An Introduction to the Art of Sweetgrass Basket Weaving

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Lowcountry Region, South Carolina

by Cassia Reynolds

The swampy summer humidity engulfed me as I opened my car door and stepped out onto the edge of Highway 17. The sun bore down on the blacktop, radiating a heat I could feel through the soles of my sandals.

I crunched through the rough patches of grass and weeds that lined the road and made my way to the wooden stand on the forest fringe. It was surprisingly cool under the shade of the pine trees; an oasis on the open strip of asphalt between Georgetown and Charleston.

It was the first time I’d ever visited a sweetgrass basket stand. I’d passed them countless times, the open huts sprinkled along the otherwise barren roadside, the intricate, handwoven baskets hanging down from wooden beams and displayed on folding tables. I’d just never thought to stop, always assuming they were tourist traps.

I came across Arthuree Bennett’s stand on a mostly barren stretch of highway, further away from the larger towns where most other vendors congregate. Arthuree was leaned back in a plastic chair, feet propped up on one opposite her. She held a slender palm frond between the index and thumb of her left hand, and with her right she jammed the melted handle of a spoon through a tight loop of woven sweetgrass. Arthuree glanced up as I approached and nodded a hello, her fingers continuing to work.

Throughout the entire time I spoke with her, her hands never stopped moving.

I set up the interview with Arthuree’s back to the woods. After she sat down, she made me swear I’d watch for snakes. She was nervous about them, but thankfully no unwanted critters made any appearances during the 30 minutes we discussed sweetgrass basket weaving, Arthuree’s favorite creations, and the craft’s not-so-secure future.

Arthuree expressed to me a fear other weavers echoed: the knowledge of the art is in danger of dying out. There are two major components to this: 1) younger generations simply aren’t as interested in weaving as their elders and 2) materials are becoming more scarce.

Most of the sweetgrass, pine needles, and other plants that weavers use in the baskets are collected in the swamplands of Bluffton, SC. However, due to recent development of the area, these natural resources are becoming less available. Weavers are forced to pay more for less. The centuries-old tradition is becoming less appealing, less sustainable, and more difficult to continue.

A brief history. The art of sweetgrass basket weaving comes from the Gullah tradition, a pocket culture native to a small area on the southeast. Gullah people are descendants of enslaved West Africans brought to the Americas in the late 1600’s and early 1700’s. The Gullah community stretches between the coastal region of Jacksonville, North Carolina and Jacksonville, Florida, but the most concentrated populations are in the Lowcountry regions of South Carolina and Georgia, including the Sea Islands just offshore.

Gullah culture is a unique mesh of West African and Southern American tradition. It has its own food recipes, dances, singing-style, folklore, and language. The Gullah ancestors lived and worked on large rice plantations together, sharing traditions from many distinct African tribes. Over time, these practices blended. After the Civil War, many Gullah people stayed in the Lowcountry area, moving out to the little islands along the coast and the edges of the swamps. Here, they continued to live mostly in rural isolation, developing their own sustainable, nature-oriented lifestyle. (For more on the history of the Gullah people, check out A Clash of Cultures: The Landscape of the Sea Island Gullah.)

The same recent development of Gullah areas like Bluffton has led to devastation of this people’s hunting and foraging lands. And because their culture is so rooted in plants and animals indigenous to these areas, the loss is catastrophic to their livelihoods. In 2004, the National Trust for Historic Preservation named the Gullah Coast one of the 11 Most Endangered Historic Places.

People have tried to raise awareness through documentaries, folklore gatherings, and other fundraising events, but development is continuing. Arthuree taught her daughter the art of weaving in hopes to pass on the tradition. However, one person isn’t enough to stop the deterioration of an entire way of life. If nothing else is done, soon the Gullah culture may be confined only to museums, history books, and the rare basket found on a mantlepiece.

After learning so much about weaving and speaking with Arthuree, I bought a basket. It’s a miniature version of her favorite style, a funky, wavy creation she refers to as the Designer Basket. It’s a hardy, heavy thing.

When I hold the basket, I think about what Arthuree taught me. I know the dark spiral in the center is pine needle, that the palm looped through each layer of material was once a bright green, that all the ins and outs of this basket come from the same swamplands I visited for my marine biology class in high school. It’s a reminder that I share my homeland with many distinct lifestyles and I should take the time to get to know them.

If you’re interested in helping the Gullah people preserve their heritage, check out the Daufuskie Endangered Places Program, which is run by The Palmetto Trust for Historic Preservation. They have several donation and information programs.

Weird & Wonderful: Flea Markets Finds

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Smiley's Flea Market, Fletcher, North Carolina

by Cassia Reynolds

Chasing the Haunted: Great River Road

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The Great River Road, Louisiana & Mississippi

by Samantha Adler

It’s that time of year again. When pumpkin takes over every flavor, decor and mind in America, the leaves begin to change, the air is crisp and cool, and the countdown to Halloween begins. It’s the perfect time to get a little spooky and talk about haunted adventures on the Mississippi.

The Great River Road runs parallel to the Mississippi, stretching from Minnesota to New Orleans (NOLA). I had hopped on the byway in Tennessee, taking it down through Mississippi and Louisiana enroute to NOLA. In addition to the beautiful, lush scenery, the area around the Mississippi has a rich and grim history of the pre-Civil War South.

The Great River Road is a must visit for any thrill-seeker, history buff or paranormal whisperer. The area is dotted with historic battlefields, plantation homes and businesses.. And if you’re lucky (or unlucky) someone from the past might just give you a tour.

I made several stops along the way touring a few old homes and plantations. Each place had a story about it’s lavish past: elegant parties, engagements and secrets whispered in the drawing rooms. However, these houses also held more grisly secrets: Civil War raids, slavery and rampant racial violence and deadly sickness.There is much haunting to be done. Ghosts have a particular staying power here and the river is a huge reason why. It’s believed water traps them and is closely connected to the spirit world. The owners of these houses acknowledge this, and most have had angels carved into the molding to guard the corners from any possible demons.

Anyone there? Tour guides suggest taking two photos in this haunted mirror. 

Anyone there? Tour guides suggest taking two photos in this haunted mirror. 

