Photo: Lavish Livez Instagram

To commemorate bike month, we took a small group of friends on a curated bike tour from Manhattan to Brooklyn. Each stop along the way brought to life our unique perspective on sustainability, craftsmanship and the modern, mobile lifestyle. Here’s a quick glimpse into our pedal-perfect day.

Getting Oufitted
We started at HUB in the West Village where we were each fit with our custom Dutch-inspired Brooklyn Cruisers. While the week’s sunny weather had taken a turn, it only added to the spirit of the tour. Most of us simply put on an extra layer with a Dose Jacket or Motil Trench, and we were on our way.

STOP 1: TEXTILE ARTS CENTER
While most of the indigo used today is synthetic, we sought out its natural alternative. It’s a highly complex process. But in short, chemicals are released during the fermentation of certain plant species, and when oxidized, turns a brilliant blue. Check out some of our indigo creations.

Creating crazy patterns
Photo: Lavish Livez

From Manhattan to Brooklyn via the Williamsburg Bridge

Bridge Crossing
Photo: Lavish Livez Instagram

STOP 2: BROOKLYN DENIM CO.
Crossing the Williamsburg bridge into Brooklyn, we visited the Brooklyn Denim Co. where owner, Frank Pizzurro, gave us a special behind-the-scenes look at the workroom where each piece of denim is cut, sewn and formed into high-end fashion.

Photo: Lavish Livez Instagram

STOP 3: HOME OF SUMMER RAYNE OAKES
Time to relax. Next we arrived at to the urban garden and home of eco-activist and model, Summer Rayne Oakes. Summer has turned her Williamsburg home into a zen-like escape with over 220 plants and a living wall. We all had some homemade tea and heard from Caroline Samponaro from Transportation Alternatives who talked about the growth and importance of urban cycling and the recent launch of the highly anticipated Citi Bike Share program.

STOP 4: TØRST
We concluded the day with happy hour and charcuterie at tørst, an international beer destination from acclaimed chefs Daniel Berns and Jeppe Jarnit-Bjergso. The group was able to relax, enjoy conversation and reflect on the day’s events.

The day inspired us all to think about how easy it is to integrate biking into our everyday lives, even in one of the busiest cities in the world. Here’s a little extra inspiration to get you out and cycling in style this Bike Month.

Check out our take on bikes and cycling on Pinterest: http://pinterest.com/nauclothing/on-two-wheels/

Alvord Desert Hot Springs

Last Friday, around 2pm, Mark, our GM disappeared. It was shortly after consuming a pomegranite margarita (no salt) and a taco platter. Of course, this is not unusual. Mark has been known to mysteriously vanish only to suddenly reappear days later with a grin and a suntan. This time, he resurfaced on a Monday morning smelling of sulpher and parched earth, surely evidence of a desert escapade. But he was gracious enough to write us a virtual postcard so we wouldn’t have to rely on an Edward Abbey quote to complement these few captured moments. 

The desert is a diaspora for the displaced, a refuge from our hyper-saturated social scene, attracting the margins of society— mystics and malcontents, desperadoes and drug runners, rednecks and ranchers, artists and anarchists.

It’s an environment that expands our visual and perceptual horizons. —Mark

One of the most scenic landscapes in Oregon spans 363 miles along the Pacific Ocean. The coast is home to sand dunes flowing into cliffs that drop straight to the sea and a rocky coastline that has served as a backdrop for countless Hollywood movies.  Yet with all this majestic beauty so close to our daily life, we barely take the time to truly enjoy all this state has to offer. So I am dedicating this Postcard to exploring home, to taking time to stop at every scenic outlook, tourist trap, trailhead and gravel road.  Because when you abandon being a local, you notice more about your surroundings.

Unlike your typical beach, the Oregon coast is the most magnificent during the winter months. I find it quite suiting that we don’t call it the beach, but the coast.  For the word beach does not describe the natural wonders that live here. From the oversized crushing white waves, to the small fishing towns, high view points and populated tide pools, an hours drive from Portland has so much to offer.

