Menlo Park is a quiet suburban town. Bushy green trees line the streets where families have settled to raise their children. Centered in the heart of the Silicon Valley, yet hidden. Menlo Park defies the image of the Silicon Valley as an area defined by the a fast paced technology driven lifestyle. Even the grand headquarters of Facebook sits peacefully among the vast salt marshes and dry hills that border the murky blue San Francisco Bay. Menlo Park may seem colorless on the surface, but it’s really a place characterized by the diversity of the people who live there. While most of the town is made up of wealthy, white suburban families, the east side of the town is a mix of Mexicans, African Americans and Pacific Islanders. It’s a town caught between the dangerous ghetto of East Palo alto. and the polished suburban image, yet a place where friendly families can settle in peace. I feel like I belonged there growing up but as I become older I know I no longer can live the reserved life that defines Menlo Park.

The crystalline water at Tamolitch Falls’ Blue Pool glistens like a topaz gem embedded in the lush foliage of the Willamette National Forest. Aside from the occasional sound of mountain bikers on the Mackenzie River Trail, Blue Pool feels like a place of untouched beauty and peace. A chalky dry cliff hugs the outer edge along the pool, towering 60 feet above the transparent depths below. A torrent of water once majestically cascaded over the cliff and into the pool, but in 1960, a hydroelectric project diverted water away from the falls. Now, an underwater current runs beneath the rocky overhang and into the pool. When there’s heavy rainfall in the winter though, the waterfall surges once again over the cliff. But while the waterfall at Tammolitch Falls represents a rebirth in natural beauty, it’s also a place of tragedy and death, most recently the death of 21-year-old Alex Rovello.

Most people in Oregon may know of Alex Rovello as a star tennis player both in high school and in college. At Cleveland High School in Portland, he became the first person in Oregon state history to win four straight tennis state titles. A life long duck fan, Rovello jumped on the opportunity to play tennis at the University of Oregon when he was offered a scholarship during his senior year. At UO, Rovello quickly emerged as a leader and face of the Ducks Men’s tennis team. In 2012, he posted a 22-6 record in doubles with partner Daan Maasland, putting the Ducks back onto the map as a contender in the Pac-12 conference. But even with so much athletic talent, Rovello’s impact on the UO community reached beyond the court.

“Alex was just a really good guy,” says UO senior Sarah Scrivens, a friend of Rovello’s since high school. “He never drank or smoked and he always had a smile on his face.”

On May 11^th 2013, University of Oregon junior Alex Rovello headed out to Tammolitch Falls with a few friends to enjoy a sunny morning of hiking and swimming. While Blue Pool has always been a popular hiking destination for outdoor enthusiasts, it’s also a spot where thrill seekers can go to cliff dive. Friends and family close to Rovello will tell you that it wasn’t typical for him to take dangerous risks, but on that fateful day, he decided to give the 60-foot plunge a go. Perhaps it was the alluring beauty of the surrounding scenery that drew him into the exhilarating challenge. Or maybe he took comfort in the fact that people jump safely into Blue Pool every week. What ever the reason was, Rovello’s decision that day would cut short his young life.

Rovello landed face first into the water, hitting his head on a rock near the surface. The actual depths of Blue Pool can be deceiving to those who first see it. The water is so clear that there is an illusion of the pool only being about 15 feet deep. But knocked unconscious from the impact, Rovello sunk to depths of about 30 feet, failing to rise to the surface. Friends around the pool frantically tried to call 911, but cell phone service is rare in the remote wilderness of the Willamette National Forest and they couldn’t connect to authorities. One friend sprinted two miles down the trail away in order to finally find phone service to call for help. But by the time authorities had arrived, Rovello was pronounced dead.

The tragic loss of the young student athlete sent waves of grief rippling across the state of Oregon. On the UO campus, those who knew Alex struggled to comprehend the loss of their friend “It really seemed like a freak accident,” says Scrivens. “At first I didn’t want to believe it, but I’ve come to terms with it.”