Some see dark shapes or shadows appear in their second take.  (The Myrtles Plantation - Francisville, Louisiana)

Some see dark shapes or shadows appear in their second take.  (The Myrtles Plantation - Francisville, Louisiana)

Driving down the Great River Road took several days. In Louisiana, my road trip buddy and I got a cheap deal at the Nottoway Plantation, an old home that was converted into a hotel in White Castle, Louisiana. I was iffy on spending the night, considering its history as a working plantation, but agreed.

We arrived just in time for sunset...and an ill-timed spooky story. We checked in and set our bags down in our room. We were staying in a cabin off of the main house. While the room had few modern amenities, it looked as though it hadn’t been touched in decades. A large, wooden antique poster bed sat in the middle of the room, with a wood amour to its left. The walls held a few framed photographs of landscapes and an old tarnished brass mirror, whose reflective glass was cloudy with age.                                                                

After setting our things down, we headed to the restaurant bar located in the basement of the main house. The house is an enormous, strikingly white, Greek Revival style mansion with an iron-clad balcony stretching across its width. We made our way down, sat at the bar and began to chat with a few employees. A young waitress offered to take us to the second story balcony, the best place to watch the sunset. She led us through the restaurant and up the main staircase in the house.

The house boasts a few rooms for overnight guests, but is otherwise kept in its original condition for tours. At this time of day the house was dimly lit as we made our way through a large hall. The balcony was surrounded by a black iron railing and boasted a few rocking chairs for visitors. We took a seat and started to rock, watching the sun dip behind the Mississippi. Our guide turned around to walk back downstairs, but warned us that we might see a woman in a red gown. She was a member of the Randolph family, the original owners, and patrolled the house at night, looking over the home she worked so hard to create. And she had been dead for quite a long time.

I’m the type who begs to watch a horror movie, then immediately, deeply regrets that decision. I was the one who stupidly asked about hauntings at Nottoway. The waitress had begun to tell us about another friendly spirit of a coachman, who still liked to help people with their luggage. The potential friendliness of both ghosts was lost on me. I began to sip, no chug, my drink. The orange sun had almost completely been swallowed by the Mississippi, casting a warm, red light. I glanced behind, the interior of the house was now dark and shadows danced in the evening light. I grabbed my peaceful, sunset-loving companion and bolted towards the staircase. Like the house, the stair was grand with many, too many stairs.  After running/sprinting down the main stairwell of the house and nearly smashing into the basement wall, we thanked our guide and left for our cabin.

We unloaded our bags and set in for an early night. I would fall asleep then shoot up expecting to see a confederate soldier sitting on the edge of my bed or little children asking me to play some creepy game. After the third heart attack, I decided to sit up for remaining 8 hours with the light and every electronic blaring. Safe to say I staved off any lady of the house, soldier or ghost of any sort.

While I  avoided any encounters, I heard countless stories of paranormal run-ins on the Great River Road. From ghosts stealing earrings, to appearing in mirrors and developed film negatives. My journey was ghost free, but you might get lucky.

Lovely & Unkempt: The View on Cannon Street

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Charleston, South Carolina

by Cassia Reynolds

Charleston is an emblem of southern charm and hospitality. The tea is sweet, the humidity is heavy, the tobacco is chewed, the catfish is fried. Whenever a foreigner asks where in the United States they should visit, it’s on the top of my list.

I’m not the only one that thinks so, either. Charleston was voted the #1 Best US City by Conde Nast Traveler (2014, 2013, 2012, 2011) and one of the World’s Best by Travel + Leisure (2015, 2014, 2013). It’s a unique, artsy, cultural hub, especially for a state as traditionally conservative and rural as South Carolina. There’s tons to do, but every time I visit (which is often because I only live an hour and forty-five minutes away), I always end up walking around, taking in the scenery.

The blocks are laden with slatted wood buildings, cobblestone alleys worn from hundreds of years of use, intricate columns, and hand-painted signs. And the further you go away from the busy downtown, the more gritty it gets. If you just stay by the historical district, it’s like visiting Manhattan and only checking out Times Square and Central Park. There’s just so much more to see. If you want to get a real feel for this good ol’ southern city, make your way inland.

On Cannon Street, some of the arched porches are so old the wood has become warped and curved. Many homes wear a crumbling mask of cracked paint chips, the molding beams seemingly held together only by the glue-like grip of the kudzu vines twisted up the sides. But the area doesn’t appear totally abandoned: a faded fence frames a garden crowded with pink blossoms; there is a set of shiny, pastel-painted shutters on one corner; a hammock woven from fuchsia cloth hangs in the shade of a particularly plain brick house.

These little bright bits of humanity, quirky and colorful, radiate positive vibes. There’s a soft heartbeat that pulses from this place, a faint lifeblood still pumping through the dusty veins of this half-dilapidated neighborhood.

My favorite building on the street is a large, traditional, white, two-story, colonial-style structure. It stands out even among other similar buildings because of its spotless, perfect upkeep, and the intricacy of the carved wooden decorations that overhang the ledges. A classic wide bay window overlooks the second floor balcony. It’s one of those places that feels rich with history, and is so well-maintained that it must be loved by the owners. It’s also a business; the little sign dangling out front reads “Dorothy’s” in curly script, and underneath “HOME FOR FUNERALS” in blocky lettering.

Before I came across Dorothy’s, I’d only seen funeral homes set in drab brick buildings. You know, very formal and pretty empty of personality. I’d never come across such a quaint setting for dealing with such a serious business as death. And the more I thought about it, the more I liked the idea of Dorothy’s. The name, the intimacy of the neighborhood house, and the fresh garden of flowers out front all emanated an aura of hope.

And isn’t that kind of necessary when mourning - a reminder that there’s still so much life?

Dorothy’s Home for Funerals exemplifies Charleston’s vibrant nature, the one that I’ve come to appreciate so much. It’s that essence of comfort, embodying the warm, cheerful character of southern hospitality and the traditional grace of southern charm. And even more than that, it’s the spirit of optimism and the “gung-ho-carry-on” attitude that is so much a southern outlook on life.

 

Hittin' the Road with Elvis

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Graceland, Memphis, Tennessee

by Samantha Adler

Graceland was a major stop on my cross-country road trip. I am a life-long Elvis fan who comes from a long line of Elvis fanatics (my grandmother was once one of those screaming girls heard in all his live recordings). I reserved tour tickets a month in advance for my last morning in Memphis. But I had begun to see signs of the King way before I arrived in Memphis. I couldn’t pass through any establishment in Tennessee without seeing his face on the wall or hearing at least one of his top hits. It was the perfect build-up.

