Travel stories from a rubbertramp. By bus, by train, and sometimes by the rubber of my own two feet, I travel and tell stories and write about the journey.
Visiting a magical place from my childhood, finding it gone. --- Support this podcast: https://anchor.fm/dirtysacred/support
Where dirtysacred comes from and why. --- Support this podcast: https://anchor.fm/dirtysacred/support
This was a Patron Only Podcast on my Patreon Page, when I had one. Now It's available to everyone! Enjoy. --- Support this podcast: https://anchor.fm/dirtysacred/support
From early 2020: leaving San Antonio when COVID was still a new thing. "But in the San Antonio bus station on St. Mary's Street, the only thing anyone was worried about was whether their bus was running on time. And although I, too, was mostly concerned about my bus being on time, I walked to the bus station in plenty of time – about 5 hours, to be exact. Interestingly enough, in spite of San Antonio being an early epicenter of the outbreak, the streets were crowded with people: young and old, parents and children. A family of 5 kept trying to avoid me on the sidewalk, but 2ndoldest son, about 5, was pushing the youngest in an umbrella baby carriage like it was a shopping cart and the rest struggled to keep up. At one point, the mother snapped “STOP THAT” at her son... and then turned casually to me and informed me she wasn't talking to me. I was relieved. I didn't feel like stopping, for fear the crowd behind might wash me under one of the carriages drawn by over tired, heavy shod horses." --- Support this podcast: https://anchor.fm/dirtysacred/support
As I prepare to get rolling again, I'm posting some older episodes that didn't make general distribution. This one could probably be categorized as "long distance travel strategies." I call it train Tai Chi, but really started on the bus. I've said before that one of the things that makes traveling by train so genteel is the ability to get up and walk around; and that's still true. But on cross country schedules, sometimes when time permits and sometimes to coincide with a scheduled maintenance stop, train travelers get “fresh air stops... the PC version of smoke breaks. And unless I'm asleep, I always take the opportunity to step off and stretch my legs. --- Support this podcast: https://anchor.fm/dirtysacred/support
On a an Amtrak delay in Alderson, WV, I learned a little about the region, from long-standing poker games to the Martha Stewart connection.
Heading west out of Sioux Falls, I found the best fellow passenger was of the four-legged variety.
Foremost, though maybe not first, Rapid City is a tourist town. It's a more spit and polished version of Cripple Creek, Colorado: wild, wild west meets plucky people and pesky uncomfortable history that, when looked at too long and examined too deeply, uncovers some truly terrible things that never made it into a Macmillian public school history textbook. But there's a lot of spittoon quality brassy things, saloons, casinos, and statues of presidents and robber barons who visited once upon a time.Full transcript here.
The next part of the story of how I was thwarted by Larry the Cable Guy in Williston, North Dakota. Full transcript available here: https://wellwornbootspodcast.blogspot.com/2020/04/episode-20-part-2-lapped-by-larry-cable.html
A trip to Williston, ND, in 2013: I wanted to tell that story. I wanted to know how people were creating life for themselves in the midst of this boomtown that exploded. It felt like one of Those Stories... a story that reflected the point where America was, at that precise moment. There are events that feel more distilled than others. And this story about so much money floating around but no way to live even if you're one of the ones making the money... that's an imbalance which can't last very long. That was an American tale, if ever I heard one.
Visiting Mother Jones wasn't just a tourist stop. It was a pilgrimage.
Traveling to San Antonio for a "professional" conference only brought one thought to mind: Good God. How is anyone supposed to pass out business cards that no one reads and then leaves in the hotel for housekeeping to throw away?
To orient myself and to maybe have a wee bit of beer, I stopped in at the 2nd bar I found. I stopped mainly because of the name: Crawdaddies. It looked small, local, and I liked the resonance of a New Orleans reference.
..what I learned was that downstaters are, in general, a cautious bunch. And I can't say I blame them much. We do not live in idyllic times and me, a road dirty monkey that looks the exact opposite of a wide-eyed youth out to see America, doesn't engender much sympathy. The short version: I'm probably too ugly to hitchhike.Full transcript here: https://wellwornbootspodcast.blogspot.com/2020/02/episode-18-part-1-visiting-mother-jones.html
I turned 40 in New York. It was February 2012 and I was almost a month into a year of living on the road, hopping from bus to bus, station to station, and, when I was fortunate, couch to couch. Luckily, I had friends in New York – dear friends from my teaching days who were kind enough to put me up for a few days. Part of the reason I wanted to go to New York during what's arguably one of the least hospitable seasons was because of a not-too-old argument with my ex about the Occupy Movement and wanting to be involved. Full transcript: http://wellwornbootspodcast.blogspot.com/2020/01/episode-17-zuccotti-park.html
Driving through Alabama felt like a cliché; it was all one long stretch of interstate with bill boards advertising the Alabama – the band – fan club, and when I stepped out to buy gas and stretch my legs, the air felt like I was being slapped with hot rag. Full transcript: https://wellwornbootspodcast.blogspot.com
My old Losantiville, it seems, is split between those who travel on the train and those who have no clue it’s there… which is a shame not only for the train, but for the city.Full transcript: http://wellwornbootspodcast.blogspot.com/2019/12/episode-15-as-cardinal-flies.html
Abandoned industrial areas tell fascinating stories – maybe the most American of stories, full of ambition, sweat, and rot.Episode transcript: https://wellwornbootspodcast.blogspot.com/2019/12/episode-14.html
Even genteel travel means brushing up against distinctly UNgenteel rules.
My faith in the currents that carry has been waning a little. But luckily, they never lose faith in me.
Dirty Face lived in a repository of hobo and labor history in Oakland , CA. And who had ever heard of a hobo with a house?
After you listen, be sure to head over to dirtysacred. com to read Lo-Fi, Part 1.
When traveling, never ignore signs and wonders, or anyone offering them. That's the truth from Dante to Pilgrim's Progress and on.
It's not even that I look for certain things in my world as much as they happen to appear. And I know all about the Volkwagon Beetle phenomneon: when you get a new car... in the parlace of this example, a VW Bug... you start to see them EVERYWHERE. It's a trick of the mind and of the fact that people are more suceptible to mass marketing strategy than anyone wants to admit.
Traversing sidewalks in Chicago, like any major city, is just another clogged traffic artery. You get in where you fit in, try and maintain your personal space and belongings, and hang onto your humanity as much as you can without letting yourself be steamrolled
His truck was parked on the road, which was more or less dry and high enough not to be submerged, across the lake that had formed around his house. A small fishing boat was tied off next to his door. He left his house, lunch box in hand, and locked the door. Then he pushed off in the boat across the moat.
About #benchers, a little about hobos, train common sense, and making things up as you go.
Travel is wasted on people trying to get somewhere.
Our trips to The Sunshine State from our home outside Bethel, OH usually happened in July... during the off season. We always left early, while it was still dark.
Waukegan is an interesting place; like a lot of midwestern cities, it’s had its share of boom and bust, and the lines between the haves and the have nots are startling and stark. It was the birthplace of Jack Benny and of Ray Bradbury, who has a small park named after him. It’s hauntingly beautiful place, too,
I don't know why I checked the garment bag. I could have gotten away with taking on with me, but I thought I'd try and be a considerate traveler and follow the rules... after all, the bus was going to be crowded until Chicago.
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