August 24th, 1992– 

I left Syracuse painfully early on the morning of my 21^st Birthday. Also the morning after my oldest sister’s wedding. I remember sitting in a lounge chair staring out at Skaneateles Lake. …Someone had said something about jumping in about 3 hours ago. It was still bouncing around inside my head. “I’ll go swimmin!!!!” If i didn’t say it, I meant to. One good push from the feet and I’d have the momentum to carry me laughing off the end of the dock. Who’s in? Is anybody else even out here? I was finishing off a joint that I swear started with a bunch of other people. I settled back and tried to wrap my head around the magnitude of the change I was about to make. I’m out of here. Change of scenery. Change of scene. An adventure like… well, I had nothing to compare it to. Minutes later I was violently awakened at the hands of my brother, Jeff. Once upon a time he’d been asleep in the chair next to me. I loved him but very much wanted him to stop talking. I remember thinking that as I watched him fade to black. “—–GET. UP. YOU’LL. MISS. THE. PLANE.” Seperate sounds coming from all directions … somehow they formed to make a sentence.  The lake came into focus.

My father, though not technically on the guest list for the occasion, was kind enough to drive in from Ithaca to take me to the airport. He was feeling pretty good about things in general, and he wanted to give me a send off. He was paying for this little adventure, after all. He was already in the driveway and he wasn’t happy. I don’t blame him for being pissed. My mother wouldn’t even let them stand inside.  A 20 minute scramble to assemble my ill-prepared suitcases was enough to earn me a ride in complete silence. Not a word. In his defense, it was my step mother that set the tone. God, she was awful. Total silence, all the way to the airport. That worked just fine for me. I was looking out the window at a grey, rainy Syracuse morning. It was a world I was leaving behind. All of it. And the deafening silence was the perfect accompaniment.

As the plane positioned itself on the runway, I tried to get past the incessant pounding in my head. Penance for the debauchery of the night before. Adrenaline too. Like an annoying roommate turning on the blender after a morning run, determined to seize the day. Destination Oregon. I had no idea what to expect, but that it is where I will continue my illustrious college career. Oregon. Ashland, to be exact. The name of the town mattered little. I’d already created in it a magical place. As unhere as a place could be. A place where elves danced in the streets, sprinkling fairy dust. This turned out to be very close to the truth.

Ashland is about 25 minutes north of California nestled between the Cascade and Siskiyou mountain ranges. Respectfully. It is home to the Oregon Shakespeare Festival  (Yes… that Oregon Shakespeare Festival) as well as Southern Oregon State College. (Yes, that Southern Oregon State College). I was drawn here by both. I quickly discovered that said festival employs a flock of people dressed as Shakespearean types. Not just the actors, but a bunch of other people too. Probably people that auditioned and got a, “You’re not right for the lead… but we’ve got something tht’s perfect for you….” These people set up shop on street corners or just generally hang around. Juggling, playing mandolins, even the occasional duel. It’s really cool. Like a Renaissance Fair, but somehow done tastefully.

I went to the Renaissance Fair in Sterling, NY a few years ago. Some guy was sitting on a stump in full costume. A chain link armor sleeve over his head. Knight helmet sitting next to him. He seemed surprised, even put out when I asked him if he could point me towards the bathrooms. The outhouse… the lew or whatever. He stood up, planted his swod in the ground, gave me his best bad-guy villian look and said, “Siiir…. IIYYYEEEEeee DoOOOOOOO NOOOTTT  Weeeeeeehhk heeEEEEAAAAAaaahhh!!!!!! And he stormed off. Umm, okay. I just threw the guy the greatest compliment he’s ever going to hear in his life and he didn’t even break character. I saw him in the grog tent later and he still looked pissed.

These people have been classically trained. Not like that guy. The part timers that have to reach in past their USS Enterprise one-piece to get to their leather tunics. There are no people like him in Ashland. Well, there are… but they all do work there. They’re professionals.

This is the most amazing place I’ve ever been to in my life. And I’m not visiting… I live here. The locals are mostly slow moving and tie-dyed. The students, like me, are from all over the place. Take my roommate Shinichi, for example. He’s from a town 50 miles outside of Tokyo. How he ended up here is well documented. How I ended up living with a guy that doesn’t speak a lick of English is a mystery. We’ll talk about him tomorrow.

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