tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-122998602024-03-19T05:43:52.557-07:00Travelogue and the time I couldn't travelOn moving on... travel experience and pandemic journalUnknownnoreply@blogger.comBlogger62125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12299860.post-28757515155358070822020-04-02T09:43:00.003-07:002020-04-02T14:12:50.279-07:00Working very hard at Staying Home<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;">April 2, 2020</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;">I need to start writing more. I’ve been escaping into social chat rooms. And wine.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre;">And sometimes food. </span><span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre;">It’s good. I need my friends. I need the wine. And the laughter.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre;">We all do. I’m not taking the best care of </span><span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre;">myself but I also think this is a phase. It’s </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre;">spring break right now. </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;">Spring Break. </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;">I’m supposed to be in New Orleans. With the numbers of COVID19 cases there, </span><br />
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;">I’m sure glad I’m not. </span><span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre;">And I’m glad I didn’t go for Mardi Gras like I had wanted to. </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;">Spring Break. </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;">I’m not going anywhere. I’m not working, but that’s my job. To not go anywhere.</span><br />
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;">Maybe when I can focus </span><span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre;">for more than 15 minutes at a time, I’ll catch up on grading.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre;"> Maybe I won’t. I have a lot of thoughts about this and that’s it’s own entry. </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;">Spring Break. </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;">That began as a clusterfuck of construction right outside my door. Jackhammers, pavers, </span><br />
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;">cranes, you </span><span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre;">name it. Three different projects at the same time. Thankfully, Governor </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre;">Newsom gave orders on March </span><span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre;">31 that beginning April 1 only essential construction may </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre;">continue. They did have to come back to </span><span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre;">complete the sidewalk for safety reasons, but </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre;">it’s as quiet as downtown Redwood City gets. And there’s </span><span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre;">a leaf blower, which I’m pretty</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre;"> sure isn’t allowed, but where is the tattle number? Do we have a 3-1-1 </span><span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre;">like New Orleans? </span><br />
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;">Which brings me to something else.I don’t like living here very much. This chapter of my</span><br />
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;">life has been </span><span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre;">all pragmatism, with some super fortunate perks of adoring my job and colleagues,</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre;">and being close to </span><span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre;">nature. But I am not in nature, and I don’t have a garden or a yard. Normally, </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre;">these things don’t bother </span><span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre;">me. I’m never home. </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;">I’m always home. </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;">Now I am ALWAYS home. </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;">I try to imagine myself in the house I do love. On Desire street in New Orleans. I imagine </span><br />
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;">my beautiful </span><span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre;">wood floors, and the crafstmanship of my friend Mike in several rooms. I try </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre;">to imagine my backyard, </span><span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre;">usually too hot to sit in, with the screened in porch I plan to have</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre;">built one day. I imagine the various </span><span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre;">colors of hibiscus, the smell of night blooming jasmine, </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre;">the sweet olive scents of Esplanade avenue.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre;">I imagine my tiny bedroom tucked into the back of the house, poorly measured, terrible </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre;">closet, door </span><span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre;">to the backyard which is not very useful. I imagine my gigantic kitchen and </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre;">know that if I were there, </span><span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre;">someone would be living with me. Wishing it was Corry and whatever </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre;">dog she would have at the time. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre;">I imagine my plentiful cupboards of food to cook for people. And Corry choosing a recipe that</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre;">takes hours for her to make, </span><span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre;">and uses every single bowl, pan and plate in the house. It would</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre;">take a lot of time to cook and clean </span><span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre;">from that. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre;">A good filler. Because it's that time in the kitchen that is the most social for me. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre;">I imagine my neighbor practicing her classic piano, and opening up all of my windows so I </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre;">can hear her </span><span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre;">more clearly. I imagine the Calliope with it’s annoying sing-a-long sounds, the </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre;">deep udder of the port </span><span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre;">vessels. </span><br />
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;">Here in my tiny condo that sits on a train track in Redwood City, I try to remember that just </span><br />
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;">three miles </span><span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre;">away is some of the most beautiful forest on the planet. And slightly further, the </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre;">rugged coast is intoxicating. It’s not that </span><span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre;">far. It’s not even a day trip. I could go for an hour. But </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre;">not right now. Because my job is to stay home, and </span><span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre;">I am working. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre;">I am working very hard at staying home. </span><br />
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;">When this initial Shelter in Place is lifted, I am going to need to go sit with the trees. I haven’t</span><br />
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;">listened to </span><span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre;">them in a while and what they say is pretty important. </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;">When we are all done with this important work we are doing- staying at home- I am going to take a drive</span><br />
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;">out on the curviest </span><span style="color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;">road I </span><span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre;">can find out to the sea. I am going to smell the salt air, and put my toes in the </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre;">water. I am </span><span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre;">going to </span><span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre;">breathe it all in. I'm going to breathe. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre;">I need to breathe more. </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;">When we are all done working so hard at staying home, I’m going to cry.</span><br />
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;">I can’t do that now. I </span><span style="color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;">have to </span><span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre;">save that for later, because I’m busy working and I’m afraid that once </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre;">I start, I’m not </span><span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre;">going to stop. </span><span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre;">I’ve already lost two people in two vastly different places. I know there will be</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre;">more, </span><span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre;">so for now I </span><span style="color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;">hold onto my tears.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre;">This is why I’m working so hard staying at home. And not crying. Yet. </span></div>
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12299860.post-29772405671129797042020-04-02T09:41:00.000-07:002020-04-02T22:25:53.456-07:00Hugging the walls- 7 years late publish date<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
I didn't fall in love with New Orleans. No, no, this was no accident, no thing that happened to me. There was no victim in the arrangement. I jumped into my love for New ORLEANS. I walked into a fire I knew would consume me. And I have been forever changed.<br />
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Both before and since moving to New Orleans, I have traveled a lot. Though it is true, I am mesmerized by places like highland Guatemala, the Corn Islands, Luang Prabang, Hoi An, Jerusalem, and even St Louis, MO, there are very few places I arrive, feeling in some way that I've come home, that floating feeling that carries me on a wave of wonder, and childlike excitement. New Orleans was my first. San Cristobal de las Casas, Mexico was second.</div>
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And then I came to Granada, Spain.</div>
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Of course it's no wonder that I again walked into this flame of desire. Granada has a temperament of its own. Modern city dominates the a portion of the city, but as the city hills wind themselves uphill towards the Alhambra, it snakes through several different centuries, cultures, and traditions before it reaches the top. On the right side of the river Darro is the Jewish quarter, called El Realjo, holding onto nothing but secrets in the walls of its ancient, albeit no longer historically relevant, buildings. To the left is the intoxicating Albaicin, its whitewashed walls snaking around cobblestone alleyways not fit for cars. Every home in the Albaicin faces the Alhambra, squarely perched high above the city, basking in the beautiful Andalusian sunlight during the day, and the glow of the moon and modern lights in the night. It is in the lower part of the Albaicin, as the cobblestone alley pours towards Plaza Nueva, that the evidence of Spain's African culture is still quite present. Morocco is closer than I thought, and at is evident in design. Moorish archways into homes and restaurants, fountains for washing all over the city, falafel and shawarma in restaurants not even hinted with Spanish wine. Shops with beautiful rugs, Moroccan leather, handicrafts, line the street. Arabic lettering.</div>
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Even further above the Albaicin is the Sacromonte, known for its cave dwellers. These are not the kind of caves one finds at the beach, but cement homes built into the ground, with a window to let the light in. It's no wonder, as Spain is extremely hot. In all of these areas, people dance flamenco. I'm no historian, and have not studied this form of dance, but the little I know is fascinating. It</div>
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is also the part of my trip I am now weaving together the places I have been the last 15 months, the place that I am from. Flamenco is said to have begun over 3000 years ago. As people and culture moved throughout Europe, and as Islam spread from the Middle East to Africa and the Iberian peninsula, it was further influenced by the Gypsies, the Jews. It was never ever mentioned, and never ever shown on a map, but I could NOT get past how similar some of the poses were to Apsara dancers of the Hindus during the time of Angkor.</div>
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It is not coincidental that each of these places that I am enamored with- New Orleans, San Cristobal de Las Casas, Granada, is Spanish by design, a living cultural history spanning centuries. All were the sites of great wars and oppression, of different religions, languages, and customs. And all have a creative mysticism a city can only acquire through years and years of oppression and revolution.</div>
