Conquering China

If I learned anything in China, it’s that carny folk are the same the world over. It’s been a very long day scouring miles of market stalls, looking for deals I didn’t need, and I’m dog tired. My expat colleagues lead me from the massive four-story train station market, and we trek across the city, my arms loaded down with bags of Mao doodads and faux leather satchels.

As we stop to gaze upon another vast collection of semi-jade figurines, wallets, lighters, sunglasses, and countless heaps of scarves, a tiny woman motions to me from across the plaza. Behind her hang dozens of blue, yellow and pink balloons, and she beckons me to come hither, shouting at me in Mandarin. My five-day crash course in the local tongue hasn’t enabled me to decipher much, let alone why she singled me out.

Faster than I can say, “Gregory Peck and the defense of Hill 266,” I’m holding a plastic shotgun in my hand and firing at the balloons. “How much?” I ask, blasting away. She holds up two fingers. Two Yuan? That’s less than a nickel, and I’d try anything for a nickel. So I keep shooting.

For the next ten minutes I hit at least 75 balloons. At this point, Michael, my co-worker, eggs me on and I hit another 50 or so, the small woman staring passively over my shoulder as she pumps the twin-gauge toy gun, handing it to me in a rote muscle memory motion. Finally, with almost no balloons left and my hand cramping, I put the gun down. “How much was this?” Michael asks, and we look as the woman writes down, “200 x 2 = 400,” underlining the 400 for emphasis, holding out her palm in the universal carny sign for, “Pay up, moron.”

I don’t know much about China quite yet but enough to know that 400 Yuan is around $60, and I didn’t fly from Boston to New Jersey, New Jersey to Beijing, Beijing to Dalian, over 6000 miles across Canada, the frozen Arctic, through Russia and above Inner Mongolia to drop $63.50 on a classic midway canard. This is nuts. “This is nuts!” I shout. “Only 200 – that’s all I’m paying,” I say, holding up a peace sign that means anything but. The tiny woman’s voice grows shrill as a few people gather around. She bangs her finger down on the 400 figure. “I won’t pay it,” I say and then do what any cheapskate, embarrassed American would do – I throw down a 100 Yuan bill, beg Michael for another 100 and take off in a sad kind of speed walking stumble.

I’ve come to Dalian, China on business, my company setting up shop here a few months earlier, and despite the “misunderstanding” on the plaza, I think I’ve conducted myself well, straining to understand the language, accepting the ludicrous levels of service in the hotel and eating things I never would have ordered back in the States (sea sausage and seaweed, anyone?). I’ve learned to mutter the basics – “Good morning,” “Thank you,” “You’re welcome,” and my favorite, “Right On!” which is pronounced “DOO EEE,” exactly how Maury Finkel of Finkel Fixtures says it, Ben Stiller’s alter ego in the film version of Starsky and Hutch.

Dalian is a port city of six million on the northern coast of China. The city has more people than Houston, Chicago and almost two entire Bostons combined. Yet China refers to Dalian as a second-tier city, not fit to match the ranks of Shanghai, Beijing or Shenzhen. Here for almost ten days, I spend hours driving to all ends of Dalian, staring at the forests of half-built concrete towers that stretch to the horizon and the massive shipping container cranes in the harbors, like so many mutant red crabs poised to snap at unsuspecting passersby.

I make the very best of the nightlife Dalian offers, spending time in bars named “Brooklyn,” “Sisters,” and “Friends.” It’s at Friends where I meet the owner, Paul Collins from Hyde Park. About a decade ago, Paul set down roots in Dalian, fell in love with a local girl and now tries in vain to serve me homebrew hooch from one bottle and “snake juice” from another. I decline both, especially the one where the lifeless snake sits coiled, fermenting in the milky gray liquid. In the basement bar of my hotel, I witness New Visions, a drummerless cover band from the Philippine, crush a version of “Sweet Child O’ Mine.” Jesse, the band’s leader and keyboard player, attacks each stanza with vigor before telling me over a beer about his five kids and pregnant wife back home in Manila, a lonely look in his eyes.

