last light of the day we open up the tarp on the ground just behind the destemmer. There sits the mound of grapes collected over the last two days, left to sit in the sun, left overnight in the vineyard, the fruit now half-shriveled and crawling with insects.<br />With a single hanging bulb lighting the front yard the farmer puts a rubber strap around the gears of the destemmer and powers it on. The bulb flickers as the metal parts grind together, and the farmer's son pitches the grapes into the machine. The stems shoot out the one side and the grapes fall out the bottom and land in a concrete basin. I collect them with a bucket, pour them into the fermenters, and roll them off to the side. All the while mosquitoes hang in clouds around us.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: 85%;"><span style="font-weight: bold;">10.</span><br />The next morning the farmer's wife arrives home. I think, 'Maybe this is the warm female presence capable of transforming the nature of this situation.' For the first time music comes from inside the house. She and her daughters listen to the radio and sing along and talk while they prepare lunch. In the front yard the son and I assemble the basket press. He offers me a cigarette and I decline the offer. He lights one for himself and we get to it. He scoops the skins from the fermenters to the press while I siphon the wine to buckets and then pour the wine through a screen and into another fermenter where it will be stored in the coming months. Compared to what I'm accustomed to in winemaking(cleanliness), this is just too much. I'm pretty sure that the hose I'm using came off a car, while the bucket was previously used for mixing cement and still shows signs, and the screen came right off the farmer's bedroom window.<br />While we work the farmer and his son talk business, and I learn that they are aiming to up their production from last year's 3,000 liters to 10,000 this year. The aim is so far from quality. This experience feels like it's unraveling in a hurry.<br />Once we have the first container full the farmer comes and takes a cup from it. We each have a sip of the offensively acidic, mildly-alcoholic sugar water. The farmer raises his bushy eyebrows and with a smile says, 'Bueno.'<br />The son and I are loading the press for the third time when the farmer comes out from the house with a clear plastic 1 liter bottle. Over the container of wine he opens the plastic bottle, turns it upside down and the bubbles go glugging upwards. Once empty he drops the bottle to the ground and walks back inside the house. I know what he's done but have to check to be certain. Sure enough, he has just compensated for his wine's lack of alcohol by adding to it a bottle of grain alcohol. This is illegal, definitely not organic, but worst of all it's phony.</span><br />
<div>
<span style="font-size: 85%;">He comes back outside and this time with two cases of the stuff, nine bottles to a case. He pours three more bottles into the wine and I'm astounded. When he walks away I go into my bedroom and write it down:</span></div>
<div style="font-style: italic;">
<span style="font-size: 85%;">Etilico Alcohol</span></div>
<div style="font-style: italic;">
<span style="font-size: 85%;">Faramcopea Argentina</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 85%;">4 liters</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 85%;">When I return back outside he's pouring in a fifth bottle, and then he pours a sixth, a seventh, an eighth, a ninth, and he keeps on going. Once he's poured the fifteenth liter into the wine - no longer wine - a truck comes down the road, slows in front of the house, and sits there idling for a moment. The farmer sees this and grabs as many of the bottles as he can and runs inside with hem. His wife comes out for the last three as the man steps out from his truck and approaches. She keeps her back to him and does a funny sideways walk into the house. The farmer returns. He's all smiles and shakes hands with the man. This man has brought with him a guy like me who's interested in helping on the farm. And out comes the wife, charming. Politely, the farmer and his wife shew the two away, and there is a great sigh, but little relief.<br />I do the pressing on my own while the farmer and his son work on something somewhere else. I go and find them and ask the son if I can take him up on that cigarette offer from earlier.<br />Back at the press, leaned against the front of the house in the shade of the bamboo awning, I slide to the ground. I have to leave this place. I know that now. To think, I bought the ticket and came all the way to Argentina for this. I pull hard on the cigarette. The little pitbull comes along, lies down and nuzzles against my thigh. He lifts his head and licks at the grape pulp on my pant leg. Poor thing.</span><br />
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</div>Charlie Miller, 28, Petaluma, CAhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13061354572142463046noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-158856312395061021.post-9056837956913960132011-11-07T13:57:00.000-08:002011-11-07T14:00:00.692-08:00NZ super 8<iframe width="660" height="415" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/v5-7v-rfobA" frameborder="0" allowfullscreen=""></iframe>Charlie Miller, 28, Petaluma, CAhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13061354572142463046noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-158856312395061021.post-704741696532114542011-09-30T20:21:00.000-07:002011-10-02T12:30:48.960-07:00milking barn<div>I spent a few days pressure washing this old milking barn clean. The sun came down through the holes in the ceiling.