Napoli, Italy
July 2015
Stop number two of our thirty five day, post-graduate excursion around the Mediterranean landed us in the heart of Napoli. A stark contrast to Rome's pristine aura, Napoli was grungy, trash-ridden, loud and chaotic. It felt like New York, and I loved it, all of it. The fat men in speedos, sprawled out on the huge boulders lining the bay, adding patina to their already leathery skin. The €4 pizza in the birthplace of pizza, doesn't get more authentic. There was no such thing as 'pedestrians have the right away;' you wanted to cross the street, you just went for it and the cars would stop, inches before hitting you but they stopped.
After wondering the narrow streets, we'd pile into our room of the hostel, which had been advertised as a "Entire Apartment" on AirBnB. It was filled with four old cots with wool-ish blankets, which went unused as it was mid-July and the apartment was without air conditioning. The one window of the room opened up into an narrow alley and offered no ventilation.
I snapped this picture as we lounged around and disgested our Peronis and the oversized pizzas we had all ordered individually, while locals looked at us as "typical obese Americans" I'm sure.
Venzia, Italy (July 2015)
Old faces, new places.
Henrietta and I became very close through college, mainly bitching about our romantic interests and, ultimately, disappointments. That and our shared passion for art has maintained our friendship ever since. No matter how long its been, we get together and we can gossip with the best of them (and about them.)
She happened to be in Venice at the same time we were. We drank bellinis in the sun, ate overpriced yet appropriately priced dinner, and got happily lost in the labyrinth that is Venice after dusk.
Princeton, NJ (Fall 2015)
Photo by Injee
I never told anyone why I wore that chain. They probably think I did it because i thought I was cool, thats cool too. But I wore it to remind myself of no matter what to enjoy it. In the middle of a long run when it was all strugs and no smiles, I'd feel that little tap on my chest... as to say "Hey at least you're out here." Or when I was too worried about feeling the lactic in my legs or my heavy arms, I focus on how it felt bouncing from one shoulder to the other. Or when I was really feeling good, and it'd get into this perfect cadence with my body, I'd think, "Remember this feeling because this what its fucking all about."
I left that chain on for four and a half straight years. I sweat, showered, cried, and slept in it. It'd get chewed on. It'd get made fun of. It'd awkwardly get in the way during sex. It was a part of me as much as my slight lisp is. And when I finally took it off, I felt weird for a very long time; my collarbones felt naked.
I still have that chain in a box somewhere, just in case I need reminding of something else.
Detroit, MI (December 2016)
Corktown is cool, but weird. Its a strip of hipster establishments on an awkwardly wide road that is nearly empty, which is even more unsettling because the heart of downtown is no more than a mile away. An amazing BBQ joint. A cocktail bar that changes its name systematically; it was "Bill Murray" on this visit. One block east is the abandoned Michigan Central Station, a beautiful display of early 20th century architecture, and a couple blocks south was this warehouse. Completely abandoned, its supposed to be locked down, but its Detroit and there are bigger priorities. We shimmied around the fence and blindly walked across the ground floor, completely boarded up and pitch black, to the north stairwell. As we exited on the sixth floor, we were met by the glaring sunset, made available by the lack of a west-ward facade above the fifth floor. A brilliant golden hue filled the dark cavity, shimmering off the puddles of stagnant water and weaving through the pillars.
Despite standing on the sixth floor of a surely structurally unsound building in Detroit, with all of its misfortune and trials, the last sunset of 2016 was beautiful. In a weird way, Detroit made it more beautiful.
Bloomington, IN (April 2017)
All black squares crack, but thats just the beauty of life revealing itself.
Chicago, IL (October 2015)
I don't know classical music. I don't know music in any classical sense. I don't know notes, or tones, or pitches. I don't even know if I just named three different things or if those are all one in the same. I have a terrible rhythm and can't sing at all.
But I like that. I like being taken away by different sounds, able to shift my preference in genre based on my mood, and listen to different styles without trying to break them down as a true artist might. Art is feeling, not analysis.
Princeton, NJ (October 2013)
We were aware of time. Aware that it passes. Aware that things change, move on, grow old. We were aware that some day we'd be the old men walking around campus looking for any semi-attractive co-ed to tell an over-inflated story to or see a young man wearing a ‘Princeton Track’ t-shirt and recall our 'championship season.’
We were very aware of all that, but that night, we were focused on getting drunk, and setting the foundation to build those back-in-my-day stories.
Princeton, NJ (Spring 2015)
The common bystander would look at this line and view it as teamwork, like basketball practice. And while some days the group would settle into a Nash equilibrium and just complete the prescribed workout, that was rare. The chances were, in a group of highly competitive, college guys with not enough time to practice, study, go to class, eat and fuck, so the fucking was sacrificed, someone would feel good and divert that unused testosterone into the workout, tossing Nash and his pussy game theory out the window. And when that happened, and it happened nearly every Tuesday and Friday, the fun started.
Who felt good to go with him just because? Who felt good enough to turn the hunter in the hunted? And when would each of them finally show their cards? Who was having a shitty day? Who was having such a shitty day they'd call out the dickhead fucking up the workout because it made him look bad and feel worse? Of those having shitty days, who would bitch about it and who would quietly finish the cool down, take a quick solo shower, and leave before everyone else was done stretching? ("What's up his ass today?") Of those feeling good, who would realize it was just his lucky day and act normal and who would two-step the cool down but hang around just enough to awkwardly look over his shoulder to boast about how good he felt? ("Shut the fuck up dude.")