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I'm wondering now if this moment is the precise moment that invites my entire year of travel and self reflection to finally come through into something I have known all along. </div>
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I don't fit in.</div>
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And this is not a bad thing. It is just an aspect of me I have always had to take into consideration when embarking on a journey, whether it be personal or professional. I cannot put confines around my thoughts and ideas, because they simply don't fit me. When I do, I find myself aggravated, depressed, and rebel against myself. </div>
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12299860.post-71525156502706117362013-06-16T11:19:00.000-07:002013-07-11T14:40:53.150-07:00Two pula and a lollipop<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Since 2009, the US dollar has been the currency of Zimbabwe. Inflation is such that at one point, in order to keep up with it, they issued a $100,000,000,000,000 Zimbabwean dollar bill. This is no joke or exaggeration and an ugly scenario for a poor country. <br>
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Zimbabweans also accept South African rand and Botswana pulas, but the US dollar is the official currency. However, they don't have a lot of "things" so there is a very strong barter system in place. In the tourist center of Victoria Falls, there are craft markets where you can trade your used clothes or leftover food for crafts. And in every store or market, official or street, they don't have any loose change. If you want to buy something that's less than a dollar, they give you two of those somethings, or throw in a keychain.If you buy something in a store, change is given in trinkets. If your bill comes out to $7.35 and you hand the cashier 8 US dollars, you may get back 2 pula and a lollipop. <br>
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Of course, prices are mostly presented in whole dollars. And in tourist centers, things are not cheap. It cost 35$ to go to Victoria Falls.<br>
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And it was worth every penny, rand, and pula we spent. Without the lollipop.</div>
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Namibia faded in the distance as we crossed the border into Botswana. This really was the part of the trip I was most looking forward to. It was everything I thought it would be, and so so much more. </div>
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Our first adventure in this marvelous country was a scenic flight over the Okavango delta, the largest inland delta in the world. <span style="-webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.292969);">Africa seems to own the saying. "largest in the world". Since we were in small planes, we separated into three groups at the airport. </span>Forty five minutes were spent soaring over grassland and streams and ponds full of hippos and egrets and more elephants than I've ever seen in my life! It seemed so unnatural for being so...natural. Many people fly in to the delta to stay for a few days. On a budget trip, we would be taking a four wheel vehicle and a boat. </div>
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As we returned to the tarmac and walked into the tiny airport, our guide, Hofti, was waiting for us:</div>
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Love this sense of humor!</div>
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I upgraded to a rustic cabin that night. It was expensive but worth it. We arose quite early the following morning, and piled into a land vehicle and went forward, first on a regular highway, and then onto a bumpy dirt road. An hour later we arrived at a landing beside a river, where several women with mokoros were waiting. A mokoro is like a canoe. Traditionally, they are made out of a piece of wood, much like a pirogue in south Louisiana. But tourism and general advancement, I presume, has paved the way for fiberglass ones. Each mokoro fit two travelers, various camping equipment, and one African woman steering the boat with a long pole. These women are called polers. I love Africa. They don't mince words. </div>
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For the next two hours, we glided up the river, trying not to tip our boats, and relaxed. It was beautiful. Tall grasses lined either side of the river, water lilies were in bloom, and the temperature hovered around 70 degrees. The polers stood at the back of the boat, using their poles to make sure we didn't tip or get stuck. Later, some of our group would try poling, and it proved much more difficult than imagined. One boat even needed to be rescued!</div>
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We spent two nights camping in the bush with our polers. Our Okavango guide took us on a walk through the delta, where we were in stones throwing distance to herds of elephants, zebras, and wildebeest. We saw a few giraffes, too. It was pretty intense being so close to the elephants. Close enough for them to lock eyes, which they did.<br>
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It was hard NOT to be scared that the animals would come into our camp, especially after the guide told us to make sure we shine a light before we go out to pee pee in the bush. If we see a reflection, go back to your tent.<br>
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As far as I know, we didn't get any visitors. It was a lovely 2 day trip relaxing by the river. And at about hour 36, all I could think about was planning when I would take a hot shower. We were all absolutely filthy. THe 8 year old playing in the mud kind of filthy. It was really fun.<br>
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That night, we stayed in a campsite called Planet Boabab. The Baobab tree is a gigantic tree that looks as if it's roots are on the outside. The trunk is thicker than any redwood I've ever seen, and holds water in the dry lowveld. For lack of any other words to describe it, it's a really unique and funny looking tree. The campsite was built around several of them, using them as focal points. There was a beautiful thatch roof bar and bonfire here, as well as artistic bathrooms, a beautiful swimming pool, and super pricey bungalows for those not camping. The location is set perfectly between the Okavango delta and Chobe national park, our next destination.<br>
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We arrived at our Chobe campsite in time to do laundry, take a swim, and buy drinks for our "boozie cruise" as Hofti called it. It really was a basic cruise up the Chobe river (which turns into the Zambezi across the nearby Zimbabwean border, and into Victoria Falls). The cruise was magnificent!!! We saw the greatest assortment of animals! Buffalo hanging out next to elephants, crocodiles and kudu basking in the sun while baboons ran in front of them. And hippos!!! So many hippos! Everywhere we turned, there were animals enjoying the water nearby. It was magical.<br>
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This was our last night camping, and though we were all happy to be going to a hotel the following night, this also meant the end of the trip and goodbyes. We stayed up late, but arose early again, for one last game drive in Chobe National Park.<br>
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We bundled up in winter clothes and blankets and hopped on the safari truck before sunrise. Once inside the park, it became clear we were not the only truck in the park, unlike Etosha. We were also not the only group in our safari vehicle. There was a group of French tourists with an interpreter, and they were not following directions. The stood and almost fell when our driver went four wheel driving into the sand, and they <i>would</i> <i>not stop talking</i> and didn't understand why the animals we spotted kept running way. My teacher self got the better of me and I shooshed them, but it only lasted a moment.<br>
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It was on this truck, in the presence of about 6 more, that I witnessed what I consider to be my nature highlight of this trip, this year, and perhaps this lifetime. The sun had just risen, and a beautiful lioness was crouching beside a fallen dead tree limb. Almost as if waiting for a signal from our driver, she ducked her head under the limb, and dragged out her cache from the night before. Once in plain site, it was obvious that it was the lower half of a giraffe. She placed it on the ground, and looked what seemed to be directly at us, fresh blood on her snout, and smiled. She stayed this way, breathing so heavily, her chest and legs were moving, for a few moments, before she leaned down, attached her jaw to the carcass, and dragged it further underneath another branch, while three or four baby cubs scampered up the hill behind her. This all happened in a matter of minutes, about thirty feet from where we were. We may have been able to hear her breathe if it weren't for the multiple camera snaps and such (really, can't people put those on silent?!), and some muffled gasps. AMAZING!!!!<div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnPDoFmqVV6Ub1d_MxRZMbhTWtGhKUmFGQKrjuvCXSbA3s1RD1wp8jKeMBi2XkL21BvI6vY-mUMIfhrBtH-jVJkwsABITkEeP25uAI9l_HJJPw0J7ctxp8D-2LKZOo8gM_DSFjVg/s640/blogger-image-515193344.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnPDoFmqVV6Ub1d_MxRZMbhTWtGhKUmFGQKrjuvCXSbA3s1RD1wp8jKeMBi2XkL21BvI6vY-mUMIfhrBtH-jVJkwsABITkEeP25uAI9l_HJJPw0J7ctxp8D-2LKZOo8gM_DSFjVg/s640/blogger-image-515193344.jpg"></a></div><br>
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We moved on after a few minutes of trying to find her cubs, and started heading slowly back towards camp. We were at the point in our animal spotting that we caught ourselves saying, "oh, it's just another zebra." We had to remember our companions maybe didn't feel this way, so we still stopped at every animal we saw, including two impalas ready to spar.<br>
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Time got away from us, and we really did need to just drive forward and get back to camp. About five minutes into our drive, we heard from our French companions, a resounding, "GIRAFFE!!!!! STOP!!!!!!" Of course we stopped. And of course, the giraffe didn't stick around for a photo opportunity. They were disappointed. We were busting a gut, trying to figure out what they weren't understanding about screaming. This was fodder for the final 12 hours we spent together.<br>
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We got back to camp at around 9:00 with a breakfast spread of everything leftover on the table, and our tents put away for us. This was really happening. We were on our last day of the trip. We climbed into the truck, and began the short journey to Zimbabwe.</div>
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12299860.post-45255959101294228642013-06-16T10:21:00.000-07:002013-06-16T10:21:00.963-07:00Your Favorite Watering Hole<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">I never thought about where this saying came from, but I've definitely heard it when referring to favorite bars.</span></div>
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<span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">I just spent a sunset and evening at a water hole, though it was outside, and unlike a bar, the people completely silent. Every campsite in Etosha national park has a watering hole. Africa may be the only place I've ever been where the hierarchy actually makes sense. The entire campsite is behind a rock and fence wall, and the animals are free. Though some of the water holes are equipped with man made pumps, make no mistake, this is not a zoo. Not a show, no animals have been trained and that means we are living in their domain. </span></div>
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<span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">We are the ones in cages. And it's fabulous. </span></div>
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<span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">The campsites are quite nice, most having several types of bungalow accommodation also. Hot showers, drinkable water. The rules are strict. No driving between the hours of <a href="x-apple-data-detectors://0" x-apple-data-detectors-result="0" x-apple-data-detectors-type="calendar-event" x-apple-data-detectors="true">6pm</a> and <a href="x-apple-data-detectors://1" x-apple-data-detectors-result="1" x-apple-data-detectors-type="calendar-event" x-apple-data-detectors="true">6am</a>, unless you are in a licensed game drive vehicle (land rover), of which they only allow two each evening. The camp is gated, and there is a tall sharp rock fence separating the water hole from the viewing area. </span></div>
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<span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">At night, red lights are pointed towards the water, bright enough for us to see but not to blind the animals. It was actually quite entertaining to see a hundred people sitting in silence, staring at the lake. But the true entertainment was what was happening beyond the rock wall. An ever changing assortment of animals, including rhinos, elephants, zebras, and giraffes took their turn getting their drinks. Jackals snuck up behind them at times, and guinea fowl pecked their way around the water. Springbok and wildebeest showed up eventually, and of course everyone waited for the lions, who are much more elusive. </span></div>
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<span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">It's a little strange, drinking wine out of a camping cup, sitting in a bleacher seat and peering over the rocky edge. For a second it almost looks like people are watching a play. It is most definitely dramatic, and the finest of theaters, nature. </span></div>
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12299860.post-53071463697846080652013-06-16T10:18:00.002-07:002013-06-16T10:18:47.140-07:00The middle of the middle of nowhere<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">May 2013</span></div>
