Old Heidelberg Bakery

Heidelberg Bakery in Phoenix Arizona

Every other week I make a trip to Old Heidelberg Bakery here in Phoenix, Arizona, for my wife. I am the responsible party for taking care of her addiction, that being German Coarse Rye Bread. Recently she started mixing things up by trying some whole-grain bread from a local Russian store but the taste of home is the rye bread. I’m also required to pick up a pretzel-croissant for her highness too as one cannot feel like a German Royal without the proper bread.

Now that the holidays are nearly upon us our local German importer starts getting in the sweet flavors of Christmas and Caroline is NOT immune from needing to resupply her blood with nutrients such as marzipan and lebkuchen that are as essential as potassium and vitamin C to other humans.

I shouldn’t forget to mention that this is where we buy the pickles that round out the finishing touch of scent that is unique to the smell of a German. Caroline has tried other pickles but they simply do not compare to the pickles from her native land. Old Heidelberg also carries her favorite sauerkraut, red cabbage, and damson plum products which rank high among Caroline’s most missed food items from the “Old Country”.

While we live in America, drive a Korean car, eat fruit from Mexico, use furniture from Sweden, and lightbulbs from China, there is only one place for bread, stollen, lebkuchen, and pickles: Deutschland. Now let’s listen to some Rammstein.

Serb Fest 2019

Serb Fest 2019 in Phoenix, Arizona

We’ve gotten rusty about attending festivals but lucky for us Caroline was aware of Serb Fest 2019 and reminded me before we missed this one too. The Serbian community appears to be relatively small based on the number of attendees, then again it’s Sunday and the get-together started yesterday. One might be inclined to think that an event celebrating Slavic culture would draw in the Croatians and Bosniaks (and other South Slavs) too, and maybe it did. Hard to say seeing there really is no difference as long as they wear modern fashions, but the folks wearing t-shirts saying “I love Serbian Boys” or “Proud to be Serbian” were probably just that – Serbs.

The food was okay though the lamb and pork combo I was looking forward to was sold out and we had to go with the old standby ćevapčići. With a beer in hand, we sat awhile at a smaller tent and enjoyed a local folk band and then over to the larger covered area to watch some dancing which is also where we heard a song that the two of us liked. It is called “Gori More” and if you follow this link to Youtube you can take a listen.

Serbian Church in Phoenix Arizona

Our big surprise and highlight that made it all worthwhile was the beautiful interior of the Serbian Orthodox Church of St. Sava. This place is beautiful. Hopefully, we’ll hear about Serb Fest 2020 in time next year to attend and the community will have grown. Btw, we just learned that Romanian Fest 2019 is coming up next weekend at the Romanian Orthodox Church in Glendale, Arizona.

Number 19 of 17

Caroline Wise and John Wise on the Oregon Coast November 2018

Here, at the last minute, we decided that we’d go north. The destination we are heading to is Oregon, the coast specifically; it will be our 19th visit during the past 17 years. Only seven of the previous journeys into the state were made outside of late fall and winter, with our inclination to spend time on the rocky coast during the quiet season. The photo of us above is from last year somewhere along the Oregon coast.

Three Arch Rocks March 2002

Trip 1: Back in March 2002, we made our first visit to the Oregon coast and were smitten within minutes of arrival. This is the view from Three Arch Rocks National Wildlife Refuge, seen from Oceanside Beach near Maxwell Point.

Cleetwood Trail Crater Lake July 2002

Trip 2: By July of the same year, we were once again underway on our way up through California on our way to Oregon. It was the long 4th of July, 2002, and we now knew that the drive that far north wasn’t all that difficult, so off we went. The trail took us past a remote corner of Death Valley, through a ghost town, and up to Crater Lake National Park before we turned around to race home to Phoenix, Arizona.

Mount Hood November 2002

Trip 3: Hey, it’s now November 2002, and we’ve just gotten started exploring Oregon with so much left to find. Here’s Caroline standing in an ice-cold mountain stream at the foot of Mount Hood. If you think freezing cold water phases my wife, you’d be sadly mistaken. We are now attempting to see all four corners of the state and the interior, so we have a better idea of exactly where we want to return to on future visits.