</div><div><br /></div><a href="http://s698.photobucket.com/albums/vv346/millercb/?action=view&current=milkbarn_dip.jpg" target="_blank"><img src="http://i698.photobucket.com/albums/vv346/millercb/milkbarn_dip.jpg" border="0" alt="Photobucket" /></a><br /><br /><a href="http://s698.photobucket.com/albums/vv346/millercb/?action=view&current=milkingbarn_6_560.jpg" target="_blank"><img src="http://i698.photobucket.com/albums/vv346/millercb/milkingbarn_6_560.jpg" border="0" alt="Photobucket" /></a>Charlie Miller, 28, Petaluma, CAhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13061354572142463046noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-158856312395061021.post-90534797779493419562011-09-15T18:16:00.000-07:002011-09-17T08:44:15.977-07:00junk<a href="http://s698.photobucket.com/albums/vv346/millercb/?action=view&current=petaluma_tools.jpg" target="_blank"><img src="http://i698.photobucket.com/albums/vv346/millercb/petaluma_tools.jpg" border="0" alt="Photobucket" /></a><br /> I found a bunch of old stuff in a barn in Petaluma.<div><br /><a href="http://s698.photobucket.com/albums/vv346/millercb/?action=view&current=reel1-490.jpg" target="_blank"><img src="http://i698.photobucket.com/albums/vv346/millercb/reel1-490.jpg" border="0" alt="Photobucket" /></a><br /><br /><a href="http://s698.photobucket.com/albums/vv346/millercb/?action=view&current=eggcracker4-490.jpg" target="_blank"><img src="http://i698.photobucket.com/albums/vv346/millercb/eggcracker4-490.jpg" border="0" alt="Photobucket" /></a><br /><div><br /><a href="http://s698.photobucket.com/albums/vv346/millercb/?action=view&current=scooper1-490.jpg" target="_blank"><img src="http://i698.photobucket.com/albums/vv346/millercb/scooper1-490.jpg" border="0" alt="Photobucket" /></a></div></div>Charlie Miller, 28, Petaluma, CAhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13061354572142463046noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-158856312395061021.post-9089504622084630282011-08-31T16:57:00.001-07:002011-09-08T10:42:42.723-07:00'luma<a href="http://s698.photobucket.com/albums/vv346/millercb/?action=view&current=danboneless690.jpg" target="_blank"><img src="http://i698.photobucket.com/albums/vv346/millercb/danboneless690.jpg" border="0" alt="Photobucket" /></a><div>Dan, makin' like a freight train, Petaluma</div>Charlie Miller, 28, Petaluma, CAhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13061354572142463046noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-158856312395061021.post-57859343154554992872011-08-29T22:24:00.000-07:002011-09-08T10:43:55.809-07:00new york, new york<a href="http://s698.photobucket.com/albums/vv346/millercb/?action=view&current=emmaloft690.jpg" target="_blank"><img src="http://i698.photobucket.com/albums/vv346/millercb/emmaloft690.jpg" border="0" alt="Photobucket" /></a>Charlie Miller, 28, Petaluma, CAhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13061354572142463046noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-158856312395061021.post-22358866424828620962011-07-15T15:10:00.000-07:002011-09-04T16:48:59.133-07:00Mt. Difficulty<a href="http://s698.photobucket.com/albums/vv346/millercb/?action=view&current=nzorchard690.jpg" target="_blank"><img src="http://i698.photobucket.com/albums/vv346/millercb/nzorchard690.jpg" border="0" alt="Photobucket" /></a><div>Orchard in the Fog, New Zealand, May 2011</div>
<br /><a href="http://s698.photobucket.com/albums/vv346/millercb/?action=view&current=beeroclock.jpg" target="_blank"><img src="http://i698.photobucket.com/albums/vv346/millercb/beeroclock.jpg" border="0" alt="Photobucket" /></a><div><meta charset="utf-8">beer o'clock, New Zealand, May 2011</div>Charlie Miller, 28, Petaluma, CAhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13061354572142463046noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-158856312395061021.post-49610939723703509812011-06-21T12:30:00.000-07:002011-06-21T13:22:12.393-07:00RAG -> WELI'd overslept. Quickly I packed my things and threw them into the car and drove along the coast and into the tall bush and over the rolling hills and into the farm towns and through the suburbs to the city of Hamilton. Initially I'd hired the car for a week's time. The plan was to drive it south along the west coast back to Wellington. This would take several days and cost a few hundred dollars. Here I was two days later, dropping it off only an hour's drive from where I'd first picked it up in Auckland.<div>The guy at the rental car place gave me a ride to the train station where I hopped the train all the way back to Wellington.</div><div>The train ride was much the same as before, but I did not have the nice woman beside me, nor did the mist coat the mountains. I read and slept and ate. And for a while I hated on myself <i>so hard</i>. </div><div>If one were to look at a map and see the path I'd taken, where I'd gone and what I'd done, they'd be baffled. I was moving from one town to the next, covering so much land and passing by so much in between, and stopping only long enough for a beer or two. I felt like I was making a mess of this journey of mine, that I was throwing away money, that I wasn't trying hard enough, that I was fucking failing.</div><div><br /></div><div>But at the end of the train ride all those feelings went away. I arrived in Wellington and collected my things. With my big <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">duffel</span> bag on my back and a smaller backpack on my chest, instead of getting a cab I hoofed it into town. The wind was really whipping, and my back was aching, but the evening sky was beautiful. I didn't know where I was, or what I was doing, or where I was going, and I didn't give a shit.