One item apparent to the observant visitor is China’s attempt to generously translate most public signs into English. Phrases like “No Climbing. Thanks a Cooperation,” “Steam food of beautiful lake,” and the cryptically poetic, "Intention. Ten years of consistent,” abound, only to be joined by “Speaking cellphone is strictly prohibited when thunderstorm,” and the ever-relevant, “No Naked Flames.” My personal favorite is “Octopus Little Meatball,” a fair description of my physique after almost two weeks of bar-hopping.

On my one full day in Beijing, a city hard to describe other than it’s like the Los Angeles in Blade Runner except everyone’s either in a Bentley or on a bicycle, I take a guided trip to the Great Wall of China. I hadn’t believed the hype, thinking it was no more than a quaint stone outcropping, like Stonehenge. No. It’s massive, stretching across northern China for what seems like forever. Imagine a 30-foot high stone wall stretching from Portland, Maine to Portland, Oregon, only to loop back again, across hills, valleys, ravines, crevasses and countryside.

It’s pouring rain, and as I stand outside “The Great Wall of Handcraft Product Shop,” I notice the sign, “Heart cerebral disease sufferer ascend the Great Wall to please watch for.” I am please to watch for and spend the next hour hiking up the steep steps into the hazy rain, surrounded by hundreds of others doing the same. A group of Chinese men are laughing, running up to the Attila-facing wall and its crenellations, screaming out towards the long-gone Hun hordes. I join them and shriek away, and they burst out cheering – “Very good!” one of them yells. As I near the highest point, I slow down to take a photo, and I notice the graffiti. It’s everywhere a person can bend or reach to write his name - Chinese characters, names in many languages and simple cartoon figures.

And then I see it, written in everlasting white paint - “Shary Fuckin Vasco USA” with “China 2012” bookended by a heart and a smiley face. Ms. Vasco has taken the opportunity to leave her mark on this ancient structure, one of the world’s great wonders, and she’s done so with gusto. It’s one thing to write, “Shary was here” for eternity, but another to use your full name, date, country of origin, current mood, and favorite adjective. I’ve traveled to the other side of the planet, been exposed to this timeless culture, eaten things that will haunt my dreams (raw horsemeat and ocean critters, for example), walked in the footsteps of emperors and had my eyes opened to how big this world of ours really is only to be confronted by Shary’s scrawl like she was doodling in her remedial Civics notebook. I could have stayed in Newark if I’d wanted to see this.

Doesn’t she get it? I’m now a World Citizen! I have a passport with a real-live visa glued in it. I laughed with the German guys from VW, had lunch with someone from Malaysia and even shared a fruit plate with drunken Australians. As a newly christened Citizen of Planet Earth, I consider shouting an apology for Shary’s choice of self-expression. But even if I wanted to, no one really seems to care up here on the Wall, everyone’s too taken with the surroundings to notice.

I’ve since friended Shary on Facebook. She’s a young woman from New Jersey with dozens of photos of her school trip to China on her profile, and she seems perfectly nice and well-adjusted. Perhaps I’m the one who needs to rethink things. Maybe that’s what being a World Citizen is all about – leaving a little image of yourself in a new place so a stranger on the other side of the world may learn more about you. Even if the adjectives don’t translate. Doo eee, Shary Vasco! Doo eee!

The Note, or "Why I'll Never be Skinny"

I’ll never be skinny. Of this I’m certain. As I consider another self-inflicted, pre-summer weight loss journey, doomed again to end in false peaks and dashed expectations, I wonder why. Why is it I’ll never do yard work shirtless or always avoid pickup basketball for fear of being on the “skins” team? I’m the most optimistic guy around, a real glass half full kind of fella, someone who sees the dawn of a new day as an opportunity. Maybe it’s because my glass is half-filled with a chocolate Fribble. That might be the first clue.

My entire life has been a steady war with myself – always debating whether the fries are worth it, if a bowl of Honeycombs is the best pre-dinner snack or if my dental work can survive another caramel apple. My childhood’s filled with memories of, “Stop eating so fast,” or “This pound cake is for the whole family!” or “Remember, Timmy - horizontal stripes are for the other kids.”