Harris Beach Yurt and Caroline Wise in Oregon November 2003

Trip 4: November 2003 and where better to go than back to Oregon. In the intervening time between visits, we’d learned that more than a few state parks along the coast have yurts as part of their accommodation offerings. Back then, they were incredibly cheap in our eyes and seemed romantic from afar. With this here, our first night staying in a yurt, we fell in love faster than it took to unlock the front door. We knew we were hooked. This photo of Caroline was taken at Harris Beach near Brookings, Oregon.

Horses near the Columbia River Gorge in Oregon

Trip 5: Barely six months had gone by before the call of Oregon summoned us back. Emboldened by the ease we were getting to places we thought were too far for 5 to 7 days, we took on this July 2004 summer drive back to Crater Lake. From there, we headed over the Columbia River and up to Washington to see Mount Rainier before driving out to Olympic National Park. Our return was via Oregon and California back to Phoenix, where the scorched desert awaited us. The photo was taken somewhere between John Day and the Columbia River in Oregon.

Caroline Wise and John Wise at Dutch Bros in Grants Pass, Oregon

Trip 6: This one was almost missed as we were only in Oregon for 2 hours after leaving the Redwoods down in California to head up to Grants Pass for a cup of Dutch Bros. coffee. It seemed like a great idea at the time. November 28, 2004.

Cape Meares Lighthouse in Oregon May 2005

Trip 7: May 2005, and it was time to share our affinity with the Pacific Northwest with my mother-in-law, Jutta. With Caroline and I now quite familiar with some “best of” places, we took her mom to Death Valley, the Redwoods National Park, up the coast of Oregon into Washington, and then over to Glacier National Park in Montana before dropping into Yellowstone for her second visit to that park and then down across Utah before stopping for her first-ever visit to the North Rim of the Grand Canyon. The photo is of the Cape Meares Lighthouse near Tillamook, Oregon.

Caroline Wise at Cape Ferrelo Viewpoint in Brookings, Oregon

Trip 8: Oh, it’s Thanksgiving, and there’s no better way to escape family obligations around the holidays than for us to be out on the road. November 2006 was the witness to this short 7-day excursion up through San Francisco with a quick jaunt into Oregon for a couple of days before heading down to Santa Cruz, California, to spend some time on that coast, too. The photo of Caroline was taken at the Cape Ferrelo Viewpoint near Brookings, Oregon.

Carl Washburne State Park in Oregon November 2007

Trip 9: This is becoming a trend where we pack things up for a road trip that somehow keeps ending up in Oregon in November because here we are in 2007, testing the question of, “Will it be boring this time?” The answer was a resounding “NO!” This photo was taken in the Carl G. Washburne Memorial State Park, home of the most southerly temperate rain forest in the United States.

Rocks rising above the water in Siletz Bay, Oregon

Trip 10: You can pass Siletz Bay near Lincoln City, Oregon, one hundred times, and this view will always look different. I’m not sure we’ve stopped here that many times, but on this November 2008 trip along the coast, we were taken by the silhouettes etching out a perfect scene as our day was coming to a close. It was difficult choosing this photo of Siletz Bay when this was also the trip up the coast that had us stopping at the Devils Churn near Cape Perpetua for a sight that enchanted us for a solid hour or more. Click here to see an image from the Churn that is still one of my favorites.

Caroline Wise Kayaking in Garibaldi, Oregon September 2011

Trip 11: Oh my, it’s been three years since last we visited Oregon though we have great excuses why we couldn’t make it. In 2009, we visited Yellowstone National Park for the first time during winter. In May of that year, my mother-in-law Jutta spent two weeks with us in the Eastern United States. In 2010, we visited Yellowstone in January again, as the year before was so fascinating. Then, later in the year, we rafted the Colorado River through Grand Canyon National Park for nearly three weeks. Enjoying the idea of boating, we stretched out on our 10th trip to Oregon for some kayaking here in Garibaldi in September 2011.

Near Heceta Head Lighthouse in Oregon November 2011

Trip 12: A second visit in one year is kind of extraordinary, but we apparently have an addiction problem, and I don’t mean mushrooms. This trip saw us bringing a friend along as maybe they can corroborate our sense of amazement for Oregon or they can point out why our regard is too high, and we can back off this incessant need to visit the state every chance we get. The mushroom was photographed near Heceta Head Lighthouse in Florence, Oregon, in November 2011.

