Taking the next step toward my recently conceived goal of mass transit tourism, I headed to the Louisville Visitor's Center to purchase a day pass which the staff supplemented with a big ol map. I sat outside the building to strategize when an older woman caught my attention, asking if I could sit with her bags while “she got something to eat because she was helping her mother.” I agreed because I felt strongly that she would not be able to track me if I did get up and leave prematurely and I also felt certain no one was going to mess with her ratchety stuff, anyway, as it lacked shine and bourbon (probably) to attract passersby. She returned about five minutes after I wanted her to sans any kind of food or identifiable mother. She mumbled something about her mother, I had nothing to offer, we headed out separately, unimproved from our brief alliance.
I selected the bus route and stop for my initial reconnoiter into the greater Louisville and, after a comedic and failed effort to flag down the bus whose stop I did not quite reach on time, I boarded the bus, elbowed my way to a window seat (an interior seat would have limited the sight-seeing value of the experience to the back of the driver's head and the interactions between a grandma, mother, and little boy that assured me, based on the distracted study of them I did, that the kid's little brain was actively being programmed with mommy issues.
In the back of my head lay a research question based on my inexperience with other places beyond what can be described in books: “Do all American cities, once outside of the downtown, look alike?” My hypothesis:”Yes”. Conclusion: “Only kind of.”
We passed numerous unadorned, functional apartment buildings with inviting names like “The Puritan”, “The Baptist” and, even, “The Friendly House”. Arrayed like a rainbow outside of the immediate downtown, they bisect the elaborate ornamism of both downtown and an area called “Old Louisville” which picks up just past the few blocks of blocky apartments. “Old Louisville” is a neighborhood of houses dating from the 1850s to 1880s. To an untraveled Oklahoman, they look ancient and wildly different. I found the distinctiveness of Old Louisville unsurprising, though, having traipsed more than once through the neighborhood in laundry-related missions (during the bus ride, I ruefully passed three laundromats on the bus line). Old Louisville terminates in the University of Louisville campus whose modern structures, clean bricks, and elaborate signage suggests a school that performs well enough at sports to have adequate funding. The campus served as my outer knowledge perimeter, what lay beyond was as unknown to me as why people take selfies, spend any kind of time at all thinking about someone with the last name of “Kardashian”, or Black Friday shop.
Once past the boundary, I learned that outer Louisville differed from Oklahoman in its basic architectural footprint. The houses tended to be narrow and long. They reminded my of the boxes of soda that are designed to fit in a fridge. In parts, massive stair cases led to teeny, tiny houses. Everywhere, the foliage seemed more aggressive, like it admired what nature had done to Detroit and wanted to give it a whirl in Louisville. But much aligned with what I knew of the city where I grew up and reside. Much of Oklahoma City shares the houses shedding paint like a snake skin, poorly executed graffiti, more functional for its low-cost messaging than artistic, and the dearth of national chain stores in former commercial areas before everyone outside the neighborhood gave up hope about the place. Everywhere, people sat on porches or in yards in twos or threes, smoking and watching their small world spin. The route's southern terminus landed us at the base of a huge, bluish hill named “Iroquois Park”. The warm and sunny weather made this park a very popular place that day. I wondered how I could manage finding time next year to explore the park.
At the park, a woman and two men boarded and rooted around for unclaimed bus transfers. Some folks with bikes smartly used the bus for part of their travels. On our rebound from the park, we passed a woman whose black pants were slung low enough for me to see the two, feminine eyes she had tattooed right over her rear. The image sent me into a spasm of curiosity about the thought process that led to the selecting of that particular image for that particular place. We picked up a lot of people who had just clocked out and collected their fast food dinners before the ride home so the bus smelled of McDonald's fries for much of the ride back. We picked up a man in a motorized wheelchair which the bus driver locked down with some serious chains. I thought it pretty cool the guy could still get where he needed to go with independence. The young people on the bus stayed on their phones. Mid-way, a man wearing a coordinated, plaid oversized shorts set that hit mid-calf grabbed his Styrofoam cup of joy and gave some hugs to passengers before he literally started dancing down the road. Replacing him, a Santa Claus kind of guy with a super thick dread sat down with all of his seemingly random stuff (a bag of goodies for the kids, I guess?).
