Newsworthy Dine and Dash?

RE: BBC News - South Wales Police: Valentine meal fleeing couple sought

Wow. In 15 years working at a wide variety of clubs, bars, and restaurants, I never heard of anyone calling the police to report a dine and dash. Is this a one-off, or standard practice nowadays?

They'll never catch me now! 

The Real Back to the Future Date: October 21, 2015

In the spirit of truth, justice, and the skeptical way I give you the real day Marty McFly travels to in Back to the Future II, straight from the dash of our favourite DeLorean time machine. Taken the last time I watched the film, you can even see the little pause symbol in the top right. So kids, unless today is October 21, 2015, then today is not the day Marty visits.

Spread the word. Peace.

©2012 Sher Bowie

Newtown, Connecticut

I heard about the massacre just before picking up my six-year-old from school. Once parked, I pulled my iPod from the jack in the dash and the heard words “the unthinkable happened earlier today in Connecticut,” through the radio speakers. Even used to ignoring phrases such as this in our world of unreliable, sensationalistic reporting, something in the voice of the reporter gave me pause. In that brief half-second of silence before she began to speak again my mind automatically composed a shortlist of what she may be referring to. For whatever reason I was expecting to hear about a natural disaster or perhaps a building collapse. The words 25 dead at an elementary school (the number known at that time) was not something one ever prepares to hear.

Taking to twitter to find out the details, wishing for...something. A misunderstanding? Of course, I didn’t find one. Reading updates and following links with disbelief and horror. A nauseating feeling as my guts turned to stone over the reality of the horror. Tears rolled as I sat in front of the place where I feel safe leaving my son every day. I looked at the familiar cars and faces around me. Wondering if they had heard what had happened, wondering if they were thinking what I was. Nothing was apparent from my observation and I continued on my online quest for information, as if any information could bring an understanding of this madness. I saw tweets that resonated and retweeted, but my heart ached for those parents who should have been doing what I was doing at that moment. Picking up their child from school. Giving him a hug. Hearing her laugh and describe her favourite part of the day. Receiving a new piece of art to display on the refrigerator door.

Our children’s schools are an extension of our homes in the elementary years.  The kids spend hours there; we attend assemblies, ceremonies, concerts, book fairs, and sporting events. Something like this happening at one of the most stable, secure places in our routines is inconceivable. I got out of the car to meet my son at the usual spot. I couldn’t help but sweep him into my arms and carry him a few feet before setting him down. He was in an even more jovial mood than usual; telling me he had so much fun that afternoon that he didn’t even want the school day to end. My happiness at his pleasure came with a gnawing feeling in the pit of my stomach. This is how it should be for all young kids, how the day should have ended for the kids at Sandy Hook. We walked past the playground on our way to the car and the monkey requested one swing across the bars on the way through, to which, of course, I obliged. I knew soon he’d be able to tell I was upset and I knew with the amount of media coverage and people talking I was going to have to tell him something about the tragedy. I didn’t want him hearing it from anywhere else first.

My son’s reaction was one at first of outrage, and then of fantasy. “We need someone invincible to go and take all the guns away.” I made sure he felt safe, speaking gently when he began sentences with “If anybody shoots me...” I did my best to hide my tears so that he wouldn’t panic. Mummy crying isn’t something he’s used to.

Once settled at home, I turned to twitter again. I felt the need to say something, anything. Even knowing the futility of it all. There is nothing that can be done for those who have lost their children, their sisters, their brothers. Their lives have changed forever, not just changed, that’s not good enough. Their lives are ruined. Destroyed. Nothing will ever shine quite so bright again. Even if the gut wrenching pain ever subsides, there will a pang of remorse in every happy moment. Something will always be missing. Something stolen. Still, if even one person grieving during this tragedy is comforted by the outpouring of support from around the world, I wanted to do my part. I typed and erased at least 15 times. Everything I wrote seemed so self-centered. I didn’t want to announce how I was feeling. This wasn’t about my feelings, but about my support, my knowing. People often criticize the masses for eating up the sensationalized accounts of tragedies, but there’s a flipside to that as well. If I turn the page, or flip the switch or, more accurately—pass the posts, to avoid tragedies because they’re too sad or too full of suffering—because suffering is not entertainment, the principal may seem sound; however, when innocent people are slaughtered, we should know—we should suffer, we should cry. If we don’t then it’s as if we’re saying their lives didn’t matter. They’re suffering should be known. Their needless deaths need be remembered. I finally settled on a short “Heartbroken for #Newtown parents. Sorry doesn't cut it. There are no words.” The “are no words” referring to the fact that mere words cannot offer comfort here. There is nothing that can comfort these families. Their comfort has been stolen from them. Forever.