</div><div>I was doing it the right way, I told myself. I was doing it <i>my</i> way. I had no ties and I was embracing that. I was taking in the atmosphere and appreciating the landscape and enjoying the food & drink and avoiding the tourists.</div><div>That night at a bar alone, in my little black book I wrote:</div><div>"This evening in Wellington I get drunk and extremely positive. God Bless this World."</div>Charlie Miller, 28, Petaluma, CAhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13061354572142463046noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-158856312395061021.post-71872806288495808252011-06-21T11:05:00.000-07:002011-06-21T12:29:33.649-07:00RAG PT. 2I woke up scratching at my legs. This was the day I learned of New <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">Zealand's</span></span></span> sand flies. You can't see them, but <i>boy</i> can you feel them. I'd been bitten the day before as I sat on the beach, and I'd scratch at those bites for the next few weeks, an itch that meets pain.<div>I grabbed a few things and I set out for the surf shop. Thirty minutes later I was suiting up at the beach. I jumped into the surf afloat on a nine foot board. </div><div>The surf wasn't very impressive compared to the day before. And I'm not much of a surfer in the first place. The waves were few and far between and I was fighting for one in a group of twenty. Really, I was just trying to keep from killing anyone. A nine foot board easily gets swept up in the white wash, and from time to time I found myself tumbling underwater attached to a big bludgeoning device, hoping to God that it wasn't beating the shit out of anyone. Eventually I'd pop up and check my surroundings for injured surfers. Everyone was O.K. A few looked frightened.</div><div>In two hours I'd snagged a few waves, three maybe, and while they weren't much, one of them got me high. It was breaking to the left. I popped up to my feet, tucked and held onto the rail of my board with my right hand. As I glided along the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">wave's</span></span></span> face I smiled and hollered in joy, and a guy paddling out saw my stoke and it got him stoked out too.</div><div>When I climbed out of the sea my upper body had really had it. My arms and chest were drained of energy, and a cracked ribbed from the past sticks out at an angle, and it had really been working at the skin between it and my board. But I was so happy, just happy to be coated in a thin layer of sand and salt, my lips tasty, my hair malleable. </div><div>I spent the rest of my day roaming. I ate. I had coffee. I had beer. I went to the waterfront and crossed a bridge to the peninsula where I examined the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">skatepark</span></span>. It looked like fun. On my way back over the bridge I encouraged a small, red-haired boy to jump from it into the water below. It took some convincing but eventually he made the leap.</div><div><br /></div><div>Raglan is a beautiful place, but going it alone has it's challenges. Relaxing alone has a lot in common with being bored alone. So when I returned to <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">Solscape</span> I told the woman at the front desk that I'd only be staying one more night, that I'd like to be refunded for my third night, that it was just too quiet out at the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4">tipis</span>. She offered to move me to a bed in a boxcar, but I politely declined. While I didn't want to be bored alone, I guess I also didn't want to relax with others.</div><div>That evening I found myself, once again, sitting on a hillside pounding beers. After a couple I gave myself a stern talking-to and I walked to the boxcar camp where I did my best at mingling. In a letter to friends I described the crowd as "a bunch of <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5">gnar</span> surfer jocks." They weren't really that though. They were just young and uninhibited and killing it, and while I too am young I'm not as young as them, and I find that with age I've lost some of my ability to flow so easily and seamlessly into a group of total strangers. I felt like I was sitting on the edge and peering in.</div><div><br /></div><div>I made <i>some</i> conversation though. I talked with a guy from Oregon, and a guy from San Diego, and a googly-eyed German girl, and it was alright. But in the end I raced to finish the sixth beer.</div><div><br /></div><div>I'd made the evening walk to the boxcars without a flashlight, and then I had to make the night walk back to the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_6">tipis</span> in the dark. I thought it would be easy, but it was not. Carefully I placed one foot in front of the next as I descended into the ravine, and the ferns brushed me in the face whenever I got off course. And I heard the trickling of the spring and felt the squish of the swamp and I moved so slow I hardly moved at all. I found myself wondering: </div><div>Where am I?</div><div>What am I doing?</div><div>Where am I going?</div><div><br /></div>Charlie Miller, 28, Petaluma, CAhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13061354572142463046noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-158856312395061021.post-50093372425143440612011-05-21T15:45:00.000-07:002011-05-26T21:08:39.474-07:00RAG PT.1A lady at a bar in San Francisco had told me that if I was going to New Zealand and was wanting to do some surfing that I had to check out Raglan. Indeed, it did turn out to be an idyllic little surf town. When I arrived I parked and took a stroll down to the waterfront where a river fed into the sea and out on a peninsula I could make out a <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_0" class="blsp-spelling-error">skatepark</span>. But my skateboard was long gone by now (I imagine that the security woman who took it from me at the Sydney airport took it home to her son. I could only hope that he'd make use of it). I stopped in at the grocery store and bought peanut butter, jelly, bread, and beer and then drove along the coast to <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_1" class="blsp-spelling-error">Solscape</span>.