Bryce Canyon Park (walk to Mossy Cave), late afternoon sun, April 1, 2023
TRAVEL: either post about traveling, and writing while traveling, OR post a piece that you wrote WHILE traveling. See the April newsletter for any more info! Looking forward to this —
You've reminded me of an Oulipo technique called a metro poem: you get on the train, and between stops you think of a line or lines of poetry, then each time the train stops you write furiously until it starts moving again. So the length of the poem depends on the length of the train journey. (Presumably, a metro poem written on the Circle Line in London could be infinitely long!)
Or my trip to Mexico at age 22 wherein I passed out drunk in an alley and woke up in a mysterious car with strangers hours into nowhere land: https://michaelmohr.substack.com/p/mexico-story
I have never successfully written much while traveling. Which is a bummer cos I really like the idea of it. I did do an audio story that way once on a van ride through Alabama when I was about 17. It's called "The Waterpump Girl" and is kind of sad magical realism.
Back before Expo 86, you could not buy a drink at a bar or restaurant in BC on a Sunday unless you were having a meal. For those in the Lower Mainland who just couldn’t do without a beer on the Lord’s day, there was the Breakers just across the border in Pt. Roberts. It had live music and cheap American beer and you could drink and dance all Sunday afternoon. Back then, the border was not quite “slow down and wave”, but it was close. I played there once and recall the posted fire marshall occupancy limit being 770 people.
The BC government allowed Sunday drinking for Expo and afterwards, and the Breakers fell on hard times. In the 1990s, I had a client who thought he saw an opportunity to convert the abandoned property to a casino, with gamblers flying in from Seattle in their private planes and landing at the Point Roberts airstrip and playing golf at the local golf club. My client consulted a lawyer in Bellingham who advised he had foreclosed on the property three times over the years. The lawyer also warned that no one was quite sure what was buried in the parking lot. My client wisely turned his attention elsewhere.
I’m a little surprised the building is still standing. It’s right next to Puget Sound and exposed to the wind and salt spray. I suppose there’s no good financial reason to tear it down. I doubt the land down in Point Roberts has much investment value. There are two border crossings before you’re back in the mainland USA and Canadians can’t move here permanently or work without papers. There’s not much of a market.
US Customs and Border Protection takes an expansive view as to what constitutes working. One afternoon I was in the Point Roberts customs office when a Canadian fellow was sent in from the Nexus lane. He and his wife had come down to check on their rental property. The customs officer said this was work. When fellow got a little argumentative, the customs officer asked him if he wanted to “escalate” the situation. The Canadian, realizing the escalation might involve being stuffed in the back of a van and transported to Bellingham, backed down.
The punch line came a minute or two later. As the fellow waited for the papers to be prepared for a “voluntary deportation”, which carries with it a minimum 6-month prohibition from entering the US, his wife came in, wondering, I expect, what her husband had got up to. He told her what had happened. She replied, “I hope this doesn’t interfere with our trip to Maui next week.”
“What’s your purpose in coming down today?” the Border Officer asked. Elrod was always nervous crossing the border. There was rarely a problem, but, occasionally, he would run into some young, fresh-faced recruit on the lookout for a pedophile sex-trafficking ring run by a cabal of socialists, probably Democrats; or, alternatively, a jaded, cynical, bitter, veteran of the US Customs and Border Security who, eager to defend America against the wave of illegal immigrants threatening to overwhelm its southern border, was, instead, assigned to Point Roberts, Washington, a quiet, leafy exclave, accessible only through Canada. Point Roberts was a small, mostly rural community—its population was less than a thousand permanent residents--that subsisted on selling cheap gas and cheese and providing shipping and receiving services. Its salad days of Sunday drinking and an adult movie theatre were well in the past. The only threats to America from its northern neighbor were fresh fruit and Canadians coming down to check on their rental properties.
Today, the Border Officer was a friendly woman who appeared to be in her mid-sixties. “I’m picking up a parcel—a trombone mouthpiece—at Point Shipping,” Elrod said. The Border Officer scanned Elrod’s passport and, as she returned it to him, smiled. “Have a nice day,” she said.
