This is a story about finding love just when you'd sworn off looking for it.

In early September, Audrey and I co-presented at a conference in Monterey, California. Monterey just also happens to be the place where we'd first met almost exactly 15 years before, where our joint approach to life on the road got its start.

In the driveway, the exact spot where our lives together began, we got to thinking how best to answer another oft-asked question: “So how did you guys meet?”

This is the story, roughly and in brief, like we might tell it at a bar. His and hers, back and forth, crumpled unlined notepad paper, speckled with red wine. History, revision, and an occasional differing point of view.

Dan: As I walked down the street vaguely wine-addled, I witnessed two young women emptying a small car of a large pile of worldly collegiate possessions. One of the women looked up. She took a long gaze at me, then dropped her bags, her breath apparently taken away. Her name was Audrey.

For her, this was love at first sight.

Audrey: Imagine that scratching sound where the record-player needle gets pulled across the record. Let’s reintroduce ourselves to the truth.

Dan: You want the whole truth? OK. So much for keeping this short.

It was August 1997. I had been living in San Francisco in a jaggy one bedroom, 495 square foot apartment. To its miniature defense, the building had a hot tub on the roof and featured a full view of the Golden Gate Bridge and a sliver view of the Bay Bridge.

I shared this abundant abode with my friend Tony. I drove a VW Cabriolet. I was told nickel-for-a-rich-man-so-many-times that my hair made me look like Flock of Seagulls. So basically, I rolled with a circa mid-1980s look. But I could cook, sort of. I drank wine, and not just white zinfandel. I wore double-breasted suits with suspenders to meetings with clients and somehow thought that was appropriate.

I was dating. Women. A few of them. I was a management consultant and spent a lot of time on the road. (This makes me sound like I think I was a player. I was not. I was simply confused.) Anyhow, by mid-August of that year I had sworn off dating for an indefinite spell, if only to clear my head. No more dating, at least not for a while.

Then something happened.

I got a phone call from a friend. (Or was it an email?)

“You want to come down and meet me in Monterey? I’m headed back for a couple of weeks.” An elementary school friend then stationed in the U.S. Army in Korea had planned a visit back to Monterey, California to see his girlfriend.

Monterey. Friends. Weekend. A free place to crash. Tony and I could take a drive down the coast, tool around the area, and hit the Monterey Wine Festival.

Sure. Why not?

It was an unusual Monterey weekend. While a bit of fog graced the peninsula that morning, it burned off early. And with the Monterey Wine Festival underway — something that Tony and I would take advantage of from about the time doors opened around noon — a perfect day was served.

After a few oysters, tapas and a dose of mid-afternoon wine tasting-qua-guzzling, we opted to head back to the apartment for a recovery nap.

I cut my way down the street, probably feeling cool, but looking much less, haphazardish. There were two young women, a little sun beat, emptying crates and bags from a scrappy, well-worn gray Volkswagen Golf GTI.

As Tony and I approached, he suggested that we might help the young women unpack their car. Their destination: the same house where we’d slept the night before. Points to Tony for chivalry in time.

Hmmm. This could get interesting. Who needs to swear off women for a while, anyway?

Audrey: I had just driven across the United States, a 3,000 mile road trip from Virginia with a close friend, in my 10-year old VW GTI. “California, here I come!” I felt. Living in California, graduate school, Peace Corps. Three life goals coming together within a year.

Me and my GTI, the final leg cross-country, up the Big Sur coast.

Boys would play no part in it. Nope. This was going to be my year.

So I laughed when my housemate’s boyfriend, Tom, half jokingly warned me of his friends visiting from San Francisco: “They’re trawling for women.”

As I began unloading my life from the car, I heard offers of help ring from the foot of the driveway. Two guys, a little worse for wear from the sun and fun, introduced themselves and quickly joined in to help carry my stuff.

Dan’s memory of my being struck by love? Perhaps a misread of my amusement: How eager these two guys were to help. A little too eager I’d say.

Dan: Ouch.

The rest of the afternoon and evening was a bit of a haze. There was interest, some jockeying. We went to a local pub en group, returned home, and continued to chat. Audrey put away, rather impressively, a few Boddington Ales.