Returning to the downtown area, I got off the bus too soon ending up going exactly through the place I wanted to avoid; however, the much publicized high school pole vault demonstration had yet to begin. I returned to Room and grabbed a Big Stripe and headed over to the The Porch to conclude, as I had most others, my day.
I am not sure if Old Boss did it on purpose or if it fell in his lap but somehow he had secured one of the few rooms with a balcony. I hazily recall a story of an epiphany had during a midnight fire alarm that found Old Boss standing adjacent to the Ohio River in his Pj’s, peering up at the evacuated Galt with groggy eyes and a mind open to inspiration so my money is on purposeful acquisition. He quickly converted the space into a come and go salon of his associates and experienced ANOTHER epiphany about the profound financial value of a social space that did not require a tab or tip. He needed it, too, finding the conflict inherent in change a challenge to deal while being forced in a position that limited his ability to contribute to its reasonable resolution. Committed to the organization's mission, he places a higher value on the work than most others so the days, probably for him the first time, were a source of frustration. The porch allowed him to depressurize. I noticed that, in a world where people hesitate to tell you what they want, couching their preference in options and qualifiers, Old Boss tells people what he wants in clear, declarative sentences. This approach is refreshing after a day of confused English usage (and in my case, Jersey train Wreck's incessant ramblings). I think it partially explains why we are all satellites in his orbit rather than the other way around; of course, it might also be because he had the room with the porch and the vision.
A new addition to the That is SOO Wrong Historians was Long Lost Roommate, Old Boss's version of Roomie, an Oregonian that had wandered the non-Louisville wilderness for a full five years. Old Boss's friend both in this world and the real one, I heard Hunter S. Thompson stories of corrupt Mexican authorities marking them for a shakedown only to find that they had sold the pot that would have held...you know...urine to get a ride on the bus in a desperate attempt to return to the United States after some questionable life decisions resulted in a temporary, abject poverty. Long Lost Roommate exuded that Pacific Northwest cool that one soaks up when one lives in a place whose unofficial motto is “Live and Let Live (unless you have a terminal disease and then you should get to choose to die, too)”. I learned that he works actively for his union so, using my Grandmother's logic, that means he is closer to God than the rest of us. Long Lost Roommate seems to have cracked the code to enjoying the little things in life from sucking sunflower seeds while listening to people talk on a porch to the sublime joys of hard-to-spell cheese and well-prepared salmon. Ultimately, Long Lost Roommate flummoxed me. My job is to take notes and riff on the jokes but I kept finding myself in conversations with him where I spoke with actual sincerity about our jobs as teachers. It was unsettling.
The other long-term member of the That is SOO Wrong Historians present, Not So Silent Bob, previously the most opaque of the trio as a dedicated non-sharer, revealed more of his natural personality in ways primarily non-verbal and non-linear. I had concluded from the fact that he got carded often and I did not that he was a few years younger than me but this year I figured out through his commitment to Doc Marten boots, knowledge of the Pogues, and reluctant admission of teenage admiration for heavy metal hair bands that we are just about the same age. Not So Silent Bob loves the things he loves devoutly, be it the Chicago Blackhawks or the Rusty Salmon pants that he used, in one of those bizarre experiences the That is SOO Wrong Historians find themselves in, to announce to at least one biker gang, a mean, white Rastafarian hostess, a sixteen year old bartender, and a group of sketchy characters in search of a Mike with an unprintable nickname and chicken wings, that he is not one to be messed with.
I regret I declined that invitation. It would have made for a great issue.