I arrived at Graceland early Sunday morning and waited in line with about fifty other eager beavers. Elvis’s estate, for all intensive purposes, has been turned into a theme park with gift shops, ice cream stands, restaurants serving his favorite banana and peanut butter sandwich and a well-oiled bus system. But I gleefully soaked up all the cheese.

My love for Elvis began in the 3rd grade when I had to do a report on a singer from the 1950s.  His effortless cool and the way he took the world by storm fascinated me. I took out book after book from our school library about the late singer. I learned he quickly became an icon with an original style, blending blues and pop to create Rock and Roll.  The assignment spurred conversations with my grandmother about her admiration. She had seen him perform in concert and even got into a fight with a girl for a scarf he threw into the audience. As time went on I became obsessed, I dressed as Elvis for Halloween and put on lip-sync performances for family.  I even came up with a weird conspiracy theory about how The Beatles’ rise and Elvis’s mid-career fall were linked, and refused to listen to any Beatles song for a year. I was a weird, passionate and ill-informed kid.

The Graceland tour was led by John Stamos (yes, Uncle Joey) via a personal iPad that hung around my neck and airline-esque headphones. John Stamos explained about the grounds as the bus weaved through the front lawn towards the house. It was a small, white colonial-revival style mansion with two floors and a basement. A few rooms were filled with extravagant items: original china, chandeliers, guitars and art pieces. But most were designed for living, with a few personal items strewn about on shag carpets and 70’s décor.

The living/ jungle room*, perhaps the most famous room, was niche but homey with green shag, animal print, musical instruments, comfy looking couches and a teddy bear in residence. This was my favorite room of the house, as I’ve always dreamed of a bedroom designed after the Rainforest Cafe. I guess Elvis and I have similar taste, although Elvis’s take on it was a bit more posh.

Little did I know, this was only the beginning of the Elvis road trip.

I set off, leaving Memphis to drive down the Mississippi.  I followed the Blues Highway along the big river, stopping occasionally at places that marked milestones in the blues music’s birth and evolution. Elvis is a huge part of the genre’s contemporary musical history, bringing blues basics and style into the pop spotlight. And he was still a treasure along the way, his music ringing in local restaurants and his face etched on gas station souvenirs.

These reminders had “Elvis & Me” burning a hole in my luggage. It wasn’t long before I was sneaking a read during downtime at campsites and in the passenger seat after my driving shift. It isn’t a brilliantly written novel, not even close. But it gives a rare view into the life of an untouchable icon and broke down the walls fame had put up. Elvis and Priscilla met when she was only fourteen, right after he had made his big break in the late fifties. The book was Priscilla’s perception on their marriage, his creative processes and his private life. While wildly talented, it turns out he was somewhat of a child who didn’t understand boundaries or the purpose of negative feedback. I did take everything with a grain of salt, considering that the author was his ex-wife and the cover art was everything about the 80’s you hated. It was nice however, to view this deity that followed us around as human.

When I made it to Vegas, he was everywhere again. Elvis impersonators walked the strip and his face was plastered all over as if he was joining Celine Dion in a headlining gig. As I learned in Graceland’s Museum, Vegas was where Elvis made his huge comeback. Returning from failed Hollywood endeavors, he started to perform live again. This is when the famous embezzled jumpsuits were coined and the bigger-than-life image of Elvis we know today was born. His success on the stage brought upon “Elvis: Aloha from Hawaii”, a live TV performance. It broke records, with more people watching Elvis than the first man to walk on the moon, and solidified his place as the King of Rock’n’Roll. This was the Elvis that my younger self impersonated with a glittery plastic jumpsuit, wiry black wig and adhesive sideburns.

This is also where I finished up “Elvis and Me”. My road trip buddy and I found an amazing, unbelievable deal for a room at the Vdara when we were mapping out our trip (always check for weird deals*). A comfortable hotel room was heaven after five nights of camping in the temperamental SouthWest summer. Immediately we ran to the pool to escape the Vegas heat. After a dip, I sat by the pool guiltily hiding the cover of my trashy biography from any fancy hotel walker-by. It felt appropriate to finish reading as we left a place to special to the story.

I had driven the Elvis road trip: through musical histories that inspired him, places of professional triumph and his private spaces. He had an amazing career and an extravagant life. But it’s the places he left that stick with me the most. These places have an electrifying energy, soaked in history and probably remnants of those Rock and Roll parties. These places are just as important to the story as the King himself.

 

* The Jungle Room serves as the den in the Graceland mansion. Its design has a Polynesian influence, known for its green decor, shag carpeting and waterfall lining the wall. The decision was based on Elvis’s favorite vacation spot: Hawaii. The room was later converted into a recording studio in the 1970’s.

* Look for deals on Bookings.com. You’d be surprised about what hotels/locations are offering cheap rooms! In this specific example the Vdara, a normally pricey hotel on the strip, we found a crazy deal a month in advance. We believe this is because the Vdara is one of the only big hotels without a casino. Always hunt for the discounts :).

Cigarros Cubanos: an Exploration of the American Dream

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Little Havana, Miami, Florida

by Cassia Reynolds

Some people dislike the amount of Spanish language that’s crept into mainstream American culture. Me? I fucking love it. Lo amo. Dame más. When I dwell on what gives America so much of its unique color and spice, I always come back to its history as a global melting pot, a progressive nation of culturally-distinct individuals whose diverse backgrounds only add flavor to day-to-day life.

I’m also innately biased. I’m a first generation American; my mother is from Naguilian, a riverside village nestled between the mountains of the northern Philippines. I actually visited her birthplace for the first time earlier this year on a solo-journey to discover my roots. (Read more here.) It was an eye-opening experience and it gave me a deep appreciation for the opportunities I have here in my own homeland.

But what does any of this have to do with anything at all? Well, today I’m writing about Little Havana, a neighborhood that sits in Miami-Dade county, where about 50% of America’s Cuban and Cuban-American population resides.* Little Havana is not just home to Cubans, however. 94% of the population is Hispanic, and includes Nicaraguans, Hondurans, and Colombians, among others.*

Everything in Little Havana is in Spanish; from the store names spelled out in big block letters to the live music blasting from the bars in the middle of the afternoon. There are funky, Spanish-style, pastel-painted homes with burnt orange clay rooftops. Open cafes sell pastillas and empanadas wrapped in crinkly paper. Coffee shops offer teeny glasses of cafecito: strong, sweetened Cuban espresso shots. And right on Calle Ocho, the main artery of the district, is Dominos Park, where elderly men wearing starched, embroidered guayabera shirts and straw fedoras gamble around plastic tables.