For the UO tennis team, Alex still lives on in the hearts of his teammates and coaches. “I think about him everyday,” says Head Coach Nils Schyllander. “Everyone deals with death in their own way and it was a very difficult time for the team after we lost Alex.” The team dedicated a court at the UO Tennis Center in Rovello’s name, a reminder that he is and will always be a part of the team. And with an unprecedented 12-1 start to the season, it seems fitting to dedicate a spectacular season so far to the teammate who would have been a senior leader this year.

It’s almost been a year since Rovello drowned in Tamolitch Falls, and as spring weather begins to increasingly soak the region sun, there seem to be more people heading out to hike the path and see the azure waters of Blue Pool. With the seasonal increase of visitors there are going to be people who cliffs dive into the pool as well. “It is so sad that we lose people every year to this river. I just don’t think they realize how dangerous it is,” says Darla Reinhart, a store clerk at nearby Harbick’s Country Store.

The once overflowing waterfalls above the cliff have retreated with the rain as well and the current of the river has returned to flowing only from beneath, creating the illusion that this pool is separate from any river. But it a river, and like life, rivers continue to constantly flow forward. Tammolitch Falls may seem like a place of peaceful paradise to someone not aware of Rovello’s tragic accident, but for others it evokes a haunting sense of sadness.

It wasn’t until the first door closed behind me that the feeling of claustrophobia began to slowly creep over me. As the echo of that metal slab reverberated through the concrete hall, I knew turning back was no longer an option. The only direction now was forward, through the confined labyrinth that is the Lane County Jail.

In jail, doors are not only the barrier between imprisonment and freedom; they are symbolical of past choices as well. The people who are locked away in the Lane County Jail chose to walk through the wrong doors in life. When open, doors represent the promise of a better path. The inmates in this jail have, for now, lost their chance to open any doors in life.

“Every door in here has its own unique sound,” says Deputy Sheriff Joe Pishioneri, my tour guide for the day. Pishioneri is a jovial, upbeat man who constantly evokes a sense of enthusiasm and an expertise for how to run a jail. He should though; he’s done a lot of time there, 26 years to be exact. After working there for such a long time, Pishioneri is ingrained in the space that makes up the Lane County Jail. I couldn’t ask for a better person to crack open a door and give me a glimpse of a society like none I had ever seen before.

The narrow corridors of the Lane county Jail are designed with a system of locking doors at each end of the hall. The reason behind this system is to keep inmates from walking freely around the facilities. By confining their movement to small sections of the jail at a time, Pishioneri and the rest of the staff can maintain a better control over the inmates. The concept feels like an airlock system used to depressurize one’s surroundings before entering an environment. The only difference was that for me the pressure of my surroundings would only increase as I moved further through the doors of the jail.

Our tour through the jail began with the holding cells. These were large and barren rooms where arrestees are first sent. Pishioneri explains that these rooms can sometimes be filled with nearly 40 people, but on this day they weres empty. The wooden doors to the rooms are covered in top to bottom in carvings and scratches. One of them says “J loves S.” Another says “Save the trees!” The etchings reveal frustration and boredom. They tell the story of so many people whose poor choices led them to that room. These are rooms that have left a mark on people’s lives, and in return those people have left their mark on the rooms. I had a feeling though that these rooms were only a warm up for the real cells.