As everyone else peeled off to sleep, Audrey and I stayed up. I don’t recall all that we talked about, but it was apparently a lot because we were up almost the whole night. Travel was certainly part of it. I was mesmerized by Audrey's international background — from a family of diplomats and missionaries, of a life overseas. I felt like the local boy trying to figure out the world, even as I prepared for my first trip abroad to India and Indonesia that winter.

We talked economic theory, too, recovering Econ majors bound in shared nerd-dom. We even discussed the Coase theorem.

Who on earth opens a relationship by talking about the Coase theorem?!

In no way did the scene sing romance. This was not a bar out of the Frank Sinatra song, It Happened in Monterey.

Audrey: I’m good with this version of events. It was fun. Goofy, really. I didn’t think much about it. I was leaving in nine months and there was no point in meeting anyone, Economics majors or otherwise. Easy come, easy go.

Or perhaps because I was leaving in nine months I was more open to taking chances.

Dan: On my way out the door back to San Francisco, I gave Audrey my details: “Here’s our address, my cell phone.”

Audrey’s friend, Sarah, was scheduled to fly out of San Francisco late the following afternoon. Their plan: to visit San Francisco and stay with Audrey’s brother. (Maybe I pulled off being cool, but I'm sure I double-checked the number at least ten times before I handed it over.)

“Just in case things don’t work out with your brother and you need a place to stay.”

Come late Monday afternoon, I got the call. Rather conveniently, things hadn’t worked out with Audrey's brother, and there were Audrey and Sarah, planless and no place to stay but chez Dan and Tony.

It was also Audrey’s birthday. With Tony’s counsel, we collected provisions from an Italian deli or two in North Beach and headed out to a cliffside spot in the Presidio with a sunset view of the Golden Gate.

No impromptu birthday picnic could beat this. I’d stolen Audrey’s heart, though in reality it was pretty much Tony’s idea, so maybe he was the one doing the stealing for me. Thank goodness someone in the story used good judgment. We get by with a little help from our friends. Sing it with me.

Everything was left open-ended. No commitment to continue that either of us can remember.

But alas. The following day when Audrey took off back to Monterey, she also conveniently left behind a pair of shoes. “Easy come, easy go, eh?”

Eventually, she got the shoes.

And I got the girl.

Epilogue

During the weekends that followed, we jumped out of an airplane at over 15,000 feet, hiked together in Yosemite, and earned our scuba diving certifications in the uncomfortably cold waters of Monterey Bay.

A couple months later, I left for my first trip outside of North America to India and Australia (hence, the scuba diving classes). Audrey left several months later for the Peace Corps, which would take her away to Estonia for 27 months.

Time was short. When we think back, we feel like we squeezed every ounce of experience out of those first few months together.

This was how we — and our approach to life — came together in those early days.

Nowadays, we spend 24×7 with each other. For the behind the scenes on that story, you’ll just have to wait for another post.

The post It Happened In Monterey (Or, How We Met) appeared first on Uncornered Market.

Last weekend, I arrived in Asheville, North Carolina to visit family. And boy, was I tired.

The last two months have been chock full: traveling from Central Europe to Crete to Istanbul to Iran, back to Istanbul, Germany and finally to a series of family visits up and down the east coast of the United States.

But I’ve been feeling a little spent. It’s not only the movement, but also my head, to the brim with fresh experiences and quite frankly deprived of the time and space to properly process them all. Amidst the fatigue, I began to wonder if perhaps I had reached some limit in what I could do, what I could take on.

Then I began to listen to my 95-year-old grandfather and his pals telling stories at their retirement home. They offered me a lift and a few lessons about life and determination.

These days, the world tends to look to youth for inspiration. But don’t count out the gray hairs, for there are many things we can learn from them, too.

Here are just a few lessons to learn from nonagenarians.

You are never too old to learn.

Andrew, one of my grandfather’s colleagues from when they both worked in India in the 1960s, now lives in my grandfather’s retirement complex.

He had to give up his violin lessons when he escaped Hungary in 1937 as his family began facing persecution for being Jewish.

“It had been 75 years since my last violin lesson. I wanted to play violin again, but I sounded awful. I decided I needed lessons.”

Andrew taking violin lessons anew after a 75-year break.

Earlier this year, he began taking violin lessons again. We asked how things are going.

