First Time West

The Syncro idled roughly in the arrival area of Portland International Airport late Monday night.  Glancing in the rear view mirror, I watched the lone police officer maker her rounds, motioning to stagnent drivers to continue their laps. I was already on my third and had little interest in making it a forth.

"Brrootherrr!!!" a deep voice echoed.

Sticking my head out of the window with hopes of spotting the origins of the thunder,  I spotted a red headed man wearing a leather jacket running out of a revolving door.  If the local Oregonians weren't thrown off guard by the mohawk,  the boogie board dragging behind him put them over the edge.

"Uncle TTT!" I screamed back in an equally obnoxious but unthreatening tone.  Pulling the emergency break.  I opened the door and ran over to meet my college roommate, Tucker.

A few months after my 18th birthday, I told an admittance officer from a small college in Maine that I would love to attend their college having never stept foot in the state.  I had no idea what I was getting myself into.  That fall, I made the 3000 mile trip across the country excited to see a new place and meet new people.  I had never seen a lacrosse stick, heard Dispatch or watched a Red Sox game.  I thought about leaving my school for a more wordly place often but my connection with Maine and a handful of close friends kept me there.  I'm very glad that I did stick it out, because without that isolation and boredom, I probably never would have taken up photography or started this blog.

Despite having a relatively well traveld student body,  few of my peers had ever been west of a handful of posh ski resorts in Colorado.   Most people talk positively about their homes, but my experiences in New England compounded  my appreciation for the west coast and the Pacific Northwest in specific.  After six years of constant sales pitch resembling the late Billy Mays,  Tucker finally bought a ticket west and headed west for a 10 day safari.

Flying into Portland and then out of San Francisco 10 days later,  we planned to head down the coast.  Call it a best of trip.  It sounds easy enough, but the task of showing some one very close to you a place you love so well is a surprising daunting task.  I rushed to show him places that I thought were interesting.  We headed east of the Cascades,  spent a few days in portland and then meandered our way down the Oregon Coast to Northern California.

Wet campfire wood.

Tucker enjoying the signature Northwest rainwater by way of this barrel.  My guess is that it was in the mid 40s.

The green room.

Spring in Portland.

Retreat.

Campfires.

 Things I took for granted,  like Multnomah Falls or the size of the fur trees that ubiquitously dot the country side stunned Tucker.  I once heard that, "In the east, man is god,  but in the west,  nature is god."  Now I'm not a religious person,  but this mantra speaks to me as I'm sure it does to a lot of people that have experienced both Coasts.  By the time I bid farewell to Tucker,  I could tell that he was starting to agree.

Here are some more links,

First Time West (Facebook). 

The Burning House Revisited

A year ago I started asking my friends what they would take with them if their house was burning.  As an example of what I envisioned the photos looking like I sent around a post I did here.  A few weeks later,  I launched Theburninghouse.com as a home for these images and hopefully others submitted by friends and people I didn't know.

Within a week the site had grown larger than I ever could have imagined.  Submissions were coming in from around the world.  It was wild to see people responding to an idea and question that I thought had merit.

Despite appearing to be about objects, The Burning House is a project about people told through their most cherished possessions.  When I first thought about what I would take,  I included all sorts of stuff that at the time I felt was important.  Jeans,  A Rolex watch,  my iPhone.  Now after leaving New York, hearing answers to the question from thousands of people and living in a van for the last nine months, my material priorities have changed a lot.

I hope that Burning House has prompted other people to consider what is important materially to them.

Name: Foster Huntington

Age: 24

Location: Mexican Hat, Utah

Occupation: still working on that

List:

• A few rolls of undeveloped film from the last week of my travels including the half-shot one in my Contax t2
• The keys to my VW Syncro

For more photos from people around the world and info about the upcoming book that comes out July 10, head over to theburninghouse.com

Here are some more links,

The Burning House Book,

The Burning House (Facebook).

Granada

The cab pulled into Granada late Friday afternoon, just as the sun was sinking over the jagged horizon of the volcanoes to the west.  Bouncing around the cobblestone streets in a constant fight for right-of-way with horse-drawn trailers, tourists and the occasional Toyota Hilux, we eventually found Hotel Con Corizon.   After checking in,  I left my bags in my room and headed out to explore the 500 year old colonial city.

The central square felt relatively subdued for a Friday night,  save for a few groups of fellow gringos and a handful of street vendors.  Semana Santa,  a week-long holiday celebrating Nicaraguan's resilience, assaults of Tona's (the local beer) and cheap rum, the week before had apparently taken the wind out of their sails.  The streets were vacant and the restaurants empty,  rather fitting for my last night in Nicaragua I mused.

Emptying my pockets and hunting around in my camera bag, I collected the last of my Nicaraguan Cordobas in my left hand.  "That's a nice dinner," I mumbled to myself as I pulled another wrinkled 200 note from my coin pocket.   365 Cords.  That works out to be about 15 bucks, I estimated.  With no sense of urgency,  I wandered the streets looking for a dinner spot.

 My attention was heightened by the knowledge that at 7:15 the next morning,  I would be on a plane back to the states. 

Hand painted signs.

These buildings were built long before electronics.

Double parked.

Scooter.

For whom the bell tolls.

Note the string bike lock.

Garden.

2012,  could be 1972.

After sticking my head inside a handful of cafes,  I eventually I settled on small restaurant with a garden in the middle.  I ate by myself and listened to the conversations of the other travelers.  A group of middle-aged women discussed their trip to a nearby organic coffee plantation. "Tourist trap," I grumbled.  Two recent high school graduates assured each other of the importance of a gap year.  Probably not a bad thing.  My steak came quickly, and I tipped with the remainder of my Cordoba coins.

Even though my flight didn't leave until the next morning,  my mind was already elsewhere, ready for the next leg of my journey.

Hera are some more links.

Granada (Facebook),

Twitter.

Siesta

Out of delayed frustration, I rolled over and brushed  a gallon of sand out off the cot with a flick of my forearm.   Enjoying the newfound smoothness of the unfitted white sheets, I adjusting my head on the pillow and studied the knots on the plywood ceiling.

Slowly my eye lids drooped and I dozed off.

My watch beeped, indicating a change of the hour.  2:00 PM.  Still three hours until low tide and it was hot as fuck outside, too hot, I thought to myself.  Through the screen window,  top 40 hits from yesteryear blared on an over worked set of outdoor speakers.  Investigating, I leaned up and peered out at group of European and Australian travels smoking cigarettes and engaging in some heated conversation.  The thick accents,  distance, and Lupe Fiasco thumping in the background made it hard to deduct the subject. That Dutch chick sure was steamed.   Perhaps they're debating their favorite Dubstep DJ I chuckled to myself.  They love that shit.

Rolling over on my stomach I put the pillow over my head.  Still more time to Siesta.

Here are some more links,

Gigante (Facebook),

Changing Tide (ART).