Oregon Coast November 2012

Trip 13: Rafting in Alaska this summer wasn’t enough for us, so here we are in November 2012 for our 12th visit to Oregon. With some research, information about the location of this photo could be found but I’m feeling kind of lazy about this time in trying to write this blog. You see, when I started this entry, I thought we’d made 14 visits, but then I discovered a few more trips about which, for one reason or other, I never blogged. With no photos posted here, I had just assumed my blog showed all of our visits; wrong.

South Coast of Oregon May 2013

Trip 14: Out with my daughter Jessica in May 2013 because we’d never seen the state of Oregon with her in our company; seemed like as good a reason as any.

Oregon Sunset November 2015

Trip 15: It’s that time of year again. Here we are in November 2015, and once again it’s Oregon on our minds. We missed last year due to me starting a new company to build a Virtual Reality world, only to end up neglecting ours. True, we did raft the Yampa River up in Colorado and Utah with friends, and we visited Los Angeles and San Francisco during 2014, but it was truly the slowest travel year we’d experienced in over a dozen years.

Depoe Bay, Oregon November 2016

Trip 16: November 2016, did you think there was any chance we’d miss the opportunity to visit Oregon at this time of year?

Caroline Wise at Rockaway Beach, Oregon April 2017

Trip 17: Are we bored yet? Do we look bored? One doesn’t ride the wild corn dog if things are not top-notch. April 2017 marks the first time ever we’ve been in Oregon during this month: wow! So now we’ve visited this amazing state in March, April, May, July, September, and November, leaving only six other months we’ll have to plan visits for. Where do you find this exhilarating ride? In Rockaway Beach.

Boiler Bay in Oregon November 2018

Trip 18: By now, you must have already guessed that this was shot in November 2018. If you guessed that date, you win a trip with us to Oregon on one of our next visits. You just have to pay your way and pass a compatibility test with us grizzled travelers, and maybe you’ll be out exploring such fantastic sights such as this one on a late afternoon at Boiler Bay near Depoe Bay, Oregon.

Leave The Nostalgia Behind

Nitzer Ebb ticket

Nostalgia is a malady of modernity as things recorded are able to be re-consumed over and over again ad nauseam. Yet, this appears to satisfy a wide swath of humanity who finds comfort in the familiar. To a new generation that lives in the immediacy of information at their fingertips, the novelty of the new is in constant flow and is ready to be tapped at their convenience. From this massive intellectual migration out of history to a form of homelessness as identified by not having a place people can return to, the deterritorialization of our species is evolving due to this separation of our social, cultural, and political practices. We are the epitome of the precariat, as we exist without predictability or security. Our collective identities are waking up to the bizarre reality that citizenship, culture, and customs are arbitrary fixations that serve the economy more than they serve the heart and soul of an individual.

It feels as if nostalgia draws me into the confinement of not getting out of my own past and so I need to practice letting go of those strings that hold me to that past. Recently, we were supposed to travel to Los Angeles, California, to see the band Nitzer Ebb, who we’d last seen perform back in 1991. Instead of incurring even more costs, we decided at the last minute to eat the price of the tickets and take a pass on digging into what was amazing to us some 30 years ago.

A couple of nights ago, it happened again after we arrived at a small venue in Phoenix where we were supposed to take in the Legendary Pink Dots. We walked in while the first act was performing but decided to head out to the patio instead. The second act was a solo artist who helped usher us back down the road before the headliner ever took the stage. The worst part of the night was watching the audience and getting confronted with scenesters and the ubiquitous black uniform that is de rigor for alternative culture. There is no novelty left in warmed-up memories that are better left fading in the background.

So, how about those old books I still own? Are they reminders of places I’ve been, or could I possibly ever read them again? We have DVDs gathering dust on shelves because, at one time, they were favorites that we felt changed our outlook or perception of aesthetics. Over the last twenty-odd years, I’ve not been able to bring myself to watch one of them; as a matter of fact, I recoil at the idea of listening to dialogs that never seem very far from my memories. As I’ve shared with many a person, Gilligan’s Island is never far from my mind’s eyes and ears and now I curse that show I watched so often back in the early 1970s.