Over the years, I’ve done my best to tackle this head-on through dieting, even winning a few battles. Three years ago, I counted calories and lost almost 20% of my body weight in the process. I poked extra holes in my belts, bought new clothes and hoped I’d finally figured out how to get and stay skinny. Sadly, after fifteen months or so, the pounds slowly returned, like the distant jingle of the ice cream truck that draws closer and closer with each bomb pop and fudgesicle, returning every ounce I thought I’d shed for good. No matter how long – two days, six months, three years – I end up back where I started, no wiser for the journey and no closer to that elusive feeling of complete control over my weight.

But a few weeks ago, while rummaging through an old scrapbook, I stumbled across what I think is the reason I’ll never be skinny.

It was 1977, and I sat in my pediatrician’s office, knowing I was in big trouble. A year earlier, he’d told me I needed to stop eating so much. I was not remarkably fat – it wasn’t like they needed to wheel me into the office on a makeshift gurney with reinforced struts. I was a nine year old boy with a love of candy, root beer and anything potato-related. My rotund belly hung over my belt, and my pants never fit right. As I sat in the room, my mom next to me, I knew I was in for it. My doctor hated fat kids.

Dr. Rieger was not my favorite adult. Maybe it was his stern gaze or his way of grabbing me by the arm with just enough force to let me know I couldn’t run if I’d wanted to – either way, I dreaded these visits.

He entered the room, my chart in his hands. He didn’t launch into an attack on my weight or grab my stomach or tell me I’d never have a prom date with a gut like that – instead, he motioned for me to follow him. So I did.

He led me into a small room off the hallway, my mother right behind me. He sat me down and handed me a pad of paper and a pen. And this is what he told me to write: “I know I eat too much. It is my responsibility. My mother has done all she can. I’ll try much harder. Tim O’Shea.” As you can see, I’ve upgraded the spelling.

If a handwriting analyst examined the note, he’d see a touch of Stockholm syndrome mixed with a hint of feigned enthusiasm in my penmanship, maybe topped with a dollop of outright fear, considering the creepy tanned glare of Dr. Rieger hovered over my shoulder, he the scourge of all Nassau County tubbies, making sure I wrote down every word he quietly uttered in my chubby ear.

In the ABC Afterschool Special version of this incident, titled “A Slice of Shame,” a young George Hamilton plays Dr. Rieger, my mother by a mid-‘80’s Tyne Daly or Danny Devito, and I by Mason Reese in his deviled ham heyday. In this version, the music swells as I finish the note with a flourish, the strings rising to a crescendo as I stand, handing the paper to George Hamilton as I embrace my mother. And just before the screen fades to black, the doctor joins in and we hug, joyful in the belief this is the last day anyone can ever call me “Porky.”

But I was no Mason Reese, my mom was no Danny Devito, and there was no music, just the dull, everyday sounds of a little boy forced to admit he loved cake more than himself.

I can’t confess to knowing what I felt at the time, except that I saved the note and have kept it with me for over three decades. What was Dr. Rieger’s goal? Instilling in me a steely resolve to be more like Slim Goodbody and less like Mayor McCheese? Of course we all know age nine is the perfect age to be shamed into developing a healthy perspective on nutrition and weight, the right moment to understand and embrace the more subtle aspects of the doctor-patient motivational relationship scale.

But in truth, I can’t blame my weight struggles solely on the note – there are hundreds of other reasons like Diet Coke, cheese, red wine, heartburn medicine or certain adjectives like zesty, whipped, slathered and bottomless.

I called my mother the other day to try to grasp why our family doctor did such a thing. “He was obsessed with kids who were overweight,” she told me. “You had a big gut, and you were a chubby boy.” And in the background my dad yelled, “And you still are!” causing both my parents to guffaw mightily until I found an excuse to say goodbye. Early onset dementia or questionable parenting? I really can’t be sure.

Somewhere in the depths of my psyche lurks the tally of the lasting damage that morning in Dr. Rieger’s office caused, and I bet years of costly primal scream therapy would get at the root of the issue. Unless I start screaming for ice cream, that is.

I’d be misguided to blame my life-long travails on an earnest pediatrician who was legendary for making house calls and for saving two of my siblings’ lives (true story). I blame a combination of these and other reasons, too numerous to catalogue.