“I’m progressing pretty well. It’s fun to play again,” Andrew chuckled.

He’s scheduled to play a Christmas concert this week. I imagine there are many more in his future, too.

Enjoy the moment.

We didn’t meet Liz Talmage, the woman playing piano in the video below, but heard her story on our first night in Asheville. Liz was 101 years old when this video was taken one evening of her and her nephew playing a duet of She’ll Be Comin’ Round the Mountain.

Later that evening, she played an encore of My Only Sunshine.

The next day, she took a nap and never woke up.

Enjoy the moment. You never know when you – or those around you – are going to go.

Keep on playing.

“I now play what I played in high school. The pieces from college are too difficult for my hands to reach the octaves,” my grandfather explained as he sat down at the piano.

He went on to play a challenging classical piece he’d memorized 80 years ago. He sounded great for any age, really. More importantly, he was having fun.

Even if you can’t do things quite the way you did in the past, it doesn’t mean you should stop. Continue to do what gives you joy. Daily.

Ask questions. Be curious.

One thing continually strikes me about my grandfather and my Oma (my mother’s mother): they never stop asking questions and they are always curious. They wanted to understand what we were up to, our plans for the coming year.

We tried to keep up with their questions.

“Now why are you going to Egypt again? What sort of conference is this?” they both asked about a travel and tourism conference in Cairo we are headed to this weekend.

Try to explain the life of a nomadic travel blogger to your 95-year old grandfather who has never even known email, much less the internet.

It gives you perspective.

Keep on moving. Be determined. Always.

”I can’t run up steps as fast as I used to,” my grandfather now explains, as if he must.

He may not be able to scale the stairs as fast as he once did, but that doesn’t prevent him from charging them anyhow. Sure, he might be a bit wobbly, a little slow. But he doesn’t complain. He’s still rather upright, too.

May we all charge our own sets of stairs with as much determination and grace.

One step at a time.

The post Keep Tickin’: Life Inspiration from Nonagenarians appeared first on Uncornered Market.

Ah, kids these days. The list runs long of their digital addictions: texting, gadgets, Facebook, internet, and video games. But during our visit to the U.S., we bore witness to a few fleeting moments that reaffirmed that kids are still kids.

That is to say, kids as we knew them: little girls leveraging the lemonade-stand model to raise money for an afternoon trip to the toy store, middle schoolers oohing and aahing over stories about eating bugs and engaging with giant rodents, and high schoolers jumping off absurdly high cliffs to demonstrate their mettle.

With cultural evolution at high speed, it’s comforting to know that while many things have changed, a few remain the same.

Note: If you are looking for eye candy, check out the time lapse audio slideshow of the kids jumping off the ledge at the waterfall here.

Little Kids and Lemonade Stands

After a visit to the Saturday farmer’s market, we strolled the residential streets of Black Mountain, North Carolina and encountered Gracie and her friend, Elizabeth. Their sidewalk stand featured a container of ruby-colored juice and a stack of plastic cups.

Even at a distance, there were no signs needed. The scene was immediately recognizable, iconic, and reminiscent of something timeless and American.

“Do you want a glass of cranberry juice?” Gracie asked as we approached from the corner.

“Sure. How much?” I asked

“Ten,” Gracie responded.

“Ten cents?” I asked. We hadn't lived in the U.S. for nine years. I wasn’t sure if inflation had taken such hold that a glass of juice now fetched $10.

“Yes. And you get a free daisy, too,” Gracie sweetened the deal.

Sold. We asked them to combine our two juice orders in one glass so they could cut down on costs (and garbage) and hung out with them as we drank our juice.

“We're raising money to go to the toy store later. We want to buy more bracelets,” Elizabeth explained as she pointed to the colorful bracelets decorating her arm. They looked a lot like gummy bracelets from my childhood.

We wished them luck as we said goodbye. I put one daisy in my hair and saved the other for my grandmother.

8th Graders and Gross Stuff

Before speaking to groups of 8th graders in suburban rural Northern Virginia, we wondered: “Which stories from our travels would 8th graders be most interested in hearing?” We felt a bit out of touch.

So we polled our friends on Twitter and Facebook, and many of the responses boiled down to two things: the grossest things we’ve eaten and the weirdest animals we’ve encountered.

