Overheard in the airport

Father: "A baby robin eats up to 14 feet of earthworms a day. Did you know that?"
4-year-old girl: "... I didn't know earthworms HAD feet."

Life

Enjoying life takes a lot of hard work. That's why so few do it.

Four Days, 1000 Miles

Denali
☑ wolf
☑ Dall sheep
☑ caribou
☑ ptarmigan
☑ grizzly bear
☐ wolverine
☐ lynx
☑ snowshoe hare
☐ marmot
☑ Mt. McKinley with nary a cloud in the sky

Fairbanks
☑ Jesse
☑ Jill
☑ 5-hour canoe trip down the Chena River
☑ spaghetti supper with bluegrass band practicing upstairs

Tok
☑ Bob
☑ Betty Lou
☑ pancakes

WBMC 2009 Video Playlist

Below is a playlist of about 15 videos from the 2009 World Beard and Moustache Championship. Enjoy. I've never been able to edit my own videos.

2009 World Beard and Moustache Championship

Last weekend was the 9th World Beard and Moustache Championship. Anchorage hosted the biannual competition this year and it was a blast. One of our Service Adventure participants, Brent, started growing a beard when he arrived in September. With the help of the Southcentral Alaskan Beard Club, he has been training for this event all winter long and I believe it is important for us to encourage hard work and dedication in our young people. Plus, as a bearded aficionado of beards myself, I have been looking forward to this event for three years.

I've had a beard for a few years now, but nothing that could contend with the beards I had seen in press photos. I decided it would be fruitless to compete. Even so, I wanted to participate in the spirit of the event. So I decided on the Friendly Muttonchops. The Friendly Muttonchops is a distinctively 19th Century style that bespeaks style, grace and class. They distinguish the wearer as a man of culture, aristocratic bearing and virility. The Muttonchops are prominent sideburns that extend to the chin. Friendly Muttonchops are connected by a mustache. I had been letting my beard grow out for three weeks to achieve the proper bushiness. With about an hour before the Parade of Beards, I took trimmer and razor in hand and exposed my chin to the light of day for the first time in years.

The Parade of Beards was supposed to finish at Town Square, but I wasn't sure where it would begin. As I walked into the plaza with my brand new 'chops, two men with facial hair sidled up to me. "Do you know the parade route?" one of them asked me. Now why would he ask me? "I think they are starting at the Visitor's Center" said the other. The Brotherhood of Beards. I was moved by the power of facial hair to unite total strangers into a Fellowship. A Brotherhood. The Bond of the Beard. On my way to the Visitor's Center, I was standing at a crosswalk with a woman and her family. She looked around her husband at me and asked, "Excuse me. Do you know where the parade is starting?"
"What makes you think I would know anything about the Parade of Beards?!" I replied. She grinned. "I just thought you might have an idea."

When we reached Fourth Avenue, a sea of beards stretched as far as the eye could see. There were beards in attendance from all over the United States and Canada. Australia sent a team. The Germans, always strong competitors were there in force, a Bearded Blitzkrieg. I saw beards and mustaches representing Italy, Great Britain, Norway, Belgium, Spain and many other nations. (Although none from Asia, Africa or South America.) Many of the men wore costumes. Some wore formal period dress. Others dressed to match the theme of their beard, such as the Alaskan Whaler or Wild West mustache. Others used the occasion to dress outlandishly. It was a colorful mob. It seemed to be organized much like a mob as well. I was never sure who was in charge of the event. People were milling around taking photos and then the group started filtering out onto the sidewalk to march with hirsute pride through downtown Anchorage.

Taking up my station on a street corner to get some good photographs, I saw a Swiss flag fluttering toward me, borne by an older gentleman sporting coattails and an immaculately groomed Verdi (It won first place). It was the opportunity I had been waiting for ever since I returned from Europe. "Gruezi!" I called out as he passed. He gave a little start of surprise and replied "Gruezi." I was very pleased with myself for finding the opportunity to use 20% of the Swiss German at my disposal.