But I’m exhausted, fighting this war of the waistline, especially when there are others to wage, like ones of the wallet, hairline, lawn care, dental hygiene, tax returns and the New York Mets. Sometimes I just need to sit back, grab a bag of chips and let someone else worry about life’s problems. Then again, maybe an apple would be a better choice. After all, I can always try much harder.

Everybody Loves Free Parking!

In this age of political rancor, where the shrill screams of angry zealots have all but destroyed rational discourse, where familial bonds are torn asunder by strident, unwavering positions, and where the generous back and forth of informed discussion sounds more like howler monkey mating season, we at least have one phrase we can all agree on – “Free Parking!”

Free parking is something everyone loves – from the anti-evolution legislators to the groovy yoga gurus, from the buttoned-up shop owners to the macchiato- guzzling skinny jean hipsters– all of us, given the choice, would choose free parking. If Free Parking ran for governor, he’d win every vote. If Free Parking created a law letting teenagers earn their driver’s licenses via a hand puppet correspondence course, we’d name our pets after him. And if Free Parking were your girlfriend, you’d treat her right, that’s for sure.

Concord’s drivers have a complex relationship with parking. Remember the stories of families trapped in the Capitol Commons garage for days, held back by an unyielding soft rubber gate? Or the local property owner manhandling a female enforcement officer who had the temerity to leave a ticket on his windshield? Or the angry letter from out of towners Edna and Vern Walleye of Goose Dung, Wisconsin declaring they’d “Never return to Concord because of the parking tickets!” Are we falling to pieces over parking?

After dumping four dimes in one of the city’s remaining old-style meters, earning me exactly thirty two minutes, I head into the Police station, ready for a day with Concord’s Parking Enforcement division to see for myself.

Dave Florence, the city’s Parking Manager, greets me at the door and introduces me to my guide – Kate Kelleher, a seven-year veteran of the division. Every day Dave sends out three officers on foot, assigned to one of three downtown walking zones (North, Central and South), another to patrol the city in the team Jeep and one meter tech who collects the cash and maintains the kiosks and meters across the three zones.

Today, Kate and I have Central, right in the heart of downtown.
Before we head out, Dave explains the big change in parking over the past two years. About eighteen months ago, Concord entered the “Parking Pay and Display” age, decommissioning more than 600 single space meters in favor of seventy six Scandinavian-made full service kiosks, group meters that take cash or credit, print receipts and send text alerts when the machines need new paper, a fresh battery or a reboot. “It’s made things a lot easier,” Dave says as he waves us goodbye.

Kate and I start walking in a large loop from North State to Park to North Main to Pleasant and all streets in between. Kate’s job, eight hours a day, is to ensure citizens and visitors adhere to the rules, which boil down to the phrase, “No Free Parking.”

I learn fast this rule is not applied equally. A select group of elected state officials parks gratis on North State and Park Streets –the heavy yellow bags atop the gunmetal gray meters announcing this are hard to miss. Also, any drivers with state plates or those who sport a handicapped pass park for free. We see plenty of those this morning.

Kate says hello to lots of people. “When you walk the same blocks every day, you get to know names and faces,” she says, waving to Paul the UPS guy. Kate shares with me the games people play with parking as we stroll along. “Some people put the receipt upside down, and others jumble them in a pile on the dashboard hoping I’ll give up. People get creative.” Kate tells me stories about drivers putting their tickets on others’ windshields, feeding the same meter just before time’s up (aka, meter feeding) or using someone else’s expired handicapped pass. There are few things lower than stealing dear departed Gammy’s past-due handicapped pass to save a measly two bits.

As we turn off North State and walk up Capitol, Kate spots a crumbled ticket on the ground, the yellow envelope crushed into a wad of frustration. “Do they realize we keep track of these?” she says as she taps her computer. In a few weeks, Mr. Impulsive Parking Violator will get a letter explaining that, despite the attempt to camouflage the ticket as a Bit-o-Honey wrapper tossed in the gutter, he’ll have to pay the $10 for the ticket and upwards of another $30 for attempting such hijinx.