<br />I'd read about <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_2" class="blsp-spelling-error">Solscape</span> in my travel book. It sounded like the hippie/surfer place to stay, and that's the sort of experience I was looking for. For the time being I'd had enough of crowded backpacker hostels. I wanted to spread out and kick back. At <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_3" class="blsp-spelling-error">Solscape</span> they've taken old train boxcars and cut them in half and turned them into bunkhouses. That sounded pretty cool to me. But they also offer <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_4" class="blsp-spelling-corrected">accommodation</span> in <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_5" class="blsp-spelling-error">tipis</span>. I opted for a <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_6" class="blsp-spelling-error">tipi</span>, and I'd even reserved it ahead of time, booking it online for a three night stay.<br />I arrived to <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_7" class="blsp-spelling-error">Solscape</span> and checked in. The lady at the front desk explained that the <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_9" class="blsp-spelling-error">tipi</span> retreat was about a five minute walk from the parking. I grabbed a few things from the car and walked through the boxcar camp where there were a bunch of tan people chatting and lounging in hammocks. And then I saw the sign for the <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_11" class="blsp-spelling-error">tipis</span> and the trail took me down a hill and into a ravine of dense bush consisting mostly of ferns. There was a spring and a bit of a swamp at the bottom, and then the trail went up and out of the ravine, and the bush opened wide to a big, magnificent clearing, and around the perimeter of the clearing on the hillside there were six or seven <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_12" class="blsp-spelling-error">tipis</span>, each of which stood about twenty feet tall.<br />It sure was quiet out there. I couldn't tell for certain, but it seemed that I was the only person staying out there. But it was still early, and it was possible that others would arrive later on. Either way, I told myself, it was going to be awesome.<br />I went to check out the surf. As I drove along the winding coastal road my stoke ran high. It was a beautiful day out, and just a couple minutes down the road I arrived to a superb point break. The waves really were <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_13" class="blsp-spelling-corrected">immaculate</span>. I wondered if I should go and rent a board immediately, but I hadn't surfed in a year and didn't want to get in over my head. I decided I'd get on the surfing tip the following day. After watching the waves break for a while I drove back to town. I had a few beers and scrawled words and doodles in my little black book. Eventually I made my way back to <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_14" class="blsp-spelling-error">Solscape</span>.<br />Back at the <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_15" class="blsp-spelling-error">tipi</span> retreat it was all crickets and cicadas. I sat on the hillside with my six pack and read. I told myself, <em>You are so lucky to get all of this to yourself and for only twenty dollars a night! </em>But I'd be lying if I didn't admit to feeling a touch of the old <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_16" class="blsp-spelling-corrected">loneliness</span>. I knew that upfront amidst the boxcars everyone was being sociable, meeting new and interesting people, exchanging stories, maybe making friends. And on the quiet hillside I was drinking quickly, pissing every thirty minutes, waiting for the sun to set so that going to sleep was acceptable. I knew that I had it in my power to get up and walk the five minutes and say hello, but instead I raced to finish the sixth beer.Charlie Miller, 28, Petaluma, CAhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13061354572142463046noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-158856312395061021.post-62129407770620161602011-05-11T23:19:00.000-07:002011-05-21T15:45:27.182-07:00AUCK -> RAG 2011My first night in Auckland I got cleaned up. I shaved and had a steaming hot shower that turned me red. I put on some fresh clothes and walked into town.<br />I was staying in Parnell, a nice area up a hill outside the city centre. I walked the length of the main drag down and back in search of the perfect dinner, but in the end I settled for a kebab. Then I went to buy a bottle of wine. I figured I'd drink it from a bag on a bench in a park.