Driving south on the 101 from Cannon Beach to Manzanita, the winding two-lane road creeps up and down a jagged cliff.  Though icicles hang where water once dripped, the sun is at its highest point of the day. The radiating heat from the sun hitting the car makes it almost feel like summer.  We slam on our brakes to soak in every view of the ocean, slide around corners for signs of beach access, and jump under ropes for a closer viewpoint.

As the evening sun sets,  people rush from their condos, cars and storefronts to catch a glimpse of the yellow, then orange, then purple and red skyline. Couples hold hands, kids play in the sand, and the sun slowly fades behind a curtain of splashing turmoil. We wonder to ourselves, are we the last people on the west coast to see the sun tonight? We cheers a toast: Here’s to adventure, to getting out no matter the distance, and taking a finer look at what’s in front of you every day.

Wish you were here.

Hasna and her seven children fled the civil war in Syria with practically nothing. Mercy Corps-distributed clothes, blankets, mattresses and gas heating supplies will help them through the winter. Photo: Jeremy Barnicle/Mercy Corps

This week in the Thought Kitchen, Jeremy Barnicle, Chief Development and Communications Officer for Mercy Corps, one of our longstanding Partners for Change, travels to Jordan to give us a first hand account of the Syrian refugee crisis and what we can do to help.

Mafraq, Jordan — I am sitting on the floor of a cold, crumbling single room dwelling just on the Jordan side of the Syria-Jordan border.  I’m sipping Turkish coffee, surrounded by a family of Syrian refugees.  The coffee isn’t warming me up much: it is December and it is freezing.

My host is a lady named Hasna Erhael.  She’s a 36 year old mother of seven, six of whom are girls and are sitting with us.  Her oldest child, a 15-year-old boy, is out collecting recyclables to make some money.  Hasna and her family fled Syria a few months ago when their town came under attack by the Syrian army.  Her husband is back in Syria fighting the regime and says he won’t stop until they have taken Damascus.

They came over the border with nothing, and nothing is pretty much what they still have.  They rent this room with help from relatives.  No work.  No school.  No toys or art supplies.  No furniture. No electricity or heat.  No running water.

I don’t want to make Hasna sound like a victim — that’s certainly not how she sees herself.  She tells me she and her family just need to be able to eat a little bit and they’ll be able to hold out until the fighting ends and they can return to Syria. But she is nervous for her girls: “They have nothing to do.  They miss school and they are totally bored.”  They are clearly struggling, and that’s where Mercy Corps comes in.

We are working with a local religious leader to identify Syrian refugees — more than 15,000 of them are hunkered down among the 60,000 permanent resident — and help meet some of their basic needs.  Right now, we have the money to help about 1000 refugee families in Mafraq get prepared for winter: that means we’ve giving them winter coats, blankets, kitchen supplies, food packages, gas heaters and gas.  In general, we are a “hand-up not a hand-out” kind of operation, but in times like this we do our best to bring struggling people some measure of material comfort.  Mercy Corps is providing similar support to Syrian refugees throughout the region.

Mercy Corps is proud to be a partner of Nau.  Support from Nau and its customers allows us to meet the needs of people like Hasna and her family.  For more on our response with Syrian refugees, click here.  

Jeremy Barnicle at the Zataari refugee camp in Jordan. Mercy Corps drilled the well, which will serve all 40-plus thousand Syrian refugees in the camp, plus tens of thousands who live in neighboring communities.

“Excuse me, but why would Americans come here?”

By ‘here,’ my Italian bunkmate doesn’t mean the attic dormitory of the Valentina Stamca Hut; he means Slovenia. We’ve met in one of high refuges of the Julian Alps, a range of dolomite just across the border from some better-known Italian peaks made of the same stuff. But while visiting the Dolomites conjures up images of flights into Venice, hand-pulled espressos and lasagna dinners, Slovenia…well, where the hell is Slovenia, anyway?