That is it for this year's adventures, Kronkites. I am on to new adventures revolving around an introverted quest for a new-to-me vehicle, figuring out exactly how late I can stay up while remaining vaguely an adult, and swimming in the public pool where large numbers of my students are learning exactly what (sigh) I look like in a swim suit and I am learning humility (again).
Until next time, I remain...
Carrie the Red (Stripe)
I selected the bus route and stop for my initial reconnoiter into the greater Louisville and, after a comedic and failed effort to flag down the bus whose stop I did not quite reach on time, I boarded the bus, elbowed my way to a window seat (an interior seat would have limited the sight-seeing value of the experience to the back of the driver's head and the interactions between a grandma, mother, and little boy that assured me, based on the distracted study of them I did, that the kid's little brain was actively being programmed with mommy issues.
In the back of my head lay a research question based on my inexperience with other places beyond what can be described in books: “Do all American cities, once outside of the downtown, look alike?” My hypothesis:”Yes”. Conclusion: “Only kind of.”
We passed numerous unadorned, functional apartment buildings with inviting names like “The Puritan”, “The Baptist” and, even, “The Friendly House”. Arrayed like a rainbow outside of the immediate downtown, they bisect the elaborate ornamism of both downtown and an area called “Old Louisville” which picks up just past the few blocks of blocky apartments. “Old Louisville” is a neighborhood of houses dating from the 1850s to 1880s. To an untraveled Oklahoman, they look ancient and wildly different. I found the distinctiveness of Old Louisville unsurprising, though, having traipsed more than once through the neighborhood in laundry-related missions (during the bus ride, I ruefully passed three laundromats on the bus line). Old Louisville terminates in the University of Louisville campus whose modern structures, clean bricks, and elaborate signage suggests a school that performs well enough at sports to have adequate funding. The campus served as my outer knowledge perimeter, what lay beyond was as unknown to me as why people take selfies, spend any kind of time at all thinking about someone with the last name of “Kardashian”, or Black Friday shop.
Once past the boundary, I learned that outer Louisville differed from Oklahoman in its basic architectural footprint. The houses tended to be narrow and long. They reminded my of the boxes of soda that are designed to fit in a fridge. In parts, massive stair cases led to teeny, tiny houses. Everywhere, the foliage seemed more aggressive, like it admired what nature had done to Detroit and wanted to give it a whirl in Louisville. But much aligned with what I knew of the city where I grew up and reside. Much of Oklahoma City shares the houses shedding paint like a snake skin, poorly executed graffiti, more functional for its low-cost messaging than artistic, and the dearth of national chain stores in former commercial areas before everyone outside the neighborhood gave up hope about the place. Everywhere, people sat on porches or in yards in twos or threes, smoking and watching their small world spin. The route's southern terminus landed us at the base of a huge, bluish hill named “Iroquois Park”. The warm and sunny weather made this park a very popular place that day. I wondered how I could manage finding time next year to explore the park.
At the park, a woman and two men boarded and rooted around for unclaimed bus transfers. Some folks with bikes smartly used the bus for part of their travels. On our rebound from the park, we passed a woman whose black pants were slung low enough for me to see the two, feminine eyes she had tattooed right over her rear. The image sent me into a spasm of curiosity about the thought process that led to the selecting of that particular image for that particular place. We picked up a lot of people who had just clocked out and collected their fast food dinners before the ride home so the bus smelled of McDonald's fries for much of the ride back. We picked up a man in a motorized wheelchair which the bus driver locked down with some serious chains. I thought it pretty cool the guy could still get where he needed to go with independence. The young people on the bus stayed on their phones. Mid-way, a man wearing a coordinated, plaid oversized shorts set that hit mid-calf grabbed his Styrofoam cup of joy and gave some hugs to passengers before he literally started dancing down the road. Replacing him, a Santa Claus kind of guy with a super thick dread sat down with all of his seemingly random stuff (a bag of goodies for the kids, I guess?).
