Friday, August 25
n e x t >
2 weeks of furious packing has finally come to an end. No, it didn't take me that long to put together my two suitcases and 2 carry-on bags, but I was simultaneously packing up a basement full of audio equipment, records, guitars, computer stuff, and the assorted useless junk that you inevitably accumulate when your living space is larger than your life. Finding an apartment in the Boston area isn't easy under the best of circumstances, and I counted my blessings when I found a place where I could move in early. Meanwhile, I'd been trying desperately to figure out a good strategy to prepare for the desert. My outdoorsman experiences to this point have consisted of car camping in the California Redwoods for all of 3 days earlier in the year, and the Burning Man web site is deliberately ominous in its threats of 110 degree temperatures and choking duststorms. I will have a car with me this time too, but once it's parked, it's going to be there for the week, and I know that I have to bring all of my own supplies, including food and water. One of the things that drew me to this festival is its adamant anti-commercial stance - the lack of vending, beyond ice and "comfort drinks" in the center camp, lends an air of survivalism to the adventure that makes it appealing to a pampered suburban kid like myself. Standing in the airport as my flight time approaches, it becomes increasingly clear that I'm going to be stuck waiting for a bit. Storms in Chicago, apparently. The nice woman at the gate suggests that maybe I should wait and fly out tomorrow. I reply that I'd rather take my chances - I'll stay in Chicago if I miss my connecting flight to Reno. Right now there's nothing more depressing than the thought of taking my bags back home with me. As it turns out, I make it to Chicago, where I grab a bag of baby carrots for a snack (why don't they have stuff like that in Boston?) before hopping my flight to Reno, which has also been delayed. The inflight movie is some horrible dreck about ballet dancers, but my mind is on other things. A few rows back is a woman dressed in a fire-red sequined shirt and a barely-there miniskirt, and the man traveleing with her has a pair or plastic devil horns wrapped around his head. I'm a bit less conspicuous, but there's no doubt we're heading for the same destination. Look out, Reno, here come the desert freaks.
n e x t >