Days 12 & 13: Over the Bridge, Bamboo All Over

BOWIE, MD —

April 5 & 6, 2024

Days 12 & 13:

The famous Swiss psychiatrist Carl Jung once said, “people don't have ideas, ideas have people,” and since entering Maryland, philosophical themes from the Far East have meditated on my mind. I believe this to be the case, in part, due to the prevalence of bamboo I’ve observed  in the region, which, like me, is not inherently native to this land yet calls it home. These themes seem to have been planted subconsciously by my surrounding environment, and only now do I see its influence, as I look back on my musings over the last few days.

When my Aunt Jennifer picked me up at Big Bats Cafe in Stevensville to take me over the Chesapeake Bay Bridge, I told her not to hug me because of the funky smell accrued over my mileage—my hotel had a shower but no washing machine.

“I don’t care!” she said, squeezing me affectionately.

Her love was far stronger than my stench.

It was nearly evening by the time we crossed the bridge, and so, once I was dropped off on the other side of the Delmarva peninsula, I found a secluded spot in the woods to pitch my tent in anticipation for the next day’s walk.

I was up early the following morning, and with the prior few days of rest, I set out briskly with my body’s battery at 100 percent.

As I entered Annapolis, I crossed the United States Naval Academy Bridge, where the eastern gusts over Stevens River made themselves known, like their bamboo. The United States government also spoke in a voice of power. Everywhere: signs along barbed fences notifying residents (understanadbly) that the academy was to be looked at, not touched, like the thorny plant life on my way to an incognito campsite.

While heading to Bowie, I stopped at a 7-Eleven for fruit and clean water, looking and smelling homeless. On my way out of the store, I fumbled my items in front of the door. As I went to collect them, an old Black man and what appeared to be his granddaughter patiently held the door for me, smiling.

Afterwards, as I sat on the far end of the storefront curb refilling my camelbak, a young white kid, maybe 20, pulled up a few spots beside me in a luxury vehicle I’m sure he didn’t pay for. When he stepped out of the car, he turned and spat at my feet, then went on his way.

His love was not stronger than my stench, for fear was the idea that had him, the folly of youth.