Yes, I’ve been quiet. This is why.

I know I’ve been quiet the last couple of days, but I’ve got a great excuse, one that includes head lamps, bottled water, and my biggest question: what do you wear into a dusty, damp, hot environment when you want to be safe, comfortable, and still have a look that says, “author?”

Yes, if you drove down Central Park Avenue Thursday or Friday morning and saw the road crew just standing around in the middle of the road, sweating in that 90 degree heat, it was because Guy and I were under it in a muggy 80 degree heat, exploring the Cincinnati tunnels with a camera crew. (Yes, that ambulance/fire rescue was for us, too. Everyone is okay. We erred on the side of caution in calling it when we had an unexpected issue and Cincy smacked us for the audacity of looking up her skirts.)

Up until now, all I had to imagine the tunnels was words and a few pictures like the one above. Not bad, and it holds up to reality. But now, I’ve got smells. I’ve got moisture on my skin. I’ve got the utter pitch black and the will-o-wisp glow of street grates luring me into the unknown until I turn around and realize there’s nothing lighting my way back.

I’ve got the impressions of a handful of people who occasionally find their way in and leave their mark but surprisingly little else. Respect, perhaps, for the silence?

We found echoes and shadows, and we left the same, filling the empty sponge of a place with a shock of noise and unexpected drama, wringing it from us to dart into the dark to be absorbed and lost as if it was inconsequential.

The tunnels were built to contain motion, and there was none but what we brought ourselves.  And when we left, we took the memory of us from the empty walls, leaving the tunnels to ease back into an oblivious slumber where the drips of water mark meaningless time.

Thank you, Cincinnati, for allowing me to explore and experience. That was about the coolest thing ever.