<br />The wine shop was a nice one. Because I came to New Zealand to make <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_0" class="blsp-spelling-error">Pinot</span> <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_1" class="blsp-spelling-error">Noir</span> in Central <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_2" class="blsp-spelling-error">Otago</span>, when the owner asked what I was looking for I said, "<span id="SPELLING_ERROR_3" class="blsp-spelling-error">Pinot</span> from Central <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_4" class="blsp-spelling-error">Otago</span>." He showed me where to direct my attention. After I picked something out I got in line at the register behind another guy. The owner of the shop praised this other customer for his choice of a couple different Italian wines and went on to bash those who spend their money on overpriced <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_5" class="blsp-spelling-error">Pinots</span> from Central. I got to the register next. "Hey, now I'm <em>really</em> looking forward to drinking this (you dickhead)." He back-pedalled fast saying, "Oh...no...they're great," and asked where I'd be working. I told him Mt. Difficulty and he asked, "Working for Matt?" Yeah. "Oh, well, Matt makes great wines. Don't tell him what I said."<br />Back outside it was raining. My bench in a park was out of the question. I opened the bottle as I walked down the road and I had a couple sips from it. But I determined then that I didn't want to drink. I'd been on the piss every night since my arrival to New Zealand, and what I really wanted to do was go back to the hostel, get in bed and fall asleep.<br /><br />The next day I went nowhere in particular. I wandered blindly, but struck upon a nice part of town, a posh area consisting of cafes and bars, bookstores and fancy clothing shops. While I visited the cafes and bars and bookstores(I actually stumbled upon the same bookstore where eight years earlier I bought <em>Lolita</em>), I only gazed through the windows of the clothing shops. After hours of eating, drinking, and people watching, I went to the movies and with me I brought that bottle of wine from the night previous. I saw <em>The King's Speech</em> and I'll be damned if that wasn't a super cute and touching film, and in combination with all the wine it tugged at my heartstrings, and when I left the theater all I wanted to do was jump on the email and send a love letter.<br /><br />But the next morning I was glad I hadn't. That was the day I was to depart from Auckland. I took a trip down autorow in search of a cheap rental car, but in typical fashion I went without anything reserved and so there was nothing available. Eventually I settled on a car that cost twice as much as I wanted to pay. I left town feeling sick over the burning sensation in my pocket, but I tried not to think about it. I listened to the idiotic banter of radio DJ's ("Call in or text!! And let us know if you like eating soggy cereal!!) and then Mary J. Blige. It was all interstate for a while, but then I got off the main road and I was driving through small, farming town suburbs, and then it was into the big, green, rolling pasture hills and I lost the radio. I sang to myself, but I'm no good at memorizing lyrics, so I sang Christmas songs. Things loosened up more. The roads got wild, and things got jungly as the bush grew thick all around me, and the air felt tropical and it was like I was entering a lush jungle paradise, and I was singing <em>Jingle Bell Rock</em> the whole way. Then I arrived to the town of Raglan, and it all went surfy.Charlie Miller, 28, Petaluma, CAhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13061354572142463046noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-158856312395061021.post-45107037332638623782011-04-11T13:17:00.000-07:002011-06-21T12:44:59.324-07:00WEL -> AUCK 2011I had to get out of Wellington. I wouldn't be able to handle any more of the crowd or <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">accommodation</span>. I knew of a train out of there, got online and booked a departure for early the next morning.<br />When I woke up it was 6 AM and raining. I hailed a cab to the station, bought some fruit, and found the way to my seat on the train. Altogether I'd spent around twelve hours in Wellington, half of them asleep.<br />The train was bound for Auckland. It was a twelve hour ride, but a pleasant one. The stormy conditions kept up the whole way. On the train there was a little outdoor platform between cars and from there I filmed the countryside all coated in mist.<br />I was seated beside a woman a few years older than myself. We both kept to ourselves for the first ten hours of the ride, but in the last two started talking. As it turned out she's a writer, and she'd seen me writing in this little book so much, and so we had writing to talk about. She asked me who I like to read. I was about to say that Hemingway is my favorite but instead decided not to answer and told her that I always freeze up at that question. She said that she does too, that it's a stupid question, and I felt such a relief I didn't say Hemingway.<br />When she asked what I like to write I told her that in school I focused on fiction, but that since then I haven't had the drive for it, that now I'm more a fan of non-fiction (and by that all I meant is that I like writing casual accounts of my travels in this little book). She went on to tell me that she'd just finished a documentary, and I remember that I felt so strongly that she is in a league much different than my own, a serious league, a league where people really have some drive, where people write things that get written about.<br />Then, hesitantly, she told me that she'd just had a poem published. She said, "<span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">I've</span> never really written poetry but...." I laughed and told her that I was afraid to admit it, but recently poetry has been my main squeeze.<div>It was nice to meet her.<br /><br />A girl in Wellington had recommended me a place to stay in Auckland, so when I arrived I caught a cab over there. We pulled up front, I paid the guy and he drove off, and then I walked in and they were all booked up. I'd done it again. But it was only a short walk in the rain until I found a place. It was a good spot. It was such a <i>quiet</i> spot. I booked it for two nights up front. And so I'd spend some time in one place.