Mind Over Water

Growing up in the suburbs, I was an avid reader of Surfer magazine. You know, for the articles. Looking back now, I can honestly say that the images printed on its glossy pages actually kindled a different type of desire however. The saturated photos of glassy tubes and empty sets made me want to trade my basketball hoop for a six-foot length of fiberglass-encased foam. But among the many realities clouding my pre-teen fantasy was the fact that I'd need my mom to shuttle me to and from the beach—a two hour drive each way.

Twenty years later, still convinced that nothing could match the sheer exhilaration of a painful wipeout in icy surf, I decided to take matters into my own hands. Mom wouldn't even have to know. Naturally I spent some time carefully researching the best place to learn the Polynesian art of he'e nalu. Unable to afford an expensive journey to one of the legendary spots scattered around the globe, I settled on the next best thing: Penzance. Figuring the North Atlantic couldn't be that cold in mid-September, I then scheduled a lesson with Global Boarders in Cornwall.

Transitions Abroad recently published my account of the experience. Hopefully I succeeded in channeling a bit of the enthusiasm I used to have for the sport. For the record, I enjoyed every minute of it, even the water temperature.

I Was Waiting To Be Struck By Lightning

Maybe it's all the rain. Or perhaps I'm actually a melodramatic person. I suppose there's also the possibility that I have a Scottish cell or two in my bloodline. Whatever the truth may be, I can't stop listening to Camera Obscura's new album, My Maudlin Career. Songs like "The Sweetest Thing," and "Swans" are fantastic, four-minute synopses of emotional devastation. With lines like "When you're lucid you're the sweetest thing/I would trade my mother to hear you sing," it's clear that lead vocalist Tracyanne Campbell endows her lyrics with a peculiar Glaswegian sensibility, but it's the rest of the band that really elevates the music from mere pop to sheer poetry.

What I find most appealing about this quintet is that so many of their compositions involve a solitary journey: in pursuit of a feeling, to reunite with or escape from a person. Others lament being alone somewhere, or express a desire for another place, another time. We travel for lots of different reasons, reasons that occasionally change mid-trip. It's curious to me that the experience itself can often produce feelings we didn't expect to have at all.

A couple of years ago, towards the end of a ten-day trek through Thailand, I found myself standing on Hat Rai Leh underneath limestone cliffs and an inky night sky that seemed to stretch infinitely westward. The friends I was traveling with had gone to bed, tired after an afternoon spent fighting the Indian Ocean's tides. Our Asian holiday had been thoroughly enjoyable thus far, and yet as my mind drifted off with the sound of the surf breaking at my feet, I was overcome with an intense feeling of loneliness. Suddenly I longed to see the girl I'd been dating for the past six weeks. And the longer I stood there on the beach, the deeper the pit in my gut became.

I could have used Camera Obscura then. Something with swooping strings, a throbbing bass, a bright horn part, and plenty of jangly tambourine to drown my mood with noise. A song to tell me I'd been struck by lightning.

Munro Bagging

Rainy days in June remind me of Scotland. Two years ago I had just returned from ten days in Caledonia and as I gaze out my window at the rain falling over Brooklyn right now, I'm reminded of the gray afternoon I spent struggling up Ben Nevis, Britain's highest peak. Nevis also happens to be the tallest of the "Munros" (mountains with elevations topping 3,000 feet), and it's a climb made all the more challenging by the unpredictable nature of the weather at the summit.

To quote one of the safety notes printed on the Harvey map I bought at the tourist office in Fort William: "Always be prepared to turn back in the face of a sudden deterioration of weather." In hindsight I'm happy to have bagged this, the most famous of the Munros, but I can't say I enjoyed the hike all that much. The visibility went from bad to worse and what started as a light drizzle became a steady shower that left me soaked from head to toe. Which might have been tolerable had I not been greeted at the top by wind and snow. Mind you, I did pass a older gentleman in shorts and a running singlet on my way back down, but I'm pretty sure he was insane. In any case, my Scottish folly led to the single best night of sleep I've had in my life.

Of course some people are of the opinion that the real reason to visit Scotland isn't the hill walking, the haggis, the golf, or even the abundance of whisky distilleries. As I argued in an article for Transitions Abroad, it's the beer.

Juniper in June

Eventually I'll make it to Finland, a place that's intrigued me since Conan O'Brien televised his short visit to the country back in February 2006. Since then I've developed a fearful respect for their music, an intense appreciation of their endurance, and most recently, a fondness for their unique style of beer. Until I get around to booking a flight to Helsinki however, I'll have to find ways to get my Finnish fix stateside.

Fortunately, Bierkraft in Brooklyn has begun to carry (at least for the time being) a tasty Swedish/Norwegian sahti brewed and bottled at Nøgne Ø in Grimstad. I tried a bottle of it after dinner last night and thoroughly enjoyed its sweet, herbal character. Eleven percent alcohol by volume and made with rye, wheat, juniper twigs, sea wormwood, plus a generous dose of honey, it's not for everyone, yet if you have an adventurous palate, sahti is well worth trying.

Similar in some ways to Rogue's flavorful Juniper Pale Ale, this cloudy, somewhat tart drink produces an ample head of beige foam and pours a burnt orange or medium amber color. I'm not sure if this type of beer tastes best after a marathon sauna session or a Lordi concert, but I do hope it helps me crank out a review of Hanne Hukkleberg's new album Blood From A Stone later this week.