It’s 9:17 EST as I write this now and not crying is still an arduous task, when I manage to succeed at it at all. This is not a parent’s worst nightmare, our nightmares pale in comparison; 28 people are dead, 20 children. Babies whose parents will never be able to hold them again. Massacred in their own community. Little kids just starting out in what should have been their lifelong journey of education were slaughtered. Parents, who at the beginning of this school year, shed their tears because their child was leaving their home for a new routine. Crying, just like I did, because their child would no longer be under the safety of their supervision 24 hours a day. Parents, who worried about their child getting bumps on the head; or leaving the school without permission; or chasing a ball into the road; or getting lost on a field trip. No one ever could have even feared that less than four months after kissing your child good-bye for their first day of school that he would be ruthlessly gunned down with a semi-automatic assault weapon in the safety of his own classroom. No one ever would have believed that to be a reasonable fear.

Nothing positive comes of this. No matter what changes, nothing was worth this. Fucking people trying to see beauty in everything, there’s no beauty here. Fucking people tweeting about Jesus weeping. Fucking people talking about how this has ruined their day, spoiled their good mood. Are you fucking kidding me? And don’t think I’m talking about tweens and teens lost in their self-absorbed tirades, that’s par for the course at their age. I’m talking full-on adults. Fucking people talking about how God is in Newtown right now. People praising the lord for those saved. How fucking convenient. What about the most vulnerable, some of the youngest children in the school? They were slaughtered, that’s what. Fucking people saying shit like ”Guns don’t kill people, people kill people.” Yeah, you’re right they do. So let’s make it more difficult to for “people” to have access to the combat weapons that allow “people” to become efficient killing machines. People banging on about the right to protect their shit from criminals. Fuck your shit. Every possession you own isn’t worth one of those kids lives. Fuck you.

Where does this all end? What is the point of this post? Just one more voice in the masses perhaps, but not one trying to make sense of it all, because there is no sense to be made. 

Gunther and Christine Holtorf

I know I’m a bit late on this story, but I’ve been away on a road trip of my own, not quite so many miles but a pleasure all the same. Clearing out the old inbox and catching up on the pile of bills should be my first priority, but the tale of Gunther and Christine Holtorf caught my eye via Pinterest. I followed up with a bit more research and although saddened to hear that Mrs. Holtorf has since passed, I am inspired by their story and happy that they did what so many of us fail to do—exactly what they wanted to do. The second star of the story, their trusty Mercedes Benz G Wagen (affectionately named Otto) clocking over 500,000 miles is nothing to sniff at either.

So much happens to us all every day. Never mind the big go-to events (career changes, deaths and births). We also deal with allergic reactions, fender benders, stalkers, root canals, broken toes, expired milk, incarcerated uncles, and maniacal neighbours. “When will it all just stop?” is an often claim of the exasperated. There will never be a break in the insanity of life where you will finally say, “Hey now’s the perfect time to explore the Darien Gap or learn to surf in Tofino”. The only time “it all just stops” is when we’re dead. The only time is now, full stop.

Now I’m not about to uproot my family and leave tomorrow on a self-serving self-exploration quest or anything like that, don’t get me wrong. Balance is important when you have kids, but there are so many nooks and crannies of time that I waste throughout the week and I’m going to fill them with learning and plotting how to squeeze the most travel and exploration in, given the time and money I have to work with. The potential for Urban Exploration intrigues me, as well as perhaps the more family friendly Geocaching. I recently wrote an article about Orienteering for a corporate client, a sport I didn’t know existed which seems tailor made just for me.

Being an outta site, outta mind kinda gal, I’m going to print this post and stick to my board. A love letter to myself on the day I let the bills be paid an hour later, put my email on hold, and remembered what it is I love about being alive. I have seized today and that’s what counts.

The best of luck to Mr. Holtorf as he continues his travels and wraps up the 23-year round trip next year, settling Otto into a well-deserved place at the Mercedes Museum in Stuttgart, Germany. Most of all, a heartfelt thanks to him and his wife for the greatest gift that can be given, inspiration.

©2012 Bella Bowie

In With the New: An Old Samsonite Contains the Keys to a Treasure

Who would have known that such an unassuming bag would unearth keys to a treasure? Days gone by, after marriage and motherhood, I pulled out the faded black carry-on, buried beneath slippers and stationary stock, that had once been my constant companion. Last seen, I transported my jewellery box when we moved almost two years ago, and hadn’t touched it since. My jewellery box contains pieces from my youth and old keepsakes, no longer worn. I didn’t intentionally send myself on a sentimental journey, my husband was wondering about the chain he used to wear that was kept on our old dresser, and figured it had been tucked into the jewellery box for the move. Lo and behold, there it was, but the real find was the myriad of items revealed once with the box out of the case. Keys to a flood of memories.