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<span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">I have a friend up in Humboldt county who bought a five acre parcel of forested land in a newer subdivision. He designed and built his own house, and measured carefully, so that his home would be in the exact middle of the property, unlike his neighbors who seemed to put their home up in front with a huge yard behind it. When I asked why, he said because this way he had the most possible space between him and his neighbors in every direction, the most privacy. When I visited, it did, indeed, feel like its own independent environment, quiet and serene, with no disturbance from the sound of cars or lawn mowers or children. Had it not been for the canopy of redwood trees surrounding his home, it would feel isolated. Somehow, for me at least, thick forest makes me feel insulated, not isolated.<br /></span></div>
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<span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">I keep thinking about his property while driving through Namibia. The entire country seems empty, untrodden, devoid of human life and the inorganic trail of resources and trash that comes with population. We've been a lot of places, with barely visible roads, lots of sand, and heat. It feels like we are in the middle of nowhere, like someone measured carefully to make sure that at any given moment we are as far from anything as possible, meaning we are IN THE MIDDLE of the middle of nowhere.<br /><br />We've spent quite a bit of time driving. Most of the day, actually. Most of the last five or six days. As a group of three guides- 2 Namibian, 1 South African, plus 2 Swiss, 2 Italians, 2 Spanish, 4 German, 1 Dutch, 1 American living in London, and me- we've renamed our overland adventure vehicle. Roy, the given name to this beast, is amazingly equipped for the unpaved roads of Namibia; the African massage. We enter the vehicle from the back, and there are two aisles of airplane style seats (that don't recline) raised above a center gully just big enough for feet. In the front, behind the barrier between the seating area and the driving area- think mac truck- there are seats around a small table and a cooler. It's a hangout place for playing card games and the like. The cooler, of course, is for beer. The new name it has adopted is African Tuk Tuk, or ATT.</span> </div>
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<span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">"Tomorrow we have a long day. I don't want to guarantee, but we might see...Expect the unexpected. T.I.A. This is Africa." There are other details of course. But this is what I remember, because this is what is said every night. And now we've created our own rituals. Inevitably at the end of the briefing, our guide Hofti asks if we have any questions. My arm shoots up every night at this point. </span></div>
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<span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">"What time do we have to get up?" I still don't understand why that's not the first thing. I am in teacher brain, wanting things chronologically. He is in adventure brain- activity first, details second. The answer is usually the same- early. 5 or 6 am. I'm not sure why he tries to sugar coat this or treat it as an aside he can halfheartedly mention as if the early time will disappear, as we all signed up for a camping outdoor adventure and we know these types of things start early. Nobody complains or even makes mention of it. </span></div>
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<span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">And again the ritual- Mikail says aloud to the group, "don't worry, Rebecca, I will wake you up around 4, to make sure you are ready." Everyone laughs. This is funny because I am always the first person up, aside from our incredible guides. This is also funny because we always wait for the Spanions. The very first day, we were supposed to meet at the office in Cape Town at 7:45 am. They sauntered in at around 10:00. Whether or not they wanted to start this precedent, it now exists. Our guides always ask us to have an African sense of humor and adventure but to keep European time. I think he should edit that to German time on following trips.</span></div>
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<span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">Our first week blends together in bursts of tent set ups and take downs, desert driving, convenience store stops, and regular pull overs for "pee pee in the bush". The ATT is starting to look like the common area of a college dorm. Towels hang from the storage shelf to the seat, drying or blocking the intense sun. Five liter water bottles line the back of the truck. Pillows, iPods, junk food, earphones,tour books lay strewn across every seat. And shoes. There are shoes everywhere- dusty, sand-filled hikers and flip flops. We've stopped a few times, to see the San people, to give some people the option of canoeing in the Orange river, to catch the sunset in beautiful Fish River Canyon. </span></div>
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<span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">But the highlight of this first portion of the trip is disappointingly named Dune 45. </span></div>
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<span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">Sossusvlei dunes make up what I believe to be one of the largest areas of sand dunes in the world. This is the second oldest desert in the world, with the highest sand dunes, some reaching 3,000 meters high. The dunes are red due to the iron present and the age in which this iron has turned to rust. </span></div>
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<span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">We rise extremely early to climb Dune 45 before sunrise, and are surrounded by people doing the same- the most people in one spot that we have seen since crossing the border into Namibia. The sand is cool and soft, and immediately penetrates everything I have with me. I'm covered in fine rust colored sand, and it's beautiful! The sun rising creates shadows emphasizing the curvature of the dunes, the direction and strength of the wind. Little ridges are formed on the windward side of the dunes, while the leeward side looks like its never been touched. Gazing across the valley, there are dunes as far as you can see, all shadowed beautifully. All with clearly defined ridges. Climbing is restricted to Dune 45 to decrease impact. </span></div>
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<span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">Sitting in the sand, letting it run through my fingers, I am amazed that sand so soft can create such sharp ridges. I'm sad when the sun is finally up in the sky and the shadows start to disappear a bit, and that beautiful iron-rich sand starts to get hot. We climb, roll, run, and slide down the dune like children, and there is a beautiful brunch awaiting us in the parking lot.</span></div>
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<span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">We spent the rest of the day in the area, going to a place called Deadvlei in a 4x4, kind of like a dried up oasis. Eventually on the road, the dunes got smaller and lighter in color, and our African massage came to an end abruptly as we reached the coast to a black tarred highway. The temperature dropped from hot desert temperature to windy cold coast in a matter of moments as we pulled over in Walvis Bay to see the flamingos, hundreds of beautiful flamingos in the lagoon beside the road. Looking around at the manicured lawns, and large seaside homes was strange after where we had been. From here we stopped at the Adventure Center, a warehouse of adrenaline sports at our fingertips. Honestly, it felt like an onslaught of marketing, DVDs of people jumping out of airplanes, going four wheeling in the dunes. For the less adventurous, there was a harbor cruise, and a township tour. Honestly, I was a little put off, and opted instead for some unplanned time with as many showers as I wanted. </span></div>
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<span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">Stranger still, after a windy lunch at the Adventure Center, we pulled into the German influenced seaside resort town of Swakupmund. It was nice to have access to Internet and real coffee for a few days, and a break from camping. We ate out each night, said goodbye to one of our fellow travelers, and piled back in the ATT after a refreshing weekend.The serene Namibian desert was behind us, but a new adventure was about to begin.</span></div>
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12299860.post-19473622930496743532013-05-22T06:11:00.001-07:002013-06-03T22:02:39.540-07:00Making lemonade in Africa<div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgomIsvINt-YoSmNT044cbOARrGnUNyi6UWITdlLFfGH6TAVcqwiFyodhctHPHK35VWR7GlBMZm_Hkz5GCRk3oI6xEb7LKQiEYDhyphenhyphenZ0ZdxuGvxFa9ZPT9b3kcR9QKJnULFe257HoA/s640/blogger-image--1706467644.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgomIsvINt-YoSmNT044cbOARrGnUNyi6UWITdlLFfGH6TAVcqwiFyodhctHPHK35VWR7GlBMZm_Hkz5GCRk3oI6xEb7LKQiEYDhyphenhyphenZ0ZdxuGvxFa9ZPT9b3kcR9QKJnULFe257HoA/s640/blogger-image--1706467644.jpg"></a></div>Making lemonade in Africa <br>
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I'm rewriting my story. After fleeing a nanny gig, a very kind person took me under his wing, and convinced me to sign up for a tour leaving three days later, from another city, in a different country, even. I don't think about it overnight, or even over dinner. I say yes. <br>
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I've just joined a 20 day tour of southern Africa with 12 strangers. In the head space I have been in, I sort of just wanted to be quiet. Soak it in. Let nature heal. <br>
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Nature is healing. But so is remembering to be the fun loving, quick witted woman I can be. It's making people laugh. It's making me laugh. <div><br>
This is who I am. <br>
Except when I'm not. And I've been not. So I am rewriting my story, and it's one I want to be part of. <br>
</div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br></div></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12299860.post-23281749884555879242013-05-22T06:06:00.001-07:002013-05-22T06:06:11.389-07:00The Nanny GigI was on the fence about whether to include my journals from the nanny gig in Swaziland. I am going to include them all (though some are incomplete- it's time to move on), but under just one blog entry. That way, those of you who want to skip reading this part can carry on. <br>
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So read on or carry on. <br>
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BUT THIS IS NORMAL<br>
April 19, 2013<br>
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I took a job as a short term nanny with someone of high academic standards. I believe that children having the opportunity to live and learn in another culture is worth far more in experience than a possibility of being behind in math by a year. You can catch a kid up (whatever that means) in math skills. You can't recreate the patience, flexibility, and new cultural experiences of a host country. <br>
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Part of my job is to make mom's work easier. She chose to come without her husband for a Fulbright scholarship, because in our economy at the moment, one can't say, "oh hey, I have an opportunity to accompany my wife and kids to Africa for 12-18 months. Can you hold my job?" It's unfortunate, really. Because I also believe that grown ups bring back incredible skills in adapting, working with people holding different views, and, alas, perspective. <br>
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Another part of my job is to do lessons with the kids. Both are relatively good students, but in truth, everyone can benefit from some one on one attention, right?<br>
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I've been teaching for 11 years, working with kids of all ages, races, socio-economic statuses, in both traditional and alternative settings. I have experience (of course, I, too, could always benefit from some one on one attention), with well behaved kids, angry kids, sad kids, hungry kids- in their bellies or in their hearts. But I have never had an experience like this. <br>
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In the last 48 hours, I've heard more child screams than on the playground of elementary school for the entire semester. I've had doors slammed in my face, been told I was hated and to go away. Once, while the mom was home, as I walked by a room, I noticed the five year old drawing a picture. I told her how nice it was. Her response? She chased after me into my bedroom to stomp on my toes. Not out of the ordinary behavior, but the lack of response was alarming. Mom came after her and lifted her off of me, but no words were exchanged. When I came back into the living room she told me, "she's really sensitive about her art." But no corrective to her daughter that its inappropriate to stomp on people. Not even, "use your words."<br>
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An hour later, as we sat to dinner, me and the kids, the same child told me to go away, which I ignored. I went to take a bite of my dinner, and she threw food at me. I told her to stop, firmly. Mom came in the room, and I told her what happened. She motioned for me to come outside and said, "maybe you shouldn't be so severe. This is new for them." We spoke a few minutes more, as I felt I had to defend myself after she said maybe it was because I didn't have experience with this age group. I assured her that I had, and this was not ok behavior.<br>
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The following day, mom asked me to do a lesson with said five year old. Kicking, screaming, yelling insults all ensued. I looked at mom, waiting for an intervention,to which I was met with "I'm sure you've worked with resistant students before" and she walked away. <br>