Walking down Calle Ocho felt like stepping out of America and into another country. I loved experiencing a totally different culture without spending the time and money to travel overseas. Myself and a friend/fellow tourist, Christina, had only walked two blocks before we were serenaded by a man playing guitar and whistling through a leaflute and then given a lesson on famous salsa singers by several young men. The group, also visitors to Miami, then asked us to take their photos by the engraved stars of The Latin Walk of Fame that decorates Calle Ocho’s blocks.

We wandered toward the dark awning of Cuba Tobacco Cigar Co and into the shop for two reasons. 1) Because we were on a mission: Christina’s boyfriend back in Charleston is a cigar-enthusiast and she hoped to bring him back a token from our girlcation (wow, I thought I’d made that word up, but spell check isn’t even catching it). And 2) because the storefront was overwhelmingly kitschy-looking, sporting all sorts of cigar paraphernalia, including a wooden statue of a Native American wearing a skirt painted like the US flag, and an ornately carved table specially built for playing dominos.  

When I pulled open the glass door, I inhaled a deep whiff of fresh tobacco. Not the ashy, toxic-smelling haze that lingers after someone smokes a cigarette. No, it was more like an invigorating, herby, earthy scent. It reminded me of one of the best investments I’ve ever made: (and something I’ve been attempting and failing to find since) a bergamot tobacco scented soy candle from Urban Outfitters. I breathed in slowly, savoring the slight sweetness of the air as my eyes adjusted from Miami’s bright afternoon sunshine to the shop’s warm lighting.

The walls were lined from ceiling to floor with slender wooden boxes and glass platforms showcasing fat, gold-wrapped cigars. A sharp thud, like the sound an industrial hole-puncher makes when it’s pressed through an especially thick stack of paper, came from near the cash register. A man sat behind an intricately carved desk littered with crumpled, dried tobacco leaves, a neat stack of newly-rolled cylinders in front of him. Poised between his lips sat his own half-smoked stogie. Gray clouds billowed from his mouth as he puffed.

The man glanced up at us for just a moment before returning to his work, his steady, trained fingers carefully twisting together a wad of leaves against a flat, thick board.

While Christina inquired about purchasing a cigar, I meandered through the stacks of boxes, admiring several sepia-toned portraits of smiling men and women that hung down on the olive-painted walls. Most of the furniture was carved from a rich, dark wood that soaked in the light and caused the tiers of gold cigar casings to glow, like gemstones sparkling in the depths of a mine. The back room held two rows of desks, similar to the one out front, built for hand-rolling. And nearly everything was engraved, stamped, or pressed with the gilt-and-burgundy branding of Bello Cigars. Most boxes also included an image of the same elderly man wearing a panama hat and staring pensively out at potential customers.

I later conducted a little research and found out the elderly man whose image is plastered all over the store is Don Bello. The Bello family has passed down the tradition of cigar-making for generations, beginning in the Canary Islands. In the 19th century, Don traveled to Cuba for better tobacco growing. In the 1960’s, after Cuba nationalized the tobacco industry, Don Pedro Bello and his son, Pedro “Peter” Bello, immigrated to Miami. In 1994, Don and Pedro opened Cuba Tobacco Cigar Co in Little Havana. Today, the Bello brand is known worldwide as a high-quality product manufactured in Miami and Honduras.*

As I learned more about the history of Cuba Tobacco Cigar Co, I thought of the American dream. Don Pedro Bello’s entrepreneurial spirit and wild hope to find better opportunity in America, for his business and his family, reminded me of the same brave impulse that caused my own lolo (read: Tagalog for grandfather) to immigrate to this country. When he first sailed to America and settled in Indiana, my lolo had to leave behind his wife and seven children, working day and night until he could earn a living and eventually, over the course of nearly a decade, brought them one-by-one overseas to join him.

Today, my family is spread throughout the USA: Illinois, Indiana, California, and of course, South Carolina. My relatives work in many different fields: healthcare, construction, fashion, education, armed forces, and photography. At family reunions, we eat pancit, lechon, and arrozcaldo along with burgers, spaghetti, and barbecued ribs. We embrace a mesh of American-Filipino culture and there is no lacking in flavor, in color, in laughter, and love for what America stands for.

Little Havana is a historical representation of American values, ideals that sometimes get lost in the political mayhem of the 21st century. It’s the myriad of international communities found across this country, from New Glarus in Wisconsin to Koreatown in California, filled with immigrants and distinct cultures, that embody the all-American spirit. As globalization continues to grow, creating both new opportunities and problems to be solved, I can only hope that we can remember America’s foundation as a refuge, a country built on the courage of individuals who dreamt wildly and work tirelessly for a better life.

And whenever I overhear people speaking Spanish or pass someone eating Chinese take-out or find myself signing up for a Jiu Jitsu class, I feel most at home here in this world of opportunity, in the land of the free.

 

* "Ancestry Map of Cuban Communities." www.epodunk.com.

* "Census 2010." City of Miami Planning and Zoning. www.miamigov.com/planning/census2010.html

* "Legacy." Cuba Tobacco Cigar Co. www.cubatobaccocigarco.com/legacy/

Into the Canyon

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Grand Canyon National Park

by Samantha Adler

Getting My Art On In Miami

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Miami, Florida

by Cassia Reynolds

I recently day-tripped to Miami, Florida, just to get a taste of the flashy, tropical metropolis. It was my first time visiting the city, but I was traveling with a few childhood girlfriends, one of whom is a Fort Lauderdale local. She (mercifully) guided our group through the cluttered maze of freeways that dominates the landscape surrounding the downtown area.

The first thing I noticed as we exited the maze is that Miami’s architecture is extremely colorful. Unlike New York’s skyline, which lays out in an assortment of gray, beige, and chrome, there is no uniform to the buildings here. Graffiti is everywhere; huge, bright sculptures seem to spring out from the walls; and everything from parking garages to monuments is embellished with its own special, festive paint job.

