But many of the travel articles I’ve written for the Memphis Flyer were inspired by my lifelong relationship with the Great Grey Dog, that most treacherous of the travel gods. Here’s a piece I did that was basically clearing out the notebook of some of them.

This time around it’s one I did on the concept of the Idiot Tax, which I explained in the article as ”any additional expense or hassle taken on by not knowing what the hell you’re doing.”

Idiot Tax

Not paying attention can cost you.

I should be in Dallas right now. But I’m not; I’m in Memphis. At the airport. For at least three hours.

Why? Because I made a tiny mistake — tiny in the size of it, but larger in the significance. All I did was write down 12:10 p.m., when I should have written down 10:35 a.m. The latter is when my flight left Memphis, the former when it arrives in Dallas. So around 10:30 this morning, when I got online to print my boarding passes, I realized my flight was leaving in five minutes.

Read the rest at MemphisFlyer.com.

Leach Botanical Garden

Category: Parks and Gardens

One way to look at Leach Botanical Garden is that it’s a beautiful little piece of creek-side nature just a couple minutes from the Pick-n-Pull on SE Foster. In that respect alone, it’s remarkable. That so few Portlanders seem to know of its existence adds a certain air of discovery to your first trip.

Walk around its pleasant paths, and you’ll find yourself surrounded by several gardens in one: a native plant collection, a historical collection, and designed to simulate different ecosystems around the Northwest, plants from the Southeast, a camellia collection, a fern collection.

Down at the bottom of the hill is Johnson Creek, which offers yet another surprise. Did you know that this 26-mile-long creek has salmon and steelhead runs? Right here in the city, no less.

But what really strikes me about the place is that it still feels like a home we’re allowed to visit. In fact, the owners, John and Lillia Leach, left the place to the city. They were grandchildren of Oregon Trail pioneers, he a druggist and she a botanist. They bought this place in the 1930s, built the stone cabin and later the house, and named the place Sleepy Hollow. He died in 1972, she in 1980, and they left the place to the city — to us.

I think you’ll find it easy to feel like their guests as you stroll through the woods, sit by the creek, and enjoy visiting their home.

Essentials

6704 SE 122nd Ave., Portland, OR – 503-823-9503 — leachgarden.org

Admission: Free. Hours: Tuesday to Saturday 9 a.m. to 4 p.m., Sunday 1 to 4 p.m.

TriMet #10 or #71 to SE 122nd and Foster. Plan your trip to this stop.

I just spent three days and nights off the grid, and coming back is a rush. I won’t go into too much about what the retreat was, except that it was all about being alone with me. No phone, no podcasts, no book, no music, certainly no computer. The idea was just to remove as many distractions as possible so I would be left only with the internal ones: my thoughts, in other words. And man, there’s a lot of thoughts. So it was about observing those as deeply as I could.

The other idea was to try to let myself settle into feelings, to feel the stuff I normally distract myself from. And to simply be quiet and slow. And to practice self-love and nurturing. To just be with me, in a supportive and observant way, without any judgment.

I was at the coast, in stormy weather, the only person staying in about 10 houses on the road, with the beach at the end, the wind howling, rain pelting … magnificent.

On the way back I was driving with such ease and quiet mind, until I got into Tillamook and realized I wanted coffee and something sweet. I hadn’t been eating sweets on retreat, other than fruit, but now I was in town and I wanted a cookie. Hmm. I was mindful that this was different, that I didn’t need a cookie, just wanted one … and then I decided to get one. I drove around town not finding a coffee shop, and slowly felt the tension rise. Had to go into a Safeway because there was a Starbucks there, and all the lights, the music, the people, kinda shocked me. Is this what our life looks like?

I got my sweet and coffee and hit the road, and as I drove through the mountains towards home, I realized the head chatter was coming back. Not negative, not stressed, just making plans and describing things to an audience not there. By the time I drove into Portland and got to mt place, then spent a half hour unloading and whatnot, I realized my head was humming. Was it the sugar? The city? The arrival? The chatter was definitely back, too.

Then it came time to check email and Facebook and all that, and pretty quickly I found myself cursing that I couldn’t remember a password, and getting uptight because my computer wasn’t going fast enough. Hmm. Is this how I live all the time? With multiple windows open at once? Eating while I surf? Tracking multiple projects at once, talking to myself (and imaginary others) about them all, planning the next several minutes all the time? Still not feeling negative, but it sure is loud in my head!

Is this what my life is always like?

Is it no wonder I get stressed out? That I don’t live from a calm, authentic center? That happiness seems to elusive, that I find it hard to genuinely connect with myself, much less others? I think so.