</div>Charlie Miller, 28, Petaluma, CAhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13061354572142463046noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-158856312395061021.post-13059464489037628912011-03-18T16:26:00.000-07:002011-03-18T16:45:05.113-07:00KAI -> WEL 2011From <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">Kaikoura</span> I continued north. I spent the morning drinking wine in Blenheim. Then I dropped the car in <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">Picton</span> (and the cigarettes in the trash) and caught a ferry to the North Island. It was a scenic ride through winds so strong that it was a four hour trip instead of the usual three. I filmed the scenery and got some rest.<br />I arrived to Wellington with no plans. I caught a taxi into the city center and looked for a bed. At the first place I stopped in at I was told they were totally booked and that all the other places in town were too. I broke into a slight panic and got angry with myself for not having arranged any <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">accommodation</span>. But I also laughed at myself and felt some excitement over the mystery of where I'd end up.<br />After dropping by a few more places I found a bed, but it was at the last <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">sort</span> of place I'd ever want to stay. It was a very young crowd there, all travelling by tourist buses, all very much Tourists. I had a bed on the sixth floor in a room that stunk of urine. I showered and dressed and got the hell out.<br />As it turned out there was a big music festival going on that weekend. That's why it was hard to find a bed. And that's why by seven o'clock the city was already popping off. I couldn't find a bar to go to alone. I tried a couple different places, but alone I looked so lonely. I'd order a drink and throw it back quickly and then escape back to the street. I went for another pack of cigarettes. This time it was decorated with an old, rotted-out pair of lungs. I smoked on a street corner and cursed the crowds of smiling party-goers.<br />It was a Friday. I was supposed to be having fun out on the town. I didn't really feel like drinking though. I went for a whiskey on ice and took it as a shot. It wasn't any fun. I felt dark. It was the trip's first bout of loneliness, but it was funny to watch myself squirm.<br />It was that night, sitting in a nice bar with a tall bottle of beer that I revised something I'd written in the past. I had once jotted down: "Travelling alone purges the soul of its weaknesses." I changed it to: "Travelling alone does not purge the soul of its weaknesses so much as it acts like a flashlight and just points them all out."Charlie Miller, 28, Petaluma, CAhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13061354572142463046noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-158856312395061021.post-63432520680662970122011-03-18T15:20:00.000-07:002011-03-18T15:35:25.429-07:00KAI 2004<em>I met Grant and the first thing I noticed were the tattoos on his hands, and it was hard to tell the difference between his natural odor and the sack of weed in his pocket. Grant was a good person and we talked about aliens and politics, and history and everything, and so I learned that Grant was good as well as knowledgeable and said some funny shit on the side. There were some talkative sisters from Christchurch and some old ladies who gave me a cup of whiskey mixed with lemonade. And I woke up that night to find the sisters sitting in bed with me until one left and came back and left again (and that's what she had been doing all night at the bar, leaving and coming back, and I couldn't understand why. I just sat alone eating cookies with my beer).<br />She and her sister had checked out and left by the time I woke up the next morning. One of them had left her socks behind. I considered for a moment keeping them but in the end I threw them in the trash.<br />The next couple of days were hazy downers with some good food on the side. I thought that maybe I was wasting my time hanging around <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">Kaikoura</span> but I was happy so I didn't mind. I knew that soon enough I would be on new adventures meeting good people around the country.<br />On my last night I couldn't sleep and then a siren started going off somewhere in town that sounded like the end of the world had come. Grant and I had a talk of conspiracies and the state the world is in and I decided that now is a crazy time to be alive - a time when anything is possible.</em>Charlie Miller, 28, Petaluma, CAhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13061354572142463046noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-158856312395061021.post-22391489890192269942011-03-13T19:57:00.000-07:002011-07-15T15:16:44.247-07:00CHCH -> KAI 2011I arrived to Christchurch and rented a car. It wasn't until I tossed my bags in the trunk and changed into some fresh clothes that I smiled big.<br />On my way out of town I stopped at the first bottle shop I saw and picked up a <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">sixer</span> and a pack of Winfield's. The cigarettes had a warning on them about heart disease with an image alongside. Back at the car I cracked a beer and took the cellophane from the box of cigarettes. I was disappointed to find that the health warning was not a sticker that could be peeled from the box and forgotten about but actually printed on the packaging. From then on I'd fetch a cigarette without looking at the pack, avoiding at all costs that diseased organ.