A pocket nation of just two million people squeezed between Italy, Austria and Croatia, Slovenia secured its independence from Yogoslavia in 1991 through a ten-day war. Yet while that conflict was largely bloodless, Slovenia still bears the scars of earlier battles. As in the Dolomites, Austrians and Italians fought in the Julian Alps from trenches and gun nests dug into the mountains. It’s here that Hemingway wrote about in A Farewell To Arms, where mountain peaks were crowned in barbed wire, and where 60,000 soldiers lost their lives just to avalanches.

Today in the Jullian Alps, the vestiges of that war remain: crumbling stone barracks, rusting gun carriages, blunted barbed wire. But it’s not this that’s brought us here. It’s the paths: beautifully graded army roads and fantastically engineered high-mountain via-ferrata. Built to give access to the high mountains, these war-time paths established new ways of moving through the steep and exposed terrain. The result is that Triglav National Park offers remarkable access to some of the world’s most dramatic mountains. What once was used to make war now accesses beauty.

Outside the bunk room window, one such peak rears up above the Austrian horizon. I point, and smile. Sure, it may not have Italian coffee, but after a long day in these mountains the goulash is pretty darn good.

[Editors Note: Our friend and copywriter Alex left Portland in 2010 to start a new life in Europe. This month, he’s returned as a Guest Editor of The Thought Kitchen to share some of his experiences.]

Right now I’m sitting in the shoebox-sized office of my apartment in Amsterdam, listening to the street through window blinds drawn against the sun. The electric whirr and rumble of the number thirteen Tram mixes with the squeaks and rattles of rusted-out second-hand bicycles. As waves of cars stop and go through the traffic light, snippets of Indian pop, Tupac, Turkish dance music and Goyte drifting up by turns to my window. A car horn, a shout in Dutch, a lull. Another Tuesday afternoon.

It’s the third day of the first heat wave of the summer—a season that the locals, with characteristic stoicism, had suggested might not make it to this corner of Europe. It seemed an apt prediction to my wife and me as we piled on sweaters in May, rode through the rain in June, and woke to the thundering of our downspout in July. The Netherlands has a reputation for bad weather, one we’re thinking is pretty well deserved.

But the Netherlands has other reputations as well. Depending on whom you ask, it’s a country of bike lanes, a haven of  diversity and tolerance, or a playground for drugs. It’s a land reclaimed from the sea, where global warming and rising sea levels make “sustainability” more than just a liberal buzz-word. It’s a nation of tall women and even taller men drinking small beers and (occasionally) wearing wooden shoes.  A place for cheese and windmills and international law. A place that once had an economic collapse because of the price of tulips.

But part of living in a country is sorting out what’s real, what’s imagined, and what’s simply been lost in translation. So six months ago, my wife and I—inspired by family heritage and an overdeveloped sense of wanderlust—moved here, to work and sort it out for ourselves. Over the next few months, I’ll be sharing some of those impressions, from what “bike culture” really means in a place with more bikes than people, to how one restaurant is designing vegetarian dishes with help from landscape architecture.

As we’re learning, moving isn’t always easy. But the rewards of movement—across space and through cultures—is that it can change your perspective on everything: even what’s just outside your window.

By Bree Kessler

There are small rural towns and then there is bush Alaska.  These “bush” communities located throughout Alaska are hard-to-reach places usually only accessible by plane or, in the winter by snowmobile, dogsled, or an ice road that forms for a short while each year (also the inspiration for the TV show Ice Road Truckers). I live in one of these places: Bettles, Alaska, a town 35 miles north of the Arctic Circle near to Gates of the Arctic National Park, the largest continuous wilderness park in the United States.

Bettles was never a bustling town, but at one time there were nearly 60 people who lived here including residents of the adjoining native village.  Presently, there are probably only 20 full year residents and the population swells to closer to 35 residents during the summer months when the National Park Service staff moves in to town.