My friends and I are all on your standard mid-twenties-can-barely-afford-my-rent-and-drinking-habit budget so we weren’t looking to blow cash on Miami’s infamous nightlife or glamorous fashion scene. Instead we wandered around for a bit, sweating in the muggy heat and people-watching on the boardwalk that overlooks the yacht-spotted port downtown.

We stumbled upon the Freedom Tower in the early afternoon, its intricate stone-and-copper spire sticking out in an area of otherwise contemporary buildings. I thought it might be a historic site, a landmark preserving early Floridian history, but when we wandered closer, I saw it was actually an art museum. Specifically, the Museum of Art + Design for Miami Dade College. And the banner dangling off the building side said admission was free.

Disclaimer: I love museums, especially art museums. I studied photography in college and am always ready to deepen my understanding of anything related to design or visual storytelling. So happening upon this spot felt like winning the lottery.

We spent about an hour in the Tower, drifting from one artwork to the next, puzzling over the messages of conceptual pieces, entranced by the lines of paintings and the curves of sculptures. In the hallway opposite the main gallery was a showroom dedicated to one artist’s photography. The walls were lined with large, bright prints of stark landscapes composed so strangely they appeared abstract.

As we were leaving, a young man standing near the entrance stopped me and asked what I thought of the exhibit. His dark eyes lit up when I totally geeked out, explaining that I loved the way the images were shot; I had a similar taste for aesthetics as the artist.

He held out his hand to shake mine.

“Sebastian Muñoz. This is my work.”

In a classic case of starstruck word vomit, I blurted out question after question about his technique and equipment. The artist laughed, humoring me until my friends finally dragged me away.

Afterwards, riding that visual-stimulation high, we decided to check out the Wynwood Art District, a recently-renewed, up-and-coming neighborhood. What used to be a neglected area of abandoned warehouses and factories has been given a new life by street art. The blocks are nearly completely doused in paint. It’s a wonderland of color as bright and overwhelming as a Dr. Seuss landscape. The large pieces on the building walls are commissioned, but the sidewalk is fair game to any willing artist. And the cement here is soaked in spray-painted stencils, spotted with stickers, and scrawled upon with freehand messages by artists known and unknown. It’s a fun, enthralling place for the creative mind to draw inspiration.

The neighborhood’s centerpiece is the Wynwood Galleries, a grassy, outdoors walkway that winds between several large buildings whose huge walls have been refurbished as canvases for murals. Admission here is also free. You can lounge on large rocks under gold-and-glass ornaments dangling down from tree branches or plop down in the grass and just stare at the complex scenes surrounding you. And if you get tired from the heat, you can sit under a multitude of fans in a covered area with a cafe.

The Galleries have been made famous by Art Basel and other outlandish showings,* but lesser known is the fact that you can tour the whole neighborhood for free. There’s a little stand right outside the start of the walkway. The guides there will take you around the surrounding blocks, giving you the lowdown on the artists and even some history on the area. It’s definitely a must-do for anyone interested in urban art - the Galleries are great, but there’s so much more to see. Our guide was a student who held an umbrella to shade himself from the blistering sun as he described the cultural impact and creative influences behind a multitude of artwork. It was informative, casual, and short (a blessing in the heat).

By the end of the day I was exhausted and my brain was in information-overload-mode in the best way. Before visiting Miami, I hadn’t expected it to have such a thriving art scene. I was completely ignorant of the booming alternative subculture that’s transforming its streets and brightening its landscapes. This city truly is a haven for artists and art lovers alike. And I have a feeling I barely scratched the surface on my short visit. So check it out!

*Art Basel is an international art show that takes place in Miami Beach, Basel, and Hong Kong every year. It's considered the world's premier Modern and Contemporary art fair and often attracts famous artists, critics, and celebrities. 

A Hike Through the Smokies

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The Great Smoky Mountains National Park

by Cassia Reynolds

Your Roadtrip Planning Guide

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by Samantha Adler

The American road trip is so romantic, rebellious and even a bit intimidating. But most great adventures are, right?
 
With a chunk of time and pair of keys, the possibilities are endless. So many choices, so little time. I had a month to get from NYC to San Diego, where I was helping a friend move into his new apartment. I was excited to see what lay outside my NYC bubble.  I hit a few bumps in the road, ran into the unexpected, and had the experience of a lifetime.
 
I returned equipped with some road trip planning tips and a hunger-lust for biscuits and gravy. 

                                

1.  Pick Your Route
This is the simplest and hardest part. With a certain amount of time, you have to choose the best/most interesting/smartest/most awe-inspiring/tastiest way to get to your destination. It sounds easy, but how to do you choose between Texas BBQ and camping at Yellowstone?

If you’re an indecisive freak like me, I have a few tricks to ease your anxiety.

Start off by making a list of several places you CANNOT miss. Then route the trip accordingly on a map…no matter how outrageous. This will help visualize the general direction of your road trip. You’ll have to make sacrifices based on driving time, but you'll find some cool new places to stop.  

You might come up with a few possible routes. To narrow it down, it’s helpful to think about what you want out of your trip and make a list of each what possible route has to offer. The big decision when traveling across country really boils down to whether to go north or south. Both have so much to offer but you can usually only go one way (unless you’re lucky enough to turn right back around).  Below is a simplified version of the lists I made when I was planning my trip from NYC to San Diego, weighing both options:

Northern Route

  • More national parks – Glacier, Yellowstone, Bryce Canyon
  • Midwestern food – cheese curds, Chicago-style hot dogs
  • More hiking
  • More scenic driving
  • Mostly camping, few cheap hotels

Southern Route

  • Tasty BBQ and comfort food
  • More cities – museums, nightlife, lots of live music
  • Bayou
  • Grand Canyon
  • More frequent stops
  • A mix of Airbnb, cheap hotels, and camping

Any route you choose will be the right one if you keep in mind what’s important to you and what the key locations are that you can’t go without seeing. Also, it’s totally ok to base the trip around food….totally ok. I did.

Helpful App
Furkot: Furkot will help you map out your itinerary. It calculates driving time on an easy-to-use map  that creates a visual list of your stops and driving time. It also suggests when you should plan on pulling over for some rest and provides tips on food, hiking and hotels. This app was my personal roadtripping assistant.

                 

2.  Budget it Out
When you’re cruising on the open road you’ll feel wild, bold, and FREE…Unfortunately most things along your journey are not. Creating a budget before taking off will help you plan and keep your bank account from going into the negative.

