Modern Exploration Society

Creative explorers seeking adventure NEW YORK // PORTLAND // NEW ORLEANS

PORTLAND EXPLORATION SOCIETY

EVAN SCHELL // @THESLIPPERYWATERCHRONICALS BROOKE WEEBER // @BROOKE_WEEBER ADAM VICAREL // @ADAMVICAREL CHEERAZ GORMAN // @ATURAH

AN INVITATION TO RETURN, TO EXPERIENCE SOMETHING DIFFERENT

I flew into Portland, Oregon on a night where the full moon was in Scorpio. As I was out walking, stalking the sky to get a glimpse of the moon, following meeting my fellow explorers for dinner, I felt like a person who had no history here. This feeling came over me when my flight landed. But to be on a street I’d taken on my way home many an evening and to feel my eyes new and the lack of memory-strapped weight failing to resonate in my body, what I was feeling was now not only true for me — it was real. There was no pull to visit spaces that once held great meaning to me. As I walked a couple blocks down SW Stark Street toward 13th, not one ounce of nostalgia washed over me. While I was not attempting to conjure the feeling, I did find it surprising, like in a, “Wow … I am healed,” kind of way. Many moons ago, I use to call this city home. It all feels like another lifetime ago. And, in truth, it is. Now, it’s time for new adventures. A fast-forward to create new memories and to feel what new Earth will be underneath my feet as an explorer.

REMEMBERING LIGHT

It turns waterfalls and rushing creeks into a scene of cascading diamonds. It gently overcomes shadows, then welcomes them back when it has served its purpose, or when clouds shift. It reveals the spectrum of color waiting to be unveiled in the darkest of green things. It invites finger to rub against moss and tree bark to explore their textures. The imagination dances when we see it cut through mist: What’s being beamed down or taken up, or is there somewhere in between, dancing — putting a spell on us?

There’s a certain magic the light of the sun turns on. Forest, already full of wonder in its own right, becomes even more alive.

For the most part, the day was the kind of typical Portland day I’d remembered. Rainy. The sky — a fitted sheet of gray, not so securely tucked, so occasionally the sun would slip through the clouds. Its warmth landing on my face just long enough for me to think, “You will leave and return like all faithful lovers do when they know they are needed, wanted, and desired.”

Atop Beacon Rock, a squirrel that seemed to know its way around humans met me. Raised up on its hind legs and motioned as if it were fresh out of some well-crafted children’s cartoon, one with a moral or parable to keep in the subconscious. I thought I was ready, but every bit of the city dweller in me jolted my body off the rock I popped a squat on. I laughed loudly and shook my head at the fact that I let something so small shake me. I turned my head to see the sun in the distance, turning the horizon line of the sky into various shades of rainbow sherbet. I inhaled deeply, laughed once more, and nodded my head in silent reverence for what illumination can do for the spirit.

REMEMBRANCES — AND, IS THIS THE POINT

The air is different here than where I’m from So, I’m taking as many deep breaths For my lungs to remember That concert is not a living thing That mountain fresh Is indeed that and not simply A manufactured fragrance for dryer sheets My eyes drinking in the scene Because wonder is being returned back to me tenfold

And, is this the point: To reconnect To feel mouth-gaped open As feet step in an improvisational rhythm With the terrain And deep breaths are taken To remind us that we are living things And that there’s something clearly unnatural About our automated lives and its many technologies Distracting us from the beauty found in Simply being with what is In all its grandeur

NEW ORLEANS EXPLORATION SOCIETY

JUSTIN “SCRAPPERS” MORRISON // @SCRAPPERS SERA LINDSEY // @PORTABLESERA GABRIELLE STEIB // @HONEYSIGHS ALEX SMITH // @BLVXMTH

PHOTO BY GIL JUNGER

OLD MARDI GRAS BEADS HANG HEAVY FROM TREE BRANCHES LIKE FADED FRUIT.

There was a moment when jazz was born. At the bottom of the food chain. Some folks hit bottom and they bounce. The bounce turned heads and heads are still spinning.

There was a moment when jazz was discovered. The scene is in a George Schmidt oil painting hanging a couple blocks from the Ace Hotel. Past the parking lot paved with broken clam shells, brick dust, and secrets.

MC Brown died on the sidewalk in front of that painting. Drank himself to death in a cardboard box. He was the last to go before this skid row neighborhood was gently gentrified. The painter wants to mix MC’s ashes in with the cement of the new sidewalk and install a plaque: “MC Brown slept it off here.” The kind old lady sitting in the tiny market next door inherited the ashes. MC is in a purple velvet bag on the table. We went and paid our respects. She said he was a good egg and gave us boiled eggs for free. Long live southern hospitality.

IT’S PUNK TO BE NICE.

Sera and I met Gabby and Alex poolside on the Ace roof. Gabby plays maracas, but not as well as her grandmother. She played a video to prove it. Alex works at a scrap yard and knows the value of the metal parts of his camera. Sera’s hair gulps up the humidity like a thirsty dog. Her shin blossoms into a tan. I peel an orange that drove from California to Oregon and flew all the way to Louisiana in my backpack. We are the adventure we seek.