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Later, she approached me, asking if I had ever had experience with kindergartners before. I said yes, though not much, but that I had spent a lot of time with many children this age, and literally just came from nannying two boys 4 and 6 for ten hours a day. Again, defending myself. I said this isn't resistance, this is a behavior issue. To this, I was told "this is normal," followed by, "of the sixty kids at her school In kindergarten there are a lot of kids like this." I am wondering who told her this. I am wondering if this is true, how these classrooms are functioning. <br>
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I am not a parent. I know there are things that come with being an actual parent that change your views on child-rearing, education, behavior management, whatever. But in my many years of successful interaction with students, I have never seen this.<br>
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I spoke to my friend, a kindergarten teacher with a psychology background, and a single parent of two. One is special needs, and often has her own behavioral idiosyncrasies. I relayed the events of the last two days, not even including the way they treated the maids. I was swallowing anger, surprise, and my pride. I was second guessing myself. Was I over reacting? Was I not being understanding?<br>
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My friend's response was not only supportive, but included some psychological background; things I'd been thinking but had no words to support. That is a sign of children either having been abused at a young age, or not being given boundaries by their parents. I really don't think abuse is even worthy a thought with this family. But the lack of boundaries is apparent and obviously affecting the kids. Duh. <br>
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But what to do now? I've been told not to reprimand, basically, and have had very little support in redirecting and correcting their behavior. I refuse to be abused for two months, even by children.<br>
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After witnessing the lack of boundaries and limits for the first day, I decided my approach would be to start with my own. Our first day alone together, I sat with the boy, and asked him what the rules of the house were. My intent was to find out what moms rules were, what the schools rules were, and then look at the similarities. My intent then was to make sure they had a clear idea what my rules and boundaries were. We couldn't get that far. The only rule was to eat food at the table. Now of course, I know there are others. The child is 8. But the lack of structure was apparent. In fact, later that evening, something happened where he was told to do something. He didn't follow directions, and was told to go do something else or he would get the kindle taken away. He looked at his mom and said, "I don't know what you want me to do. You just said two completely different things."<br>
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Again, I know we get tired, I know we mis-speak. But this was telling of a bigger picture. <br>
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THE DOOR<br>
April 20, 2013<br>
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I got somewhere with the older child today. We played Monopoly. And he laughed. Mom left with the youngest to do an errand that I desperately wanted to join, but alas, I stayed with the oldest. He started to listen to me and respect me a little. I even got this reluctant writer to write something. It was a simple haiku about the new cat. Tearing him away from books is almost painful, as he probably reads a book a day, and when he isn't reading, he's listening to his kindle while playing video games on his ipad. <br>
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I'm hoping to use this cat, this poor cat, for writing and art projects this week. <br>
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The power went out today. It was a beautiful winter storm, the kind you can almost see greening up the trees. It was pretty cold and foggy, so we spent the day inside. I'm still inside 12 hours later.<br>
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The little one, who's behavior is almost pschitzophrenic, even came over to ask if I would play Monopoly with her. We had fun. She is only five, so every roll of the dice was a great way to practice counting. She did well with the money.<br>
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The power was out for a while before the mom noticed that the neighbor had light. She wanted to go next door and find out what was going on. The youngest was still wet from her bath, including her hair. She was asked to please stay inside. Rather than stay inside, she started screaming, and running to the front door, grabbing her shoes on the way. I asked her to stop. Her mother, already outside almost to the perimeter gate, yelled for her to go inside. She pushed me aside and went running after mom, so I called moms name. Mom was visibly angry at this defiance, especially in a possibly unsafe situation.The child continued to scream, "NO!" which in three days I have already heard more times than I can count, and she was met with a spanking on the behind, and a carrying of her towards me, but not inside.<br>
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I was standing on the top of the steps, in the small space between the front gate and the front door. I tried verbally to coax her inside. Se screamed again, and gripped her fingers tightly around the metal bars on the gate. I tried to lift her body off the gate, but her fingers were too tightly attached. She was fighting and not going anywhere, and screaming at the top of her lungs. Her screaming caught again the attention of her mother who directed me to take her inside and lock the door.<br>
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I'm trying.<br>
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I went against my better judgement, and tried to force her fingers off the bars. I was finally able to get her inside and the door closed, and she stood in front of me kicking me and yelling at me. I told her she was on time out and needed to go to her room.<br>
"NO!!!" she screamed. I tried the counting to 3 that seems to work with all kids. I was just met with another NO and some more kicks. She went for the front door again, and I just grabbed her so she couldn't get out, and her mother came in right afterwards.<br>
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The child was picked up and taken to the back bedroom, where for the next thirty minutes I heard screaming and yelling from the child, including how much she hated me and wanted me to leave, and more tantrum. No, this was not a tantrum. I am not sure what you call this.<br>
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I went to the dining room and sat on the chair, trying to force back tears. <br>
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As a teacher, and 'auntie' to many children in my lifetime, I have seen my share of melt downs and tantrums. This was so incredible, I felt like I was in a dream. She almost made Veruca Salt seem manageable. The insults from a five year old?Not ok, but I can deal with. The kicking and the NO! doesn't compute. Nor does forcefully putting my hand on a child. I wasn't sure what to do with the door incident. But the second I tried to grab that child off the bars, I engaged in the battle. She called my bluff when she kicked me repeatedly once inside the door. And again when she said NO and defiantly didn't go to her room. Had this been my own child, I would have picked her up and put her in her room. But she is not my child. And I am not comfortable doing that. This episode was years in the making.<br>
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Later on, she continued her rudeness to me at the table. They bought treats today as a bargaining tool for her to be polite. she's a pretty smart five year old, and already told me once, in the middle of telling me she wanted me to leave, that she only did good things to get sweets. <br>
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She had a cookie after dinner. <br>
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I stayed up in the dining room writing this, hoping to talk to the mother after she put the kids to bed. I had to first get past the guilt, then the mad, and move into the I statements. I practiced saying to myself, "I am really uncomfortable with what happened with the door today." Not quite right. "I am uncomfortable with the part I played with the door incident tonight." Better. <br>
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But when mom came out, the first thing out of her mouth was that she was going to bed. She was exhausted. Yes, I would imagine she is. <br>
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I'm trying to have compassion for both her and the kids. They seem to have dug themselves a big hole here, and I am not convinced, after the two other conversations we have had about the behavior of the children, that mom is convinced that there is a problem.<br>
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So I guess I will be waking up tomorrow for the fifth time, in hopes that it will be the day that things change. Of course, I know that even if they do, the moments are fleeting. I have to talk with mom tomorrow. I have to tell her I am uncomfortable, and that putting them on time out doesn't work, even after counting and chances, even after positive attention for being polite and asking how they feel when they follow directions, which inevitably they say feels good. <br>
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I'm at that school in Gretna again, when I walked out after four days of disobedient violent children. I bargained with myself; first that I could do it for the semester. Then, that I could give my two weeks. Finally, I realized the cost was too great for me, personally, to stay.<br>
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I'm feeling that now. But need to have a strategy and be clear in my communication.<br>
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And I want never to witness again the intense power of the episode that this child had. Let's see what tomorrow brings.<br>
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HORSEBACK RIDING<br>
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April 21, 2013<br>
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It finally cleared up today so we went on an adventure including horseback riding. We drove to some place near the South African border. The landscape is beautiful, though nothing I haven't seen before. If I had to put my finger on it I would say Montana or Colorado high desert. Green, rocky, hilly, houses good and spread out, golden grasses along the road. Big Sky for sure.<br>
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We turned off the two lane highway onto the dirt road. We are in a high clearance vehicle, but not 4WD , and we sank in the mud pretty quickly. So far the kids are doing pretty well. I've only heard once how unhappy the youngest one is that I've joined the journey. I hear something about pants, but ignore it.<br>
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The decision is made to hold off a bit on the horseback riding, as the road is just too unsafe. We venture to a nice little area with small gallery style shops on the side of the road, much like the "Indian Trading Posts" of the American Southwest. The kids and mom run off on their own. I'm happy for the time, and I wonder if she notices how silent I have been. I'm not trying to be, I just am so sad, I am afraid if I say too much I will start crying. I run into them not more than ten minutes later, and they are laden with sugar, the wages for these children. Do this for a cookie, be nice for a candy. <br>
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Next, we head to the oldest mine in the world, where we have to stop at a gate, and a guide jumps in the back between the booster seats. The older child is still listening to his Kindle. He starts to complain. Again.<br>
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"Remember, if I hear one more complaint, there will be no more .... " I've forgotten already and wonder how the kids keep it straight. Doesn't matter, though. Whatever it is will still arrive after dinner. Sometimes before.<br>
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The mine is somewhat interesting, though I must admit I have a difficult time understanding the guide's English. Along with the conversation about how to remedy this situation that has been taking over my head, I am also having a hard time concentrating. They do have some artifacts and a display representing the origin of man, and I remember to remember that I am in Africa, the Mother Land! I take a deep breath and choose to enjoy it.<br>
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The older child has had enough at this point. He misses his iPad. Oh yeah, that's what that empty threat was- a moratorium on electronic devices. Back into the car we go. We are parked on a hill, and the younger child has to get in the uphill side, so I hold the door so it doesn't close on her face. She gives me the look of death, and tells me to go away and not to touch her door. I tell her that it is going to close on her while she's trying to get into her seat. She glares at me and says she wants to see. I'm tempted. Trust me. "Get in the car, or you can't wear those pants!" Not only a threat that won't be followed through, but one that pretty much can't be.<br>
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Next we drive to another place that supposedly has horseback riding to inquire about a lesson. Immediately there is fighting and complaining. <br>
"Why does SHE have to come?" Who? "Rebecca. It's embarrassing," says the five year old, who's behavior would have embarrassed me if I were her mother. Or teacher. There's a semblance of an answer but no come-to-Jesus conversation. Instead, it's, "Remember? If you want to keep those pants, you have to be polite." FINE!<br>
The older child won't get out of the car, so there's another threat about the ipad. It takes twice, and he is beside us now, too.<br>