Anchorage Daily News video of the Parade of Beards

The parade was Friday afternoon. That evening was the opening celebration at the new Denai'na Convention Center. It was essentially a party with a little friendly warm-up competition, the Grizzly Beard competition, that categorized beards by color rather than style. Competitive bearders (Is that a word? It is now. Bearder (n.): one who competes in beard competitions) are, as a general rule, congenial, outgoing men with a good sense of humor. And a thirst for beer. I know that many sports incorporate beer into the experience, but it's generally reserved for the spectators. Beard growing is the only sport I have ever seen in which competitors drank beer while they were competing. You can't even do that in bowling. You have to at least put down your drink for 10 seconds while you roll the ball. Together, these factors made it easy to meet many interesting people and beards. One of the most commonly overheard questions was "Can I take your picture?" This was always answered affirmatively. Shy people do not style their facial hair into a model of Mount Rushmore and put on a top hat. (OK, no one actually had a depiction of dead presidents on his face, but I'm hoping this gives someone an idea for Norway 2011.) Somehow I didn't feel the least bit self-conscious walking about with Friendly Muttonchops.

Friday night's highlight was a performance by The Beards, a band that came all the way from Australia to perform--and compete--in the World Beard and Moustache Championship. All of their songs were about beards. "This song is about beahds (Australian, remember?).....This is a song about a man with a beahd.....OK, weah gonna do another song about beahds." They were militantly pro-beard songs with titles like "Growing a Beard," "No Beard, No Good" and "If Your Dad Doesn't Have a Beard, You've Got Two Mums." Their anthemic "Born With a Beard" gave me chills and brought a tear of pride to my eye. They were very funny and it was a good concert.

Video from the WBMC performance

On Saturday at noon, beards from around the world put in an appearance at the Downtown Saturday Market. At 2 PM, judging for mustaches and partial beards began. I won't go into many details on the competition itself. You can read about the many categories at the WBMC website. I was impressed with the setup inside. They had long runways set up for the contestants, a large video screen to capture all the action and lots of seating. It was a big deal. There were cameras everywhere. There were about 300 contestants and maybe a couple thousand spectators. The Service Adventure Unit was volunteering that weekend. Some were selling T-shirts in the lobby while others kept the riff-raff out of the VIP seating. This apparently included their own pastor.

The full beard competition began after a short break in the evening. Brent was competing in the Garibaldi category: rounded beards no longer than 20 cm with integrated mustache. At 19, he may have been the youngest competitor. Being his first competition, he did not expect to finish in the top three, but it was good experience and we were all very proud of him. I noticed that the Europeans tended to be older and to take the competition a little more seriously. Many of the North Americans were younger men who were there for the novelty of it. But I think everyone had a good time.

I wasn't sure how the church would respond to my magnificent muttonchops. Would they be too vain? Too worldly? Would they be a stumbling block to those easily lured by all things bright and beautiful? One of the Service Adventurers had been so impressed by my whiskers that she could not stop smiling whenever we spoke. Or giggling. God forbid that my beard should unintentionally be a source of temptation to such virtuous young women. Although I noticed that the song leader seemed intent on avoiding eye contact while she lead the first hymn, I did not experience any untoward consequences. One quizzical person tried in vain to puzzle out what was different about me. And one seven-year-old girl boldly declared, "I don't like your new beard." But as she has often in the past expressed contrary opinions and unrealistic demands--"Don't preach so long today, OK?"--I have learned to stand my ground against her.

I liked my Friendly Muttonchops and I thought they looked great, especially after I trimmed them a little shorter. It was refreshing to feel a cool summer's breeze upon my chin. Yet one of the beautiful things about growing a beard is not shaving every morning. And the chin is the hardest part to shave. So with a twinge of sadness, I trimmed my beard to the trimmer's lowest setting and let nature take its course. Now, ten days later, all that remain are the memories. As The Beards sang, "It Only Takes a Fortnight to Grow a Decent Beard."

View my photo gallery of the 2009 World Beard and Moustache Championship.