In fact, Dave Florence’s team mails out 200 letters a day to drivers across this city, the state and the nation. Failing to mail in your $10 violation within ten business days tacks another $10, and after twenty days, another $20 is added. Earlier, back in the office, Alison McLaughlin, the acting Parking Clerk, showed me one. And to you, Ms. Colleen Bovio of Texas, who received a $10 ticket in 2010, I say, “The city of Concord awaits your $40.”

From her hand-held computer, Kate can ping the database to see if a car belongs to Ms. Bovio from Texas or the thousands of others who’ve chosen not to pay. “If you have five or more unpaid tickets or if you owe at least $100, you’ll probably get the boot,” Kate tells me as she writes her first ticket of the day. The boot’s a nasty looking metal clamp that shows everyone you never carry change in your car or you just don’t care. The boot forces you to care, or at least to pay your parking debts. When I’d arrived at the station earlier, a gentleman was settling his $175 parking bill. Perhaps the magic words on the fat red sticker on his window, “We intend to impound your vehicle . . .” were enough motivation.

We’re on School Street, where most drivers are too cool for its parking rules. Kate writes three tickets in succession. A few minutes later, near the corner of Pleasant and North State, we spy a car with MA plates, no receipt in sight. I notice a fancy straw boater hat in the backseat - a vacationing gondolier perhaps? As Kate readies the ticket for printing, my gondolier arrives breathless. “I swear I was just going to the bathroom!” Sadly, he held no oversized oar nor spoke Italian.

Kate lets him off. “If he was holding a cup of coffee, he was definitely getting a ticket,” she says. Let that be a lesson – when confronting a parking enforcement officer about your non-existent receipt, don’t do so while balancing a $5 Salami Footlong and your giftwrapped dream catcher wind chimes.

We’re about hour or so into the morning and Kate’s given out ten tickets. “I average about fifty a day – most of them for expired meters,” she says. That violation is by far the most common in Concord. Of the 26,000 total tickets written in the past year, 85% (22,000) were for an expired meter, with overnight parking (985) and parking zone (598) a distant second and third. And to the lone double parker in the past year, kudos to your for your careless uniqueness (and your $25).

We’re on our third loop already, and it’s time for a break. Back in the station, Dave shares a few statistics, including the fact his department is completely self-funded. “No tax dollars are used to run this team. We are completely user fee funded.” This plunges me into an existential mind freak. Dave’s team exists to write tickets so they can exist to write tickets. Dude, I think I just blew my own mind thinking about parking.

Dave explains it’s not all about tickets. “Last year we had close to 550,000 transactions where people successfully parked in a downtown spot and paid their fee,” meaning that for every twenty six compliant parkers, there was only one rule breaker. Fines brought in around $320,000 last year, but the rules followers paid almost double that amount into the city’s coffers.

It’s clear we may love Free Parking, but we love paying for it even better. Besides, I paid forty cents about seven hours ago and didn’t even get a ticket. Free parking is possible, but it sometimes depends on who you know. Then again, just wait for the weekend. It’s always free on the weekends.

Suspended in Ice - A Day on the Top of the World

Suspenders. I’m standing among rocks encrusted in thick rime ice on the tallest peak in New England, the wind whips against my body, and I can see the Atlantic Ocean in the distance. Turning around I spy distant lakes (Winnipesauke and Sebago), ski mountains (Gunstock, Attitash, Wildcat and Shawnee Peak, to name a few), and ranges in Vermont and New York. The scenery is almost too much to describe. But the only word that comes to mind is “suspenders.”

There is nothing like a wind chill of minus 28 degrees on your backside to remind you to add suspenders to your birthday wish list. The wind has a habit of finding any exposed skin, and my pants, I’m realizing, need a little adjusting to account for this bitter cold that would turn any plumber’s smile into a frostbitten frown in seconds.