As Elrod left the border crossing, he noticed a vehicle, a brown Porsche Macan, exit the Nexus lane and turn onto the main road, cutting in just ahead of him. After about one hundred meters, it turned into the parking lot of Point Shipping. Elrod followed, and parked next to it. The Porsche and Elrod’s car were the only vehicles in the parking lot. The driver of the Porsche got out, walked to the building, and entered the office. Elrod followed. They were the only customers.
The Porsche driver was there to pick up a couple of parcels. The attendant took down his information and went to retrieve the parcels from the warehouse. Elrod waited patiently, studying the Porsche driver, a tall, slender man, about thirty-five years old, dressed in flip-flops, a pair of dark track pants, and a pink hoodie with a “Superdry” logo on the chest. The attendant returned with two large parcels. One appeared to be camera equipment; the other an expensive piece of consumer electronics. The Porsche driver paid the fee and carried the boxes out to his car.
The attendant retrieved Elrod’s parcel. “Another mouthpiece?” she asked. Elrod laughed. He had been a regular customer for years.
Elrod returned to his car. The Porsche was gone. Elrod left the parking lot, turned left onto the main road, and headed north towards Canada Customs. About fifty metres from the border the left lane was coned off, and there was a single line of about six cars waiting in the centre lane to cross into Canada. Elrod stopped and took his place at the end of the line. There was only one lane open and the line was barely moving. Several cars arrived and stopped behind him.
Elrod glanced at his driver side mirror. He saw the Porsche approaching from behind, in the left lane. The Porsche passed him, proceeded as far as the cones, and stopped. The driver turned on his right turn signal and tried to edge into the line. Elrod heard a woman ahead of him yell at the Porsche driver, “There’s a line! Back up!” The Porsche driver ignored her. The drivers inched forward, refusing to let the Porsche in. Elrod proceeded slowly, not allowing any gap between his car and the car ahead of him. As he passed the Porsche, Elrod glared at the driver. But the driver behind Elrod hesitated and the Porsche crowded into the centre, ahead of the drivers who had been patiently waiting their turn.
Elrod got to the booth. “Anything to declare?” the Customs officer asked. “Just a used trombone mouthpiece,” Elrod said. He paused and then added, “Do see the guy behind me in the Porsche? He butted into the line. You might ask him about the two parcels he picked up at Point Shipping.” The Customs Officer looked at the Porsche. “Let’s see what he declares,” he said. He handed Elrod’s passport back. “Have a nice day.”
Hello 👋 Thank you for the prompt. It inspired me to write a post. I wrote about what it means to me as a stepmother for my step child to travel the world for the very first time. May not seem like a biggie to regular parents but the experience is different for me.
I've traveled from Bryce Canyon Park to Capital Reef now--incredible. BUT have been without wifi for too long. Currently sitting outside an Information place, and trying to catch up on all the wonderful posts here--I am so grateful to see this!
Wonderful stories from others here. I used to only blog when I travelled, so I felt inspired to contribute. I've dusted off an old WordPress post from a few years ago. It's part 1 or 2 so I guess I'll update part 2 next. To start here's the first 'Postcard from Latvia'. https://marylouisetucker.substack.com/p/postcard-from-latvia-2017-23-02-03?sd=pf
Oh my, I was so excited I didn't follow the word count rules. I'm a retired Technical Writer who spent years writing instructions. I really will try to read them in future!
You've reminded me of an Oulipo technique called a metro poem: you get on the train, and between stops you think of a line or lines of poetry, then each time the train stops you write furiously until it starts moving again. So the length of the poem depends on the length of the train journey. (Presumably, a metro poem written on the Circle Line in London could be infinitely long!)
Is that photo Joshua Tree??
Traveling:
My experience walking 500 miles across El Camino de Santiago in northern Spain, spring 2016: https://michaelmohr.substack.com/p/buen-camino-my-unexpected-walk-across
Or my trip to Mexico at age 22 wherein I passed out drunk in an alley and woke up in a mysterious car with strangers hours into nowhere land: https://michaelmohr.substack.com/p/mexico-story
I have never successfully written much while traveling. Which is a bummer cos I really like the idea of it. I did do an audio story that way once on a van ride through Alabama when I was about 17. It's called "The Waterpump Girl" and is kind of sad magical realism.