I’m disconnected from my own generation, my parent’s generation, and, for the most part from the Millennials too. I’ve always abhorred conformity and ritual where growth is not the intended consequence of the endeavor. As a whole, we are boring people with isolated instances of genius, creativity, inspiration, and purpose. We function on the margin where our humanity is sacrificed for the benefit of the few, and then we gawk at the spectacle of those who crack under the immense pressure of divorcing greater purpose for the convenience of existence.

To paraphrase William S. Burroughs, changes can only be brought about by altering the original. Copies are part of a virus that repeats itself word for word, thought for thought. I desire to be more than a copy of who I was at 20, 30, 40, 50, or 60. The original must be torn asunder and reassembled, taking elements and cutting them up with the alien, strange, and unfamiliar. We must crush our tendency to find the nostalgia in who we were just yesterday and embrace a strong evolution to find what is new in tomorrow.

The Need To Get Out

Coffee at Los Hermanos Mexican Restaurant in Superior, Arizona

This morning, I’m out on the road for a solo trip southeast, with my first stop happening in the old mining town of Superior, Arizona. Driving down Main Street I was surprised to see that, after years of threatening to reopen, the Historic Hotel Magma is once again in business. Caroline and I first learned of the town and the hotel from the Oliver Stone film titled U-Turn, featuring (among others) Joaquin Phoenix, which was our introduction to this actor. I stopped in at the Los Hermanos Mexican Restaurant for some coffee and to take these notes. From here, I’m going south through Ray, Kearny, and Winkleman before turning northeast to circle up through Christmas and then Globe, Miami, and Top-of-the-World, which will lead me into Superior once more today before going home.

Picketpost Mountain in Superior, Arizona

While the roads have been taken before, and this could be considered an indulgence of nostalgia, I have little choice if I want to wander into nature for a day trip. After 24 years in the Desert Southwest, Caroline and I have traversed almost every paved road and many a dirt road throughout this region. My goal is more to stop in cafes to have a cup of coffee and simply get away from my routine in Phoenix. Maybe along the way, I’ll find something to eat or, as I have my camera with me, a landscape might encourage me to capture an image I’ve not seen before.

I can’t remember visiting Ray before, but if I did, it is mostly or totally gone. Seems like a mountain’s worth of earth was moved from where it originally was to another location as the mine out this way is still active. I had to pull over nearly a dozen times in order to maintain the pace that allowed everyone else traveling the same road to pass me. The saguaros look over the road just as they have for decades, but I don’t recognize one of them. They stand there silently, never moving, not even swaying in the wind, just waiting and bearing witness to our coming and going. A dead javelina was proof of its failure to cross the road, and as not a chicken was seen, I can only surmise they, on the other hand, were successful in their attempts.

Here in Kearny, it’s nearly as quiet as the javelina was still. I’m on the main thoroughfare that is considered the business district, but that’s playing fast and loose with semantics. Taking a break, sitting next to the road in the shade at a rusty old picnic table, it’s striking how much I take my luxury for granted. I’m 101 miles from home, and if I lived here, I might as well have been at the opposite end of the universe. The economy of Kearny is obviously hanging on by a thread. There’s a tiny grocery store behind the gas station on my left; Cosmic Coffee is long shuttered. There’s a burger joint and pizza place that is still operating and hopefully will continue to do so, as there’s really nothing else left.

What there are are mountains all around me, and on those brown cliffs and peaks are cacti. At night, I’d imagine one might hear the occasional truck heading down the road or a coyote in the distance, but that would be about it. On moonless nights, the Milky Way must shine like the beacon it is to those who are so lucky to have dark skies.

There’s a surprising amount of foot traffic here near the grocery store. One group of people told me it was “Asian Day” at the deli counter, so they picked up lunch and were off for a picnic. A UPS truck passed by as a reminder that the global market is just a mouse click away, and while it might take an extra day to reach Kearny, Himalayan salt, expensive German cutlery, Adidas sweatpants, and a new Fitbit would reach me exactly as it would over in Phoenix.