One Bag (Black)

On Sunday, Lifehacker published an article on packing light for long journeys. This reminded me that I had taken this photograph before my sabbatical. It is a photo of every single thing I took with me on a three-month trip to Europe. It all fit into one carry-on. Books were responsible for most of the weight. Once I reached a place where I could store most of those books, it was a light load. My advice for packing light? Don't take cotton. All my clothes were synthetic so they dried quickly and did not need ironing. They were all blue, gray and black--dull, but easy to match. And they straddled the fence between formal and casual so they could be worn walking around town or in a church service. I debated taking running shoes along. In the end I didn't. I think I got enough exercise walking. I was glad to have the shorts and T-shirt to wear while I was washing the other clothes, though. I think I packed well. I didn't miss anything I couldn't buy in Switzerland and I never regretted anything I took.

Everything I Took With Me on a Three-Month Sabbatical in Europe:
one duffle bag
one messenger bag (for day trips)
one small bag/shower kit
one pair pants (black)
one pair pants (gray)
one shirt (blue)
one shirt (gray)
one pair athletic shorts (black)
one athletic T-shirt (blue)
two pairs of socks (wool, black)
three pairs underwear (I splurged here)
one jacket (black)
one cap (gray)
one belt (black)
one pair shoes (black, Ecco walking shoes--the most expensive thing I took, they got a lot of use)
one rain jacket (green)
one towel
one toothbrush holder, with toothbrush
dental floss
nail clippers
mobile phone (quad-band, unlocked, GSM)
mobile phone recharger
digital camera (not shown in photograph for obvious reason)
digital camera battery recharger
European electrical plug adaptor
one money belt
passport
photocopies of important documents
train passes
train maps and timetable
Books:
"Lagenscheidt Pocket German Dictionary"
"German: Verbs & Essentials of Grammar"
"501 German Verbs"
New Testamtent Bible (with Psalms)
"Walking in the Footseps of the Anabaptists"
Servas Directory for Switzerland
"Crime and Punishment" by Fyodor Dostoevsky
Moleskine notebook
one glasses case with spare pair of spectacles
one pair of glasses (on my face)

Mon Vieil Ami

In 1991, I graduated from high school and spent the summer working as a counselor at Camp Luz, in Orrville, Ohio. Two brothers from France, Luc and Yves, also worked there for a few weeks. We exchanged letters around Christmas and then we lost touch. But I thought of them as I was leaving for Europe, found that letter and jotted down the return address. When I was arranging my visit with Kevin in Granada, he mentioned that he had visited Luc and Yves in Basel years before. (Kevin also worked at Luz that summer).

"But...they live in France," I said.
"Yeah, but just outside Basel. Right over the border."

I checked the address: St. Louis. Then I checked Google, and, sure enough, St. Louis is essentially a French suburb of Basel. I had no idea if they still lived there, but a search of the French phone directory showed that someone with the same last name was living there, so before I left for Spain I mailed a postcard with my phone number.

When I was in Granada I received a voice mail from their mother. She had received my post card and left a message that Yves is living in New Caledonia (That's near New Zealand) and that Luc is teaching near Paris, but that he would be in St. Louis for holidays in a few weeks. On Oct. 31, I met Luc at the Rathaus in Basel and we spent the day with his family. I had not seen him in over 17 years--half of my lifetime. We drove to St. Louis for lunch with his parents and sister, who was home for a few months before she returns to Cambodia where she works.

After dinner, Luc and Paul, his father, and I, did some sightseeing. They took me to the Château du Haut-Kœnigsbourg in the Alsace. This is a castle that has changed hands many times. It was abandoned after being looted and burned by the Swedes during the Thirty Year's War. The present castle was reconstructed by the German emperor Wilhelm II in 1908. After World War I, the castle again passed into French hands. It was a rainy day and the fog covered the valley below. It lent a nice "Lord of the Rings"-esque atmosphere to the place. From there we visited Kaysersberg, a beautiful little medieval village, and birthplace of Albert Schweitzer. Then back to St. Louis for supper.

It was fun to see someone I hadn't seen in such a long time. Although it had been 17 years, we still had plenty to talk about. Luc had some old photographs that brought back a lot of memories. The next day, I took the train to the capital of Switzerland, Bern, to visit another Mennonite community. More on that later.

More Photos