Reginaldo Rochambeau was born and raised in the New York City area. He
was not a good fit for that area since he loved wide open spaces and was
never, ever in a hurry. Later on, after leaving the area, he made
himself a t-shirt that read "If I were in a hurry, I would have stayed
in New York".
Family folklore had it that they were accidental American descendants of Jean-Baptiste Donatien de Vimeur, Compte de Rochambeau, the esteemed Revolutionary War general who commanded more troops than George Washington while securing American victory over Lord Cornwallis in 1781.
That explained how Reginaldo got there, but it didn't exactly provide a road map for how he was supposed to lead his own life.
Another way he and New York City were not a good fit was that he was not a "people person". He didn't understand the point of all that. Instead he preferred landscapes and landforms, fresh air and an abundance of oxygen-producing plants. Smaller cities, small towns and wilderness areas were more appealing to him.
Conversely, he worried about overpopulation and the sustainability of large cities like New York. The problem as he saw it was clear: the ratio of people to plants was out of whack. Without trees around, he couldn't even think straight - how did anyone get any work done? There were at least three things that ran counter to clear thinking in New York: too much concrete, too many people, and too many smokers.
Despite all of this, he found himself living in New York City.
Fortunately he was born in a country that also had an abundance of smaller cities, small towns and wilderness areas. So his plan was to find a good stopping point in the stream of failed jobs and relationships he seemed to be experiencing, buy a one way bus ticket to the Pacific Northwest and go there.
Which he did.
The ticket cost only $60.
He lived for three years in Portland Oregon. He delighted in the charm and reality of a smaller city, especially one that took the environment seriously. There was also good food and craft beer and public transit.
There he met people who took him on Sierra Club hikes, and people who had worked seasonal jobs in the national parks.
All of which was very positive, welcome information to Reginaldo.
What eventually soured him on Portland was seeing, with his own eyes, that even in such a relatively enlightened city, there were stupid people. There were, for example, people who drank Budweiser or whatever was on sale at the supermarket, despite an abundance of microbreweries that sold a superior product at a reasonable price. There were also people who liked to drive cars fast within the city limits. That for Reginaldo was a real deal breaker.
Reginaldo never owned a car and never wanted to own a car. When he lived in New York City, he relied on public transportation, and in Portland, which also had good public transportation, he found he was able to walk just about everywhere he needed to go.
And when he made the decision to leave Portland and spend the rest of his life working seasonal jobs at the national parks, his car-lessness did not prove to be too much of a problem. Between Greyhound buses and the kindness of strangers he always managed to get where he needed to.
While most of his needs were met adequately in the parks, he still enjoyed accompanying friends to Flagstaff, Homestead, Alpine or whatever small town was located outside whatever park he was working at. In some cases these towns were 50 or 100 miles from employee housing.
He worked several seasons at the south rim of the Grand Canyon. Since that is where he launched this stage of his life, he had a certain fondness for it, despite the hordes of tourists.
One night in the middle of his work season at the Grand Canyon, while settling into his bunk for bed, he had an epiphany.
He realized that life had given him all it had to offer him. He realized that he would never understand how some people managed to have well paying jobs, raise families or smoke. All he knew how to do well was to reduce his carbon footprint as much as possible.
So that night after going to bed he died peacefully in his sleep. At his bedside, next to his bunk, was the latest issue of Sierra magazine.
It was not suicide. The coroner wrote in the "cause of death" box: "Died happy, knowing that life had given him all it had to offer him, and that he had an extremely low carbon footprint".
Family folklore had it that they were accidental American descendants of Jean-Baptiste Donatien de Vimeur, Compte de Rochambeau, the esteemed Revolutionary War general who commanded more troops than George Washington while securing American victory over Lord Cornwallis in 1781.
That explained how Reginaldo got there, but it didn't exactly provide a road map for how he was supposed to lead his own life.
Another way he and New York City were not a good fit was that he was not a "people person". He didn't understand the point of all that. Instead he preferred landscapes and landforms, fresh air and an abundance of oxygen-producing plants. Smaller cities, small towns and wilderness areas were more appealing to him.
Conversely, he worried about overpopulation and the sustainability of large cities like New York. The problem as he saw it was clear: the ratio of people to plants was out of whack. Without trees around, he couldn't even think straight - how did anyone get any work done? There were at least three things that ran counter to clear thinking in New York: too much concrete, too many people, and too many smokers.
Despite all of this, he found himself living in New York City.
Fortunately he was born in a country that also had an abundance of smaller cities, small towns and wilderness areas. So his plan was to find a good stopping point in the stream of failed jobs and relationships he seemed to be experiencing, buy a one way bus ticket to the Pacific Northwest and go there.
Which he did.
The ticket cost only $60.
He lived for three years in Portland Oregon. He delighted in the charm and reality of a smaller city, especially one that took the environment seriously. There was also good food and craft beer and public transit.
There he met people who took him on Sierra Club hikes, and people who had worked seasonal jobs in the national parks.
All of which was very positive, welcome information to Reginaldo.
What eventually soured him on Portland was seeing, with his own eyes, that even in such a relatively enlightened city, there were stupid people. There were, for example, people who drank Budweiser or whatever was on sale at the supermarket, despite an abundance of microbreweries that sold a superior product at a reasonable price. There were also people who liked to drive cars fast within the city limits. That for Reginaldo was a real deal breaker.
Reginaldo never owned a car and never wanted to own a car. When he lived in New York City, he relied on public transportation, and in Portland, which also had good public transportation, he found he was able to walk just about everywhere he needed to go.
And when he made the decision to leave Portland and spend the rest of his life working seasonal jobs at the national parks, his car-lessness did not prove to be too much of a problem. Between Greyhound buses and the kindness of strangers he always managed to get where he needed to.
While most of his needs were met adequately in the parks, he still enjoyed accompanying friends to Flagstaff, Homestead, Alpine or whatever small town was located outside whatever park he was working at. In some cases these towns were 50 or 100 miles from employee housing.
He worked several seasons at the south rim of the Grand Canyon. Since that is where he launched this stage of his life, he had a certain fondness for it, despite the hordes of tourists.
One night in the middle of his work season at the Grand Canyon, while settling into his bunk for bed, he had an epiphany.
He realized that life had given him all it had to offer him. He realized that he would never understand how some people managed to have well paying jobs, raise families or smoke. All he knew how to do well was to reduce his carbon footprint as much as possible.
So that night after going to bed he died peacefully in his sleep. At his bedside, next to his bunk, was the latest issue of Sierra magazine.
It was not suicide. The coroner wrote in the "cause of death" box: "Died happy, knowing that life had given him all it had to offer him, and that he had an extremely low carbon footprint".
- Copyright 2016 by P.T. Gachot
