This is Durham (Megafaun)

The Longest Day - Megafaun

There are many reasons why I find myself falling in love with the city of Durham. The restaurants, the rustic old warehouses, the ultimately humble, easy-going personality that sits unhindered by the fast-paced, modern life that surrounds it (my regards to Raleigh and Chapel Hill, both nice cities in their own right).

I'm sure I'll detail in length, some day, what it is about Durham that I'm falling in love with. For now I'll mention one new reason why I love this place: Megafaun.

On Saturday night I whisked Katie away to my first "real" show down here since moving in late June. Held at the Carrboro Arts Center, the show featured Bowerbirds and Megafaun - the former based in Raleigh, the latter based in Durham - who played a Homecoming show of sorts, as the two bands had been on the road for six weeks prior. I was excited to see the bands on their home turf, but have to admit that while I was already a fan of Bowerbirds, I knew little of Megafaun apart from the fact that they were the former bandmates of Bon Iver (which was a heavy selling point for Katie).

Megafaun played first, and I was shocked. Absolutely shocked. There are few shows I can point to where I felt like I did during their performance. It wasn't just a show; it was an event, a connection of everyone in the room, everyone wholeheartedly participating in the music. It reminded me of the time I saw Man Man at the Union in Athens a couple of years back. No, Megafaun is not nearly as aggressive or intense as Man Man (though they have their moments). What the two shows had in common is that the bands were not merely performing their songs, they were putting forth every last ounce of energy and passion into their music because, well, it's what they do. And they clearly love it.

The song I've posted above would make one wonder how in the hell someone could ever make a connection between Megafaun and Man Man (and really, there aren't many). This song, "The Longest Day," does a good job of showing the band's range; they jump back and forth from folk to bluegrass to gypsy to experimental, and somehow they manage to land here, in the land of crazy awesome Americana ballad.

When they played "The Longest Day" live, they pulled the plugs and did it acoustic, belting to the crowd of 400 or so, all of us dead silent. It was one of those cool moments when you aren't just listening to the music, you're feeling the music and your mind is completely enveloped by it.

I'm not trying to get gushy on Megafaun; maybe I'm just trying to brag that these guys are here, these guys are local for me now.

But that performance of "The Longest Day" on Saturday night, along with the rest of their show, helped characterize the camraderie, the passion, and the life that is this peculiar triangle in North Carolina. And to a large extent, it helped me finally feel like I'm home, because honestly, this is a lot like what I always felt in Athens.

7 South from Burlington

I'm keeping one eye on the road and one eye on her. If I had a third eye it'd be on what was just beyond her, out the passenger-side window. It'd be on that view of the Adirondacks, the mammoth, forested mountains so immense despite their being 20 miles or so away, on the other side of Champlain.

We're still in Vermont, picked up route 7 back in Burlington, where we stopped for a seafood lunch and gaped at the geologic wonders from the fisher's wharfs on the shore of Champlain. The mountains are bigger than the standard Appalachians we're used to, and we couldn't help but snap some photos. The mountains didn't turn out. Too far away.

Ferries between New York and Vermont were stalled 'til late April on account of Champlain being frozen in the middle, so we had to pick up 7 and haul it down south, where the lake would be narrow enough for us to cross over via a bridge and pick up 9 North to Port Henry. From Port Henry we'd drive northwest, eventually commuting across upstate New York on 73 and 86, passing through Lake Placid on our way to Saranac Lake. Beautiful lakeside towns, popular in summer and winter. It's late March now.

We've got a playlist running, one I'd made up back in Ohio, special for this Spring Break roadtrip. Mix of acoustic and anthemic, roadtrip-worthy tunes. But mostly acoustic. That's what she likes best.

So far we've been through Maryland, Pennsylvania, New Jersey, and Connecticut, where we'd spent three nights with my grandfather. From there it was on through Massachusetts, New Hampshire, and Maine. A few more nights spent at my sister's and brother-in-law's, then we'd high-tailed back down to New Hamphire and promptly headed due west, up through Vermont to Burlington.

Now here we are, cruising south on 7 from Burlington, running parallel to the Adirondacks.

She's smiling at me. Glances at the mountains, takes a picture, then turns back to me. Her beaming face is something I'll never grow accustomed to, never grow old of. No, it's new, fresh, lovely, every time I see it. She's looked at me like this many times on this trip as we travel together, discover together. It's a loving face, a content face, a never-wanting-to-leave this-moment face. I love it.

The two-lane road winds up and down over the Adirondack foothills, around sweeping curves and past vineyards, fields, quiet little villages. Some houses perch atop hills along the road, staring blankly at the lake and the mountains on the far side. No matter the cold, cloudy, leaf-less land. We love it here.

The mountains never leave us, firmly and intensely gazing across the lake, taunting us of our drive to come. What lies across the lake is more driving, more gaping, more laughing and carelessly enjoing a new region, new adventure. More singing along to the playlist. More talking about our life together. Of beauty. Love. God. These sorts of things.

To this point, there's no telling how many hours I've spent in the car with her. But I know now that I'd gladly spend the rest of time right here in the driver seat. One eye on the road, one eye on her.

Following the road signs, we turn west, heading finally towards the mountains. Another song starts, and we smile at each other for what seems like the millionth time. It's a familiar tune, a slow-walk of a song that drives with some banjo, acoustic guitar, harmonies. It's beautiful and wonderful, and we've sung along to it together several times before. Now here it is, introducing us to the bridge that will carry us over Lake Champlain and into the New York wilderness that lies before us.

Four months later I would propose to her. Four months later we would be separated by miles, by states, by hours of travel. But we'd be committed to more road trips, more talks of beauty, of love. Of God.

She would write to me shortly before leaving for an extended period of time. "I love you more than you know," she'd write. "I will miss you - keep the passenger seat open for me, I can't wait to ride with you again, my dear."

I'll miss her. I'll long for her. I'll cry for her. But I'll know that, just like I did on our trip down 7 South from Burlington, I'll always have her there next to me, enjoying the ride. And I'll always have one eye on the road, one eye on her.