Locus Amoenus V: Geisenheim

Locus Amoenus, Latin: the lovely or pleasing place. A common trope in Ancient Roman literature, usually a garden or woodland–a spot of inherent safety, comfort, and striking beauty. The concept features in works by authors as early as Homer, and it was reveled in by the later pastoral poets before being passed on to the writers of the Middle Ages and the Renaissance. Locus amoenus is a place to retreat to, often with overtones of Elysium on earth.OLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERAApril 2, 2017 This time, the locus amoenus I am writing about isn’t my own, or not directly at least. It’s Jonathan’s–his tiny apartment in Geisenheim, where he studies viticulture and has lived on and off for the last seven years. In the time that I have known him, I’ve come to love the place, too. Now, he is beginning the long process of tearing it all apart, because he’s going to be leaving everything at the end of the summer and moving to California to be with me as I work towards my degree. It’s all thrilling, of course, but difficult: How does one fit 30 years of life into a few suitcases and set off for the other side of world? 

These sorts of processes are harder for Jonathan than they are for me. I love packed bookshelves and art on the walls, but a part of me has always been equally thrilled by minimalism. It’s exciting, and easy, for me to pare down everything to a suitcase, to give away and leave behind, and just go without it all.

Jonathan, however, is a materialist in the richest sense of the word. He revels in the feel and shape and smell of the physical, in beautiful and useful things, in collecting and saving and creating. His apartment is packed with stories as told by objects, full of leather and paper and wood and green growing plants. There is a record player, and a tiny glass still for making gin. There is a dark wood cabinet that folds open to reveal a collection of matching tumblers and wine glasses. There are small wooden drawers full of vials of seeds, rainbow-colored tin, pocket knives, sealing wax. There are boxes and boxes of old letters and photographs.

All of these things are a part of him, and I love him for it. But they all make the leave-taking so much harder. Almost none of this will make it to California, at least not at first. So I took my camera during my last visit to try to capture a bit of it. I wanted to try to get the feel of this lovely place onto film before he, or actually we, pack up, leave all this, and start something new.

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Travelogue LXVI: We

unspecified-10January 10, 2016 In the few years of this blog’s activity, I’ve tried to keep purely personal narratives to a minimum, to reveal the goings-on in my life only to the extent that they were applicable to the business of being abroad. But some of you may have noticed that the I in my posts has been more and more frequently replaced by a we. Maybe that deserves a bit of an explanation.

And anyway, some joys are just too big not to be shared.

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Travelogue LXV: Humans of Vermont II

OLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERAJanuary 5, 2017 Jonathan and I have flown in from opposite sides of the planet to spend Christmas in Vermont. We have a place to stay together thanks to the wonderful hospitality of Katharina and Glenn, who have lent us the use of the tiny cabin/sauna up the hill from the home they finished building last summer. OLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERAHere’s a look into the beautiful space Katharina and Glenn have created for themselves, using timbers from an old deconstructed barn. The house is on a back road about fifteen minutes from my family’s farm, surrounded by the other cabins and homes Glenn has built over the decades. They have big plans for the place–an outdoor kitchen this summer, an amphitheater built into the hillside, grapes on the south-facing slope, animals to keep the fields clear. They want a space for collaborative living, for projects and creators of all kinds.

During the day, the sun pours in the wall of south-facing windows, flooding the living room and kitchen with light and making the two wood stoves that heat the place almost irrelevant. But it is winter in Vermont, and the nights are long and it’s pitch black and ice cold again by 4:30. We spend the evenings installing speakers and a turntable for Glenn’s massive collection of records, or reading under a petroleum lamp in our cabin up the road. We trail along with Glenn and Katharina to a solstice celebration, a bonfire and poetry followed by bluegrass fiddling. One night we haul apple pie and wine up the hill and fire up the sauna. It’s snowing hard, and after we are thoroughly sweating we step outside and rub ice into our backs.

For Jonathan and me, it’s offered us space to reconnect after months of 5,600 miles of separation, and to make some pretty big and exciting plans about our future. And, of course, a chance to rest and revel in Vermont’s beauty. Jonathan has split wood and driven trucks to his heart’s content, and I’ve seen my mountains again.

Und es war alles, alles gut. 

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The sauna up the hill, where we are staying.

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