Me, chasing Vincent Van Gogh around France: https://open.substack.com/pub/petermoore/p/vincent-and-me?r=4g2k&utm_medium=ios&utm_campaign=post
What fun! Here's a story about being a moron while travelling... https://nikkitate.substack.com/p/bonus-post-where-idiots-go-to-frolic
Killing Time in Pt. Roberts
Back before Expo 86, you could not buy a drink at a bar or restaurant in BC on a Sunday unless you were having a meal. For those in the Lower Mainland who just couldn’t do without a beer on the Lord’s day, there was the Breakers just across the border in Pt. Roberts. It had live music and cheap American beer and you could drink and dance all Sunday afternoon. Back then, the border was not quite “slow down and wave”, but it was close. I played there once and recall the posted fire marshall occupancy limit being 770 people.
The BC government allowed Sunday drinking for Expo and afterwards, and the Breakers fell on hard times. In the 1990s, I had a client who thought he saw an opportunity to convert the abandoned property to a casino, with gamblers flying in from Seattle in their private planes and landing at the Point Roberts airstrip and playing golf at the local golf club. My client consulted a lawyer in Bellingham who advised he had foreclosed on the property three times over the years. The lawyer also warned that no one was quite sure what was buried in the parking lot. My client wisely turned his attention elsewhere.
I’m a little surprised the building is still standing. It’s right next to Puget Sound and exposed to the wind and salt spray. I suppose there’s no good financial reason to tear it down. I doubt the land down in Point Roberts has much investment value. There are two border crossings before you’re back in the mainland USA and Canadians can’t move here permanently or work without papers. There’s not much of a market.
US Customs and Border Protection takes an expansive view as to what constitutes working. One afternoon I was in the Point Roberts customs office when a Canadian fellow was sent in from the Nexus lane. He and his wife had come down to check on their rental property. The customs officer said this was work. When fellow got a little argumentative, the customs officer asked him if he wanted to “escalate” the situation. The Canadian, realizing the escalation might involve being stuffed in the back of a van and transported to Bellingham, backed down.
The punch line came a minute or two later. As the fellow waited for the papers to be prepared for a “voluntary deportation”, which carries with it a minimum 6-month prohibition from entering the US, his wife came in, wondering, I expect, what her husband had got up to. He told her what had happened. She replied, “I hope this doesn’t interfere with our trip to Maui next week.”
Fairytale about population decline
https://open.substack.com/pub/onceuponanews/p/the-vanishing-kingdom?r=19bdgo&utm_medium=ios&utm_campaign=post
Wrote this yesterday while on the road, illustrations and voice over today
Here is a writeup I did about a trip I took to Ecuador. It includes the perils of public transportation and personal space. https://shanmonster.dreamwidth.org/991316.html#cutid1
One more:
Have a Nice Day
“What’s your purpose in coming down today?” the Border Officer asked. Elrod was always nervous crossing the border. There was rarely a problem, but, occasionally, he would run into some young, fresh-faced recruit on the lookout for a pedophile sex-trafficking ring run by a cabal of socialists, probably Democrats; or, alternatively, a jaded, cynical, bitter, veteran of the US Customs and Border Security who, eager to defend America against the wave of illegal immigrants threatening to overwhelm its southern border, was, instead, assigned to Point Roberts, Washington, a quiet, leafy exclave, accessible only through Canada. Point Roberts was a small, mostly rural community—its population was less than a thousand permanent residents--that subsisted on selling cheap gas and cheese and providing shipping and receiving services. Its salad days of Sunday drinking and an adult movie theatre were well in the past. The only threats to America from its northern neighbor were fresh fruit and Canadians coming down to check on their rental properties.
Today, the Border Officer was a friendly woman who appeared to be in her mid-sixties. “I’m picking up a parcel—a trombone mouthpiece—at Point Shipping,” Elrod said. The Border Officer scanned Elrod’s passport and, as she returned it to him, smiled. “Have a nice day,” she said.
As Elrod left the border crossing, he noticed a vehicle, a brown Porsche Macan, exit the Nexus lane and turn onto the main road, cutting in just ahead of him. After about one hundred meters, it turned into the parking lot of Point Shipping. Elrod followed, and parked next to it. The Porsche and Elrod’s car were the only vehicles in the parking lot. The driver of the Porsche got out, walked to the building, and entered the office. Elrod followed. They were the only customers.