An affordable road trip is completely doable! Make sure to factor in gas, food, lodging, activities and souvenirs (it’s a strong soul who can walk away from Graceland without an Elvis mug). You also want to make sure you have a cushion for any emergency situations.

If you’re traveling with a buddy, talk about how you’re going to split costs upfront. Keeping track might be a buzzkill on the trip. A way to avoid that is to divide costs by the type of expense. For example, you’ll get gas and your buddy will pay for food.

                   

3.  Remember it’s an Adventure
Plan your trip with room for exploration and last minute detours. When you’re creating your itinerary, leave extra travel time in-between major destinations.  The journey is as important as the destination. It's important to have time to wander and explore. A road trip is an adventure, you will want to see where that little side road goes or be able to pursue your fixation with finding the world’s largest Ketchup bottle. 
 
Book the major stops in advance, but wing the rest.  You don’t want to be limited by a schedule you made before you got on the road.  You’ll want time to explore and the freedom to stop driving when you’re tired. There are loads of cheap hotels, hostels and campsites available to travelers.
 
Helpful App
Bookings.com: Bookings will tell you where last minute hotel deals are around you. This is perfect for booking something in a pinch. I recommend signing up to receive notifications about deals in your area.

              

4.  Pack for a Month & a Day
You’ll need to bring a bit for your longer road trip. However, it goes without saying…PACK LIGHT. You are living in a car for an extended period of time, you want room to breath. But do make sure you’re bringing:

  • Gear for camping
  • Clothes for all the climates you’re driving through (and an outfit for city exploring)
  • A few snacks (salty snacks and sweets that won’t melt in the car!) 
  • Maps/ travel books

This can all be hard to sift through without creating a mess in your home on wheels. The solution? Pack a day bag. Mine was a weathered old backpack that always had:

  • Camera
  • Water bottle
  • Sweatshirt
  • Wallet
  • Phone

                 

5.  Get your Groove On
You’re going to be spending LOTS of time in the car. You might forget you two existed apart at one point. For those long hauls and highway stretches, download music, podcasts and games.
 
Music is a great way to dive into the places you’re driving through. The US is rich in music history with many highways, towns, and crossroads marking the birthplace of blues, jazz, rock n roll, country, folk…you name it. Download playlists that bring you on that journey (I’ll share my personal playlists with you soon :)). You can also tune into FM radio stations to get a feel for the local flavor.

                  

6.  Talk to People!
Park rangers, visitor center receptionists, bartenders, Airbnb hosts and locals will serve you better than any website or guidebook.  Be smart and respectful, and remember that most people are looking to help and show you a side of their home that most don’t get to see.
 
Helpful App
Airbnb: Airbnb provides a comfortable stay with locals, in neighborhoods where you would live. Most hosts are warm, friendly and eager to show you around.  As always, be safe and read reviews of your host before booking.
 
And you’re off! The next time you have some time, somewhere to be, or an uncontrollable wanderlust I hope you choose the great American roadtrip!

 

Your Guide to Strange Travels

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by Cassia Reynolds

Have you ever felt the sudden urge to throw together an overnight bag, pull on your favorite hoodie, and take off for a weekend? No particular destination mapped out in your head, just visions of the open road and an unyielding desire to rock out to your favorite jams? Or even if you had a destination, have you ever wondered what it would be like to not plot out a direct route and just see what happens along the way? And did that moment pass because you hesitated, unsure where to even begin not-planning, and instead went back to your Netflix marathon?

Well, I’ve been leaping from one travel adventure to the next for two years and I’ve come to believe that with wanderlust, the more freedom and the less planning, the better. But I also learned some things the hard way and have gotten myself into misfortunate situations that could have been avoided with a basic understanding of the do’s and don’t’s of spontaneous travel.

We all love crazy times, but we also want to live to tell the tales. So here’s some advice that will help keep you wild and free without the extra stress of “oh God I’m going to die right here, right now. Why do I make so many bad life decisions?” (Full disclosure: this is a direct quote from my life.)

 

1. Music is Love. Music is Life.

Don’t even think about turning your key in the ignition without first checking that you’re stocked up with at least several hours’ worth of kick-ass tunes. This is a road trip necessity as crucial as gasoline. You don’t want start driving, decide to take the two-hour-extra-long scenic route through a particularly beautiful mountain pass, and realize ten minutes in that you only have two of your old high school CDs and radio static to entertain your ears. The “wait, I remember this, oh no, is this whole mix just Bowling for Soup, Gwen Stefani, and Soulja Boy WHAT HAVE I DONE?!” moment is pretty soul-crushing and can transform your personal vacation into the wrong kind of Highway to Hell.

Another mistake you don’t want to make is throwing together your tunes. Playlists are golden. You don’t want to be hitting the “next” button on Shuffle for seven hours straight. I set my playlists according to time of day/activity. Here’s some examples of a few of my recent lists for your inspiration:

Grooving on Long Hauls

  • “1998” by Chet Faker
  • “Wine and Chocolates” by Theophilius London
  • “Orange Crush” by Daft Punk
  • “Gooey” by Glass Animals
  • “You & Me” by Disclosure (Flume Remix)
  • “Action Bronson” by Baby Blue feat. Chance the Rapper
  • “Air Valley” by James Welsh
  • “New Dorp, New York” by SBTRKT feat. Ezra Koenig
  • “Girls Your Age” by Transviolet
  • “Wicked Games” by The Weeknd

Coffee, Yoga, & Early Morning Drives    

  • “Do You Realize??” by The Flaming Lips
  • “Girl” by Jamie XX
  • “Holocene” by Bon Iver
  • “Youth” by Daughter
  • “Easy Easy” by King Krule
  • “Lonely Press Play” by Damon Albarn
  • “Thinking Out Loud” by Ed Sheehan
  • “Don’t Wait” by Mapei
  • “Follow” by Tom and Laura Misch
  • “In the Aeroplane Over the Sea” by Neutral Milk Hotel

‘Fuck Yeah’ Jams for the Interstate

  • “i,” by Kendrick Lamar
  • “Fuckin’ Problems” by A$AP Rocky
  • “212” Azaelia Banks
  • :”Monster” by Kanye West
  • “No Role Modelz” by J. Cole
  • “Novacane” by Frank Ocean
  • “PARTYNEXTDOOR” by Recognize feat. Drake
  • “Pursuit of Happiness” by Kid Cudi (Steve Aoki Remix)
  • “IFHY” by Tyler the Creator
  • “Black Skinhead” by Kanye West

