I went to the same hardware store three times in one day in preparation for Burning Man.
I was already a regular at Brownie’s Hardware on Polk Street because I insist on being a patron of local businesses whenever possible. But that day was a marathon of purchasing items like “rebar”- an essential tool to keep my tent from blowing away in wind and dust storms.
Whoa. What?
When it was suggested more than once that I buy vinegar to clean my feet on a regular basis, so as to balance the alkaline of the desert floor with the acidity of the vinegar, I knew I was entering elements with which I had little experience. All the backpacking trips and camping items stored in my front closet would not amount to enough evidence that I had the necessary chops to endure “the Man.”
I spent a few nights and weekend days collecting my bag of tricks – bandannas, vinegar, rebar, wipes, saline, goggles, duct tape, pliers, hammer, folding chair and Crazy Creek, multiple sets of contacts, costumes. Oh my gosh, costumes.
My favorite random-first-time-ever-purchase was the assortment of LED lights for my “playa bike” and person. My playa bike was the first and only mountain bike I have ever owned, given to me by my parents almost 15 years ago. The playa is no place for new, polished things, so it made sense to bring this dated relic with me. If a bike had to die, going out with a bang at Burning Man was the way to do it.
After a solo journey by bus to the playa, I arrived. I have spent enough time in my own company building home in other cities and countries over the years to know I need some solo time before diving into a brand new space and community that would transform into home. A hot, bumpy bus ride from the center of San Francisco to the heart of Black Rock City might have sounded awful, but it was perfect for me.
Mirroring a clock formation, Black Rock City is slightly oriented northeast so that the 6 o’clock axis is more like 8 o’clock. The Man and the Temple of Sorrows are the compass points that matter here, not actual cardinal directions. And the entire clock opens between 10 and 2 to a wide open playa, referred to as “deep playa,” a half mile or more from the Man and other art installations and with a sound and quiet all its own. It is here that I would roam by bike every morning and evening during the Burn.
When I disembarked from the bus and strapped on two backpacks and a duffle bag over my shoulder, the first thing I noticed was the desert floor. Endless cracks, pure beige, lightweight in the air and heavy as hell on the face at the same time. It was beautiful, like a surrounding impressionist painting mingled with raw photography straight out of National Geographic.
Up I went through the 9:00 corridor to A, passing by a few naked men and topless girls on bikes, kids of all ages in costumes and gold fabric (right), and others with dreads and tired faces. There were flags flapping across tent doorways, makeshift bars operating between Airstreams, chap stick and other small items being “gifted”, an essential part of Burning Man – its gifting economy.
I was the straightest arrow walking up that dusty street with my Patagonia duds, REI backpack and Reef flip flops. But the beauty of Burning Man was its absence of judgment, its utter invitation to just be in your skin and own yourself.
I was at the playa now. This desert and I would figure out how to find each other and surrender eventually.