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We get information about the horseback riding. It will be another hour or so before they can ride. We tell them we will be back at 1:30. I already know we won't. I have picked up on the follow-through with this family already. I wonder how old I was when I figured out the pace of my own family.<br>
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Back in the car we go, and it's another battle. This time, as I put my backpack on the floor underneath the smaller child, she stretches her legs out to squish it. I tell her to stop, and she nods her head no at me. Currently, the older child is also not paying attention. He jumps in the car and turns on his kindle, without closing his door, and without buckling his belt. They have a battle of words. <br>
"Remember what I told you about complaining? One more time and no more iPad" OK OK!<br>
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One more time?<br>
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I choose to move my backpack. I am not bargaining cookies or pants or ipads. And after one nice, and two firm directives from me, she still nods her head no, and stomps her feet harder on my backpack. If anyone is wondering, no, mom says nothing.<br>
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Off we drive to lunch. There's whining in the car, of course, which mom continuously listens to, and engages in. We arrive at a lovely place amidst bougainvillea and stunning views of the rocky peaks, a nice sandy red colored road, and a grass area with swings. There are tons of cats, dogs, and monkeys roaming around. We sit down for lunch and look at the menu. The kids are up and about, and I do my best to ignore them. I am starting to feel like I am kidnapped and looking for some way to send out clues that I need out. <br>
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In the menu, in large print, there is a popular motto- Unattended Children will get espresso and a free kitten!<br>
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I snicker to myself because that probably wouldn't phase this mother, even as her children are currently unattended in the gallery. In fact, this is the very place they got their new cat. I also snicker, because I imagine the mother reading it the same way teenagers read the sign "Teenagers, leave home now while you still know everything!"<br>
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After lunch, the youngest actually asks me to come play with her on the swings. Well, to push her on the swing. I am feeling like a child with a bipolar addictive parent, walking on eggshells. Is this going to end in a hug or a kick?Alas, I am told I am the best pusher ever, and I am almost pleased. Until she tells me not to ever put her blanket on the ground.<br>
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Back in the car again we go, and head to a Swazi cultural village for a 15 minute tour, followed by a 100 m walk to beautiful waterfalls. The drive to the falls is on a dirt road, and the youngest wants to open the windows. She's yelling UNLOCK UNLOCK UNLOCK UNLOCK. OK, yells mom. <br>
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More complaints come from the oldest, who really doesn't like being outside. And in his defense, he really has been out for a while. Mom reminds him of his promise, or he will have the device moratorium. He has already taken his shoes off, and when he emerges from the car, he still has the kindle in his hand, and he is given another reminder. This time, mom actually reaches out to grab it. I almost exclaim DO IT! But back in the car it goes.<br>
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The walk is nice, the falls are beautiful, pictures are taken and the youngest says its the best day ever. Until it isn't, because we are back in the car, passing the horseback riding place, and from then on it is 20 minutes of screaming and whining. Some of it is actually ignored, and I am impressed.<br>
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Once home, the youngest gets engrossed in washing the car with the gardener. Everything is right in the world. Until mom says that she wants them to write postcards to their friends with me while she goes on a run. She tells her angels what needs to happen. They say yes mom. Once mom leaves, and the tv show she promised them is over, I ask them to come to the table. NO. I send them on time out. NO. I try three other ways, but see, I don't have the fake bargaining chip. I don't have the pants or the iPad. <br>
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The youngest tries to run outside. I tell her to stay inside. She unlocks the door and runs outside. She doesn't obey when I tell her to get back inside, so I step out onto the stoop and watch her. What else am I supposed to do? I don't want to lift her and be kicked again. Mom happens to run by and sees her and freaks out. <div>
Why are you outside!?<br>
I say she isn't listening to me.<br>
She looks at me surprised, angry even. I almost cry. <br>
Struggle ensues. "You have to lock the gate AND the door," she tells me. Mom and child engage in a tantrum. She brings the child inside, and closes the door behind her. <br>
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She still gets her cookie. And after telling me to make sure the outside gate is locked because its safer, she leaves again and says not to bother with it. The lock that supposedly will keep her daughter safe.<br>
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Older son is in the back bedroom and I am asked to fetch him for dinner. I am yelled at- don't come in my room. I refuse to listen to you. Get out!<br>
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So day five isn't a whole lot better than days 1-4, though there was no spanking or major screaming and kicking fit. But I don't know if I would call it progress.<br>
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MORGAN FREEMAN <br>
April 2013<br>
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I've seen a lot of movies, and read a lot of books about lots of kinds of struggles. I think sometimes it's what makes us all feel a little more normal, and gives us the opportunity to have empathy from our sofas. That's the American way.<br>
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I have been in one of these movies for the last week. I've been nannying for an american family in southern Africa. I've never had an official live-in nanny gig until this year, but I have had my share of trips and weekends and visits with families for as long as I can remember. I'm a kid person. I'm reminding myself of this right now because I have just fled the scene of being in charge of children.<br>
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I'm not a parent. I'm a teacher. And I was hired as a nanny, not as an interventionist. But this family needs one of those. Quickly. <br>
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It's 2002 and I am teaching in Watsonville, ca. My school has just been ranked 6th lowest school in the state. Again. I want to scream. I want to throw away the test scores for a minute and listen to the stories my fourth graders have written during writers workshop. In English. They're superb. Yes, they still mix up b and v, but they're reading and writing and I think they are brilliant. <br>
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My principal is all administration, no personality. There are rules. And slips. Some are pink and some are blue, and I think there's one for not wearing a uniform, too, but I never remember to hand those out. I kind of avoid the pink and blue ones, too, unless there's an actual fight. But that doesn't happen very often.<br>
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Every day when the bell rings at 7:15, the children line up in front of their assigned numbers. The vice principal really likes rules, too. He's trying to be creative, but I think he forgets what the big picture is. Every day, he carries a trophy in his hand. He gets on the loudspeaker and announces the class that has the straightest line. My students want this trophy. They all do. Another week has passed and they still haven't gotten it.<br>
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I assure them in the classroom that they are good at so many things that there is no trophy for. Honesty. Respect. Being kind and polite. Working hard. Doing their best. Sharing. Some days they hear me. Some days, they really want that trophy, the same way some of the teachers have the orange slip out and ready for uniform infraction. <br>
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A group of us gets together after a staff meeting to discuss the pink slip, blue slip, line trophy dilemma. For us, it doesn't sit right. What are we trying to do here as role models? Teach children not to hit so they don't get a pink slip, not to forget their homework so they don't get a blue slip, stand in a straight line so they get the trophy? We start to meet regularly after school. We may be the only committee that actually does so. We have a name, even. The discipline committee. But behind closed doors we refer to ourselves as the children's liberation party. We discuss the differences between rewards and punishments models, and intrinsic motivation. We read articles and review behavioral psychologists. We do action research projects within our classrooms. <br>
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We know, intrinsically that rewards and punishments don't work. It takes time, but slowly we work more towards an intrinsic model. There's still a trophy- we can't yet seem to get past a physical reward- but now it's awarded for different positive character traits. we feel like this is a success. Changing the culture of a school is difficult. <br>
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I'm not sure how to do this for a family that's not my own.<br>
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My head is back in swaziland and I'm wondering how it got this bad. I am wondering how this family makes it from day to day with all the screaming and whining. She doesn't seem to notice anymore.<br>
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Get your shoes on and I will give you a cookie. <br>
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Stop that yelling or you aren't going to get your ice cream. <br>
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For six days, these are almost the only words I hear from the mom. Bribes. Even after they throw food at me, don't listen to any directions, say mean things. I talk with the mom, but she's living in a world where this is normal. Towards me, the children show no mercy. Doors are slammed in my face, I'm locked out of the house. There is no connection, and I don't know what to do. This has never happened to me before; children who refuse to listen, refuse to follow directions over time. Children who aren't even curious about the other person living in their house, children who have no interest in getting attention from anyone other than their mother. Children who don't even try to build a relationship. It doesn't seem real. It makes me feel heavy and sad.<br>
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I email grandma, the woman who hired me, for reinforcement. First for suggestions on how to get close to the kids, next for discipline ideas. I don't have the cookies, ice cream, and ipad to use as currency. If I did, i still don't imagine I could bring myself to use them.<br>
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The woman who was named educator of the year relatively recently, responded back to me saying that I should spank the child. Included in the email are directions on how to do it. This is the precise moment that I know there is no way I can stay in this house for two months.<br>
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This is a movie, I tell myself. I feel like I have been kidnapped, and I start to plan my escape in my head. I simply cannot take another day of the yelling, the screaming and whining. The children paw at their mother like feral cats who haven't been fed enough. They need attention and parenting, not cookies. But I don't know how or when to tell her that. So I quit. I say I will stay throughout the week if she needs me. They leave for tennis and I get a phone call asking me to leave the following day, and simultaneously an email from grandma saying I should leave immediately. I should have talked to her about it, grandma says. When? While she wasn't sitting at dinner? While she wasn't redirecting her children to behave appropriately? While she went to bed at 6:30 without saying goodnight?<br>
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I'm in swaziland, in a suburb. Thank goodness for the maids who finish my laundry and call me a taxi. They hug me and tell me I have a good heart, and that the children are difficult. I'm sweating, hoping the taxi driver will come before the family comes home from tennis. I'm throwing things in my backpack, and putting things in a bag to give to the maids. The taxi arrives before the mom and kids return, and my heart is thumping so loudly, I wonder if he can hear it as I get into the car. He has no idea what has happened, and is chatting me up, trying to convince me to go for a drink with him, while I am frantically emailing my family from my cell phone. The entire last few hours have been absurd!<br>
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Thankfully, I had already connected with someone regarding future travel plans, and he graciously arranges two nights for me at two different lodges. The first night, I hang out on a deck in the beautiful mountains with beer and some interesting volunteers. It's still too soon to take my mind off of it, but these volunteers remind me that there are ways to have empathy without sitting on your sofa, and that there are more worthy causes of my time. They're working with kids in the public schools, and their stories are lovely. There are more important things than worrying about fleeing the scene of two children who have enough adult supervision, just not enough parenting. <br>