<br />At first the landscape wasn't much to talk about - just a flat suburban spread of dull colors -, but once out of town it quickly came to life. It's a dense and diverse patchwork. From one side of a fence to another, depending on what's being farmed or how heavily the land is grazed upon, the colors and textures can vary dramatically.<br />I was reluctant to pull over and take pictures. I just wanted to get there. But I did pull over. I brought along my old super8 video camera. The first time I pulled the car to the side of the road it was to shoot the hills with their almond-colored grasses blowing in the wind (and I worried that I might return home with my video footage consisting entirely of grass blowing in the wind). There were sheep up the hillside and a dry brown gully ran through the land with green-saturated palm trees in it (the kind you'd find in a Dr. Seuss book)(Seuss lived in New Zealand for some period of time).<br />Popping a second beer I carried on.<br />The hills are reminiscent of those along Northern California's coast - the golden grasses of <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">Pescadero</span> (ironically, I was travelling along New <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">Zealand's</span> Pacific Coast Highway 1). The further north I headed the more <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">lush</span> the bush became. From golden to lime green the grasses went. There were more and more of Seuss's palms, and there were ferns, and higher up in elevation lines of pines looked like corduroy.<br />I stopped briefly in a town called <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4">Chivton</span>. I filmed a fat boy riding his bicycle. I climbed a fence and filmed forty old men lawn bowling. I got a bloody nose and got back in the car. I opened one last beer and lit up another cigarette. I hate cigarettes but I felt them really working, melting away all the layers of stress accumulated on all the flights over from San Francisco.<br />Next thing I knew I was taking turns at 100km with a <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5">cig</span> between my lips, a cool beer held between my thighs, and my camera in my right hand shooting blindly out the window.<br />I laid eyes on the ocean and attempted to let out a sort of celebratory yodel but it came out as more of a wolf howl, but the wolf howl felt more appropriate.<br />As I arrived into the small beach town of <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_6">Kaikoura</span> I thought about what all I remembered from when I was here last. It was seven years ago and I was nineteen years old. <em>I remember this bend in the road, and that's where we ran out of gas that time, and around this bend will be the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_7">skatepark</span>!</em> (O! Skateboard! Where are you?!)<br />I rolled up to the same hostel I stayed at the last time I was here - <em>The Fish Tank</em>. I got a room and it was the same room I slept in the last time. I told the guy at the front desk that I'd stayed there before, seven years ago. He said, "Well, you'll see that we've made some changes, cleaned it up quite a bit." I asked how so? He said, "Well, we don't grow dope on the roof anymore and we don't let hookers hang around." I wondered to myself, "Were those girls hookers?"<br />That evening in <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_8">Kaikoura</span> I didn't do much. I had some beers, walked along the beach, and cooked some pasta. After dinner I took my little notebook and pen and went for beers down the street. It was a quiet night in an already quiet town. It was the kind of bar where you can sit alone without looking lonely.<br />Sitting there at the bar having my drink, my only thought was of how anonymous I felt, of how anonymous I really was. Nobody knew a thing about me, and I found such a feeling of comfort in that.<br /><br /><a href="http://s698.photobucket.com/albums/vv346/millercb/?action=view&current=kaikouradip690.jpg" target="_blank"><img src="http://i698.photobucket.com/albums/vv346/millercb/kaikouradip690.jpg" border="0" alt="Photobucket" /></a>Charlie Miller, 28, Petaluma, CAhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13061354572142463046noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-158856312395061021.post-88064617075149983062011-03-09T19:40:00.000-08:002011-03-18T15:36:52.683-07:00CHCH 2004Due to the recent earthquake I didn't spend any time in Christchurch, but back in 2004 at the age of 19 I arrived to Christchurch after 65 days in the Australian Outback. I had a book back then that I was writing in, and I only filled the first quarter of it. I thought it appropriate to bring along on this trip. <div>I hadn't read from it since back then, and it has been a funny read for me. The language used and themes hit upon are all rather dramatic(not much has changed). Having reread all these old travelogues, I can say that over the years I've definitely forgotten certain details of my '04 solo travels. Also, I remember things happening that get no mention. I certainly censored some of my experiences.</div><div>Anyways, I thought it would be funny to put some of these stories up. </div><div><br /></div><div><i>Christchurch, 2004</i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div><i>I arrived in Christchurch, New Zealand looking utterly homeless in my filthy bush pants and my hair in my eyes. I was feeling particularly self-conscious, certain that I would meet no one because of my appearance. In the hostel I saw beautiful girls, and everyone was dressed up nicely and I had horrible thoughts of cleaning myself up to look like the rest of them. I downed beer after beer hoping to get drunk enough so as to escape myself.