My friend Stephanie captured the sentiment well: “I think that big water rat thing will be a hit.”

Sure enough, the photo of the capybara above drew gasps, shrieks and hoots (one student actually knew what it was called!). The story of Dan eating bugs in Cambodia elicited lots of “eeews!” but the kids wanted more — in particular, to know about the bugs' texture, taste and crunchiness.

Under the theme of the similarity of kids around the world, this Cambodia video we produced made the same impression regarding the relationship between poverty and happiness on the Virginian kids as it did on the groups of Estonian students we spoke to two years before.

“I really liked their video. Happiness doesn't mean you have to be rich and just because you're poor doesn't mean you're unhappy.”

Eighth graders suddenly didn't seem so different from what I remembered after all.

Audio Slideshow: Kids Still Jumping Off “Killer”

Until the police showed up to shoo them away, kids leaped off a 60-foot ledge into a gorge at Nay Aug Park in Scranton Pennsylvania – just as they did decades before, when Dan and his siblings were kids.

The following audio slideshow says it all. Please note that some loud music comes on after about 1:07 seconds. So, if you're at work you may want to use headphones.

Note: We do not advocate jumping off “Killer” or any 60+ foot ledge like it. We would not jump ourselves and we advise others to refrain from doing so. Some of the kids that jumped showed brush burns on their arms, legs, and backs — simply from entry into the water.

But, kids will be kids and not listen to the rest of us. And we will observe and tell the story like it is.

———-

Over the past several years, we've spent more time with kids in foreign countries than we have with American kids. Perhaps as a result, we can't turn off our “traveler's eye” during our visits to the U.S. — and we find ourselves collecting memories and vignettes to weave into a broader thread.

As we do, it’s refreshing to know that even amidst life's growing complexity, evidence of a refreshing simplicity still remains.

The post Gross Eats, Fearless Leaps and Lemonade Stands: Kids Being Kids [Audio Slideshow] appeared first on Uncornered Market.

Think a press pass to the 2009 Presidential Inauguration meant that crowds parted at security gates like the Red Sea did for Moses?

Think again.

And who said my personal inauguration movie would star the Los Angeles County Sheriff’s Department, a man with one tooth, and the Obamas and Bidens walking down Pennsylvania Avenue just thirty feet away?

The Misdirection

When I arrived at the entry point for my press pass (12th and E Streets) just before 8 AM, absolutely nothing was marked. Some people held tickets, others held press passes, the majority held nothing but hope. Practically speaking, we were all in the same boat.

After clearing security with some similarly confused Associated Press (AP) reporters from Spain, I arrived on the north side of Pennsylvania Avenue. Unfortunately, my pass was for the south side.

Our press materials indicated a crossover point right there. I was headed across the street and the Spaniards were headed to the National Mall. We queried a group of security men in fatigues.

Men in fatigues at 12th Street, “Sorry. You cannot cross here. Try 14th Street.”
Men in fatigues at 14th Street, “Sorry. You cannot cross here. Try 12th Street.”

Getting the idea here?

The Big Loop

Before going any further, a map of Washington, DC with all the confused twists and turns of my eight mile route through the city (thanks to my GPS tracking device) might be illustrative.

All I wanted to do was cross the street. I might as well have had a pass to the moon.

“You’re gonna’ have to go to the top of the parade route,” the security officer delivered with conviction. So much conviction, I’m certain he didn’t even look me in the eye.

“Where’s that?”

“Pennsylvania and 18th.”

I was at Pennsylvania and 12th. That’s only about six blocks. The only problem: Washington, DC was barricaded like it was under siege.

Two miles later, I arrived at the edge of the Ellipse just in time to witness the mid-winter fringe festival. One episode featured the Christian Right vs. the Gay Goths. Think “Celebrity Death Match” inaugural style. Megaphones in hand, they debated the pros and cons of sodomy.

Ah, the grand American tradition of dissenting views.

I continued to a fairly peaceful and surprisingly uncrowded Washington Monument.

“How do I get to the south side of the parade route from here?” I asked anyone with a badge. This included Boy Scout volunteers, more men in fatigues, even trash collectors.

Everyone was kind, but empty hands and shoulder shrugs ruled the day. One of the inauguration volunteers suggested that I go to the information booth because, “They might have information there.”