But what to do about it? What are the lessons from the retreat?

Slow down. Take time to connect. Eat well. Go for walks. Do things that are nurturing and connecting. And occasionally take time to just sit and be quiet with myself. To love myself. And if I have to make some changes structurally, so be it. Get the Internet out of my place. Meditate more often. Go for walks. Nurture that connection with my authentic, calm center. Live, and love, from there.

What could be more important in any moment? Sure, the mind needs to get things done, but when that’s finished, how about reconnecting with the simple, pure joy of being? I felt that on retreat, and realized that it doesn’t go away. I just disconnect from it.

Balance, simplicity, quiet, love, nurturing, connection.

Read all about it over at PeacefulPortland.com. And you can join the project on its Facebook page or by following it on Twitter.

I said in my book that I didn’t think the food was that great. I guess I was “right” in that I was honest about my feelings. It’s just that I went back recently and, well, the food is great! Not sure what I was thinking before, but I’m impressed now.

It was a Portland Food Adventures “first meal of the year,” and you can read my write-up with photos over at BreakfastinBridgetown.com.

I had recently broken up with Woman A. At the same time I first met her, I had met Woman B, and I had a crush on her. A knew this … hell, B knew this. I asked her out when we first met, and she said no. Then I dated A, and B was still around sometimes as a chum. (Still with me?) So then A and I broke up, and I met C, whom I also wanted to date. We had been on a date or two when the following happened.

One day I was scheduling a breakfast as a research trip for my book, and I put the word out to all my usual “Breakfast Crew.” There’s like 25 of them, but guess who were the only three people who said yes? That’s right, Women A, B, and C. And I started to completely freak out. What would they think? Would A know I was into C? Would A still be upset about my interest in B? Does B think I’m a loser? Would C know that A was my ex? Would they all decide I was an asshole?

Well, that’s it right there. Last time I did a Fifth Step, my sponsor said, “Gee, sure is a lot of worrying about what other people think in here.” And he was right. Goes back to childhood, always seeking approval and thinking I don’t deserve it. And here came what I perceived as a crisis along those lines.

So I told the same sponsor about the breakfast deal, and when he got done laughing (he was like that), he just asked me a very simple question: “What would a person without fear do in this situation?”

And to that, the answer was pretty darn simple: He’d go to breakfast.

Here I was, taking responsibility in advance for what everybody was gonna think, and how they would feel, and their judgment of me, and here I was, letting them define me … negatively, of course. All of that was in my head!

So I went to the breakfast. I was nervous as hell, and I covered up the nervousness by talking a lot, cracking a lot of jokes, and occasionally steering the conversation away from uncomfortable topics. In other words, I went to controlling behavior and a superficial display of “okay-ness.” So I got to learn something else about myself there; those are way old behaviors!

I thought about this tonight because I was listening to Kurt Swensen’s podcast (episode #136) and he told a story about going years without a dental visit because he’d had a traumatic one in his youth and was afraid of dentists. Then he went to one, copped to being nervous, and got help from the dentist in healing it.

That story froze me in my tracks, because I haven’t been to the dentist in years, either. But in my case it’s not because I had a bad visit that stuck with me; it’s because … ready? It’s because I’m afraid of what the dentist will think! Or maybe it’s more that I’m afraid he’ll have an attractive young female assistant, and what will she think? I hardly floss, I probably have cavities, I may need work (which brings up money fears), I’m overweight, and gosh, what will they think?

So I can stay in that fear, and keep avoiding self-care, or I can accept what ‘s going on, and open myself up to some help. Maybe avoid greater pain along the way. As my sponsor likes to say, You can be quite uncomfortable briefly or real uncomfortable for a long time.

So I thank Kurt for the reminder. I appreciate that he said we can do these things with fear, but also with courage, and with the acceptance that this is what we’re hear to work on. That fear of non-acceptance, of being cast out, is what I’m here to heal.

So I’ll go see the dentist, I’ll probably crack a lot of jokes, and I’ll try to be grateful for whatever comes up.

Check out: KurtSwensen.com.

Normally, we would then read our stories to each other, and the organizer would pick a winner. I was terrified at the thought of this. I haven’t written a word of fiction since college. I mean, I’ve lied plenty of times, totally made shit up, but never tried to organize any of it. So to have barely half an hour to come up with something, then have people hear it … well, a wine bar wasn’t the safest place for this old alcoholic to be under the circumstances.