Another metal door slid to a rumbling halt behind us as we walked into a hall with a dozen tiny isolation cells on our left. Pishioneri explains that isolation cells are for inmates with mental issues. We walk past a few of these cells, peering through the tiny circular windows, hoping to catch a glance of an inmate. While most of them where empty, inside one of them was a man lying hunched in the fetal position. Pishioneri led our group into one of the cells and I was immediately hit with the putrid odor of stale piss. The smell lingered heavy inside the small confines of the cell as we packed all 13 of us into the space. “Do you know why these walls are painted grey like this?” Pishioneri asks the group while standing on a solid block supposed to resemble a bed. “To prevent poop painters from smearing their business all over the place.” In one corner of the tiny room is a filthy sliver of a window, surely too dirty to let much light into the cell. After five minutes in the room, my heart is beating increasingly faster and my skin crawls with a grimy feeling. An officer passing by jokes about locking us up inside, and while the sense of humor of the staff in the jail is slightly comforting, physically I’m anything but. Eventually we shuffle out one by one back into the hall and wait patiently for the next door to open.

As the door to the pharmacy room began to turn open I felt brief suction of air rush past me. Inside, the pharmacy felt refreshingly sterile compared to the gritty stench of the isolation cell. In the corner is a pregnant inmate reclining in a hospital bed and watching TV. We walked by with a brisk pace to the door at the end of the hall, which greeted us with a familiar draft of stale jail air.

At this point during our tour, the jail felt like an empty dungeon. With a discombobulated sense of direction, my mind swirled with a slight headache. Every room we had been through so far had felt like a deserted ghost town. Inside the next room though, we would finally get a glimpse of life behind bars. At the end of a narrow hall was a circular room with officers sitting in the middle. The dimly lit room felt like a command center located at the heart of the jail. Glancing up, I realized I was surrounded by inmates. These were men and women considered dangerous to society and there I was ten feet away with only a sheet of glass separating us. My instincts told me to stare in awe. Except for prison movies and TV shows, I had never seen this type of society in person. But the fear of eye contact kept my gaze focused towards Pishioneri. That was until he informed us the glass walls were one-sided mirrors. Suddenly, everyone’s eyes were latched onto the life behind that wall. Three men in a circle bounced up and down in aerobic activity while other inmates tossed cards back and forth on small circular tables. Even though there seemed to be little excitement inside those rooms, there was both a strange allure to watching the inmates as well as a feeling of guilt. I was a visitor to the jail but in that room I felt like the prisoners were on display for us to study and critique. Claustrophobia was hitting me harder than ever in that room, but not because I felt trapped by the walls around me. Instead, I felt claustrophobic for the inmates who lived in such a confined area with almost no personal space.

I left that room with feeling a loss of reality. I couldn’t understand how living in such conditions was possible. The jail was a place of locked doors and I couldn’t wait to reach the front door. I could hardly focus for the rest of the tour, following Pishioneri blindly through a maze of halls and rooms. When we finally reached the end of the tour, I bursted out into the fresh air of the real world and inhaled a deep and satisfying breath. Seeing life inside the jail provided a fascinating perspective on what it means to live confined and without freedom. The inmates inside made choices to open the wrong doors in life and those doors led them to their temporary home inside the Lane County Jail.

Among Eugene’s subtle skyline is a beige tower with a glowing red number 5. Shining bright like a beacon, it beckons those who pass by to enjoy the global flavors of the Fifth Street Market. Maybe the giant 5 should stand for the number of continents that are represented by the restaurants and shops inside the Fifth Street Market. Enjoy the tastes of Italy, Greece, Japan, Mexico and France. Embark on a safari of Swahili sights inside an African arts and crafts store.

Fifth Street Market wasn’t always the upscale international shopping destination that it is today. Constructed in 1926, the building served as a poultry business for Lane County into the 1970’s. In 1992, it opened as a market where local crafts people and farmers could rent booth space to sell their goods and produce.

On a wall in the market’s courtyard is a large mural painting of a farmer among baskets of fresh tomatoes, eggplants, chilies and bell peppers. It’s a reminder of the place’s storied past. There are dozens of red seats scattered throughout both the courtyard and the second story of the market but on a cold and drizzly winter day, all of them are empty. The fountain in the center of the courtyard makes a constant gurgling sound. Smooth jazz tunes float effortlessly through several speakers spread throughout the market. A blaring and harsh horn sound drones on for minutes as a train slowly passes on the tracks across the street. In one corner of the courtyard, a maintenance worker whisks away and the floor with a tattered broom.