I hear New Orleans is the only American city that saved its original town. If you’re really silent and sincere, you can see it between the jubilee of neon signs: Jello Shots, Po Boys, Barely Legal, Voodoux, and other desires. The sidewalk is cracked and ugly in ways only a skater could love. We walk in the road lit by car tail lights bouncing to a curbside brass band.

Bourbon Street smells like someone barfed in a full baby diaper. It’s a weird dream; I don’t want to tell you about it. It’s a turtle without a shell. It creeps me out, but I have to see it. I have to feel myself in this place to know it better.

WHO DAT? A CHALLENGE.

I hear the future of New Orleans is Houston. Nah, it’s Alex, Gabby, and other locals who roll with the creative culture of this town. Drunken Texan tourists come to consume. They speak loud but have nothing to say. Chinua the DJ mixing juguetón beats in the Ace lobby has something to say. Freda, Defend New Orleans, Seaworthy, and the other shops next door have something to say. Slow Down. Loosen Up. Be Nice or Leave.

Gabby took us to Norma’s for South American sweets and Williams Plum St. icy snowballs instead of gumbo, crawfish, and oysters. Alex took us to see the neutral ground. We stood on the track. Right in the middle. Snowballs melting down our throats. Waiting for the streetcar. We aren’t here to ride it. It’s too wild to ride. We just want to admire its jingle-jangle swagger.

A dove flies by with a broken eggshell in its beak. A baby gator sunbathes in the city park pond. A strand of old Mardi Gras beads falls from a tree and bounces in the gutter.

I am a non-local standing on my tippy toes, looking over the shoulders of locals, howling for the brass band to never stop playing.

NEW YORK EXPLORATION SOCIETY

AUNDRE LARROW // @AUNDRE BROOKE SOUTHCOMBE // @BROOKESOUTH MANNY PANGILINAN // @MANNYALOHA MOLLY BEAUCHEMIN // @MOLLYBEAUCHEMIN

IT WAS ALMOST SUNSET WHEN THE Q TRAIN PULLED UP TO THE BEACH.

The technicolor amusement park that is Coney Island revealed itself, gliding past the window in slow motion. It was like a scene from a Wes Anderson movie: The neon signage, the giant Ferris wheel, the streets lined with nautical graffiti in shades of pastel pink, orange, and yellow — all of it was a perfect backdrop to the iconic Nathan’s Hot Dog sign that soon came into view. The train yielded to a stop and we jumped out of our car and onto the sunstreaked platform. Dodging the crowds on skateboard and on foot, we headed out to the beach in pursuit of cotton candy and adrenaline.

This is what I love about New York City: You can ride a train just a few stops East, and suddenly it feels like you’re exploring another planet. You can surf with a view of the Manhattan skyline. You can ride a rollercoaster in Brooklyn.

IN A CITY LIKE NEW YORK, NEIGHBORHOODS ARE LIKE ECOSYSTEMS.

People are the elemental force that is constantly shifting. When you’re surfing, the ocean is the biggest element you face. When you’re hiking, you are immersed in the forest, looking to the trees for communion and a sense of belonging. Here, in the Big Apple, the “concrete jungle where dreams are made,” people are the most powerful force of nature — a collective of souls constantly creating and exploring new ways of being in a city that can barely contain them. It’s perfect for people who love adventure, because it’s impossible to get bored: There’s always another neighborhood to explore, a new person to talk to, and something unusual going on in the streets.

We saw a bride and groom being photographed in the middle of a traffic stop. A man walked by with five identical huskies on a single leash. There are art galleries full of funhouse mirrors. There’s a dessert shop that sells nothing but cookie dough. This is New York, and yet it might as well be Mars.

We rode the Staten Island Ferry at sunset and remembered almost instantly that Manhattan is also an island — from the boat you can’t even see land, just a mass of buildings towering up above the surf. Eight million people live in skyscrapers all crammed onto this tiny island in the middle of the sea, and all it takes is a short boat ride to be humbled by that realization. Flying in a plane over New York City results in the same effect: You suddenly realize that humans built all of this, and that’s an incredible feat.

Back at the Ace Hotel, guests from all over the world get free psychic readings in the lobby. In this way, even the foyer of a popular hotel can become a playground for exploration — a place to try new things that one might not have ever done before.

Adventure, like happiness, is a state of being. Real adventure lives in your heart; it’s about how you spend your time, whether that’s getting a psychic reading or befriending dogs in your neighborhood park. Adventure is about stepping out and trying something new, big or small, whether you’re in the desert or exploring Midtown West.

We spent our time in Coney Island riding the Wonder Wheel to the top of the world and laughing through mouthfuls of pink and blue cotton candy. We stuck our feet in the water and drank coffee in the rain, exploring the city as it revealed itself to us. Later, we played tag on the Staten Island Ferry. We made art in the park and discovered an oldfashioned diner that sold Animal House-themed tater tots. Periodically, we remembered to look up at the canopy of buildings towering above us. There are so many adventures to be had in this place. New York City is a concrete jungle, and wild is a state of mind.