Road Test || Kombuchas of the American South

lily with buchi kombucha, the general Oh, man… We have so much kombucha to talk about.

No sooner did I return from Maui last month, than I packed right up again and made for the road. A few of those stories are extant…the rest will be forthcoming.

But I've been faithfully keeping a log of new kombucha discoveries, as you may always depend on me to do, and am so very pleased to share them with you now:

Kombu-Tea (made in Columbus, Oh.)

Jamie + me, yellow springs, ohio 

I went to Tom's Market in Yellow Springs hoping to find Luna, the thrill I discovered last summer at Park + Vine in Cincinnati. Instead, I found a strange new love. (Which seems a theme for my summers, these last few years…but I digress.)

This one has the peculiar foggy taste of homebrew--not overly boozy, a little watery, not very refined in terms of flavor, but with a certain rarity at the back of the tongue that lets you know it means businesss.

It tastes like something your college friend's mom brews in her basement. Which is a good thing, mainly. The only quibble I have is that the coconut-flavored one that got Jamie so excited didn't taste a damn bit like coconut. Still, with all the shitty kombucha pretenders out there, it's hard to find much fault with one whose only problem is semantics.

Capital Kombucha (made in Washington, DC)

Capitol Kombucha, annapolis, maryland

I confess that I didn't expect much from a DC-based kombucha. Sorry for stereotyping, but come on…how much fermented probiotic quality can you expect from the seat of the FDA? And with flavors like watermelon and mint-lime, I assumed it was yet another case of exotic window-dressing meant to mask the lack of actual quality.

All I can say is that I was wrong, and I'm sorry. Capital folks, you're a credit to your city and your nation. Let's be friends?

Holy Kombucha (made in Fort Worth, Tx.)

Holy kombucha, fort worth, texas

Reckon this makes me an agnostic.

Kickin' Kombucha (made in Houston, Tx.)

Kickin kombucha, houston, texas

It tastes like juice with a very slight fizz. Your children will love it.

Kosmic Kombucha (made in Austin, Tx.)

Kosmic kombucha, austin, texas

I freely admit that this infatuation I'm about to confess to may be mainly the result of marketing. But did you see this? A kombucha named after "A Clockwork Orange?" With rice milk added? That tastes like a goddamn creamsicle? Do these folks know no limits? There's one called the Salty Dog made with grapefruit juice and sea salt…a flavor called Ginger and Mary-Ann brewed with maple syrup… Even if there aren't any probiotics, this thing will get your mind racing and your endorphins pumping with creativity.

And now, for something only slightly different...

I thought JuiceLand was a chain, and was skeptical when Freya sent me there to get breakfast for our interview. I was wrong, so wrong. This place has the goods.

Bearded brothers, juiceland, austin, texas

 

Now, we got off to a rocky start, JuiceLand and me, when I ordered their on-tap local kombucha--labeled Wunder-Pilz in typography to thrill any heart--had been 86'd. Hélas!

But my Phédrian malaise was lifted by a chai latte made with coconut oil and ground hempseeds, smoothies spiked with Himalayan salt and superfoods, and also these local versions of my very most favorite snack.

...whose makers, it turns out, my friend Freya knows personally. (She pointed out each of their cartoon beard silhouettes by name.) Do I need to say again that the best thing about us is the people we know? Bearded Bros., you are mine.

A kombucha toast, just outside New Orleans, louisiana

Best and Worst || Yellow Springs, Oh.

Lucas + Holly, Yellow Springs, Ohio Holly is one of the artistic nomad underground that I've been meeting more and more of, ever since Salon dropped my essay last April.

She read it, said a Twitter hello, and told me to visit her anytime I found myself in either Ohio or London.

...because, you know, six of one, etc.

First Presbyterian, Yellow Springs, Ohio

Holly is a native of Yellow Springs, who left for the bright lights of New York City…which, in her case, did not disappoint. She spent several years performing plays in the off off-Broadway, writing, and hobnobbing among the arty types with whom NYC was still flush, back in the 90s.

Love took her to London; divorce took her back to Ohio; love took her again to England, this time for her son, Lucas, to let him live near his father. But last month, Lucas surprised her with the intelligence that he wanted to live in the US.

Ye Olde Trail Tavern, Xenia Avenue, Yellow Springs, Ohio

So here they are, two days off the plane and a bit jet-lagged, but undeniably welcome. Nearly everywhere we went, folks were either talking to Holly ("You're back! Where are you living? How long are you here for?") or else about her (her mother was the mayor, her brother is an internationally known sculptor who makes his home quietly in Yellow Springs).

Holly takes it all with the diffident grace of a true cosmopolite, driving round town in a borrowed pickup truck to scout for houses, writing an ingenious little rom-com screenplay while making do in a motel, and slightly overdressing (as the modern nomad is prone to do) for drinks at the Yellow Springs Brewery, where we drank cigarette-flavored stout and ate some of the best potato chips I've ever come across.

I kidnapped Jamie out of Bloomington, Il. and brought her with me.

Lucas, meanwhile, has picked up again with old friends while keeping loyalty to his English roots with an avid eye on Spain, Brazil and of course England for the World Cup.

Lucas at the Sunrise Cafe, Yellow Springs, Ohio

What's the worst thing about living in Yellow Springs?

Holly: We call it "the room with the view." People with a wider point of view isolated in a sea of fundamentalist Christians.

Lucas: How far away it is from the seaside. And from England.

What's the best thing about living in Yellow Springs?

Holly: The community. How much people look out for each other. It's such a great place to raise kids--that Tom Sawyer lifestyle.

Lucas: It's hot.

First Presbyterian, Xenia Avenue, Yellow Springs, Ohio

And, for good measure, what's the worst thing about living in England?

Holly: It's expensive.