Kafka was smiling.

I turned around, headed back and watched my own personal film reel rewind: past the porta-potties lined up under the Washington Monument, past the volunteers, past the men debating the pros and cons of sodomy. The streets fogged with the masses headed to The Mall for the swearing-in ceremony. And I was going against the grain.

The Mob

It was about 10:30 AM when I returned to the 12th Street security checkpoint. (In case you’ve been following the map above, my pace had been rather brisk). There were four hours until the parade was scheduled to begin. The only problem: there were approximately 120,000 more people at this checkpoint than there had been two hours ago.

“Maybe I can make myself very small,” I wondered in a moment of delirium.

I made my way to the side of the mob. You know when you’re in a traffic jam and that guy comes up the shoulder? That was me.

Fortunately, there was another lost soul in the crowd with a press pass – a reporter from ABC News 7 Chicago. I’d like to think that we combined forces. In truth, he had a plan and I was simply hoping to ride his network coattails.

“I’m not doing this for me. I’m doing this for the people who couldn’t be here,” he appealed to the crowds to let him through so that he could cover the event for his home station.

“There’s a guy from ABC over here. Let him through.” Someone yelled.

“Hey, Anderson Cooper’s back here! He needs to get by!”

A few people budged, most people just laughed. We weren’t going anywhere.

One man, facing the reality that he might not clear security to see the beginning of the parade, summarized it best: “What’s important is that we’re here.”

As I melted into the crowd, my feet lifted off the ground. I was despondent and considered giving up and going home.

“400 people per hour,” one of the security guards said, referring to how quickly people were clearing the four metal detectors in front of us. I estimated that my body sat in the squished mass of humanity at about slot #2500. Time and math did not appear in my favor.

Fortunately, the people around me added humor and humanity. The couple behind me spoke French; they were probably from somewhere in Francophone Africa. They still held out hope that they would be able to see the swearing-in ceremony. Another man behind them smiled with a grand total of one tooth. His girlfriend provided comic relief by harassing everyone in the crowd.

Ninety minutes later, I was miraculously sucked into a current that dumped me on the other side of the gate. Chance separated me from the crowds behind. I then made it through the metal detectors – for the second time that day – and stood just a glance from the parade route.

I felt like a freed prisoner. I shook. The sun shone. I bent over and kissed the ground.

Cue the music from Shawshank Redemption.

The Freeze

Police lined Pennsylvania Avenue in picket fence formation. On my left, a division of Philadelphia police stood tough. They rarely smiled. On my right, the Los Angeles County Sheriff’s Department. They stood tough, too, but they peppered in a few smiles and conversations as they surveyed the crowd.

“So who are you shooting for?” one of the guys asked as we all shuffled our feet to stave off hypothermia.

“I’m a freelancer, but I’m taking photos for the Peace Corps. My wife is marching with them in the parade.”

“Oh, that’s great!”

Then a pause. “What’s Peace Corps?”

The Cue

Just before the Obamas and Bidens arrived, one of the LA County officers looked at me and the photographer to my left. “Pay attention,” he suggested with a nod.

Something was up. I wasn’t certain what, but his body language indicated something unusual. The other photographer interpreted the message as an indication that the Obamas would be walking down Pennsylvania Avenue and possibly even shaking hands in the crowd.

So I asked him, “If Obama came over and started shaking hands, would you go for the photo or for the handshake?”

“The photo, of course,” he answered without skipping a beat. “That photo will last a lot longer than the handshake.”

I thought for a moment, “I’d go for the handshake.”

The Pennsylvania Avenue Walk

To see the President, Vice President and their families take a stroll in the frigid DC winter – just thirty feet away – is something I’ll never forget.

I found their decision to walk both courageous and hugely symbolic. The crowd behind me went insane at the first sight of the new president. The cheers, tears and screams recalled The Beatles' appearance on the Ed Sullivan show.

Just when I thought the excitement was over, Joe Biden walked over to the crowd, crouched down, and motioned like a high school football player might after scoring a touchdown.

“The Scranton shuffle” is the only way to describe it.

The Parade

After the Obamas and Bidens passed, the crowds virtually disappeared. It was an understandable response. The parade had begun late and temperatures continued to drop as evening quickly approached.