Returning to the downtown area, I got off the bus too soon ending up going exactly through the place I wanted to avoid; however, the much publicized high school pole vault demonstration had yet to begin. I returned to Room and grabbed a Big Stripe and headed over to the The Porch to conclude, as I had most others, my day.
I am not sure if Old Boss did it on purpose or if it fell in his lap but somehow he had secured one of the few rooms with a balcony. I hazily recall a story of an epiphany had during a midnight fire alarm that found Old Boss standing adjacent to the Ohio River in his Pj’s, peering up at the evacuated Galt with groggy eyes and a mind open to inspiration so my money is on purposeful acquisition. He quickly converted the space into a come and go salon of his associates and experienced ANOTHER epiphany about the profound financial value of a social space that did not require a tab or tip. He needed it, too, finding the conflict inherent in change a challenge to deal while being forced in a position that limited his ability to contribute to its reasonable resolution. Committed to the organization's mission, he places a higher value on the work than most others so the days, probably for him the first time, were a source of frustration. The porch allowed him to depressurize. I noticed that, in a world where people hesitate to tell you what they want, couching their preference in options and qualifiers, Old Boss tells people what he wants in clear, declarative sentences. This approach is refreshing after a day of confused English usage (and in my case, Jersey train Wreck's incessant ramblings). I think it partially explains why we are all satellites in his orbit rather than the other way around; of course, it might also be because he had the room with the porch and the vision.
A new addition to the That is SOO Wrong Historians was Long Lost Roommate, Old Boss's version of Roomie, an Oregonian that had wandered the non-Louisville wilderness for a full five years. Old Boss's friend both in this world and the real one, I heard Hunter S. Thompson stories of corrupt Mexican authorities marking them for a shakedown only to find that they had sold the pot that would have held...you know...urine to get a ride on the bus in a desperate attempt to return to the United States after some questionable life decisions resulted in a temporary, abject poverty. Long Lost Roommate exuded that Pacific Northwest cool that one soaks up when one lives in a place whose unofficial motto is “Live and Let Live (unless you have a terminal disease and then you should get to choose to die, too)”. I learned that he works actively for his union so, using my Grandmother's logic, that means he is closer to God than the rest of us. Long Lost Roommate seems to have cracked the code to enjoying the little things in life from sucking sunflower seeds while listening to people talk on a porch to the sublime joys of hard-to-spell cheese and well-prepared salmon. Ultimately, Long Lost Roommate flummoxed me. My job is to take notes and riff on the jokes but I kept finding myself in conversations with him where I spoke with actual sincerity about our jobs as teachers. It was unsettling.
The other long-term member of the That is SOO Wrong Historians present, Not So Silent Bob, previously the most opaque of the trio as a dedicated non-sharer, revealed more of his natural personality in ways primarily non-verbal and non-linear. I had concluded from the fact that he got carded often and I did not that he was a few years younger than me but this year I figured out through his commitment to Doc Marten boots, knowledge of the Pogues, and reluctant admission of teenage admiration for heavy metal hair bands that we are just about the same age. Not So Silent Bob loves the things he loves devoutly, be it the Chicago Blackhawks or the Rusty Salmon pants that he used, in one of those bizarre experiences the That is SOO Wrong Historians find themselves in, to announce to at least one biker gang, a mean, white Rastafarian hostess, a sixteen year old bartender, and a group of sketchy characters in search of a Mike with an unprintable nickname and chicken wings, that he is not one to be messed with.
I regret I declined that invitation. It would have made for a great issue.
That is it for this year's adventures, Kronkites. I am on to new adventures revolving around an introverted quest for a new-to-me vehicle, figuring out exactly how late I can stay up while remaining vaguely an adult, and swimming in the public pool where large numbers of my students are learning exactly what (sigh) I look like in a swim suit and I am learning humility (again).
Until next time, I remain...
Carrie the Red (Stripe)