Laid-Back Tunes for Backcountry Roads

  • “Atlantic City” by Bruce Springsteen
  • “Snow” by The Red Hot Chili Peppers
  • “Out of My League” by Fitz and the Tantrums
  • “London Thunder” by Foals
  • “Gold on the Ceiling” by The Black Keys
  • “Colours” by Grouplove
  • “When I’m Small” by Phantogram
  • “Feels Like We Only Go Backwards” by Tame Impala
  • “Bambi” by Tokyo Police Club
  • “Do the Panic” by Phantom Planet

 

 

2. Apps are Awesome

Here are two travel applications that I adore and that can change the way you look at your journey into the unknown:

Ever felt that itch to explore but unsure where to start? Roadtrippers can be your muse. You just type in your location and magical pins drop on the app map, laying out everything from quirky restaurants to scenic overlooks to strange tourist attractions. All the pinpoints are rated and you can read user reviews before you take your time to visit a spot.

When you’re roadtripping without a specific destination, it’s great getting lost in the scenery for a little while, but you definitely want to make sure you can get back on track. Maps.Me is perfect for those looking to go off the grid for a bit, especially down backcountry roads where mobile data just doesn’t reach. It’s a GPS guide that works without an Internet connection. I’ve used it in Laos, Vietnam, and America, and it’s never failed to put me back on route to civilization.

 

3. Always Pack Light

I know, I know, you’ve heard it countless times from every travel blogger and backpacking extraordinaire. And, as yet again you kneel over your overstuffed suitcase, realizing you can’t possibly fit one more piece of clothing in it but you haven’t even packed your socks yet, you throw your hands in the air and cry out to the gods-of-all-things-travel “but seriously, what does packing light even mean?”

I’ve been there plenty of frustrating, mind-boggling, stressful times. And I’m here to help.

When you prepare to pack, ask yourself this question: how many places will you visit where it won’t be be possible to do laundry? And why are you bringing anything that can’t be worn twice without washing (underwear excluded - I usually overpack on those)?

Balance is key, especially when you’re preparing for travels into the unknown. You’re not totally sure what you’ll need, what weather you’ll encounter, and what kinds of activities you’ll end up partaking in. So you have to take a cold, calculated look at the amount of space available and ask yourself this: is it worth carrying with me? And if it’s not, leave it.

If you do have to prepare for several seasons, bring clothing that’s durable and packable. (And that doesn’t mean you can’t be chic!) Thin cotton tank tops and shirts are perfect for layering, as are denim and flannel button downs. A good button down can double as both a shirt and a sweater. And of course, if you’re into hiking, there’s (my personal favorite piece of travel gear) yoga pants. Light, non-wrinkly, comfy-as-all-hell, and strangely fashionable at the moment. Seriously, I’m so into the crazy print yoga pant fashion trend. It’s changed the game for backpacker ladies, everywhere!

If you have to leave everything else behind, bring the following items (in order of importance): water, a GPS device, sunblock, bug repellent, a portable charger, some sort of camera, and an extra hoodie.

 

4. If You’re Headed into Nature, Bring Extra Water & Snacks

Some of my favorite high-energy hiking snacks include: cashews, instant coffee, Clif Bars, pre-packaged tuna-and-crackers packs, Quest Bars, and dried mangoes. Keep hydrated, stay smart, and make sure you don’t get into a situation where you pass out alone on a less-traveled mountain path.

 

5. Last But Not Least: There are More Good People in the World than Bad

This is not an excuse to do stupid shit, like hitchhike alone at night or get blackout drunk with a group of total strangers that you meet on the road. It’s just a reminder that there’s no reason to be paranoid or scared of stuff you really don’t have to be. A smile or kind gesture can go a long way when you’re alone in a foreign place. Never be afraid to ask for help and always keep an open mind when traveling. It’s this kind of new-experience-craving mindset that leads to the most incredible, unexpected adventures.

So take backroads, greet strangers with smiles, try out the mom-and-pop restaurants, and don’t make yourself more of an outsider than you have to be.

Cheers folks! Make sure you never miss out on another spontaneous adventure, whether it’s a day trip tooling around a part of town you usually don’t venture through or a weekend getaway with a destination chosen at a whim.


Samantha's Hometown

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Higganum, Connecticut

by Samantha Adler

The summer before entering high school my parents announced we were moving. We were leaving Middletown for a small town in the woods, called Higganum. Population 1,000. Correction: village within a town. While it was only about 10 miles away, it seemed to be the end of my teenage life (fact: teenagers are quite dramatic).

The real estate agent and I became natural enemies. Her job was to sell our home, and my job, as I saw it, was to foil all her plans. Before each open house I’d leave a trail of brightly colored sticky notes inside closet doors, on bathroom mirrors and stuck on the occasional family photo. Scribbled in messy, supernatural print they politely warned “DO NOT BUY THIS HOUSE. IT’S HAUNTED” and “I’M COMING FOR YOU AND YOUR FAMILY - GHOST”.  Either the agent caught on or a brave couple decided to proceed with putting down an offer, despite the ghoulish threats.

On the first day of school my history teacher asked us to find Higganum on a map. After ten minutes of not finding Waldo I raised my hand,

“I’m sorry, I don’t think it’s on this map. Maybe I’m looking at the wrong one?”

With a sly smile, my teacher responded, “It’s never marked!”

* horrified expression *

“That’s the fun part! Welcome!”

At the time I didn’t get the “fun part” of living in a place that was so unfamiliar, unrecognizable and tucked away. A quiet, wooded New England town constructed of forest back-roads interlocking occasionally with CT-81 and the traffic lights of our two-block Main Street.

It wasn’t until I moved to New York years later, that I saw the unfamiliar, unrecognizable and tucked away are a refuge. My hometown is a well-kept secret: a web of country roads, in-between a few New England towns. I’m glad I know the roads, how to get to that place where I can take salvage in the quiet and actually see stars in the sky.

Anyways, hope that ghost is being nice to that sweet couple.

 

Samantha's Definitive America

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BLUE RIDGE PARKWAY, TENNESSEE

by Samantha Adler

The rolling forests of the Northeast and Mid-Atlantic are entirely engulfing. With their blue and green hues, dewy crisp breath, lush foliage, and temperamental, seasonal mood swings.