</i></div><div><i>Between beers I would go down the streets with my hood on my head. I walked in circles in front of a Gothic church and it seemed as though the clamor of the bells would never stop and an older man and woman were trying to play their guitar and fiddle and I really wanted to listen but they got frustrated and left. I sat in front of the hostel where groups of people my age socialized and met for the first time, and I felt pathetic.</i></div><div><i>Passing the socializing group I asked one of the guys what there was to do in "this goddam town," making it sound as though I had looked all over and come up with absolutely nothing. He said "smoke weed" and I laughed and he and his friends were amused with the way I spoke and the fact that I was cruising without plans and they told me that I was loose, which as far as I could gather meant that they thought I was an alright guy.</i></div><div><i>We went to pool hall with some girls from Georgia where we drank liquor from a teapot. I met a girl named Jenny (and her friend said, "I'll pay you a dollar to kiss Jenny," and I told her that she didn't have to pay me.) Jenny laughed at the sight of the holes in my shoes and it became apparent to me early on that the two of us would get along. After a few unskilled games of pool we left and went to another bar, past a river and through a park where Jenny and I laid down and kissed and held each other and she said, "I needed this," and I said, "me too."</i></div><div><i>At the bar a large man blew flames from his mouth and I conversed with a seriously genuine person named Sam. He bought me a beer that I didn't need but I thanked him and sipped it down quick. He told me that travelling alone has its ups and downs and I appreciated the advice of this brutally obvious truth that I had yet to recognize. I asked him for his contact information and said, "Maybe I'll just write you some time," and he said, "Don't say maybe," and I said, "Ya know, sometimes people meet when they're drunk - " and he said, "No man, get in touch," and I said I would.</i></div><div><i>I wanted to leave the bar but Jenny had two drinks for some reason, so I drank one, a vodka tonic, and I hate vodka tonics, but I drank it and we left. We went back through the same park and later bumped into one of Jenny's friends who brushed grass off Jenny's back and pulled a leaf from my hair.</i></div><div><i>Jenny's hotel was next to my hostel. We kissed out front and then I asked Jenny what her last name was, and then I said, "Goodnight Jenny Shaw," and I went inside.</i></div>Charlie Miller, 28, Petaluma, CAhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13061354572142463046noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-158856312395061021.post-19050097227280609802011-03-05T15:59:00.000-08:002011-03-13T20:42:02.136-07:00SF -> CHCH 2011On the eve of my departure to New Zealand I dreamt of sharks circling me in icy blue waters. But they did not devour me.<br /><br />My flight was for Christchurch. Just recently though, Christchurch suffered a devastating earthquake. My initial thought was that it might be cool or interesting to see a crumbled city. But as my departure date neared and I read up on the situation there in Christchurch I came to realize that's it's neither cool nor interesting, just very sad.<br />My mom urged me to rearrange my flights, to fly into Auckland instead, and I told her I'd deal with it once in Australia.<br />On the way over from Los Angeles I still had thoughts of going through to Christchurch. "There might not be anywhere to stay," I thought, "but I've got my sleeping bag and I can crash in a park and it'll make for a good story." But I recognized these thoughts to be similar to bad ideas I've had in the past, and so I decided that once in Sydney I would arrange to fly to Auckland.<br />The 14 hour flight was actually not at all bad. I played it well. Stayed up for the first five or so hours, watched a movie, had some food and drink, popped some pills and <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_0" class="blsp-spelling-corrected">conked</span> out . Woke up with three hours left on the clock.<br />Once in Sydney I learned that my bag was checked all the way through to Christchurch. I'd have to act quick if I was going to get a flight to Auckland and then have the bag intercepted and sent along with me. I was to go through security, and it was there that my skateboard was confiscated.<br />"You can't take that through," she told me.<br />"What?! Why?"<br />"No sporting equipment, love."<br />"Can I check it somehow?"<br />"No, too late."<br />"Can I carry it to the gate and have them stow it for me?"<br />"No."<br />"So I can't have my skateboard anymore?"<br />"Sorry, love."<br />She went on to tell me that if I went to the gate and made a big enough fuss they might make and exception for me, "but you didn't hear that from me," she said.<br />I tried to fuss twice and flirt once. None were successful. Each time I was greeted with a rules-are-rules attitude.<br />This attempt to rescue my dear friend took up any time I had to arrange for a flight to Auckland, and so I boarded a plane headed for Christchurch. Not surprisingly, the plane was only half full. The flight attendant offered me a newspaper. It was from Christchurch, and the headlines read like this:<br />"Central City 'could be closed for months'"<br />"Tributes laid in shadows of city's broken heart"<br />"Searchers to begin hunt in cathedral for bodies"<br />"City chokes on clouds of clogging dust"<br />"This is NZ but it's 'like a zombie movie'"Charlie Miller, 28, Petaluma, CAhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13061354572142463046noreply@blogger.com0