It’s been close to five hours since we started this day, down at the base of Mount Washington. Eight of us signed up for a Winter Day Trip with the Mount Washington Observatory, and our guide, Jeff DeRosa is pointing out the clouds over the Gulf of Maine, far off to the east. We’re next to him along the south edge of the summit - the Observatory, communication towers and buildings are behind us, and Jeff’s explaining rime ice. “It’s frozen fog – the suspended water in the clouds freeze on the first thing it comes in contact with, so what you’re standing on isn’t snow – it’s rime ice.” The rocks, buildings, wires, poles and signs are coated in a brilliant white. Rime ice looks like ivory coral, patterns of prisms, swirls and clusters blanketing everything we see. And if I don’t hike up my pants, I’ll be taking some rime ice home with me.

Jeff’s a fantastic guide. He met us earlier down at the base of the Auto Road where we rendezvoused for this Observatory-sponsored journey. The Day Trip is part of the Observatory’s mission to “Advance understanding of the natural systems that create the Earth’s weather and climate.” The first thing Jeff said to us was, “It’s cold today!” When a guy who’s spent most of his adult winters either on the summit of Mount Washington or at the South Pole (average temperature minus 100 degrees) tells you it’s cold, you better be prepared.

This group, a family trio from Maine, a pair from Vermont and a few of us from the Granite State, is covered head to toe in gear. I’m wearing six layers on my upper body, three on my legs, a neck warmer, balaclava for my head and face, a hat, glove liners and gloves, two pair of thick socks and fancy winter mountaineering boots that look like footwear for the stylish Mars explorer of the future.

We load up the huge white Snow Cat, a boxy tractor/truck that rides on thick treads, sports a massive grader/plow in the front and seats each of us in heated comfort. Our driver, Pete Roberts, steers the Cat towards the Auto Road entrance, and we head up. Mount Adams looms above to our right, its white peak stark against the brilliant blue sky.

Pete makes a few stops along the eight mile trek upward. At each stop, we marvel at the view and at the fact that the weather’s quite good for a mountain that boasts “the world’s worst weather.” Jeff tells us how today is “not typical. This is rare. We’re normally walking in clouds. We never get sunny days like this,” he says. Most of us ditch hats and gloves, but something tells me it won’t last. Twenty minutes later we pull over, the tree line a distant memory. The Auto Road snakes back and forth above us, and the wind makes me take notice. I leave the shelter of the Snow Cat, and the cold air smacks me in the face.

We arrive at the summit, and Jeff and Pete hustle us into the main entrance, off-limit to the half-dozen hikers who’re milling around out of the wind’s reach. They all walked up here today, putting their crampons and ice axes to good use. I admit feeling a little guilty as I complain about how chilly it is while walking past. One guy’s eating handfuls of gorp, his face a mixture of exhaustion, elation and determination.

We remove our outer layers and head down to the living quarters. We meet the two volunteers, Steve Moore and Pat Luddy, who’ve made us turkey vegetable soup. The warm broth is perfect. Steve’s been volunteering on the summit for more than thirteen years, and Pat, a retired doctor and hospital administrator from New Haven, tells me he looks forward to this week in the winter more than any other in the year. Volunteers arrive on a Wednesday and stay for seven nights, cooking for the Weather Observatory’s staff and visitors like us. “This week’s been amazing,” Pat says. “We’ve had every kind of weather you can imagine.” To his left I can see a screen showing the current weather outside. The wind’s around 45 mph, and the wind chill’s close to minus 30. We need to keep our voices down – one of the Observers is asleep. The Weather Center runs non-stop, all day every day, and the Observers and one intern take turns sleeping while the others record the weather and maintain the instruments.

After lunch, we add our layers and head to the Observation Tower, the highest point of the Observatory and the “center of our weather collection,” as Jeff says. We walk out onto the circular platform and feel the wind push against us. It’s my turn at the top of the tower, and I climb up a metal ladder to a small turret, the Pitot tube anemometer perched above me, collecting the wind speed. At this moment, I’m literally on top of the world, or at least on top of New England. Later, Jeff tells me that the staff has to climb out here hourly when the clouds come in to knock off the rime ice that builds up on the instruments. “The ice can grow about eight inches an hour, so we use crowbars to knock it off. It can get pretty intense.”

On the drive up, Jeff told us about the Century Club. Membership to this club requires Observatory members to walk upright and unaided the entire length of the building’s promenade in sustained winds of at least 100 mph – up and back. Considering I was teetering in wind speeds less than half that strength, I can only imagine how hard it must be to earn that merit badge.