There are curious relics of the past scattered around the market. One empty room for rent on the first floor holds only an old cash register made of worn out silver and a bright red Coca-Cola vending machine from the 50s. Like an odd couple without a home, they stand tall on the red checked floor of the deserted room as a symbol of mysterious nostalgia.

Walking into Marché Provisions for the first time can be overwhelming for some. On one side of the shop is an ice cream parlor with flavors like strawberry lemonade and passion fruit sorbet. Walk past the parlor and you’ll find a bakery lined with decadent cakes of all colors. Beside the bakery, a worker at a delicatessen sorts salciccia secaforte and jamon serano, savory dried meats imported from Italy and Spain. Flames flicker and dance in a brick pizza oven as a pizza dressed with artichokes and olives cooks to crispiness. On the other side of the shop are hundreds of bottles of imported wines from France, Italy, Spain, Portugal, Germany and Austria. The aroma of candles, scented with rosemary mint and vanilla citron, lightly hang in the air. The shop is filled with many miscellaneous and quirky do-dads, like a box of matches with a picture of a man riding a bicycle and the words “Keep on Rolling” beneath him.

Outside of Marché Provisions and up a flight of stairs hangs a painting of University of Oregon track stars. The painting is reminder of Eugene’s pride and history even in a place of so many international influences.

Africa awaits up on the second floor in a store called Swahili. Swahili, a shop for gifts and home décor, blends traditional African style with a modern twist. Inside is a collection of intricate woven baskets, metal sculptures of giraffes and wooden elephant masks hanging on every wall.

Across the way from Swahili is a large indoor brick building with a diverse selection of cafés to eat at. This is the heart of the Fifth Street Market. Inside, paintings of picturesque Eugene houses hang above leather-seated booths along the wall. Fans on the ceiling spin by a system of interconnected rope pulleys. Here there’s something for every hungry patron. El Pato Café offers Mexican dishes such as crisp tostadas, enchiladas and burritos. Mediterranean food can be found at the white pillars along the counter of Café Glendi. Bite into a juicy artisan burger at Brick’s or head over to Ocha Asian Street Kitchen for flavorful Asian fusion.

Just outside the brick building is a tall red phone booth straight out of the streets of London. While the phone booth may seem strangely out of place and the phone inside doesn’t actually work, it is truly symbolic of what the Fifth Street market represents. In pop culture, phone booths transport people to different times or places. In that sense, just like a phone booth from the movies, walking into the Fifth Street Market transports you into a diverse landscape of global cultures and tastes. It’s both a refreshing escape from the Pacific Northwest style and yet an important image of an expanding Eugene downtown scene.

Dear Mom,

Today we drove out to the Oregon Horse Center as a class to tour the facilities and get up close to dozens of horses. The place is on the outskirts of Eugene but it hardly feels like the same city at all. Instead, the Oregon Horse Center feels like a grand rodeo grounds set among desolate fields that stretch flat for miles. The main building rises high above any of the other small houses or barns around it. Inside, it feels like a hollow shell. As we stood there in the entrance of the center, cold wind lashing our backs, we watched a group of six miniature ponies trot around the ring. Behind them was a man hunched over on a tiny carriage. The whole scene was like some sort of hilarious caricature.

After walking around through the main building for a while, we headed outside to the open fields where we would trudge through damp and muddy grass. In one corner of the field, a pen of bulls grazed contently on grass. When we reached the pen, the horned mammals just stared back at the class with blank faces.