Lucas:  Hazlemere, out in the country, it was always grey. I didn't like that. And whenever it was sunny out, it was cold.

Best thing?

Holly: So much culture. It's amazing.

Lucas: Seeing my dad.

Check out Holly's website for cool real-life stories, sneak peeks at the fictional ones she's working on, and a no-nonsense survival guide for single parents.

National Road || Friday, 7.30pm

I find a motel on the side of Highway 40, one only faintly Batesy, hung with Christmas lights and accentuated with cute old Coke machines. I pull into the parking lot and wonder how this will go.

I've always wanted to try sleeping in my car, en route to somewhere or other. (That one summer night in Vermont doesn't count.) And a night when I'm stressed out about money and too mad at God to ask for it is, I reckon, as good a night as any.

arrowhead motel [2]

I pull all my Mexican blankets out from behind the seat and mummify my legs and arms with them, before finally turning off the car and, with it, the heat. I open a can of salmon and mix it with the mayonnaise I confused the McDonald's girl by asking for. (Note: they don't do packets.) I finish the last of the hemp chocolate bar Mae gave me. And that, friends, is camp.

I'm just about to open a book when a man taps on my window. I noticed him pull into the lot, but didn't see him get out of his idling car.

He asks if I know how to get to 70 west, and seems incredulous when I tell him it's back that way (the way he was just going, it seems). He apologizes for startling me, turns back to ask if I smoke, and digs his fist in chagrin when I say no. He turns back again to apologize again, and once more to wish me a merry Christmas.

I finish eating and realize my pearl ring is missing from my finger.

This always happens.

arrowhead motel [8]I've admired Maryland's Cumberland Motel three times in the last year, passing it on my way east. Today, going west, I finally pulled over to take its picture.

I'm going back to Portland, and after that will be driving back down to San Diego, the way I came when first I left.

And I've always wanted to see if I could make a go of sleeping in my car en route somewhere.

I'm leery of what these things might mean--that maybe this is winding toward an end that's been decided for me, and I don't have the strength to exercise my own agency.

I don't want it to end. At the same time, I don't have the mettle to sustain it. Clearly. You can only run so long on adrenalin. Adrenalin can only pass so long for faith.

arrowhead motel [7]

I pop two melatonin, drape a blanket over me, and hope for the best.

I wake up sanguine that soon the sun will be up, that maybe it's 12am already; certainly, it's at least 11.

The clock reads 8.22.

The snow is still coming down hard.

My feet are cold.

At this juncture, I could go inside and get a room key. I could just as easily rough it. My problem is that I can't do either with a sense of humor. If I'm just going to be scared and resentful all night, I might as well save $60 and do it in the cold.

When Kimberly and I prayed last night, I felt so confident that I was about to start feeling really confident.

arrowhead motel [10]

And I know other people have been through this too. People with less money and fewer friends than me, trying to get farther for the sake of higher stakes. People who had less time and less comfort waiting at the end of their journey to figure their shit out before they...

What?

Well, what?

Gave up, I guess...but on what?

That's what I'm wondering about. Having a few jobs at the end of this ride, and a place to stay, just prolongs the inevitable. This isn't an experiment, anymore. It's a way of life that I have to either marry or break up with. And if I marry, I'll just keep hitting this point of exhaustion over and over? And if I break up, I'll always wish I'd stuck with it and found a way to make it work.

arrowhead motel [3]

This is what I meant, talking to Peter, John and Dan at the Prince Street Cafe two nights ago, about normal life. I'd feel this way even if I weren't on the road. I would just have an easier time distracting myself from it, maybe.

Or not...distraction takes comfort and that requires money. And my normal life has never involved much of that.

The people who look at my life and sigh, or scoff, still have moments when they panic that life is slipping away without their having done enough. When they can't sleep. When they wonder how long they can keep this up. When you shudder thinking if how many great people are waiting for you to keep your promise. When you're so tired you seem to see down a tunnel of time at bothnends. You understand past things with regrettble clarity; you see into the next many hours of what you woll do, and how you could do it if you had the grim resolve you have now. But you won't; eventually you'll fall asleep or else reach your breaking point, and on the other side you'll wake up and stretch and believe again that you've still got plenty of time.

arrowhead motel [4]

It's 9.08pm now, and still hours to sleep before I go.

Norwood Avenue // Tuesday, 10.52am

Swifty gas, norwood, ohio I open my door just as he reaches the pump.

"You're not from here, are you?"

Apparently he hasn't looked at my license plate. But he doesn't need to; if I were from here, I would know what it means to be at Swifty's Gas.

In fact, I saw the sign as I drove in that says "You Pay, We Pump." But there was no one out there, and I couldn't see whether there was anyone inside, and I'm trying to get to DC by 8pm and also supposed to call someone famous in ten minutes, so I didn't feel like waiting to see whether the gas station lived up to its promise.

He's got a rim of black stubble around his baby-soft chin, and wears a Notre Dame t-shirt and a battered baseball cap.

"It's like I've ended up in New Jersey," I joke.

"They pump for you in Oregon and New Jersey," he advises me.

"But it's not like this everywhere in Ohio, is it?" I ask.

"No. Just here...and the Swifty's in Indiana. That's where I live."

Swifty Gas, norwood, ohio

He used to work at the Indiana location, but they asked him to come up here. He makes a lot more money in tips here. I'm pretty sure this is all he said, but it took the entirety of filling up my tank for him to say it. And his manner impressed me with the importance that this status conferred on him, and the deliberation that the choice implied.

I ask him, somewhat shamefaced, how much I should tip. I distinctly remember not tipping in New Jersey, even though the attendant gave me directions. This is the first time I've learned that it's done that way.

He grins. "Most people give me between one and five dollars."

"Can I give you two?"

He nods, his expression enigmatic.