After more than two hours outside, Jeff takes us in for a cup of coffee and a tour of the Weather Center. The Observatory’s Weather Center’s been an official part of Mount Washington for more than 80 years. We see what could be “The US Wind Gust Hall of Fame” along one wall. Plaques commemorate some of the most memorable gusts ever recorded on the planet, from the July 1996 blast of 154 mph to the December 1980wind speed of 182 mph, equal to a Category 5 Hurricane.

“Just wind, baby!” ought to be the observatory’s slogan. Wind speeds are recorded on a Hays Wind Chart, which looks like a slow-moving paper turntable mounted on the wall. Each day’s wind is recorded on a circle of graph paper, a red marker recording the wind at exact intervals. “The farther away the red gets from the center, the stronger the wind,” explains Jeff. Glancing over his shoulder at the 1980 Hall of Fame entry, I witness the jagged red lines screaming out from the center of the graph, reaching the circle’s outer ring on what must have been quite a day for kite flying.

Jeff shows us a massive topographical map on the wall, explaining why the wind’s so ferocious up here. “If you look at Mount Washington, you can see how the hills to the northwest help create a funnel, forcing the wind up the valley towards the summit.” Mount Washington’s really at the top of nature’s New England wind tunnel.

We’re keeping our voices down as Rick Giard, one of the Observatory’s weather observers, delivers a distance learning session via webcam to a classroom somewhere far away. We can hear Rick explain how temperature, wind, barometric pressure and other measures are captured hourly and shared with the world. Rick finishes the broadcast and points out that today’s highest wind was 68 mph. “It was 122 last week, and yesterday we had 95 mile an hour winds. That’s when you know about kinetic energy!” At that moment I wish I’d paid more attention in 11th grade physics class. “This is like a 6,000-foot weather balloon,” Rick says as he waves goodbye and heads out, his entire body covered to protect himself from the elements. Marty, the Observatory’s official pet cat, licks itself on a nearby table and seems unimpressed.

The sun starts to slip down towards the western horizon, and it’s time to go. Jeff herds us back towards the Snow Cat after we bundle up again. It’s a quick walk to the Cat, and the temperature’s dropping. Our ride down goes quickly. Pete keeps the rig close to the edge, and huge chunks of snow and ice tumble down the mountainside as we lumber along. We’re mostly silent as the road cuts through the trees as we head towards the base.

Pete pulls to a stop, the group disperses, and within minutes everyone’s gone. The sun’s almost set, winter’s gray gloom takes over, and finally the wind’s died down. I’m exhausted but content, knowing I had a short taste of raw winter.

Shelter from the Storm

“What’s your name?” he asks me, his eyes half-closed from a long day of drinking. He extends his hand, the knuckles covered in scabs, a deep gash across the bridge of his nose, remnants of what must have been quite a scrap. We shake hands, and I join him on the bench, handing him a cup of black coffee. “I’m Erik – nice to know you,” he says as he takes a tentative sip from the mug.

Erik arrived over an hour ago with his friend Mark, who’d all but carried Erik inside, too drunk to walk on his own. Mark talked to him gently, promising him a bed to sleep things off. Erik was in no condition to argue, barely awake and struggling with every step.

Now Erik’s up, our attempt to get him to sleep failing. We’d arranged his cot in Room 6, with a few extra blankets and a pillow. But Erik’s sitting with me on the bench, drinking coffee, telling me what happened to his hands and face, no plans on falling asleep any time soon. “I got beat up real bad,” he shares, the dried blood on his nose testament to that assertion. “But my buddy Canadian Mike took care of the other guy,” Erik says. “He stomped him good for me.”

Mark tries to convince Erik to call it a night. When he’d brought his friend in, Mark did all he could to help. After getting him into his cot, Mark unlaced Erik’s worn sneakers, tucked him in and closed the door. “He’s wrapped up nice and tight – he won’t be awake until tomorrow,” Mark assures me and the other volunteers, only to chuckle as Erik emerges in the hallway, meandering towards us, declaring he needs one more cigarette before he sleeps.