One woman next to me not only stayed but she cheered wildly for every group making its way down that unforgivingly cold parade route. The police puzzled at her excitement, but to me her spirit defined the day.

As the Peace Corps made their way closer, I could see their colorful flags over the tops of the heads of the Philadelphia police. “My wife is marching with the Peace Corps!” I yelled – to the cheering woman, to the police, to just about anyone who would listen.

As the Peace Corps contingent passed, the woman cheered even louder. I shouted Audrey’s name; she looked back and waved. Some of the LA County police turned around with their thumbs up.

“Did you get the shot?” One asked.

I looked down at my Nikon LCD screen. Audrey was a blur.

“I don’t think so. There’ll be hell to pay,” I joked.

A Final Surprise

Disappointed with that photo, I chased the Peace Corps down the street. Through diversions and barricades, I caught up with the end of the group, but not with Audrey, who was in front. I hit my last security gate of the day.

I turned around to enjoy a bit more of the parade, but was drained. It hit me how little I had eaten that day – a Vitamin C drink and a banana in the morning. I fumbled with what to do next.

I heard a voice behind me; it barely registered, “Dan! Dan!”

The calls became louder and more persistent.

I turned around to see a friend whom we had first met while traveling through Turkmenistan in 2007. He had come all the way from Wisconsin for inauguration weekend.

After my initial shock, I got his story and we caught up without skipping a beat. His energy captured the moment: “This has been an absolutely amazing day…I’m so happy, I’m on a high.”

So was I.

2009 Presidential Inauguration Photos

The post The Inauguration, He Said: Of Mobs and Men appeared first on Uncornered Market.

Start: 5:30 AM. Finish: 7:00 PM. Time actually spent marching in the inaugural parade: 30 minutes. Was it all worth it?

You bet.

The possibility of participating in the 2009 Presidential Inaugural Parade hadn’t even entered my mind two months ago. However, a series of well-timed and serendipitous events resulted in the inclusion of my name on a list of returned Peace Corps volunteers (RPCVs) who were to march in the parade. I was honored and humbled, both to represent the Peace Corps and to take part in this historic day.

And what a day it was.

The Wait

At mid-morning, the buses carrying parade participants crossed from the Pentagon into Washington, DC near the Washington Monument. I choked back the day’s first tears amid tingles of history. People were literally walking from Virginia into the District of Columbia!

Roads were mobbed from all sides; crowds of all colors and ages cheered and waved to our passing buses. We turned the corner to a view of The National Mall. It was packed, and buzzed with an energy than defied the news reports. I gazed in disbelief at the sheer number of people who had come together in the freezing cold for this occasion.

As the swearing-in ceremony began, the Peace Corps contingent found itself in a holding tent with the hundreds of others in our second parade division. A line of Marines, perfectly upright, gathered around one of the television screens while high school marching band members milled about in restless energy. Everyone huddled for warmth.

There was something deeply symbolic in every facet of this shared moment: the ethnic diversity, the generational diversity, the variety of backgrounds and professions.

A wave of silence then overcame the tent – Barack Obama was taking the oath of office.

As Judge Roberts uttered “Congratulations, Mr. President,” a release of cheers broke the silence. In a moment of relief, disbelief and joy, a woman close by fought back tears, “I can’t believe it actually happened.”

She was not alone; the energy and emotion was palpable. I believe I even saw some of those Marines loosen their stance and break a smile.

The Main Event: Inaugural Parade

Time finally arrived for us to fall into formation. The parade was about to begin. I exited our tent and watched flag after flag emerge. The day’s brisk wind animated their vibrant colors. That sea of 139 flags, signifying the countries where Peace Corps has served since its founding in 1961, spoke of America’s sense of service to the world around us.

I could have stared at those flags for hours. Visually, it was beautiful. Emotionally, it was staggering.

Those flags stood for the tens of thousands of American Peace Corps volunteers who served across the world, from the tropical heat of Micronesia to the frigid cold of Estonia. Their movement spoke of a spirit of service that still lives – in returned volunteers, in those currently serving and in the ideals of those who will someday serve.

As we approached the beginning of the parade route, the sun disappeared behind the clouds, its strength waning with the day. In the bitter cold, marchers shuffled and bounced to keep warm, while others literally began to turn blue. Several times we all huddled together in the middle of the street in front of the National Archives to share body heat.

