Abby and I went to Maquoketa Caves in eastern Iowa this weekend where I discovered that I don't like crawling on my belly into the unknown. Getting muddy, though: That's cool.
What's not cool? Being a vegetarian in the land of hog slaughter. Consistently, the only viable menu option was spinach 'n' artichoke dip. Saturday night, at the fanciest joint in Bellevue, we paid forty bucks for a slimy pile of iceberg lettuce, the aforementioned dip and a bottle of Yellow Tail. We could have recreated this meal for approximately ten bucks, wine included.
Also we stayed in this half-awesome, half-terrifying old hotel room above a saloon, where the mattress dipped toward center and the pillows smelled like old people. It had a magical mirror that gave chiseled abs to our reflections. I tried to take a picture of it, and the camera shut itself off.
Often, I yearn for Iowa. I want a farmhouse in the middle of nowhere, or maybe a series of small cabins where all of my favorite people live and do creative things. I want to be alone(ish) and outside.
Should I end this post with an extended spelunking-as-metaphor-for-life passage? Naw.
3 comments:
yep, the claustrophobia cave sucks. if you did it, i am proud. and if you didn't.
Everyone says my head is too big for spelunking.
Spelunking looked like fun in the atari classic Spelunker.
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Spelunker_(computer_game)
I didn't do the claustrophobia cave. I am a pussy according to Andy B., who loves the Barbell Cave.
It is my head that is the problem with spelunking, too, Jack. The inside of my head.
So. Clever.
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