A dark blue lighter with Iberostar Dominicana printed in white on the side, the once trusty fire starter reduced to releasing a powdery puff when flicked. An odd assortment of change from around the world concealed in the folds of fabric and netting.  A small bag tucked deep into the side section with a pink razor, two nail files, iron pills, tweezers, toe clippers, a hair tie, a miniature bottle of Vicks VapoRub, and a strange factory sealed bag containing what appears to be papery pink underwear.  I don’t know what I’d planned for that particular little getaway, but it doesn’t sound like anything I’d like to be involved in now. Tickets stubs from Jersey Boys and Evil Dead: The Musical. A pen from the Pickle Barrel and a receipt from Bâton Rouge for $123.25. One Sun Globe lime green eye cover, and finally, one Air Transat double pronged headphone jack adapter (do they even use those anymore?)

Vagabond's Pocket Change

This trusty old Samsonite was my travelling partner in days gone by. I always kept essential items inside, ready for a quick pack attack before heading out the door. So in the habit of saving it, ready to go, for “proper” trips, that I’d never considered it in the recent years where my feet tend to tread on hiking trails and my hotel stays are mainly one night getaways. I found myself swinging it over my shoulder earlier this evening, remembering when its weight on my shoulder came with the security of knowing I carried with me all I needed in the world. There is so much about those days that I remember fondly, but my current travel style dovetails nicely with my infinitely more structured life, and I’m often bewildered at how happy I am with that fact. Regardless, the old girl deserves better than a dusty corner of the closet, it’s time for a reunion with the outside world.

As for the items, some keepsakes have found new homes, but for the most part? Out with the old, in with the new. The May long weekend is fast approaching—the unofficial kickoff to summer 2012—so I’ll be packing up and hitting the road. Sunscreen and floss will replace Sun Globes and lighters, and I’m certain my son will sneak in a few Transformers, once his own travel backpack is busting at the seam, but the coins? They can stay. Who knows where we may end up? After all, wanderlust has no cure. 

©2012 Bella Bowie

MySpace Rocked

The recent sale of MySpace to Specific Media for $35 Million has given new fodder to those who enjoy the constant jokes at the expense of the site.  MySpace’s fall from the revered granddaddy of social networking to everybody’s favorite punching bag−right between landlines and fax machines−is a solid example of the fast pace of our technological times. Objectivity is not something I can claim in this matter as my sentimental attachment to the site, which I barely log on to and never actually use, leaves me its lone defender when the subject comes up.  Admittedly, it is short on actual positive features I can get behind these days, the ease of adding bands and music to the profile pages is the only one I ever tout, and I know my protestations are an homage to days gone by as well as an uncomfortable reaction to everyone’s favourite reality-show inspired activity of kicking a dog when it’s down.

Back in the day, whilst a friend babbled on about this new site MySpace she had joined, I sat bored and a little baffled at her devotion. My internet experience at that point was fairly mediocre. I had built a few basic websites, spent some time in chat rooms and joined a few forums, but she only ever surfed, shopped and emailed, so I couldn’t figure out for the life of me why she was so interested in this site. She just kept saying, “You know, you put your photo, and the music you like and some stuff about you and just, you know, hang out.” The “you knows” in her statement are a good indication of how foreign an idea this was at the time to the common folk. The extremely capable way she normally strung sentences together didn’t help her to describe something that had to be experienced to be enjoyed, and I was highly skeptical. I had no interest in posting a bunch of crap about myself that I couldn’t see why anyone else would be interested in, other than the people who should already know, and I also had no interest in perusing these “profiles” of strangers. Despite my misgivings, I’ve always been down for trying something new (the same friend once professed she would have “Always down” as the tagline on my tombstone until I pointed out it would likely be mistaken as an explanation for suicide) so I signed up.

Tom (Anderson, co-founder), everyone’s first MySpace friend at the time was there to greet me with helpful hints and suggestions. I filled out my profile and then hit personal waste-of-time gold when I discovered the wealth of bands and music on the site. Bands back home, local gigs, and the interaction−actual interaction with bands I adored. Sure, the bigger names may of had assistants answering requests and typing responses but a lot of the musicians I liked were actually maintaining their own pages. The eighteen-year-old groupie buried beneath the surface of the last seven years beamed with delight as I wiled the hours away, not just online but attending secret club shows, MySpace invitees only.