Those with internet access on their mobile phones broadcast news and video of the Obamas and Bidens walking down Pennsylvania Avenue.

Then came the call: time to march. I moved. My blood flowed. The adrenaline did too.

Although the parade route crowds had thinned, those that remained were excited. People cheered, waved, snapped photos and yelled out “Peace Corps!”

I heard shouts of “Thank you!!” and “Thank you, Peace Corps!!”

Cue another wave of emotion and choked tears.

Then there was the Presidential viewing stand. Dusk had descended. The Obamas and Bidens stood behind the bullet proof glass, lights shining down on them. They looked larger than life. As for the returned volunteers, we waved excitedly like children and couldn’t help but wear smiles, even if they were a bit tighter from the cold.

More importantly, the Obamas and Bidens appeared genuinely excited to see us! They waved, they smiled, they laughed.

It was just awesome.

President Obama seemed to exchange glances and gestures with one of the leaders of our contingent, Harris Wofford, a former senator from Pennsylvania and a key player in the establishment of the Peace Corps. It was clear from President Obama’s reaction that these men shared a personal connection and a mutual respect for one another.

Reflection

It was also clear that Peace Corps – tuned to the values of service, cultural understanding and international engagement – struck a chord not only with the leaders in the viewing stand, but also with the crowds.

My conversations that day got me thinking about the collective experience and knowledge of all the Peace Corps volunteers (close to 200,000) that have served throughout the organization’s 48-year history. My thoughts then went to the network of people – the co-workers, students, and community members – that each volunteer worked with in his country of service and the ripple effect of those relationships.

As I watch footage of the parade, I’m struck by the beauty of all those flags from all of those countries, representing all those volunteers and the concept of Peace Corps, the whole of whose service is much greater than the sum of its parts.

A Lesson From the Past

A few flags did catch my eye in particular: Afghanistan, Iran and Pakistan.

Yes, Peace Corps volunteers once served in these countries. Today, the possibility of Peace Corps volunteers again serving there may seem distant to many. On inauguration day, however, their flags flew as a testament to what was – and remains – possible.

In considering whether these countries may one day find their way back onto the Peace Corps active service list, I also made note of the flags from countries that now enjoy independence, but not long ago found themselves part of the Soviet Union.

When John F. Kennedy established the Peace Corps in March 1961, the world was in the midst of the Cold War. Perhaps it was a pipe dream then to think that Peace Corps volunteers would ever serve in places like Kyrgyzstan, Armenia, Turkmenistan or Ukraine.

Today, they do.

The post Inauguration Day, She Said: Peace Corps on Parade appeared first on Uncornered Market.

I come from Scranton, Pennsylvania and that’s as hardscrabble a place as you’re gonna find.

— An actor playing Joe Biden on Saturday Night Live

I told a friend the other day that we were in Scranton and he responded, “Are you from there? How did it feel to be in America’s most famous political city?”

Ah, Scranton, Pennsylvania. My hometown.

Most famous? I would not go that far, but Scranton’s name recognition and recent pop fame strike me as disproportionately large considering its population of only 85,000. Particularly toward the end of the 2008 U.S. presidential election campaign, Scranton was lighting up political radar screens with frequent mentions in speeches and a showering of high-profile campaign visits.

Scranton, Conversation Fodder

Prior to the election, the name Scranton could almost almost always be counted on to elicit a reaction or unearth a connection:

“Scranton?…I think I drove through there once.”

“Scranton?…Wasn’t Gloria Estefan injured there?”

“Scranton?…Isn’t there a huge junkyard there?”

We even discovered a Scranton connection during our travels in a remote town in eastern Kyrgyzstan.

An American Tale: Boom, Diversity, Bust…Rebirth?

Tucked into Northeastern Pennsylvania, Scranton exists geographically and culturally in Middle America with a dash of Bourgeois Bohemian thrown in, due in part to its proximity to cities like New York and Philadelphia.

Because of the success of coal and steel industries in the region, Scranton enjoyed its heyday in the late 19th century and early 20th century. It was the 38th largest city in America in 1900 and was home to the first electric streetcar system. The economic and industrial boom attracted waves of immigrants to the area from across Europe.