The Porsche driver was there to pick up a couple of parcels. The attendant took down his information and went to retrieve the parcels from the warehouse. Elrod waited patiently, studying the Porsche driver, a tall, slender man, about thirty-five years old, dressed in flip-flops, a pair of dark track pants, and a pink hoodie with a “Superdry” logo on the chest. The attendant returned with two large parcels. One appeared to be camera equipment; the other an expensive piece of consumer electronics. The Porsche driver paid the fee and carried the boxes out to his car.
The attendant retrieved Elrod’s parcel. “Another mouthpiece?” she asked. Elrod laughed. He had been a regular customer for years.
Elrod returned to his car. The Porsche was gone. Elrod left the parking lot, turned left onto the main road, and headed north towards Canada Customs. About fifty metres from the border the left lane was coned off, and there was a single line of about six cars waiting in the centre lane to cross into Canada. Elrod stopped and took his place at the end of the line. There was only one lane open and the line was barely moving. Several cars arrived and stopped behind him.
Elrod glanced at his driver side mirror. He saw the Porsche approaching from behind, in the left lane. The Porsche passed him, proceeded as far as the cones, and stopped. The driver turned on his right turn signal and tried to edge into the line. Elrod heard a woman ahead of him yell at the Porsche driver, “There’s a line! Back up!” The Porsche driver ignored her. The drivers inched forward, refusing to let the Porsche in. Elrod proceeded slowly, not allowing any gap between his car and the car ahead of him. As he passed the Porsche, Elrod glared at the driver. But the driver behind Elrod hesitated and the Porsche crowded into the centre, ahead of the drivers who had been patiently waiting their turn.
Elrod got to the booth. “Anything to declare?” the Customs officer asked. “Just a used trombone mouthpiece,” Elrod said. He paused and then added, “Do see the guy behind me in the Porsche? He butted into the line. You might ask him about the two parcels he picked up at Point Shipping.” The Customs Officer looked at the Porsche. “Let’s see what he declares,” he said. He handed Elrod’s passport back. “Have a nice day.”
The King Is Dead
The town was called Farmland,
every state probably has one.
The diner was not uncommon either:
brisk, efficient old people working tables
and counter, pies under glass.
Over our booth hung a glorious velvet Elvis,
like the patron saint of comfort food.
Min, the newest member of the team,
inquired after it, perhaps thinking
she was looking at a local figure
or someone in period costume.
What! the cries went up, you don’t know
who Elvis is? Surely even folks in China
are familiar with the music of Elvis.
While we waited for our pork tenderloins,
Min dutifully pulled down a famous song
onto her phone. Tinny and barely audible
over the lunch crowd, the tune was still…
recognizable. All eyes waited expectantly.
A gentle smile: Nope, didn’t ring a bell.
*Travel* is a terrific prompt!
I write a series on road trips in the micro mashup, my weekly 100-word microessays. Here’s the latest featuring national parks:
https://open.substack.com/pub/morningpagemashup/p/road-trip-the-national-parks-6a6?r=78mjm&utm_medium=ios&utm_campaign=post
Hello 👋 Thank you for the prompt. It inspired me to write a post. I wrote about what it means to me as a stepmother for my step child to travel the world for the very first time. May not seem like a biggie to regular parents but the experience is different for me.
https://thebravermom.substack.com/p/her-first-travel
I've traveled from Bryce Canyon Park to Capital Reef now--incredible. BUT have been without wifi for too long. Currently sitting outside an Information place, and trying to catch up on all the wonderful posts here--I am so grateful to see this!
Wonderful stories from others here. I used to only blog when I travelled, so I felt inspired to contribute. I've dusted off an old WordPress post from a few years ago. It's part 1 or 2 so I guess I'll update part 2 next. To start here's the first 'Postcard from Latvia'. https://marylouisetucker.substack.com/p/postcard-from-latvia-2017-23-02-03?sd=pf
Oh my, I was so excited I didn't follow the word count rules. I'm a retired Technical Writer who spent years writing instructions. I really will try to read them in future!