Things change of course and responsibilities and commitments eventually took the place of many of my former evening activities. In 2007, a few friends from high school had started emailing invites to another networking site called Facebook.  I took a lot longer to succumb to these requests than I had to the original MySpace one.  I figured I already had one networking place I barely had time to visit anymore, what was the point in another one? Eventually I did join, mainly because it was the only place my friends were posting photos, so when one friend got married and I was unable to attend I finally checked it out.  At first it was addictive. I was bombarded with requests from people I hadn’t seen in years, joined groups that were a lot of fun because they were just for the hell of it but still personality prevalent. On MySpace, the way pop culture defined you was by friending your favourite artists and listing all your bands, films and books; on Facebook groups like “August birthdays...bitches” and “All my witty banter I owe to Buffy the Vampire Slayer” were even more personal than that. You found people who liked exactly what you liked, including obscure references, which was a bit different. This was my favourite part of the site, but the big pull for most people was the news feed. I did become a little obsessed at first, seeing what all my long lost pals were up to, but it didn’t last. I soon lost interest because frankly, after the initial experience wore off, I realized I didn’t care what all these people were up to.  We’d lost touch for good reason and I had many other ways of keeping in contact with my real friends. I deactivated my account less than a year later, after formatting changes pretty much erased everything I still liked about it.

Through all this I still had my MySpace account (even now) and it still suited me better. Facebook was all preppy and clean and regulated whilst MySpace was loud and messy and fun, but alas before long the fun had faded and even the most vocal of MySpace defenders had jumped ship. I did eventually join Facebook again and it has become a hub of interaction in my online life, but MySpace, despite all the changes that have made it almost unusable, has a piece of my heart that Facebook never will and I−for one−will not kick an old friend when it’s down.  

©2011 Bella Bowie

Wanderlust

When I was a teenager I cut an article out of the paper about a woman who had set foot in hundreds of countries and all the continents.  She had travelled with her husband at first; they had met in their youth and discovered the shared love they had of travelling. They happily hadn’t had any children; that wasn’t the lifestyle they had wanted. The pair travelled together for decades until his death ended their union and now she was still forging her own way across the globe.  I pinned that story to my bulletin board—read it over and over—I had found a kindred spirit, one who understood wanderlust.  I had never identified with the attachment people felt to their homes, their need to settle, be surrounded with familiarity day in and day out.  Perhaps because I‘d never felt as though I found anywhere I belonged, I never felt more at peace than when I was on the move. Soothed by transience my outlook baffled everyone I knew. Sure, many loved to travel but still felt the need for a foundation.  I needed no such trappings.  Nor did I need to be going anywhere spectacular as long as it was somewhere different. I longed to travel from town to town, work in odd places, live a little while there and then move on.  A human version of the littlest hobo—though probably not as helpful.

I did move a lot (fifteen times in ten years), had at least thirteen different jobs in seven different industries and travelled some, making my way to the east coast and down to the Gulf of Mexico.  I strolled on the streets of Havana, scootered around Cardenas, and drank Pina Coladas at the Bridge of Bacunayagua where their succulent flavor heartily competed with the stunning view.  I bartered on the streets of Santo Domingo and traded mixed tapes with a taxi driver in Higuey, convinced I was shredding my return ticket home to eternally live with the gorgeous crashing tides and surreal flowers of paradise.   

Then one day I found myself growing quite fond of the idea of a home base not coincidently, I presume, coinciding with the child who was about to make his way into the world courtesy of yours truly. “Nesting” as it turns out, is not just an odd bit of folklore intended to put mothers in their place as I had thought but was an actual compulsion that came upon me suddenly.  Perhaps it goes unnoticed by those who have always felt the call of home and tea cozies but in my case it thundered upon me and rocked my entire existence.  It took quite a few tidal waves to subdue me and finally did, thankfully just in time for my child to begin his schooling.  I knew well the side effects of schooling instability and wouldn’t wish them on anyone, least of all my new reason for existing.  Half a decade later I was something I never wanted to or dreamed I ever would be—happy in one place. 

The adoration for the open road—sea, track, sky—is still there, but the comfort of home is something I am now familiar with.  I thoroughly enjoy every second I spend with my son and travelling and exploration tackle new heights with the advantage of seeing through his eyes, making old adventures new again. Now I can’t imagine life any other way. Time marches on of course and one day I’ll find myself faced with an empty nest and more than half of the years I have to spend on this earth behind me.  I believe my drifter’s spirit will see me through those hard times ahead, the pull of unseen sights and unwritten escapades egging me on. 

The original article was lost to me over the years and I’ve spent time searching old newspaper archives and online databases trying to find some reference to the woman and her voyages but so far my quest has been in vain. I wish I could find that woman, speak with her.  Listen to the endless tales she must have and tell her how much she inspired me. 


I would love to pin that article to my board once again to read and re-read now, but without yearning. Instead with the certainty that I am finally on the right path in my journey.                                         

©2011 Bella Bowie