Fortunately, a deus ex machina entered, in the form of about 50 people who streamed into the place on some kind of wine tour, completely swamping any notion of reading anything. Yay! Of course, we still wrote, which was kind of fun — in part because I love writing in the middle of chaos, and in part because it was funny watching all these fun-loving wine people try to figure out why several of us were hunched over computers and notepads in the middle of their party.

Anyway, since nobody got to hear it, I figured I’d share it here. I, of course, think it’s an embarrassment to the English language. But what the hell. It was 36 minutes of writing, and there were a lot of crazy wine people around, asking what the hell we were doing. And if you didn’t figure it out, this is based on a true story.

Okay. Oh, and the writing prompts that we had to include were a writer, moving in, a vet’s office, and the phrase “Out of nowhere came …” And I don’t know why, whenever I set something up to be in italics on my website, it comes out read instead.

Okay again.

…

The only thing Dublin McLain wanted when he got to Denver was a shot of whiskey.

He wasn’t normally a whiskey guy, but the drive down out of the mountains, in blinding snow and snarled traffic, had turned him nearly catatonic, and frozen his neck and shoulders in anxiety, and now it was in his head that the only thing to loosen him up would be a shot of whiskey. Maybe some ice, definitely no water, and he intended to slap his fists on the bar and yell for it.

He let the image settle into his head, and he started to feel kind of manly about it. I came through the mountains, he would tell them, and it was a mighty hard journey. So it’s whiskey for me, and none of the cheap stuff.

It really had been a crappy drive. He came out of the tunnel at Vail Pass, 11,000 above sea level, and all he could see was the tail lights of the car right in front of him. He decided to just follow that car, but it was going too slow, and when he hit his brakes he started skidding in the snow – towards the swirly blackness in which he could just make out the tops of trees. He tried to change lanes, even though there were no lanes, and from out of nowhere came another car, also going sideways and starting to spin towards him. And behind that was an 18-wheeler going faster than everybody. “If that guy hits his brakes,” Dublin thought, “we are all gonna die.”

It was three hours of that to cover 35 miles into Denver, and now that he was in town, it was whiskey time. And maybe then some writing, because the whole experience was at least going to make a great story some day. Down from the mountain the hero came, into town and straight for the saloon.

Actually, he found a stripmall, with all the same wasteland civilization he’d left behind in Boise: a Thai restaurant, a vet’s office, a taqueria, a tanning bed place, and a sports bar. Fine, he said to himself. Sports bar it is.

Down from the mountain the hero came, and he boldly strode into the, uh, Backstop Inn. It was kind of a baseball-themed place bragging of the “biggest screens on the west side of Denver.” He surveyed the scene: two guys with baseball caps staring at a screen above the bar, three more at a corner table arguing about something, and a skinny young girl behind the bar.

He settled on a stool and Miss Chirpy – that’s what he would come to call her, Miss Chirpy – came over and asked what he wanted. Our hero said, “Uh, whiskey … of some sort.”

“You mean like scotch? Bourbon? What?”

He noticed that the two guys at the bar were listening in, and he tried to turn to look at them, but his siezed-up neck sent pain ricocheting through his system. He winced, and something in their look changed, as well.

“Uh,” our hero said, and he looked around at all the bottles. “Jack Daniels”?

“Sure!” she chirped, and whirled around. She came back with the bottle and said, “Ice?”

Our hero really wanted to say no, but the idea of pure whiskey was actually daunting. So he went with ice, and Miss Chirpy poured him a shot.

“Any game you want on,” Miss Chirpy asked.

“No,” he said, “just in for a drink. Had a crappy drive to get here.” Indeed, he thought, ‘twas a most perilous journey.

“Where’d ya come from?” she said. She was being mighty chirpy. Dublin tried to bring the glass to his mouth, and another rocket of pain went through his shoulders. He also smelled the whiskey, and it was awful.

“I, uh,” he paused, looked at the whiskey, and forced down a sip. It tasted like burning. The guys at the bar were definitely watching him now. “Boise,” he said, but it seemed like his voice didn’t sound right.

“Come in for some skiing?” That would be the fun, chirpy thing, of course.

“No, I’m moving here. I’m supposed to be moving into my apartment in a few days.”

“My boyfriend just got a new apartment,” Miss Chirpy said.

Dublin looked at her and wondered how the boyfriend had gotten into the conversation. He sipped more whiskey. It tasted worse. The hero should have gotten a beer.

Miss Chirpy whirled off to do who knows what, and Dublin looked around. His arrival in Denver was complete, he had conquered the snowy mountains, he had gotten his whiskey, and Miss Chirpy has a boyfriend. Our hero noticed there was a baseball game on the big screen.