Erik’s a guest tonight, joining fifteen others here in one of Concord’s two adult Cold Weather Shelters. I’ve been here for almost four hours, volunteering at the First Congregational Church on North Main Street. It’s the second week the homeless shelter’s been open to people like Erik, those who need a warm bed, a cup or two of coffee and reassurance that, at least for tonight, they won’t have to sleep outside.

The Shelter’s open every evening from early December until early spring, offering an escape from the overnight cold. Tonight’s not busy, as it’s been a pretty mild start to winter. “But later this winter, when it gets really cold, we’ll have over thirty guests here,” Terri Blake told me when I arrived. Terri’s the Shelter’s director and a whirlwind of activity when the night began. She introduced me to the four volunteers who’ll be here for the next few hours, greeting the guests, placing their cigarettes and lighters aside for later and assigning rooms where they’ll sleep.

I met Terri’s assistant, Don Belaire, who says hello in a soft voice. Don came here as a guest in 2004, working his way out of desperation into a paying job at the Shelter over the past seven years, now responsible for making sure this place runs smoothly for the many members of Concord’s homeless community. “This place saved my life,” he told me.

Mike LaFontaine is tonight’s manager, tasked with overseeing the volunteers and ensuring all goes well. Mike knows many of tonight’s guests by name, greeting them as they arrive just after six, when the doors open, making sure the right rooms are assigned, the coffee’s hot and everyone’s safe. “We have three guiding principles at the Shelter,” Mike explained during a lull in arrivals. “Safety, hospitality and respect.” I asked Mike why he volunteers here. “Satisfaction outweighs sacrifice,” he said as he left to check on a guest.

The volunteers welcomed every guest with a warm hello and a set of questions. “What’s your name? Have you had any drugs or alcohol in the past twenty-four hours? Do you have any cigarettes or lighters? Any weapons or prescription drugs?” The guests all knew the drill; some stood outside before the doors opened, guaranteeing they’d have a bed and a spot in front of the TV tonight. Over the next four hours, we helped the dozen or so men and a few women get settled. Ricky, “the King of the Streets,” made a bee line for the hospitality room while Felix asked about the bus schedule to Manchester, where a job awaits him in the morning. Abe took on one of the volunteers, Chip Rice, in a ruthless game of Cribbage, and Richard went to bed early, skipping the cot and setting up his mattress on the floor of his room.

Now, just before lights out, as the other guests sleep or watch TV, Erik’s still awake. Mark stands next to us as we sit on the bench outside Erik’s room. Erik tells us more about Canadian Mike, prompting Mark to say, “Erik, your buddy Mike just got send to jail for thirty days for contempt.” Erik looks disappointed but not surprised. They talk about their own upcoming court dates until Mark kneels down, whispering something to Erik, convincing him to head to bed.

A few minutes later, with the hall lights out and Erik asleep, Mark stands by door as the two overnight volunteers and I sit in the foyer. I ask Mark if he wants to stay tonight, but he declines, “I have a place to stay.” He lingers by the exit, telling us how he sees things. “What I did for Erik tonight, I’d do for any human being. It’s about how we all have goodness inside of us, no matter what I look like to anyone on the outside.”

Just before he leaves, Mark says softly, “God so loved the world,” and he walks off into the December night. I’m not so sure he does have a warm place to stay tonight.

I leave the church before midnight as the volunteers get ready to go to sleep. The lights are out, the TV’s turned low and the doors are locked.

Early the next morning, as I lie in my bed, my wife asleep next to me, my daughter down the hallway, stuffed animals and pillows covering her bed, I hear a blistering blast of wind outside, the walls of my bedroom shifting slightly against the gusts. The heat comes to life, the gas furnace pinging the radiators as I pull the blankets against me. I’m not sure how I feel about last night. One stint of volunteering doesn’t earn me much in the way of karma, but it does remind me. It reminds me about things I care about, those things that matter in my life, and those pieces I make important but probably shouldn’t. Guilt is not what I feel right now, as I embrace the warm security around me. I think the feeling’s closer to impatience. And maybe it’s time to find out why that is.