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I am still in Africa, still feel like I'm in a story that is not my own, and desperately waiting for Morgan Freeman's voice to interrupt the ridiculous noise in my head, to tell me what I just haven't learned yet. To tell me how this may shape my future in a way I had never imagined. I hope so, in all good ways. </div><div><br></div><div>I'm sure there are things I didn't handle well in this situation, and trust me, I've muddled around having the opportunity to speak to the mom. But in the end, I took care of me.<br>
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Life is too short to stay in a situation that makes you miserable. If this is the only lesson I got out of this experience, then thank you, Morgan Freeman. I hear you, and I will move forward accordingly.<br>
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</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12299860.post-3083613817294181402013-04-12T11:45:00.001-07:002013-05-22T06:05:08.994-07:00The Land of Not Quite RightAfter over a year in the idea phase, I'm finally in Bahrain. One of my best friends whom I have known since we competed for first chair clarinet in 5th grade band, has been stationed here with her husband and children. Before I got sick last winter, I toyed with the idea of quitting my job in New Orleans, and coming out here to teach on base, and was then invited to come for the summer and nanny for her kids. Sounded like a good plan, but it wasn't able to come to fruition. <br>
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It was, however, the impetus for this last six months of adventure. <br>
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My ten week trip to Central America was the practice run for hemisphere-hopping. It was a success, so I finally planned a trip there. I flew from Bangkok after a month long trip in Southeast Asia with my friend Chris. Culture shock began in the Bangkok airport as thoebes and burkas replaced sarongs.<br>
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The flight to Dubai was pleasant, as was going through customs at the Dubai airport. The flight from Dubai to Bahrain however, was something else entirely. There were many children on the flight, none of them being parented. Children were climbing on the tops of the airplane seats, had all video games going, were running up and down the aisles. Going through customs was somewhat complicated as they wanted a direct address in Bahrain, which I didn't have. An hour later, I was through, and Jillene was there to pick me up. <br>
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Not far from the airport, Amwaj island is on the northeast coast of Bahrain. It's built on reclaimed land, sand from the gulf. It's a gated community of expats, wealthy Bahrainis, and Saudis with weekend homes (they come to the island over the bridge to drink). Jillene's villa is a spacious two level house with more bathrooms and couches than I could ever imagine using. The backyard overlooks a small swimming pool, which is steps away from the Persian gulf. The color of the gulf is milky blue, and set against the white sand and the white buildings, is absolutely stunning. <div>
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Yet apart from the beautiful water and the white sand, there's not much else. It's so hot, and so dusty, that most activities take place indoors, in elaborate malls. It's no matter, though, as I came more for the company, and getting to know Noah, 6, and Mitchell, 4 was absolutely wonderful. </div><div><div><br></div><div>Jillene and Kris refer to Bahrain as the land of not quite right, and it's apparent why. Burka-clad women shopping at Victoria's Secret, devout Saudi Muslims driving like mad to get to the island to drink like fish. And the beautiful homes all have little...quirks, even though most are almost brand new. European dish-drain cabinets located over the stove instead of the sink, open floor plans with loft-style staircases waiting for forehead impact, classes that 'start in April' but haven't. </div></div><div><br></div><div>Jillene will be leaving the country in January, so I've lost interest in teaching here. But I'm really glad I was able to come out to visit before they left! <div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhviMT6bvUqTgotWkoXnMiLptAmsV23UpSZbPEDJj7Z-BOj_6PbOrR9fegy24mIurvCEqfuPDoKgsbAXDgoK7rVca-xiCZ-WWsZjo3QORKxtTqEL37OGSd9NNajbqcmeRb2LA__EA/s640/blogger-image-1669042938.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhviMT6bvUqTgotWkoXnMiLptAmsV23UpSZbPEDJj7Z-BOj_6PbOrR9fegy24mIurvCEqfuPDoKgsbAXDgoK7rVca-xiCZ-WWsZjo3QORKxtTqEL37OGSd9NNajbqcmeRb2LA__EA/s640/blogger-image-1669042938.jpg"></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVI1g_zDuGM81O3hUw2WajmN4QESfufFjUjieIBetZ20ZgthdXU-yagq9q123lgLBfflvj5S3WCV9PK_Tlff9Vf79ZVg2TBDy_aQHPtiuGbLzW24Cw0L_pfi7k1eqVcxAsqW9jDQ/s640/blogger-image--2144419964.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVI1g_zDuGM81O3hUw2WajmN4QESfufFjUjieIBetZ20ZgthdXU-yagq9q123lgLBfflvj5S3WCV9PK_Tlff9Vf79ZVg2TBDy_aQHPtiuGbLzW24Cw0L_pfi7k1eqVcxAsqW9jDQ/s640/blogger-image--2144419964.jpg"></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEje7spxoJahbjGD8cZ3Cv6DV3q3j3MuLL3ELEZe1u6dhgThZ7UBfq0ZTZMODDeChV6NjDurOx4Uis5fKUPCN1YSQEqQJuE0pNwCvxvhGB60YZhCzK1ty-ISuPU3VKGLs1g2kbmBcw/s640/blogger-image-1632414444.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEje7spxoJahbjGD8cZ3Cv6DV3q3j3MuLL3ELEZe1u6dhgThZ7UBfq0ZTZMODDeChV6NjDurOx4Uis5fKUPCN1YSQEqQJuE0pNwCvxvhGB60YZhCzK1ty-ISuPU3VKGLs1g2kbmBcw/s640/blogger-image-1632414444.jpg"></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjk5aV2G2TcbjjfD-UW6WnIWaOuZ54v8ak4dX0nGjBMll-Jsb6G7pZwl0pFilCach8UubSVhEbqkJje8XW-Saqqg132Rso8igif3bOJOz3GlkLmRignSzLVUd1TrfRqgkbRIs50tA/s640/blogger-image--1283323959.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjk5aV2G2TcbjjfD-UW6WnIWaOuZ54v8ak4dX0nGjBMll-Jsb6G7pZwl0pFilCach8UubSVhEbqkJje8XW-Saqqg132Rso8igif3bOJOz3GlkLmRignSzLVUd1TrfRqgkbRIs50tA/s640/blogger-image--1283323959.jpg"></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgk6LWF1rE_G9uyFJhA5ray-lgcQbPxvKxqEGPTQnuACelV1oyPfiYoGLY7f1yvFrsk_7uvWwbI2rOdKOYmD1VibGKHON9HRt12QF_57UGIE5zPp_cdzhHGNmnYHgzPG9sPiWSvWw/s640/blogger-image--1907875525.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgk6LWF1rE_G9uyFJhA5ray-lgcQbPxvKxqEGPTQnuACelV1oyPfiYoGLY7f1yvFrsk_7uvWwbI2rOdKOYmD1VibGKHON9HRt12QF_57UGIE5zPp_cdzhHGNmnYHgzPG9sPiWSvWw/s640/blogger-image--1907875525.jpg"></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbZjUMwWR45-6FQiSwwYf_TLiYjb-8KH-47ImA7IEKzL0bjyKY-gD1tEPe-ZUewgBmeaLrX_8go94mFk6BhybGLCSEIv-ovSl48J5JUUDiOT9FsVKMASfBSztPuM8Ko-0mwM8e7Q/s640/blogger-image--365140742.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbZjUMwWR45-6FQiSwwYf_TLiYjb-8KH-47ImA7IEKzL0bjyKY-gD1tEPe-ZUewgBmeaLrX_8go94mFk6BhybGLCSEIv-ovSl48J5JUUDiOT9FsVKMASfBSztPuM8Ko-0mwM8e7Q/s640/blogger-image--365140742.jpg"></a></div></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12299860.post-5648947608157403612013-04-11T11:32:00.001-07:002013-04-11T11:39:53.831-07:00From Sabai Dee to Sawasdee. Same same.Sawasdee kaaaaaaaa...<br />
Same same. Those of you who have traveled to this region of the world know exactly what I'm talking about. But how to explain to someone with no context? I'm going to give it a shot...<br />
Me: How much is that sarong?<br />
Local person: 350 baht<br />
Me: ok, what about that purse?<br />
Local Person: same same<br />
<br />
<br />
Or<br />
<br />
Me: are these the fresh spring rolls, or the fried ones?<br />
LP: same same (hmm...)<br />
<br />
Or<br />
Me: I'm trying to get to _______. Should I take the bus, or a boat taxi?<br />
LP: same same (or "yes", which is always helpful)<br />
<br />
That's just a start. But you get the idea. It's used for anything to placate you so you think all deals are equal, but better if purchased from the person you're speaking to. <br />
<br />
This was my third time to visit Thailand, so I was ready for the same same, ready for the always wet feet, ready for the squatty potties, ready for good food (which unfortunately didn't happen), and ready for the beauty of Krabi province. I was even ready for the crowds and oppressive humid heat that is the high season. What I wasn't prepared for were the inflated prices, and the growth, and the amount of Russian tourists, language, and food that was not present in my last trips. <br />
<br />
Railay beach, aesthetically, is the most beautiful beach I have ever been to in my life. Limestone karsts climb out of turquoise waters that seem an unreal color and earthly combination. My first experience was ten years ago, staying in a tree house with no AC, and so many holes it seemed more like we were just staying in the tree itself. Food was spicy and good beach side, and everything except the more than five star resort of Rayavadee was simple, rustic, and relatively inexpensive. Well, as in Vietnam, now that the visa requirement has been lifted for Russian citizens, and direct flights have been established from Moscow to saigon and Bangkok, the tourist population has doubled in these parts. This is great for everyone, except those of us who wanted to stay in simple, rustic, relatively inexpensive digs. Now, simple and rustic costs 50$ a night, and our tree house has been converted to a 'resort' with ac cabanas for over 100$ a night. And all day, the small peninsula, only reachable by boat, is awash with the sound of jackhammers, as new hotels are being built on every possible piece of land available. It is still possible to get those cheap simple rustic places, but instead of being a short jaunt to the magnificent beaches, they are a hike away in the middle of the jungle. Equally awesome if you're a nature person, but quite a hike to the beaches and restaurants. <br />
<br />
To be fair, my last trip to Thailand, 8 years ago, was not only during the slow summer season, but also six months after the tsunami. The trip was planned around a volunteer opportunity in Ranong province and on Phi Phi island (which is when this blog was started. If you'd like to read about that experience, go back to the first several entries in 2005). At that time, as well as two years prior, the exchange rate was 39-43 Thai baht to the dollar. On this trip, it was 27-30. I hope this means that Thailand has improved financially, and that this has trickled down to the people. A week wasn't enough time to investigate that. I did have a moment of wanting to go to Phi Phi, just to see the improvement and changes. And then I started perusing TripAdvisor, remembered my first experience there, and thought better of it. The beauty is astounding, maybe even more so than Railay, but the parties and overcrowding of young people, and buckets of booze, and inflated prices for crap shacks deterred me. After seeing the growth and crowds in Krabi and Phuket, I can only imagine what it's like there now. <br />
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In Railay, we stayed on the east side of the peninsula, where the mangroves reach the sea wall. During high tide, a step off the cement walkway and you're in the Andaman sea. During low tide, a step off is onto rocks and sand, for a good ways- maybe 750 feet- to the water's edge. This is the more populated side of the peninsula, and where most of the ferries arrive. There is no pier, and it's clearly too shallow to bring the ferries close to shore. So they stop a good way out, and a long tail boat comes beside it. People climb from the bigger to smaller boat, luggage is handed down, and the long tail takes you as far as they can. Then everyone hops out, into the water, grabs their luggage and walks to shore. This is always an entertaining thing to watch as some people have traditional suitcases rather than backpacks, and end up carrying them over their heads. <br />
<br />
Chris and I found a place with a room for 2 nights, relatively far from 'the action' of east Railay. We had a cabana, overlooking jungle and mangrove, fan cooled with mosquito nets. We had a deck out the back where we were greeted with wildlife, and...ahem...gifts from wildlife, and we loved it. One of the special things about both Railay and Phi Phi, is the absence of cars and motorbikes. Sounds divine, and peaceful. And in many ways it is. But no cars means transport is long tail boats, with very loud motors, for at least 18 hours a day. This was, by far, my favorite place we slept in our short time in Thailand, <br />
<br />
The next afternoon, Chris accompanied me to nearby Ao Nang, another beach resort area closer to the airport for my upcoming journey to Bahrain. I flew business class, which turned out to be the same as first class, from Bangkok to Dubai. It was fabulous! A new experience for me, and I think if I can swing it with my miles, I will fly back to the states in the same manner. Whenever that is. <br />
<br />
<br />
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<br />
Sabai Dee! Yes, I'm back in the land of same same. <br />
<br />
We flew to Luang Prabang Saturday morning from Hanoi. With the inhabitants of this city being only 30,00 it was surprising that there was an airport at all. But alas, it is a tourist destination. Has been on the backpacker "banana pancake trail" for some time. And with the convenience of vegetarian food, tuktuks, and the jaw dropping night market, it looks as if it's been that way for a long time. <br />
<br />
The UNESCO city of Luang Prabang boasts over 40 gilded wats, and although touristy, has an authentic community of monks. One of the highlights of any stay in the town is to wake at dawn to watch them making alms from a myriad of mindblowing religious sites. This is not something you have to look for, as the color of saffron flows through many streets, in a silence that is so beautiful. Yes, it's true, it is strange to be sitting silently on the sidewalk across the street from a gorgeous wat, at dawn, pre-caffeinated, and see busloads of tourists jump out at the last minute, and get super close to take videos. But even with them, it's an amazing experience. <br />