Having grown up there in the 1970s and 1980s, I can recall the diverse cultural by-product of this migration. We ate smoked kielbasa from a Polish butcher one night, and terrific pizza from an Italian parlor down the street the next. Weekends featured visits to our favorite German butcher and Jewish deli. Orthodox and Catholic churches shared neighborhoods with synagogues.

I took it all for granted at the time. I just assumed that every city’s phone book was like Scranton’s – a pan-European journey from Ireland on one end to Ukraine on the other. These days, the latest wave of immigration to the area is evidenced by newly opened Asian grocers, Halal butchers and taquerias.

Scranton once attracted some of the country’s foremost architects of the time to shape its downtown area in Richardsonian Romanesque, Gothic, Art Deco and Neoclassical architectural styles. But when the railroad industry declined and the coal mines closed, other factories and whole industries followed. Scranton’s importance waned; its infrastructure suffered. The down-to-earth remained, but something of a chronic economic stagnation filled the void.

Over time, bulldozers and well-intentioned beautification efforts have taken their toll, but Scranton’s grand history lives on in the surviving coal baron mansions and grand turn-of-the-century homes in residential neighborhoods like the Hill Section and Green Ridge.

Having just come from Europe, my eyes were attuned to pluck architectural gems from across my field of view; I noticed buildings and stylistic details that had never before caught my attention.

But what is it that makes Scranton so intriguing to politicians and journalists?

It is representative of America – both what ails it and what makes it appealing. Quality-of-life surveys illustrate the dichotomy: Forbes considered Scranton among America’s Fastest Dying Cities in August 2008, while Business Week only two months later suggested that it was a decent place to raise one’s kids.

Scranton: Looking Forward

What Scranton’s future holds is anyone’s guess. Perhaps it may live up to and take command of the cultural shadow it casts.

After our last visit, I’m cautiously optimistic.

Notable Scranton Cultural References

If you still have difficulty placing Scranton, Pennsylvania, one of the following nuggets might trigger your memory.

Scranton Political and Comic Lore

Joe Biden, America’s Vice President-Elect, was born in Scranton. Hilary Clinton learned to shoot a gun there. As I consumed 2008 election news from various perches in Europe, I was struck by how easily “Scranton” seemed to roll off political tongues.

It even made its way onto Saturday Night Live (SNL). The Biden Scranton Rant on SNL sent Scrantonians around the world into fits of laughter. We Scrantonians – a self-deprecating lot – can laugh at our hometown.

I come from Scranton, Pennsylvania and that’s as hardscrabble a place as you’re gonna find. I’ll show you around some time and you’ll see. It’s a hellhole. An absolute jerkwater of a town. You couldn’t stand to spend a weekend there. It is just an awful, awful sad place filled with sad desperate people with no ambition. Nobody, and I mean nobody, but me has ever come out of that place. It’s a genetic cesspool. So don’t be telling me that I’m part of the Washington elite because I come from the absolute worst place on Earth: Scranton, Pennsylvania.

But Barack Obama came to Scranton's rescue in his victory speech (at 3:44, but who’s counting):

I want to thank my partner in this journey, a man who campaigned from his heart and spoke for the men and women he grew up with on the streets of Scranton…

The Office

The producers of the hit television show The Office (the American version, not the U.K. version) recognized an appropriate setting when they saw it. So Scranton finds its ways into heads and homes of television-bound Americans every Thursday night.

Call me biased, but I would suggest that Scranton is a step up from Slough (the economically depressed site of the U.K.-based version of The Office). Certainly the pizza is much better in Scranton.

Tony Soprano’s Opinion

Tony Soprano puts Scranton in perspective in Episode 14, Season 2 (2000) of the Sopranos:

Spoons: So how's Boston?
Tony: Well, it was good to be back for a while, then, ya know.
Spoons: Do I?
Tony: That place is Scranton, with crabs.

That Harry Chapin Banana Song

A wayward truck packed with 30,000 pounds of bananas ran out of control and slammed into a house in downtown Scranton in 1965. It caught the attention of the world. Well, maybe not. But Harry Chapin wrote a song about it in 1974 that lives on.

Whenever I tell someone I’m from Scranton, I’m apt to hear “Isn't there a banana song about that place?”

There sure is.

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