Life in the bush can feel isolating to some, but to others, this wilderness escape is what they’ve been searching for their entire lives.  For me, I try to pass time by watching daily life unfold – like I am Margaret Mead completing fieldwork in some distant land. With 24 hours of sunlight during the summer to inevitably be followed by almost 24 hours of darkness in the winter, regardless of how quickly I sometimes want time to move here (especially when I am awaiting my Netflix to be flown in), it always seems to move slowly.  And that’s not always a bad thing, even when you don’t have cell phone service.

Bree Kessler fears the continental United States and thus splits her time between Hawaii and northern Alaska.  She is the author of the recently published guidebook Moon Big Island of Hawaii and you can read stories about her life in the Arctic Circle at www.parkdispatches.com.

all photos by Mark Wasser

The surf, the sand, the sea: what’s not to love about Hawaii? Well, besides the continuous fleet of rental cars that circumnavigate the island every day. This week in the Thought Kitchen, guidebook author and Hawaiian local Bree Kessler gives us a little insight into the art of low-carbon road tripping and how to travel the big island Kama’aina-style.

By Bree Kessler

There are a variety of reasons why the kama’aina (Hawaiian word for “local”) take the bus on the Big Island of Hawaii. When living in Hawaii, I ride the bus because it combines my two favorite things: public transportation and conversations with strangers.

Just like the lifestyle in Hawaii, a ride on the Hele On bus ($1 per person and an additional $1 for large bags and bikes) can move slowly. But this pace allows for the opportunity to “talk story” with fellow riders. I seldom ride the bus without sitting near someone who invites me to a party or suggests a great hidden beach to check out. Sometimes the conversations are more serious like on one trip from Hilo to Volcanoes National Park when I offered a therapy session to a transitioning woman and in turn learned about the unique history of transgenderism in Hawaii (this meeting seemed fated given that I am a trained social worker who teaches courses on the psychology of gender).

The Big Island essentially has only one main highway that circumvents it – making it extremely easy both to figure out the bus routes (on the website) and to catch a bus from nearly anywhere. There are some established bus stops and times, but the bus system in Hawaii is similar to the bus culture in Latin America: meaning you can hail down a bus anywhere and be dropped off anywhere you want.

While some bus routes run hourly, there are other routes that are only available a few times a day making it necessary to plan your schedule carefully. Nevertheless, the extra effort definitely is worth it not only for the money you’ll save on the rental car itself and gas (the islands ain’t cheap) but also, the bus is the best way to interact with the local community who, for the most part, relish in “talking story” with anyone who gets onboard.

Bree Kessler is a freelance writer and storyteller who fears the continental United States and thus splits her time between Hawaii and Alaska. She is the author of the Moon Handbook: Big Island of Hawaii. You can check out her stories on life in the Arctic Circle at www.parkdispatches.com.

Editor’s Note: Yeah, we like bikes. But our obsession for the velocipede goes beyond the obvious. This week, in the Thought Kitchen, friend, freelance writer and fellow rider, Ellee Thalheimer echoes yet another reason why we trade in four wheels for two—to experience something far better than cruise control and heated seats.

By Ellee Thalheimer

Throughout the wind-thrashed land of Argentina’s Pampa, the remote, bustling hamlets became ghost towns for three hours every afternoon. After the siesta, everyone from leathery-skinned cowboys to laughing women in designer jeans would huddle in groups sipping yerba mate from a communal gourd and metal straw.

On this trip and many others, my secret tool to bridge the cultural divide and nose my way into the heart of another culture was my massively loaded bicycle. At car checkpoints, Argentine police officers would invite me to share a mate, and curious onlookers approached me as a fascinating—and possibly off-my-rocker—oddity.

They wanted to know where I was from, where I was going, how far I’d come, and how many miles per day I rode. That inquisitiveness enabled me to ask intimate questions and wiggle my way into some pretty stellar conversations and cultural understanding.

