The Daily Transit
A thoughtful, sharply written blog by a young writer with extensive travel experience in South Korea, the USA and Beijing, currently living in Wisconsin. (Interview with Ben Hancock)
Features
Seoul Notebook: Days Spent at the Coffee Shop
THINKING BACK, I WAS probably first drawn to Coffee Flanel because of its ridiculous sign. It read: “Flanel than ever before.” By then I was accustomed to the butchered, overwrought English phrasing that was plastered all over Seoul, but that line had a quirky ring to it that made me stop and grin.
It was August. I had just trekked all over the campus that was to be my home for the next year and was disgustingly sweaty; the idea of AC and an iced drink sounded fantastic. I climbed a stairway up to the second story to find the cafe’s glass door. Inside it was brightly-lit and cleanly decorated with dark wood and white tile.
A Bicycle, $1.50, and the Greatest Afternoon
IT WAS SHAPING UP to be a disappointing morning. I stumbled sleepily from bed and into the kitchen, knocking over the recycle bin along the way and littering a blizzard of hole punches onto the carpet. Sitting on the floor and trying to gather them into a pile, I grumbled to myself about how all I wanted was some juice…
Things got a little better when I noticed a note that my fiancee had left me, telling me I was her “hottie from hottingham.” I had the day off from work and so the hours were all mine - I just had no idea where to begin. For a checklist-making man like myself, this was a very bad thing.
Portland Notebook: The Barley Mill
I WAS ON THE HUNT - I wanted meat, and I wanted beer. A simple burger joint would not do; I craved atmosphere, a dark pub corner where I could hunker down over a hearty ale and dive into a book or sit back and feel the currents of Portland’s Southeast side. Belly grumbling and mind determined, I set out into the night.
I cruised over to Bellmont Street; at first I found only a rowdy sports pub, but I hopefully explored the sidestreets. Delightedly I stepped into an apparenty quiet, candelit spot - only to find a couple pounding shots at the mostly-deserted bar, hoots ensuing. I moved on.
Return of the Day Job
IT BREATHED AND HOWLED, letting out its whistle like some heaving iron monster. The train was almost invisible in the fog and floated eerily amid the sprinklings of urban light in the pre-dawn black.
It was a halting sound. I paused, straddling my bicycle, to wipe my dewy glasses before continuing my ride to work. The world was an opaque mess of white, and with such limited visibility I only hoped I wouldn’t slam into a parked car - let alone a moving one.
Decompressing, the Oregon Coast, and Home
TO BORROW THE WORDS of Alex Garland in his description of Ko Sahn Road, Canon Beach is, for us, a decompression chamber. Here we soak in misty ocean vistas as we reflect on our trip, discussing from a comfortable distance what it will be like to return home - to the organized days of school and work, to familiarity, and to the challenges that lay waiting on the back burner.
After camping for several nights, the basic comforts of a hotel room seem amazing to us: a shower that isn’t quarter-fed, actual pillows (not stuff bags filled with clothes) and clean sheets. We feel reintroduced to modern society.
Fourteen Hours
THERE IS SOMETHING MISCHIEVOUSLY satisfying about knowing you are one of the few people awake in a given city. And there is something absolutely cathartic about being able to roll up your tent, turn up the stereo, and blast past state lines.
And so that’s just what we decided to do.
Over the course of our southbound trip, Nick and I reevaluated our return plan. Originally we had settled on the notion of a slow meander back up Highway 101, but as time wore on and we increasingly had the itch to go back north, we decided to tackle the journey in one fell swoop. We would travel from Santa Cruz to Canon Beach in one day, mashing up through the center on Interstate 5 and totaling nearly 800 miles.
Highway 1 to Capitola
WE THROTTLE OUT OF San Francisco and are winding southwards on Highway 1, gunning down the roadway precariously close to coastal cliffs. Excited, resigned, taking in all we can as we silently acknowledge that we are headed to our southernmost destination – after Santa Cruz, it’s the way home.
The scenery is fantastic, a rolling gradation of bucolic fields, harsh drop-offs, sand dunes and beaches.
Feeling spontaneous, we spot The Half Moon Brewery and turn off of the highway. At the restaurant, we sit, take in a breath of sea air, and have a look at the menu – and it looks a little pricey. So in the same vein, we “spontaneously” decide to ditch it and are peeling out of the parking lot before we get our waters.
A Short Cappucino and a Chinese Bun
RED BEAN. LEMON-PINEAPPLE. BARBECUE PORK. Custard. I’m staring at the display case debating over which filling sounds best on this particular morning. The bakery is packed, and Nick and I are the only white guys in the place - a sign that the buns are good here. And I love a good Chinese bun.
We had woken up relatively early that morning, stumbled sleepy-eyed through the hostel to get showered before heading up to Cafe Trieste on Vallejo. With a mostly wood interior and an aged, bohemian feel, it reminded me of the coffee shop I once worked at back in Seattle. But the baristas at Trieste aren’t too keen on bullshitting - you order, you pay, you sit or you go. They show affection best through a strong cappuccino.
Citywide
WE SAIL LIKE EAGER PIRATES over the pavement, sweeping down Columbus Street in search of food. Two circles of rubber meet road as lungs suck in gray sky for sustenance. Now we’re on Market Street, pushing pedals past Fourth, Fifth and Sixth. This ride is our morning salutation to the city, a yoga of caffeinated cadence. The periphery is a blur of human scenery.
Many rotations later we arrive at Momi Toby’s, a favorite Hayes Valley cafe from my last visit to the city. My teeth already have plans for an onion bagel smothered in cream cheese. We lock the bikes across the street, a breeze gently invades my hoodie and laps away the sweat. I open the flimsy screen door, and step inside.
Poetry in the Pavement
We're scrambling for change. A line of cars is queuing up behind us, and the Russian woman working the toll booth looks unforgiving. "Could ya help us out?" I ask, chagrined and holding one dollar less than needed for the toll.
"I cannot take less than five," she replies, stone-faced with a thick accent. We don't have five in cash, I say, so what then? "You will get a fine for thirty dollars mailed to you," she answers. Sweet. Welcome to San Francisco.
The day is cloudy and I'm feeling a bit pissed from a seven-hour drive and the Golden Gate toll debacle. We park around the corner from a strip club - coincidentally adjacent to our hostel - plug the meter and lug our stuff up to the Green Tortoise. The employees at our hostel are changing shifts and so we just sit there while the meter runs. The woman working says we should just sit tight. "I'm just worried about the meter," I say, tired and feigning patience. "Well go feed it", she says.
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