Stroopwafel

I've been traveling for about two weeks. This particular adventure is soon coming to an end, and I've been thinking about the nature and effects of travel. I'm sure I've heard this song before, but I happened upon it again the other day, and it's simple beauty struck me. Although the lyrics suggest a more somber mood than I identify with at the moment, when paired with the melody, the song conveys a sense of life's movements to me - dancing between the bitter and the sweet, and throughout it all, buttressed by a solid sense of faith and hope. Here's the instrumental version that I came upon:

I've tried a few new Scotches in this time, and most of them were lovely enough. While I was still in New York, I stopped by the liquor store I used to work in when I was younger. After catching up a little, and learning of my newfound love of Scotch, the owner offered me a sample of a bottle he had open. Singleton 15 year was a lovely smooth character that I intend to meet with again. It was only a small taste I had with him that day so I couldn't really get more than a first impression.


After spending time with family in New York, it was time to fly to California for work (and some play). I was very happy to discover that United Airlines offers a single malt Scotch on their flights, and it was one I hadn't tried yet but had heard good things about.




Glenfarclas 12 year is Speyside Scotch. The little airplane bottle is a lovely miniature of the full size. Coming straight out of the airplane storage, this fellow was a little cold at first, but I gave him time to warm up and tried not to rush our meeting. From the bottle his nose had a vanilla sweetness that flowed smoothly into the scent of caramel once poured into the plastic airplane cup.


I did wonder if my perception was influenced by another gift from United Airlines - a stroopwafel. This tasty little treat is filled with the buttery sweetness of caramel, meant to be laid upon a cup of coffee or tea and warmed till soft. A lovely idea.



The Glenfarclas was warm and gentle from the first sip. Adding water dulled the nose a bit, but the creamy feel remained.

I sensed a hint of smoke or ash, perhaps a nutty flavor. He was light mannered gentlemen, with a bit of spice and dark overtones of something like ash.

I took long pauses between sips, letting him breathe and warm up to the conversation. Our chat called to mind for me the freshness of a foggy day - opaque, but clean and crisp.


After a bit, a little more of his spice became apparent, but the smooth buttery characteristic remained; his sweet demeanor and character reminded me of Macallan. I think I have a soft spot for the Speyside boys.

Traveling is a way of resetting perspective sometimes. When I travel, in some ways I forget my everyday life. In such a short time span, my comfortable, familiar existence can grow so distant in my mind, almost as if a dream. I remember it, but at the same time feel very detached from it.

At some point - say, after I've lived in a place for a while, this feeling fades and the new becomes the norm. I'm sure at some point a new place becomes "home" in the sense that no matter how long you may leave for, there will always be a resonance and comfort to it when you return, but how long do you need to be in a place before this magic happens? I don't know when that point is - how long it takes, or if it's spectrum. I've been to San Francisco before, many years ago; I lived in the city for a summer, and I knew it fairly well, but it never settled into my soul to become a home. Flying into the city and traveling over its iconic bridge, I recognized it, but it might as well have been completely new to me. 

While traveling, I listened to Michael Meade's The Water of Life. At one point he says: 

"you must get stuck before you can ask the real questions,"

- one of those being - "am I going the right way?" 

It's a perfect question to ponder on trains and planes.

During some of my down time out west, I went with a friend to The Whisky Tip - a local bar, complete with resident cat, and a whole slew of whiskies. I was missing my smoky Scotch, so despite the variety of new fellas available, I went with one I knew I'd get along with - Laphroaig 10. It was nice to spend the night with him again. He did not disappoint, but was as warm, spicy, smoky, and delicious as I remembered. My friend wasn't as sure about this as I was. After one sniff, she quickly returned to her wine. 

                                                                                                              We were also able to visit a couple of wineries. Korbel offered as part of their tasting a cream Sherry. I never used to be much of a sweet wine drinker, however, that is changing. As Scotch is traditionally aged in Sherry barrels, and Sherry is much less popular than it used to be, many of the crafters have had to turn to Bourbon or other barrels to age their spirit in. This is the thought behind a friend's advice, "If you like Scotch, drink Sherry." I can only do my duty...

I've been in a bit of transition for a while now, and I have found myself asking Michael Meade's question even before he suggested it. Honestly, I think my nature prompts me to have this question constantly lingering in some part of my awareness... Am I going the right way? Michael Meade says most people need to get stuck before they can hear this question being asked of themselves. Although travel is pretty much the opposite of being stuck, I think it can have the same effect on a person. It's a reset of our psyche in certain ways to be taken from the habits and routines we are used to and be placed firmly in the center of so much new. Some folks are overwhelmed by this; for myself, it is usually quite refreshing. 

To ask that question though, implies that there is a "right" way to be going, and therefore also, a "wrong" way. I interpret the right way to mean the path that allows a person to live in alignment with their truest self; reality forces the addition of the caveat: "as much as possible." It's a pretty important caveat to include, and changes what might have been a simple answer to a sometimes life-long quest peppered with existential crisis. Ah...life. 

For me, there is a beauty and rejuvenation that comes hand-in-hand with the asking of difficult questions - at least while traveling. I may not have the answer yet, but maybe it is enough now to be asking the questions. As one of my favorite writers, Rainer Maria Rilke says:

"Be patient toward all that is unsolved in your heart and try to love the questions themselves, like locked rooms and books that are now written in a very foreign tongue. Do not now seek the answers, which cannot be given you because you would not be able to live them. And the point is, to live everything. Live the questions now. Perhaps you will then gradually, without noticing it, live along some distant day into the answer."

"The point is, to live everything." As my travels come to an end, I think on my journeys and all the wonders I've seen. From the ancient mysterious redwoods, to the powerful crashing seas, and all the simple beauties in between. For now, I am loving the questions, and living all the things.