Hayden, Arizona

Despair follows the road south. The economy along the way is fucked, and with the mines being the major employer, the strikers every so many miles suggest things are even worse than my vulgar description for those trying to hold on to the hope of having a job. We first passed through this part of Arizona 17 years ago, and the decay obviously runs away unabated as I follow a path I’ve traveled on more since that first occasion.

Giorsetti's Superior Grocery in Winkelman, Arizona

I’m getting lunch at Maria’s Mexican Restaurant, and even if I wanted something else, there are no other choices down here. I drove by Giorsetti’s General Store and was pleasantly surprised to see that it was still open. Not so lucky were the dead javelinas as I spotted two more adults and two juveniles, though none of them were close enough to one another to suggest they were related, well, besides their unfortunate circumstances. Also found dead on the road was a large bloated deer with an obviously broken neck, a not-so-smelly skunk, and some unidentifiable fur patches that were nearly fully merged with the pavement.

So here I am, full of carne asada with beans, at the end of Highway 177, about to head northeast on Highway 77, which will lead me past Christmas. Earlier, I wrote that I was passing through that town, but now I see that the half-dozen or so homes up the mountain that are in Christmas are, in fact, well up a dirt road I won’t be traveling on today. In my head, I’m flipping the coin of taking the road less traveled with a long drive home or returning the way I came, but know that I must take the quieter path.

Gila River at the Christmas Recreation Site in Winkelman, Arizona

My heart is on its way home, though my desire to remain in roaming mode is still wanting to rule the day. A stop along the Gila River and a pitstop in Globe were all that I was going to get in before pulling into North Scottsdale to pick up Caroline.

Neighbor

Neighbor's apartment in Phoenix, Arizona

She was cantankerous, vulgar, angry, fearful, paranoid, and worst of all she was mean to her mother who suffers from Alzheimer’s. Her name isn’t important. I tried to avoid her when she was coming and going as it wasn’t beyond her to show you her ass that was barely covered anyway, but when that short dress was thrown up to expose her voluminous backside, allowing the viewer to gather a good look, she would also yell at you to ensure she had your attention. Sometimes she went through the motions of pretending to call the police and other times she did call them to vent her spleen that some kind of transgression against her dignity was being committed.

Numerous times the maintenance guys were summoned to her place as it seemed that something was always broken; now that I’ve been inside her now-vacant apartment I see why things were likely malfunctioning. She was the human embodiment of malfunction. Stepping into the explosion that had been a home for two old ladies was akin to walking into someone else’s insanity. This is one of those moments where no amount of photography can convey the mayhem.

Neighbor's apartment in Phoenix, Arizona

Half a dozen cats and nearly twice that number of small dogs were constant companions. Some years ago the mother would take the dogs out when there were just a few of them, but her daughter became mistrustful of the neighbors who would take the time to talk with the sweet old lady who would check her mail 10 times a day wearing a housecoat and at least a couple of pairs of socks. We all knew she was slipping into dementia but she always seemed happy to meet you for the first time and find it surprising that you knew her name and that she once lived in Ohio. For the past few years, mom would only be seen going to and from the car and had become progressively more withdrawn.

This weekend they had mostly finished moving out, leaving behind a shell of an apartment sodden with animal urine and feces – both animal and human, as there were two large green bags in the bathtub filled with adult diapers. At least the human poop was in diapers and bagged up while dog and cat shit is scattered throughout the place. Entering this place I was more intrigued by the sight and foul aroma than the thought of what parasites and bed bugs might be crawling through the ooze and so with the front door wide open I decided to take a non-guided tour into the horror of my own disbelief that fellow humans could live such an existence.

I have to wonder why the animals weren’t removed by some authority looking out for the welfare of animals. Writ larger than that is my curiosity boggling my mind why the mother wasn’t removed and the daughter brought up on elder abuse charges. I suppose that living like turds in a litter box is a better way to keep people than for the state to attempt to care about the welfare of some people who obviously could not care for themselves.

There was a side of me crawling out of my inner 14-year-old that wanted to gloat that the evil persona of the daughter had finally been forced to move even though it portended possibly worse conditions for the mom and then there’s the 56-year side of me that is rattled by society’s neglect of the mentally disturbed. On their last day at our complex, the daughter sounded perfectly humane and sympathetic as she told me that they were moving out and that she wanted to say bye. How could I not feel empathy for their plight and wish them all the best?