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Luang Prabang lies alongside the Mekong river, at the base of many mountains. No trip would be complete without a trip to one of the many waterfalls. I was skeptical at first, having been sold trips to falls that were just a trickle in the past. But Laos put on a spectacle for us this day. There were not only several different falls, but there were several different ways to get to the falls. One way took us past a bear sanctuary, where bears who have been held in captivity in tiny cages for their bile, used in some Eastern medicines, were rescued. They can no longer survive in the wild, but the people at the bear sanctuary make the rest of the bears' lives free of such treatment. We were there during feeding time, where bear handlers hide meals inside bamboo or under leaves, to keep their foraging skills up. The pool at the bottom of the falls is quite close to the sanctuary. The milky blue was so inviting after hiking in the heat. Inside, there were little fish that nibbled at the skin on your feet, which has now been marketed all over Southeast Asia as a "fish spa" where people Simon benches beside a fish tank, and leave their feet in the tank to be nibbled on. <br />
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Five days slowly slipped by between fabulous French inspired food, smoky mountains (we were there during crop burning), and wandering around the town and across rickety bamboo bridges over the river. This was in such sharp contrast to Vietnam, where motorbike horns were part of every minute of every day.<br />
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This was our only stop in Laos, and I know the country has more to offer. Time was a constraint, and I do hope to return. <br />
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2. Stay calm<br />
3. Disregard everything your mother told you, wait for a big bus or car (they're rare) to pass<br />
4. Walk<br />
5. Resist the urge to flinch, run, step backwards, or scream. Keep moving forward with consistent pace. <br />
6. Ignore every motorbike that looks as if it's going to hit you. If it does, you ignored number 5 above. <br />
7. Do not put your guard down when you get to the other side. Motorbikes are also common on sidewalks. <br />
8. Go back to your regular heartbeat <br />
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Monkey Island, Halong Bay, Vietnam<br />
March 14, 2013<br />
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Chris and I just marked week two in Vietnam. It is both nothing and everything I expected it to be. It's incredibly crowded, fast,and signs of growth are all around. Quite frankly, I have been surprised as what was described to me as a "third world country" seems nothing like that at all. Ho Chi Minh (saigon) and Hanoi are bustling, extremely modernized gigantic cities, with everything any foreigner could ever want available. Language barriers prevent me from asking locals if they feel the same. Hanoi, the more international of the two, is covered with parks and lakes and tree lined boulevards. Tourism infrastructure is plentiful, in all budget classes. <br />
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We began our journey in Saigon, taking in the vibrant bustle of this Asian megalopolis. Impossible to see even a tiny fraction, we focused on what was nearby. Chris, who has never really been anywhere, was stymied by the traffic, and that we could be staying in a hotel in a small alley, a stones throw away from what we were told is the busiest intersection in Ho Chi Minh, and couldn't hear a thing. A highlight of visiting Saigon was watching the sunset from the Saigon Skydeck, 49 floors high, with windows around the entire floor. Once the sun went down, the city lights were on display. No ordinary city lights, but bridges with light shows, tall buildings with floating messages up the side. Truly remarkable. <br />
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After four nights in the bustle, we headed for a two day tour of the Mekong delta. We lucked out by booking a tour that left on a Sunday. We expected a giant tour bus to be picking us up. Instead, it was our guide, Thien, and our driver, in a small sedan. A personalized tour, on accident. Here, we visited craft makers villages, tropical fruit gardens, and a traditional floating market- one that actually wasn't designed for tourists. We saw how different foods were made, and stopped for tea about five times. The people of the Mekong were very hardworking, many living and working on their boats and rarely coming to land. So many things were reminiscent of the Mississippi. Down to some of the houses we saw along the riverside, where French influence is apparent, both in new and old architecture.<br />
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We then flew to Hue for a few days, taking another river trip to see the old citadel, similar in design and purpose of the forbidden city in Beijing, the tombs, complete with a motorbike ride, something I swore I would never do. From here we took a four hour bus rise to the tourist mecca and UNESCO heritage site of Hoi An, where we treated ourselves like kings. The ancient city of Hoi An is so atmospheric, especially by night. The city is along a small river, and a beautifully lit bridge connects different parts of town. The entire town is covered with glowing lanterns, and in the evenings, adorable children sell candles in colored paper bowls to float down the river, where you can take a small canoe through the beauty. Hoi An is also a place to have clothing custom made for you. Tailors dot every street, from handmade leather shoes, to wedding gowns and everything in between. We both ended up buying more than we thought, and left extremely satisfied. From here, we booked a flight to Hanoi but were delayed by one day so we decided to check out Danang, home to the famous China Beach. <br />
A large city without a true town center, we weren't particularly impressed. But the city is definitely progressing. Two gorgeous bridges are being built, and beachfront hotels are up and running at a rapid pace. In ten years, maybe this will be a place to be. But not yet. <br />
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Hanoi is busy like its southern city, but far older, cooler, and more international. At the moment, we are sitting on the beach at monkey island, in halong bay. We took an overnight cruise on a boat, with an extra night here on the island. Halong bay is beautiful, though crowded. This morning when the sum rose, I looked outside and saw about 25 ships, almost exactly like ours, docked in the bay with sleeping passengers. It was kind of like our own floating city.<br />
<br />
We are getting ready to leave Vietnam, to spend a week in Luang Prabang, Laos, and I look forward to seeing something different and being in a Buddhist area. Vietnam is a surprising mix if religions, and it's cultural heritage being influenced by so many different places. We have found people here very kind and warm. They seem over eager to please, and methinks its because of TripAdvisor. It becomes so important to be on the top of that list. When we check out hotels, we are immediately asked to post a review. Move over, Lonely Planet, there's a new kid in town! <br/><br/><div class="separator"style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEia2B9g9QQt1C3G424KmaPDYzFqzginOhVUp6FG9Vs5S9wYO8MJO49PvHC6D7p5_MZ7ERFvvwzYZEs9shdimtDpMPmTAd2bP6al1omLOUuIk3B12-Xyo7s0fwsZ15Kv7A6QuA6sbw/s640/blogger-image--337858106.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEia2B9g9QQt1C3G424KmaPDYzFqzginOhVUp6FG9Vs5S9wYO8MJO49PvHC6D7p5_MZ7ERFvvwzYZEs9shdimtDpMPmTAd2bP6al1omLOUuIk3B12-Xyo7s0fwsZ15Kv7A6QuA6sbw/s640/blogger-image--337858106.jpg" /></a></div> <br/><br/><div class="separator"style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj650hlaaxyfx9igfw80uTvOOSGd22FBB7QJls9x8uA4fT8BHosxwO5T8ht7WE9-lbUVqCJ4TEs4yUcC7YQ0aEKNUq89l7IS_aWNTJuQgnxffRO9O1f1mQIbwKeyu7mkohMDvneMQ/s640/blogger-image-2113559611.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj650hlaaxyfx9igfw80uTvOOSGd22FBB7QJls9x8uA4fT8BHosxwO5T8ht7WE9-lbUVqCJ4TEs4yUcC7YQ0aEKNUq89l7IS_aWNTJuQgnxffRO9O1f1mQIbwKeyu7mkohMDvneMQ/s640/blogger-image-2113559611.jpg" /></a></div> <br/><br/><div class="separator"style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOJyu67VBsGUnHoWnLWsx9Cbqq2yhSxqIgL_aMPW3ECGRXnidFd_DTfM9Ejk0IW68OUUqQXaaMSBZbRZqnIXvf4Mmp7iNdIiZk0me217L0nfshg9gPSLbg7cLXSpDsYGVUYdNjRA/s640/blogger-image-406566039.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOJyu67VBsGUnHoWnLWsx9Cbqq2yhSxqIgL_aMPW3ECGRXnidFd_DTfM9Ejk0IW68OUUqQXaaMSBZbRZqnIXvf4Mmp7iNdIiZk0me217L0nfshg9gPSLbg7cLXSpDsYGVUYdNjRA/s640/blogger-image-406566039.jpg" /></a></div> <br/><br/><div class="separator"style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfszidXmtIH_5pSW-PkSXvMOzsYr5JYSWOMahw4XOfsp3QwlPe7PoGpsCmuzoLUOb9mCpi8AxBa2Rcamtkh_ldsPRBq-pUWs7ZrV7wEaZu7rQjSslT5sU5WXWhNv1cd5asrx3TyQ/s640/blogger-image-875111497.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfszidXmtIH_5pSW-PkSXvMOzsYr5JYSWOMahw4XOfsp3QwlPe7PoGpsCmuzoLUOb9mCpi8AxBa2Rcamtkh_ldsPRBq-pUWs7ZrV7wEaZu7rQjSslT5sU5WXWhNv1cd5asrx3TyQ/s640/blogger-image-875111497.jpg" /></a></div> <br/><br/><div class="separator"style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjt451AczbPuM0N8fGH_ZMOp4JYHgsnFX1gPi1bw6dhQSR3zNrI5ZpkkbYiWO8x71xoZoKjKTDkJmqlHb709iHWnCM4Gialwy7ZUokwJ4tjFLbu2a8eQp-ygW-QLR5eBH0fXSpKpg/s640/blogger-image--1610877696.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjt451AczbPuM0N8fGH_ZMOp4JYHgsnFX1gPi1bw6dhQSR3zNrI5ZpkkbYiWO8x71xoZoKjKTDkJmqlHb709iHWnCM4Gialwy7ZUokwJ4tjFLbu2a8eQp-ygW-QLR5eBH0fXSpKpg/s640/blogger-image--1610877696.jpg" /></a></div> <br/><br/><div class="separator"style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjg1kA406-GuweVsUEDLnGLGi2Ph0k7npdMe9MQEPAEVR5tCCZ8ldmlMLjgIAVe44QfBcJMwHDgFyeiXt_4wbyJwyhJJit1DbRF9HwuNuX3GWDur1A61m1Lvm4X_c68RhppgI0VDQ/s640/blogger-image--625192262.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjg1kA406-GuweVsUEDLnGLGi2Ph0k7npdMe9MQEPAEVR5tCCZ8ldmlMLjgIAVe44QfBcJMwHDgFyeiXt_4wbyJwyhJJit1DbRF9HwuNuX3GWDur1A61m1Lvm4X_c68RhppgI0VDQ/s640/blogger-image--625192262.jpg" /></a></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12299860.post-25889219078085103912013-01-21T21:26:00.001-08:002013-02-03T20:35:54.090-08:00There's no place like homeEspecially when home is New Orleans. <br />
<br />
Old, rickety yet decadent, history and booze laced, New Orleans can be overstimulating. Intoxicating. Utterly exhausting. <br />
<br />
My obsession with the city waxes and wanes, but my love never wavers. I love her most when I can't decide if I'm ready to be here forever, or if I think I should leave tomorrow. Or next week. Or maybe after jazz fest. <br />
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That's the thing. New Orleans gives and gives, a series of events strung together, beckoning people to be part of the festivities. It doesn't matter who you bring or don't bring, as the entire city is at the same great party. Even when they don't know it. It's not uncommon for people to visit New Orleans for an event like Mardi Gras, and cancel their flights and stay through Jazz Fest. Or move to the city indefinitely. <br />
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I fell in love with New Orleans during my second visit from California. The slower pace, and social ease resonated well with me, as did the incredible music scene. I was there for my spring break, and contemplated staying an extra week for French Quarter Fest. As a teacher, of course I couldn't. But when I returned to work that first Monday, hearts still floating out of my eyes, I had a speech prepared for the following year's Jazz Fest. <br />
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The speech went like this:<br />
Me: How was your trip to Paris?<br />
<br />
Principal: It was so fantastic (insert romantic details about a lovely symphony here). How was your trip to New Orleans?<br />
<br />
Me, in exactly one breath: It was amazing and I want to go to jazz fest next year, the whole 12 days and I know it's right before testing so it's a bad week to take off but I will make sure the kids are prepared and the sub knows exactly what to do, what do you think?<br />
<br />
Principal: I think we can make that work <br />
**note- most principals aren't this cool, and it helps to ask when said principal is on a romantic vacation high!<br />
<br />
Unfortunately, Hurricane Katrina hit New Orleans five months later. This changed my plans. <br />
<br />
It changed everyone's plans. <br />
<br />
When Jazz Fest rolled around again during the spring of 2006, I wasn't sure if it was appropriate to go. I asked my friend, an evacuee who I had housed for a while in the fall through moveon.org, what he thought. And he told me exactly what I already knew after the horrible Asian tsunami the year prior to Katrina. <br />
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Go. Spend money. Spread it around. Enjoy it. <br />
<br />
I did. We did. It was an extremely difficult time for the city, and signs of the storm were still everywhere. <br />
<br />
But those little cartoon hearts were still flying out of my eyes. That was the last weekend of April. I was back in June. Twice in July. Once in August, and back again in September signing the papers on a note for a condo just outside the French quarter. In hindsight, I probably should have sublet an apartment for the summer. But committing to this sultry city didn't seem plausible then. <br />
<br />
Six months later, I came to New Orleans for two months. It's been five and a half years since then. <br />
<br />
You can see how that worked out. <br />
<br />
The city has changed a lot since I moved here. NOLA's greatest supporters will complain about the change, while simultaneously encouraging friends from different places to come and be part of it. Locals sometimes naysay the out-of-towners moving in. Locals who mainly came from somewhere else, at some other time, when others were complaining about them moving in from far away places changing what was then New Orleans. Though change is a bit slower in these parts, it is inevitable, and I believe New Orleans will always be different than the rest of the USA's cities. Tennessee Williams wrote years ago "America has only three cities: New York, San Francisco, and New Orleans. Everywhere else is Cleveland."<br />