A seemingly odd find in the heart of the American wilderness was a parking lot. An empty, expansive lot, dropped atop a mountain.  

That asphalt slab was strangely patriotic. Even amidst the defining, impressive backcountry, I felt a surprising fondness towards the lot. It was a familiar and comfortable sanctuary after five hours of driving through, up, and over many mountains.

The US has always been a wild country of explorers and adventurers. Now, we’re leading modern expeditions in Jeeps and Priuses.

Repetitive lines on blacktop mark a place to rest, park your gas-powered stead, and admire the complexity of this huge country. Whether you’re cutting through the suburban jungle, city bustle, towering forests, or flat, flat desert.

Parking lots are the watering holes of America, a microcosm of its diversity, its good and its bad. To dogs waiting patiently with tongues wagging, notes of kindness left stuck on windshield wipers, helping hands carrying heavy loads for those in need, laughter from impromptu cookouts on pick-up beds. To unwanted stalkers, boisterous and vile exchanges, newly discovered dents and paint chips, and hidden dangers in the absence of street lamps.

These parking lots are definitively American to me. They’re relics of a country of explorers behind the wheel.

Cassia's Hometown

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Myrtle Beach, South Carolina 

by Cassia Reynolds

My hometown is a place built upon tourist traps within tourist traps. We have it all: Ripley’s Believe It or Not’s, water parks and amusement parks, a Hard Rock Cafe shaped like a pyramid, a wax museum, multiple trashy clubs that serve alcoholic slushies in plastic cups with bendy straws, NASCAR speedpark, Medieval Times, a pirate-themed song-and-dance dinner show, and more putt putt golf courses than schools, hospitals, bars, police stations, YMCAs, and fire departments combined.

I usually steer clear of these so-called-attractions with the same level of desperate desire for self-perseverance as a 1350’s British native avoiding central London during the height of the the Black Death. I’m ingrained with that kind of grumpy cynicism that many a tourist-destination-native has, the “why-the-fuck-would-anyone-want-to-visit-this-place-and-spend-money-on-this-shit” kind. And the hordes of visitors that transform my simple, twenty-minute grocery trips into hour-and-a-half, frantic fights-to-the-death over the last batch of non-moldy strawberries, bewilder me.

But once in a while, mostly out of curiosity, I venture into the world of vacationing day drunks, screaming children, and hapless lost drivers. And the question I ask myself every time is one that sometimes feels as confounding as the classic “which came first, the chicken or the egg?”

What is it that entices thousands of legally-sane Americans to visit Myrtle Beach every summer?

On this particular journey into the tacky wonderland of Myrtle Beach tourism, I was assisted by one of my childhood friends, a former employee of a beachfront water sports company. (Okay, so there are some perks to living in a tourist hub. The most relevant of which is that everyone works in attractions and you get a lot of free rides.) The two of us went sailing, jet skiing, and parasailing. I’d never taken part in any of these activities before, and I have to admit, it was all pretty freaking fun. At one point, I even found myself standing up on my jet ski, my hand twisted hard around the accelerator, “WOOHOO-ing” at the top of my lungs like one of those tourists I usually roll my eyes at.

The cheery captain of our parasailing boat was a South Carolina native; and had all the quirks of one, too. As his first mate clipped my friend and I into the strappy harnesses, he chain smoked and described his recent adoption of several miniature donkeys.

“I have three of ‘em and they’re all just up to waist high. Not as easy as taking care of rabbits, like I was ‘fore this.”

Before I could ask where the hell he’d even found a miniature donkey, my body was launched into the air. And as we rose up, my friend threw himself backwards so that he was hanging upside down. I followed suit.

And then there was nothing to block my perfect view of Myrtle Beach’s coastline and the blue-green depths of the sea below me. I laughed out of joy and fright, the beige sands and blocky hotels snaking across my vision, meeting foam capped waves in squiggly lines. I was so high up the tourists became nothing but skin-toned speckles on the shore. The wind whipped through my hair, and that whoosh was the only sound I could hear. Even with all the adrenaline pumping through my limbs, my fingers death-gripping the harness, a kind of peacefulness overtook me.

And so I just hung there, enjoying it. Circular blobs of blush-colored jellyfish bobbed to the surface. A neon blue sailboat cut across the water, leaving behind it a creamy trail. The ocean seemed much more mysterious and larger from up here, stretching out forever to the horizon. The sun’s intense rays had bleached the shoreline a dull beige, bringing out the deep hues of the grassy dunes behind it. And this faded quality caused any bright spots of color on the beach to practically glow: advertisements, umbrellas, bikini tops. When I took my gaze inland, I could see beyond the shore and behind the rows of pastel hotels and condos along the beach, to the gray streak of Highway 17, and then finally to the heavy green treetops of the nearby forest.

And that’s when the epiphany hit me, like a slap across the face. It took something as drastic as dangling upside down in the sky above my hometown to see it, but I did. I answered the question.

They just come for a change of scenery.

Cassia's Definitive America

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Indianapolis, Indiana

by Cassia Reynolds

I have a special place in my heart for the highways of the American Midwest, yellow dotted lines on straight, wide strips of black speckled asphalt. It’s a timeless love for the scenery: a big, empty sky over endless, flat, green farmscapes. Maybe aesthetically I’m a minimalist; there’s just something mesmerizingly simple about all that open space. I can stare out the window for hours, getting thrills from the sparse huddles of cylindrical granaries that rise above the cornfields or the single hilltop adorned with a quaint, red-painted barn, breaking up the monotony.

And maybe that’s it; the terrain is so boring that I begin to appreciate the beauty of the small things that I see.

Whatever it is, I’m drawn to the quiet charm of this place. To the trees: pines, oaks, firs, spruces, and maples. To the neighborhoods with brick houses and freshly-cut front lawns and barefoot kids running through the grass. To the busy parking lots of the shopping malls with their perfect, infinite rows of soccer mom minivans and SUVs and shiny paint jobs that glint under the sun. To the temperate climate, with its four distinct seasons that perfectly balance a brutally cold winter with a swampy-hot summer. To the parks and lakes and fields and green, green, green everywhere and everything.  

It’s what I imagine as definitively American in a land that’s so large and compartmentalized and spread out that it feels like five countries in one sometimes.

It’s a quiet, flat place, with not a lot happening.