Off to Galena We Go, We Go

As I’ve mentioned before, I occasionally go to Chicago to see my brother Jay. Taking the train is perhaps the nicest way to get there, but it does have one or two disadvantages. My default method of travel is driving, and although the trip is at least six hours if I’m traveling at least 70 miles per hour and don’t stop for anything, having your own car in the suburbs of Chicago opens the way to a few stores that almost make the drive worthwhile. It’s also nice to be on your own timetable, instead of constantly having to look at your watch, just waiting for the time to leave is upon you.

When you drive to Chicago from northeast Iowa, you have no less than three choices. The most obvious choice is to take Highway 63 down to Waterloo, then take Expressway 380 to Expressway 80 and go from there. However, you can also drive almost straight east to Madison, then drop down to Chicago from the north. Both are fairly decent routes, but I decided to take the third option—Highway 63 to Waterloo, then Highway 20 across Iowa and Illinois. It’s probably not the most efficient way, mainly because you hit a couple small towns on Highway 20 that drops your speed down to 35 when you really want to put the accelerator down and cover as much ground as possible, but it does have one thing the other routes don’t—Galena.

Galena is a small town in Illinois, fifteen miles away from Dubuque and just on the other side of the Mississippi river. It may be my all-time favorite town to pass through when I am on my way somewhere else. That may sound damning with faint praise, but a nice town to pass through while driving is an underestimated treasure. When you drive through a city, such as Madison, you get the outsider’s view as buildings flash by while you travel on the expressway. Small towns, on the other hand, usually have the main highway double as the main street, so you get some of the local flavor, although more often than not the local flavor is a bar, a hardware store, and perhaps a restaurant or two if you’re lucky. All in all, not anything interesting.

Then there’s Galena. If you’re driving from Iowa to Chicago, you’ll encounter some tourist fare first and foremost—two fast food restaurants, and an increasingly common Wal-Mart enclave. I freely admit to stopping at all of them, if only to access that comfort you can only get from a franchise in an unfamiliar city. It’s nice, but what really makes Galena worth traveling to is the town proper. Galena resides in the driftless regions, similar to Decorah, which means that the town geography is hilly. This would be obvious even if you didn’t get to pass through the town. However, when you go through town you are struck by how nicely the residents have adapted. The roads go across the hills, with the occasional very steep crossroads, and the houses seem to be terraced on the sides of the hills. Now would also be a good time to point out that many of these houses were built in the 18^th and 19^th centuries, giving the place a look that is old-fashioned, but with modern improvements. Somehow, though, Galena seems to have avoided the mess of modernization that all too often occurs. You won’t see any stray cables or leakage from cheap air conditioners in these houses—and yet they all seem to be actively lived in.

At some point, you pass by the home of one Ulysses S. Grant. Yes, the future president of the United States claimed Galena as his home before he went to the White House. He wasn’t alone, either—a full nine Civil War generals came from Galena, which makes you wonder if these people didn’t have some pre-existing grudge. “You think you’re so smart!” they would scream at each other. “If there was a civil war, I would get out on that battlefield and kick your butt!” That’s probably not what happened at all, but it’s kind of fun to think about.

After you pass Grant’s house, you go up a hill. And up. And up and up and up until you see the eastern outskirts of Galena. Unlike the western outskirts, this is where a lot of the “casual tourists” must come in, because there is a series of restaurants lined up one after the other, all in the style of a downtown street in the old west. The colors are faded greens, oranges and blues, and more often than not you’ll see the immense parking lot in front of them packed with cars. There’s also a Happy Joe’s franchise, but let’s face it—if you get to eat in a nice restaurant in a building that looks like it was designed in the 19^th century, why on earth would you waste your time in a franchise restaurant? The people who eat there must be sick of high-end steaks and salmon fillets. Either that, or they’ve eaten at the high-end restaurants so many times that they’re sick of the flavor and yearn for the mediocrity only a chain restaurant can provide.

I suppose they set the restaurants here because it’s closer to Chicago. I’d heard that Galena was a bit of a tourist vacation for people from Chicago, and I can see that. However, I like coming in from the west. You get less tourist razzle-dazzle, and more watering holes. If you’re just passing through, that can be a godsend.

Kendo Camp

When you strip away everything from the martial art kendo, what you’re left with is how to swing a stick in a very precise way. If you have never practiced kendo, you could be forgiven for considering that this is both easy and somewhat silly.

On the other hand, if you were to think that you would also be ignoring centuries of tradition that have gone into making this martial art a beacon of discipline and effort. You might also risk getting killed by a practitioner of kendo, more for thinking it’s easy than because it’s silly. I used to practice kendo for a few years before moving out of range of any kendo dojos, and just started up perhaps five or six months ago. Maybe. Still, I remembered loving the kendo practices despite how strenuous they were and despite the fact that when I still lived in Michigan my Sunday routine was very simple—wake up, practice kendo, go back to apartment, sleep for the rest of the day.

Kendo on Sundays now is pretty similar, albeit now when I finish with the practice I have an hour’s drive back to my apartment. I’m not sure if this is an advantage over practicing kendo in Michigan or not. Still, I wanted to dive in to practicing kendo with both feet, which is why I signed up for kendo camp.

Kendo camp is held at a college, this time at the University of Wisconsin. You practice with other kendo practitioners (kendoka) from all over the Midwest, under the tutelage of two 8^th-dan senseis. These two senseis are so high-ranking that in Japan I wouldn’t be able to practice with them. I might be able to train with their students, but not a chance at seeing them. So this camp was something of an opportunity.

If I could sum up the camp in one word, it would be intense. I can safely say I have never practiced so hard for so long over so many days. I pushed myself to my physical limits, and I have to say I also had to fight against some mental barriers too. Still, at the end of it all, after my body was so sore on Sunday that I fell asleep shortly after I got home, I loved it.

One of the things I learned is that kendoka practice kendo to become better human beings. Granted, I learned a ton about kendo technique as well, but what really sunk into my psyche was the spirit of practicing martial arts, philosophies such as always seeking to concentrate and improve your performance, or the simple act of the mental and physical fortitude required to get through the final three hour practice on Sunday. It has really stayed with me, and I think more than anything that this is why I practice kendo—there is a lot to consider that, when applied to almost any area outside kendo, will help you to live a better life.

Another thing I learned is that it’s good to make friendships in kendo. It’s not just that you have a common hobby, but at kendo camp pretty much everyone can relate to the effort you’re putting in. I had some great conversations with people there, especially my roommate Jim, who had some great things to say about kendo philosophy. I should also give a shout-out to Yuki, Jim’s friend, who was fun to talk with and who also may be tougher than anyone else in the “shodan and under” category.  Then there was Majic, George, Phil, and several other people who I would be more than happy to see again.

Finally, I learned that kendo senseis are superhuman. They require less sleep than anyone else I know, they train as hard as their students do, and I suspect they can drink your standard fratboy under the table.  Just a hint for any would-be muggers out there—if you want to rob someone and you realize you have picked a sensei as your target, start running. Who knows, they might even give you a head start.