To avoid freezing in the frigid wind, we walked back to the big barn to see some horses. Inside, a loud clanging noise rang throughout the building every few seconds. Our guide Nikki informed us that it was the sound of a horse getting fitted with shoes. As we walked through the aisle of horses towards the action, the air was suddenly filled with a burning smell. At the back entrance, a man struck a glowing orange horseshoe with a hammer as a hazel colored horse and its owner stood by patiently. Once he was done molding the shoe he tossed it into a bucket of water, releasing a loud hiss and a cloud of steam. Then he lifted the horse’s leg and began to strike nails deep into the animal’s hoof so secure the new shoe. The whole thing was fascinating to watch. One student in the class even got to hit a nail into the horseshoe.

To finish off the tour, our guide Nikki showed us her own horses in a small barn nearby. Although she had several of her own horses, her favorite was a muscular stud named Torque. Nikki told us how Torque was raised in a pen of bulls and has a badass attitude, the type of attitude it takes to win championship competitions.

Then we followed Nikki and Torque back to the main barn where Torque playfully rolled around in the soft dirt. The tour was nearly over and many of my classmates needed to get back to campus for classes. But for a last treat, Nikki asked if anyone wanted to hop on torque for a little ride around the barn. I couldn’t pass up the opportunity. Standing on a small block, I leaped out onto the bare back of the massive horse and began a steady walk around in a circle. I was surprised initially by Torque’s pure power. Even a slow walk had me holding on tight as I bounced and swayed.

The trip to the Oregon Horse Center was not only a fun and memorable experience but a trip away from the stress and congestion of Eugene. Out there in the calm fields, the horses are so serene and peaceful. The smells are earthy and only the whooshing wind can be heard over the silence in the fields. It made me think of the times we rode horses together. We’ll have to do that again soon.

Love,

Adam

(Not yet completed)

Touch: Max’s Bar

Any consideration for personal space is gone come 2 AM during a big night at Max’s bar. From the front door to the back patio, the place is packed to the brim with drunken college students looking for a good time. The second I walked through the doors past the bouncers I’m greeted by a sea of wriggling bodies all trying to slowly inch by one another. Before I embark on the journey to the other side of the bar, I step up to the wooden counter and order a Coors Light. As I grip the pint glass, my hands slip a little on the cool condensation lining the outside of the glass. If walking through the crowded bar originally seemed like an impossible task, imagine my excitement in doing it with a full pint of beer. I take a short sip of the Coors and a cool sensation run down my throat. Deep breath. Here we go. Raising my glass high I wedge myself between two strangers. My eyes are focused on the destination ahead and I try to remain ambivalent to the pushy hands behind me. Instead of a constant back and forth flow of the crowd, the process is erratic as people seize every opportunity to squeeze through the little gaps that occasionally open up. As I approach the halfway mark, Mr. Plaid Shirt in front of me raises his left arm and simultaneously knocks into my Coors, sending the drink splashing onto my shirt. It leaves a wet and sticky feeling, but I have bigger concerns at the moment. Finally, I reach the narrow corridor at the back of the bar and enthusiastically shoot out of the crowd toward the back patio. The cool air of the cold winter night blasts me in the face for a moment before I walk over to the warmth of the fire heaters. The harsh cigarette smoke surrounding me slightly burns my eyes.

Taste: Sweet Basil

As I walk through the doors of the Thai restaurant Sweet Basil, a wafting aroma of fatty oils drifts into my nostrils and my stomach grumbles at the thought of food. I haven’t eaten all day, so the delicious idea of a heaping pile of Chicken Pad Thai leaves me salivating as I wait in line to order. After placing my order, I grab a cup and head for the soda fountain machine to get some Mountain Dew. I take a long sip of the syrupy citrus soda. The crisp and bubbly carbonation tingles my mouth and nose. Still, I came for food, so the refreshing taste of my Mountain Dew is only a momentary distraction as I wait for my Pad Thai. After about ten minutes, the server calls my number and sets down a steaming plate of noodles. The stinging spiciness of chili peppers radiates towards me, beckoning me eat despite the heat. I wait a few minutes for the noodles to cool, then grab my chopsticks and start digging in. The spiciness gradually grows in my mouth with every bite and soon I find myself needing a break from the burning sensation I once craved so passionately. The thick noodles are slathered in a nutty peanut sauce but I can hardly taste it under the spiciness of the chili. The pieces of chicken are dry and bland without the kick of the chili sauce, so I snatch up a bottle of Sriracha and douse the plate in bright red chili paste. I carefully chew the mix of volcanic spices and my mouth throbs with pain. And yet I love to eat spicy food. I enjoy that stimulating pain that happens when every single receptor in my mouth is firing off left and right.