Everyone had their turn in each role; and on workout day, you never had a choice, your role was predetermined by your master: your body.
Outside Bloomington, IN (September 2016)
There is nothing like it. I've never taken any real drug, but I assure you nothing can give you the same sensation.
Your heart is beating faster than most will ever get it, yet its comfortable. Your lungs expand with a long gasp and exhale with a sharp gasp, a rhythmic soundtrack of disappointed under-oxygenation for your body. With each stride, you feel the asphalt jolt through every bone in your foot, up your shins into your quads and dissipate into your torso . Your calves fall into the unpleasant cycle of contracted relief and violent extension. Your arms, fortunate enough to be as far from the pain's epicenter as possible, hence their twig-like appearance, can only pump back and forth, helping to propel you forward in the hopes of it all ending sooner.
But in that chaos, the only thing you hear: the pitter-patter of your shoes. The only thing you see: the shadow of your legs, which on the two dimensional canvas of the road look like pistons moving up and down, pushing you forward. The only thing you taste: the sweat dripping from your upper lip. And the only thing louder than the internal pleas for rest is that voice, the same one that knows your pain is redlinned and it wont get any worst, it can't, telling you to enjoy this because your machine of a body will be decommissioned one day. And as you drop it to 4:55 pace for the last four miles, that thought makes you smile.
Sete, France (July 2015)
We are in the south of France in the tiny town of Fabregues. We landed here to celebrate the 90th birthday of the grandmother of my roommate, Sam. After staying in the major Italian cities and perusing museums and the must-do tourist traps for the last three weeks, the locals-only, back-alley feel was welcomed. We celebrated her birthday at the local park, which was a fenced-in dirt patch with a long shelter with an equally long picnic table under it. No one in Sam's family, besides his parents, knew English, and none of us other than Same knew French.
So we drank to learn. And as we drank, we played petanque, a game similar to bocce but with heavy metal balls. As we became more and more tipsy, we yelled "PA-TONNKK" more and more obnoxiously with each throw. Shirtless under the the sweltering Mediterranean sun, we were soon coated in a thin film of dust, kicked up from the metal balls and dehydrated, which only got us more drunk. We played the entirety of Sam's extended family and exclusively lost, but were allowed to stay in the understanding we couldn't really participate in anything else. We played for a very long time, but never did learn French, except for PA-TONKK, I guess.
Princeton, NJ (Spring 2015)
I am fortunate when it comes to real emotional pain. I've never been to a funeral. I grew up in a stable, loving home. I've never really been really really mad at the world. I have been heart broken, but that's chicken shit compared to sitting on the sidelines at practice, watching your closest friends do the one thing a day that you actually care about. Doing the thing that makes the hours of studying and tireless routine worthwhile. You know they are just doing what they always do, but at first, you take it personally that they're there and you're not. And after a couple days of being angry at them, reason hits, which should be a good thing but its not because the anger turns inward, but not you per say.
Its an incredibly surreal feeling to be angry at your body, because to do so you have to view it as separate than yourself. Your body takes on its own agency, one that you can only nudge but never fully control. It becomes, in your eyes, a machine, which in times of injury is fucking infuriating but awe-inspiring in times of victory.
And despite crossing that final finish line, that separation of you and body never goes away. I will forever be the damned handler of this body.
Sammy’s Place in Rock Sound, Eleuthera, Bahamas (July 2018)
My mom ordered first, and as always, that entailed a indecisive process of asking questions, looking for some guidance. When she settled upon the fish stew, the owner doubling as our waitress, Sammy, showed a burst of appreciation. “Whew! Momma you’re going to LOVE it!” And as we went around the table, each of us ordering, Sammy’s excitement only grew. "You wouldn’t imagine how many pancakes and waffles we make for white tourists, but y’all eatin’ like some real Bahamians!”
Gorges de Verdon, Provance, France (July 2015)
Fuck kayaking. We went back and got a paddleboat.
Outside of Bloomington, IN (August 2016)
“In mind's special processes, a ten-mile run takes far longer than the 60 minutes reported by a grandfather clock. Such time, in fact, hardly exists at all in the real world; it is all out on the trail somewhere, and you only go back to it when you are out there.” -John L. Parker
Lighthouse Beach, Eleuthera, Bahamas (July 2018)
A cooler of beer and the most remote place to sit. That is what a Martin family vacation is.
Lausanne, Switzerland (July 2017)
Giudecca, Venzia, Italy (July 2015)
Only the superficial things change with travel. Language. Government. Ethnicities. Landscapes. Those are all meaningless when compared to the universalities. Childhood. Love. Creativity. Awe. Interaction. Inspiration.
People often go places to take the experience back home with them, to say "I've been there. See!." It is just a trip; they view the setting as temporary, not recognizing that in fact, they are the temporary variable placed in a much larger equation.
I don't see cities, I see homes. I don't see pedestrians. I see commuters. I don't see (insert demonym). I see normal people.
I like to imagine the guy standing next to me at the espresso bar is a regular; he knows the barista and asks her about her children. I like sitting on my hotel balcony, trying to see into the apartments across the street to glimpse their decor. In a car or train, I watch the world pass and try to spot a local shop that'd be my favorite if I were to live there. I like to think this kid's childhood could have been mine, and if so, would I jump that scooter into the canal?
Tippy’s Restaurant in Governor’s Harbor, Eleuthera, Bahamas (July 2018)
