Everyone has got their story. I love hearing them; there´s nothing better than getting an animated account of another´s triumph or turmoil. It´s the reward for trying to be a people person. And travelling around, hostel after hotel, sleepy dirt village after asphalt jungle, I´m hard pressed for a better way to absorb the intriguing streams of humanity. Really, nothing better.

Except when it comes my turn. I go over my home, my family. Then comes this trip, those motorcycles. Every North American has a run-of-the-mill expression:

¨Hey, like Che Guevara, right?¨

Every time, spot on. Each reaction the same. My response has evolved after weeks of this middling whitebread. First, I explained, sure, I suppose there are similarities but now now—Che Guevara couldn´t have been the first guy to ride a motorcycle around South America. Just the most well known. I certainly won´t be the last.

Time and Bolivia pass. I consider typing prepared responses. Handing them out would have been absurd and offensive. (¨I thought you may say that and,¨ handing over an envelope, ¨took the liberty at peparing you this.¨)

But now I play dumb. I play so dumb it´s become an inside joke and a hilarious one at that:

¨You guys are like the Motorcycle Diaries, huh?¨ another American might ask.

¨Not following you.¨

¨That movie? The Motorcycle Diaries?¨

¨Hmm,¨ quizzical head scratching. ¨Sorry—just not ringing a bell. Wait, I keep a journal . . . more of a captain´s log, actually.¨This is rather lengthy. Continue reading here.

. . . I made light of one of my more heady boasts. What¨, say you? ¨No. . . he couldn´t have.¨

That´s right. Driver and Live sucked it up, smacked the clams down, Beaned it up a notch—and landed some motorcycles : Oh-seven (brand new!) Chinese knock-offs , top speed fiftyish, at $660 a pop.

Tomorrow, we baby ém around town.

One week, we get plates—the most badass souveneir—along with proper papers.

After that, we light up for Argentina. Then Brasilia. Can´t put a price on setting your own agenda, right?

Ok If you want pictures/songs/tales of adventure from Alaska made by the Growers, there are now two spots to recive such priceless plesentries.

Pictures/blurbs can be found at

http://flickr.com/photos/8971629@N05/

All else is @

http://www.myspace.com/thegrowers

Happy summers to all

Some people really like grape juice, a lot. Here in America exists a thriving culture, entirley independent of the cares and woes of the rest of the nation, with the exception of one…and that is their desire to drink a fermented grape beverage. Life litteraly revolves around the vino in Napa valley. As we have stencilled concrete patterns of leaves and evergreen trees along the I-5 corridor in washingtown, they have stenciled clusters of grapes. Small décor grape clustes are present on the left side of every street sign, all of the art galleries house works of art gesturing at the relish of wine, menus at breweries are dominated on one side by food, the other by wine, with no mention of beer. Drinking and driving is a bit of a sport in the valley, and it is not unheard of for one to drink red coffee with breakfast. And what have I learned from this experience thus far? How to tell the difference between a 2003 Cabernet Sauvignon and a 2004 Rutherford. Cheers.

We’ve gone and done it. Went and pulled up our roots.
We made port in the land of the midnight sun! Not only
that, but apperently they have sun in the day too. The
locals are standing around covering their eyes and looking confused. “Whats that thing in the sky? Its soooooo bright!” Through some strange fluke we (me, mike, aaron, and Andy “the bad dogg” Cook) are enjoying the only three days of sun
Ketchikan’s gets all year.

What a weight off my shouldiers this is turning out to
be. No curriculm to worry over now. Gone is the push
and hustle of the United States of Zenophobia, with
its churning smoke stacks and Mcshit Nuggets of Greasy
Death, supersized over and over. Here Bald Eagals
roost in a fir tree outside my morning window.
Ketchican is built on the the tide line (it’s too
steep elsewere). The tides are nearly sixteen feet, but I still havent figured out why. Most of the towns on stilts, with planks
spanning them. These walkways are achient and the hard
knots rise up from thier surface like so many pimples.
Its the result of gernerations of feet, hoves and
wagon weels and more rencently, tires. The sun sets here around 11Pm but you know, it never really gets dark. Imagine the that first touch of morning light on the lopez skyline after one of Riley’s keggers. The suns passage is low, but angularly very broad.

The ferry ride up was lovely. The ferry itself is
outragious. It has a in no particular order, A map
room, a theater, a bar (with a piano), a solarium with
neon yellow lights and 20 space heaters (tahiti in
Alaska) and a boat load of northward bound folks. The
latter is a mix of canery workers fishermen and
families. There was even a real 49’er onbord (What
hair!) The ships gally was foolishly overstocked with
condements. Not having any Blue Cheese Dressing (salad
dressing made by Jesus himself, no doubt) for our
vegitables, we figured somthing must be done. But the
pump on the dressing was simply not industrial enough
to fill the 40oz Dr. Pepper bottle we hade on hand. At
two in the morn we were forced to open the lid and use
cups to relay the heavenly sauce to its new home. Shit
a fish, what a mess! Shit a big dead fish! Although it was
late, I still figured I should clean up the Hansel and
Grettle trail of the stuff leading back to our bunks.