I can still remember running under the massive pine trees, at Bryce Canyon National Park, which shielded the sky above our cabin, creating a pine scented umbrella, the ground coated in a thick, soft bed of yellow needles. I can still feel the pitch sticking to my hands, as I grabbed a hold of the rough, scale like, calloused bark, wrapping my arms around the wide trunks, in awe of their behemoth size.
It was ingrained in me at an early age, life is traveling. The world is too big a place to stay stagnant, and as such, I try and move as much as possible, with everyday a newfound experience. Exploration does not have to take you far from your doorstep, in fact, you may find the strangest things right in the town next door, or maybe right outside your home. I choose to make life about the adventure, to find the spots we might love, the moments that all seem so serendipitous, as we drive by the rest stop, on the narrow vacant highway, outside some rural village, to find the perfect sunset, the awe inspiring moment, the stars bursting in the sky like a phosphorescent light show dazzling in the stygian darkness.
I think you have figured out I love to travel. I do, and have, and always will, look for the places that the tourist does not think to go, and then try to make my way to that destination. There is some innate urge that pushes me to locations that seem exotic. Not exotic in the sense of sunnier southern climes, or lost tribes which National Geographic was once so famous for discovering, but instead exotic for us, the tourist. I will make it to Paris someday. London, of course. But in the meantime, travel with me through this blog, and I will take you to locations and events that may be right in your backyard, a few states away, or across the world, but I can guarantee you, these are not the places travel agencies would think of first, or even second, to send you.
When I am not traveling, or writing in my blog firefighterwithapen.com, I am working as a full-time firefighter paramedic in southern Maine. I am a graduate from the University of Southern Maine in Geography/Anthropology, and am fortunate enough to have received my masters degree in American New England Studies—now a member of an extinct and dying program, cut down in its prime. I cannot say I am a Mainer in the true sense, since I cannot lay claim to any kinship ties in Maine, or were even born here myself. I, like many residents, am a transplant, having relocated to this state inspired by its beauty, and trapped by Portland’s appealing nature. I will admit, right here, I am from New York, but don’t hold that against me. I do not, and never have, root for the Yankees. Really, I was a Mets fan, but no one cares about the Mets—and if you are a fan of the Mets, you understand exactly what I’m saying. I spent most of my formative years in a town called Cutchogue, on Long Island, spending many a hot humid summer in a row boat, on Haywater Cove, a small creek of which I was fortunate enough to live across.
So that’s me. I write, I love the outdoors, and I have a passion for traveling. I look for the odd things to see, and look for any opportunity to find strange locations. I attempt to learn and understand the world through my journeys, and take a bit back with me, to gain a global sense. Travel with me, and I promise you won’t be bored. As Mark Twain said “Travel is fatal to prejudice, bigotry, and narrow-mindedness, and many of our people need it sorely on these accounts. Broad, wholesome, charitable views of men and things cannot be acquired by vegetating in one little corner of the earth all one’s lifetime.”
Alt taō besta