People’s curiosity in exotic places like Argentina, interestingly enough, is not all that different than at home. Crossing over the West Hills, just outside of metro Portland, Oregon, the culture subtly changes; there are slight differences in how people talk to each other, variant political signs in front yards, and deviations in restaurant menus.

A bicycle, with bags slung all over it, seldom fails to pique folk’s interest, even if they are used to cyclists. So the rural Oregonian with a gun rack chats with the Portland cyclist toting Kombucha in a non-toxic metal bottle.

The bicycle ends up building a link between diverse people who might never have interacted. And when folks from disparate cultures connect and learn about each other, empathy is born, and the world becomes a better place. A two-wheeled device all of the sudden accomplishes more than anyone would have ever expected.

Elle is a freelance writer based in Portland, Oregon. Her past work includes Cycling Italy and contributions to the Lonely Planet editions of Mexico, USA, Caribbean Islands and Pacific Northwest guidebooks. Learn more about cycle touring in Oregon in her new guidebook: Cycling Sojourner: A Guide to the Best Multi-day Tours in Oregon by checking out her website www.cyclingsojourner.com. And stay tuned for her upcoming venture: Hop in the Saddle: A Guide to Portland’s Craft Beer Scene, By Bike available in November.

A big thanks to Bree Kessler—author, traveler, professor & friend of Nau—for this well-written and insightful piece on the hidden meaning behind a few of today’s most ubiquitous words.

If you live in New York City (and definitely if you live in Brooklyn) it’s nearly impossible to visit a weekend market without seeing the following words: local, organic, artisanal.  If you’re lucky, you will usually see these words used together (as in the photo above taken at the Brooklyn Flea Smorgasburg).  If you’re like me, after you finish nervously laughing at the sign but still purchase the must try item, you wonder: what does it mean for something to be “local” or “organic” or “artisanal”?

I have to be honest, I don’t really know what those words mean and I don’t know if anyone does because these terms are “reified.”  The theory behind “reification” (the noun, “to reify” is the verb) originates in Marxist theory.  The idea is that things (from food to clothes to body parts) are given meanings that do not inherently exist in them.  For instance, when I call some chickpeas “local” I expect that everyone knows what I am inferring: that the chickpeas came from nearby — that they didn’t travel too far.  There was also a time when I thought it meant that they were solely grown on a family farm, handpicked by the farmers sons and daughters.  But for someone else, “local” may have a different definition such as grown within a 500 mile radius or maybe grown within 25 miles and it doesn’t really matter if the harvest was gathered by low-wage workers or not.  Chickpeas are reified in this case because we are assigning a meaning to them that wasn’t there initially.  Making the chickpeas “local” gives them a value that was not originally there before they arrived to Brooklyn Flea Smorgasburg and practically speaking, it may raise their price too.

There is nothing wrong with reification. In fact, Marx himself argued that it was an essential part to creating a market economy: some things are given more value than other things and therefore some items costs more than others.  Local chickpeas are worth more than non-local chickpeas for those willing to pay a premium.  The issue with being a consumer in a reified world is figuring out exactly what these terms mean because they don’t mean the same thing to everyone.  We all know that we prefer our clothing to be made from sustainable materials, but do we know how something becomes a sustainable material or what it means for clothing to be sustainable?  Reification allows us to not think how things become products — to reify allows us to say something is “organic” or “local” or “sustainable” without truly considering how and where that product transitioned from from fabric to shirt  to arrival at your house.  A fun project (much like the one seen here.) I like to see is a slideshow that reveals where you think your shirt (or you chickpeas) come from.  If you make one please post them below.

Bree Kessler is a freelance writer currently living in Northern Alaksa.  She is the author of the Moon Handbook: Big Island of Hawaii and currently completing her PhD in Environmental Psychology from City University of New York — Graduate Center.