My closet back home is a place filled with stories of my life. While there are wrinkled clothes flung carelessly on the floor and shelves of miscellaneous boxes stacked high, the stories behind the things in my closet reveal much more about me than just my unorganized habits.

There’s no door to my closet. Instead, little paper beads dangle down from the top like some exotic entrance you would find at the front of a Tiki Hut. The beads are a decoration put up by my sister when she lived in the room and are a reminder of how I got demoted to the smaller room in the house after I left for college. When I reach into my closet for something, I pull the beads aside like strands of hairs. I really don’t like them, but they’re something that’s always been there in my closet I hardly realize they are even there anymore.

Dig into the heap of clothes and you’ll find my most valuable possession of last summer: my backpacking pack. For 30 days I lived out of that thing as I traveled through Croatia, Italy, Spain and France. Stuffed to the brim with my clothes, it weighed nearly 35 pounds near the end of my trip and boy did my back pay for it. It’s a cheap old pack that my grandma picked up at goodwill shortly before my trip, the type that serious backpackers would scoff at, maybe even tell you you’re better of traveling with nothing at all. But it was perfect for me, even if it wouldn’t have lasted even a week longer of wear and tear. A tattered rip runs down the face of the long blue bag like blistered sausage that’s been left to cook for too long. I had filled it so tight with all my belongings that it began to seriously fall apart. Now it sits there in my closet, retired from all the crazy adventures in Europe.

On the shelves of my closet is an assortment of items. There are several unopened gifts, like a crystal growing set from my 7^th birthday or a 500-piece Lake Tahoe puzzle. There is a frayed feather shuttlecock from the days when my grandpa and I would hold summer badminton tournaments in his backyard. I would always win. Peek into a large brown box and you’ll find the golden glow of dozens of sports trophies. Each trophy tells it’s own story, like the year my little league team put together a miserable season and went winless. Next to it, a trophy from the following year is a reminder of the undefeated season I had with a different team.

These are just a few things in my closet back home. They are objects that no longer play much of a role in my life. But they are mementos of my youth, days of innocence and carefree living. Someday soon I’ll clean out that closet and throw away some of these things, toss them in the garbage to never be seen again. The memories and stories behind them, however, will always be there with me.

Hearing:

Eugene’s Pioneer cemetery is mostly quiet on this brisk January morning. If you listen carefully though, you can hear the faint drilling of a construction sight and the echoes of a dance class instructor in a nearby building. Every so often though you can hear the rhythmic crunching of twigs beneath a passing student’s feet.

Smell:

The tombstones smell grainy and ancient. The damp soil has an earthy aroma. A burnt orange golden retriever happily trots between the tombstones, searching for a place to relieve himself. He finds a nice spot and plops down contently to do his business and soon an unpleasant smell wafts in the air around me.

Sight:

A shallow puddle of rainwater quivers in the slight wind and the tall redwood trees seem to slowly sway in its reflection. Dewdrops glisten and hang suspenseful from the dark green foliage above me. Dead bushes awkwardly sprout from graves as they wilt in the winter cold. In the middle of the graveyard is a trailer RV mounted on a plastic block. Next to it, an SUV with a wooden cart sits in the driveway. The sign on the garage reads “George’s Parking Only”.

Touch:

The moss is moist and furry. Brittle tree bark crumbles at the touch to reveal a stringy red interior.

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