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Both Caribbean and European aesthetically, linguistically, and culturally, one often feels it is not a part of the United States at all. We still have fruit peddlers driving down the dilapidated one way streets, bellowing through a megaphone out the window, "I've got watermelon. I've got corn. I've got eatin' pears. I've got the mango." A woman walks down the roads with a rolling crate full of pies, singing, "pie lady pie lady pie lady!" Social Aid and Pleasure clubs, a remnant from the benevolent societies in the 1800's, have second line parades every Sunday from Labor Day through Memorial Day with brass bands and people dancing in their finest fines, for miles and miles. If that isn't enough, twice a year we are blessed with Super Sunday, devoted to the Mardi Gras Indians parading themselves in their beautifully handcrafted and intricate beaded suits. <br />
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New Orleans is a feast for all senses, and the first place I've lived where I feel a sense of loss when I leave. I never tire of the colorful architecture, the incredible culture, the creative people. Every year I learn more and more, and unravel yet another layer of this mysterious and fascinating place. <br />
<br />
I quit my job this year and rented out my condo to go have some epic adventures around the globe. They've been delayed and organized a bit differently than I imagined, but amazing nonetheless. For about three weeks I was certain I would be leaving for a job in Africa, so I booked a few days back home in Nola just as the more local Mardi Gras events were starting. Both the travel abroad and the visit home gave me such pleasure in knowing I had chosen the right city to call home. I think I cried at least five times, knowing I was, indeed, leaving again. When I used to deal with homesick children at sleep away camp I would tell them that it was ok to miss their moms and still have fun at the same time. And that their moms loved them and missed them, too, but were so happy they were enjoying themselves at camp. I'm operating on my own advice. It's ok to miss New Orleans and enjoy some time away from it at the same time. She knows I love her, and I know she loves me. After all, home is where the heart is, and I'm lucky enough to have heart in many many places. So until I return it's ok to miss her and continue on my adventure. <br />
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Carry on. <br />
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<br />
Crossing state lines was a huge adventure for us. Like holding our breath through tunnels, it had its traditions also. We lifted our feet and held our breath and made a wish- all at the same time. The five-year-old's version of multitasking. Sometimes we would stop at the CalNeva hotel and go for a swim in their pool, which had a thick black line painted at the bottom of it, indicating the border of the two states. We would stand in the pool with one foot on each side, confused at how this was possible. <br />
<br />
One of these road trips to Tahoe was taken in a pretty big rainstorm. I was about 8 years old. Weather reports said it would rain for three days in California- that's what my dad told us. I pictured the shape of the state that I had drawn in school, and imagined a giant raincloud hovering over it. Over the Bay Bridge it rained. Through the foothills of the east bay, it rained. Across the Central Valley? Rain. When we started climbing up the Sierra foothills it was still raining. As kids, we didn't necessarily have a concept of four hours, but because of the terrain, we knew when we were getting close. Those gigantic silver rocks and the immediate quiet that comes with them told us we were almost there. So did the popping of our ears and dad telling us the story of the Donner Party for the umpteenth time. Over the summit, it was still raining. <br />
<br />
"I can't wait to get to Nevada so it will stop raining," I said.<br />
<br />
I'm not sure if anyone heard me. If they did, they didn't answer. <br />
<br />
Taking the turn from Truckee to the Lake, it was still raining and I wondered if it would ever stop. We were getting awfully close to the border, it had to at least lighten up. I imagined how it would look crossing the state line- pouring rain in California, dry and sunny in Nevada. Would it be like driving through a waterfall?<br />
<br />
I got really excited when I saw the CalNeva in the distance. Surely there would be a V-shaped line where the sun would shine, like the V-shaped border on the east side of California where the lake is -the one I drew in class. We saw the gold miner on the sign saying Welcome to Nevada- The Silver State (which confused me even then). My brother, Devin, and I held our breaths, lifted our feet, made a wish. I even closed my eyes hoping when I opened them and we were in Nevada it would be warm and sunny. Of course, when I opened them in Crystal Bay, in Nevada, it was still pouring.<br />
<br />
I was so confused. <br />
<br />
Crossing the frontera between Nicaragua and Costa Rica was sort of like that. Terry from Canada drove me to the Nicaraguan side. I had to first walk to the exit counter and pay the exit tax, then to the stamp counter and pay another tax, and then there was a hot dusty mile of No Man's Land between the exit of Nicaragua and the entrance to Costa Rica. Usually there is some sort of a tuk tuk or a guy with a bike or a wheelbarrow to shuttle you or at least your luggage across No Man's Land. Not on this day. I walked it with my stupid bag I purchased without wheels or a back strap and I daydreamed about the Mecca that would greet me when I got to the border, knowing that Costa Rica was much much wealthier and more stable than it's northern neighbor. Clean bathrooms, clean food, would I see vegetables? Green ones? I remembered my first visit 15 years prior, and the lush lush jungle. Nicaragua was so dry and brown, I imagined walking into Eden. <br />
<br />
20 minutes later I arrived at the Costa Rican entry. There were bathrooms and boy were they clean! There was a soda (cafeteria) inside the waiting area with what looked like delicious food. There was even a luggage X-ray machine! But, of course, the landscape was exactly the same as it had been a mile north. It wasn't Eden. <br />
<br />
It wasn't even Modesto. <br />
<br />
<br />
With the amount of time I spend pouring over maps, you'd think I would have figured out that political borders often have nothing to do with physical ones. But sometimes, I'm still 8, with the imagination and excitement that comes with it. I think I'm ok with that. <br/><br/><div class="separator"style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzjbjvXgb7P_w4siaidjDsd6yKG8QwznIbllFPMO8rcErASLlS99C8KK74Gxn0VW3ivPkeIqYC2YOC-GsxI9Q9Z3G-noWzS1gF_mdKIWKU5SPBfpAKxvORAMwjiZJ7W4Ism8uhZA/s640/blogger-image--569616092.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzjbjvXgb7P_w4siaidjDsd6yKG8QwznIbllFPMO8rcErASLlS99C8KK74Gxn0VW3ivPkeIqYC2YOC-GsxI9Q9Z3G-noWzS1gF_mdKIWKU5SPBfpAKxvORAMwjiZJ7W4Ism8uhZA/s640/blogger-image--569616092.jpg" /></a></div> <br/><br/><div class="separator"style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg73cuBazfhwfC3ycQNaX8NDT_hTp8qV93GukLybmZ2VyjbbpsOcqbRLDQjyE9N-GM-12cvNNoCxKXaHe4qvxVZMjjtYLa3OkQIrVMTUYHeIWnNYAMyoU2D7xb4VifNB2B0YdHIZQ/s640/blogger-image-1686945308.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg73cuBazfhwfC3ycQNaX8NDT_hTp8qV93GukLybmZ2VyjbbpsOcqbRLDQjyE9N-GM-12cvNNoCxKXaHe4qvxVZMjjtYLa3OkQIrVMTUYHeIWnNYAMyoU2D7xb4VifNB2B0YdHIZQ/s640/blogger-image-1686945308.jpg" /></a></div> <br/><br/><div class="separator"style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjoAKA98m6WtT7JDJfKDjqjtROt4VGVFl4xSZQf7_LQ_EhGO2uoAbmoHcD-NBqHW4ANdlNW7ecYyHD4uvAuEC8hRZWLzh7nDmFnuSiJ9Haf3sqSPCfrizoTpV-vUiumX1OdIx19FQ/s640/blogger-image--780583515.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjoAKA98m6WtT7JDJfKDjqjtROt4VGVFl4xSZQf7_LQ_EhGO2uoAbmoHcD-NBqHW4ANdlNW7ecYyHD4uvAuEC8hRZWLzh7nDmFnuSiJ9Haf3sqSPCfrizoTpV-vUiumX1OdIx19FQ/s640/blogger-image--780583515.jpg" /></a></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12299860.post-1362677947808886822012-12-29T21:43:00.001-08:002013-01-12T12:49:45.229-08:00Maybe Jesus Has a WedgieE: what's that over there?<br />
L: that's Jesus overlooking the city<br />
E:Jesus? You sure it isn't San Juan? He should be the patron saint. <br />
L: no, it's a statue of Jesus. A personal gift from some rich guy <br />
E: interesting. How come he only has one arm?<br />
L: one arm? Oh, you just can't see the other one at night. <br />
E: where is it? Is it behind his back?<br />
L: I don't know! Maybe Jesus has a wedgie!<br />
<br />
Conversation while had in the car on the dirt road from the expatriot subdivision to the tiny very hip downtown of San Juan del Canada. I mean, San Juan del Sur. <br />
<br />
It's nice here at the beach. Especially after some hard travel in Nicaragua. My inner Princess and the Pea has invited herself to my Central American adventure. I'm not proud of this. But I can't seem to shake her. <br />
<br />
Maybe it's the nights being eaten by mosquitos. Or the lack of power and running water on more than a few occasions. Maybe it was the Star Wars sheets and Harry Potter pillowcase. I don't know. But she's here and she's really bugging me. I want her to leave the same way I want to get away from 22 year olds playing drinking games. But I'm stuck with her. <br />
<br />
The final straw was in Ometepe. I hitched a ride with aforementioned 22 year olds in a collective taxi for the two hour drive on dirt roads back to the port. I should mention Ometepe is an island made of two volcanoes perched in lake Nicaragua. Stunning. We are on the base of the smaller of the two volcanos. Much farther than I imagined was possible from the ferry port.<br />
<br />
There were 7 of us. Room for 9. In Central America, room for 14. Two more wanted to join. It was the right thing to do. We were in a remote area, quite expensive and time consuming to get back to 'civilization'. Stupid couple didn't want their oversized backpacks on top of the van. A surprise coming from stupid couple bragging about the year they are spending in Latin America, and stupid couple that didn't agree on a price before we all piled in the van. They won't budge. And they are being quite rude about it. I WANT to be passive aggressive, and say that I will stick back with the extra two and share a cab with them. But Inner Princess can't imagine another two hours at this hole of a hotel. Inner Princess wants everyone to be happy and get in the effin van. So that everyone can be where they need to be- the exact same place, in the exact same car for the exact same price. <br />
<br />
Things works themselves out and I am thrilled to be complimented on my small backpack. Carry-on size to be exact. <br />
<br />
We end up at the port but I can't leave for another day so I book myself a hotel in "civilization". With hot water, even. From the wall, not the electric contraption hanging on the shower head that could be misconstrued as a suicide attempt if not wearing rubber soled shoes in the shower. No AC, which I hardly notice anymore, but Inner Princess is still quite pleased. Especially because there's a laundry lady next door. This is the first time in over three weeks that I've seen a laundry lady. It's been sink laundry for a bit which was fine until my amazing trip to Río San Juan where I caked my belongings in rainforest mud. Quite a souvenir. <br />
<br />
I'm told there is even a dryer! A strange concept in, well, most countries in the world. This means my pants might fit for the first time in a month. Inner Princess is pleased. I take a chicken bus journey to some supposed to be amazing hot springs that takes me almost three hours and involves holding a baby in an overcrowded bus- even by Central American standards- while I listen to the bus helper swear at the backpackers insistent on wearing their packs in the bus (a theme apparently) not realizing how this affects the locals. Remember them, backpackers? The ones that live here and just worked all day for a dollar and need to get home to their families?<br />
<br />
By the time I arrive it's almost time to leave. Fortunately there is a trio walking out as I do and I am bold. "Hey, did you all drive here?" I ask, in English, and the words roll around in my mouth like rocks.<br />
<br />
Yes, they drove. And instead of dropping me at the fork in the road, I'm driven the entire hour back to "civilization" by a Managuan living in North Carolina, visiting home for the holidays. <br />
<br />
I walk back to the hotel, inwardly excited at being able to pick up a truly clean load of laundry. I bring it back to my room with hot water. It's folded beautifully, my very small bag of clothes. I inspect my pants and there is absolutely no sign of mud. So I put them on. And suddenly I feel like I'm 7 and start yanking them off of me. <br />
They stink. <br />
I know this smell. It brings a memory of being in Yosemite, stuck in Yosemite because of the forest fires. <br />
And then I want to gag. Because I know this smell. It's the toxic smell of burning trash, plastic trash. My clothes weren't put in a dryer. But they were hung outside over a fire- over burning trash- to dry quickly to appear that they indeed use one. <br />
I'm immediately deflated. And Inner Princess isn't pleased. She wishes I was more of a girly girl and had more than the carry-on bag that I was so proud of several hours ago. Just for today. I take a shallow breath, as a deep one may make me sick- and seal them very tightly in a plastic bag. <br />
<br />
The next morning I take the ferry back to the mainland where Terry from Canada, a friend of a friend, is waiting for me. He takes me to his beautiful home in San Juan and Inner Princess is appeased. The first thing I do when I get there is put on my bathing suit and wash every single cloth item in my backpack, in a proper washing machine. I notice almost immediately how I have come to use the word 'proper' on this trip. Grocery stores, beds, wash machines, wifi, showers. Proper. Is this like the word 'torch' or 'holiday'? Am I picking up European travel words, or am I just being high maintenance?<br />
<br />
Originally San Juan del Sur was not on my list. Touted as a touristy party town, I just didn't see the draw vs price tag. My Kiwi friend Sophie, who I met my very first day on this trip in Guatemala, came here weeks ago planning on a three night stay. I found out later that afternoon that she was on night 15, and I could sort of understand why. Especially after a few hard weeks traveling in the second poorest country in the Western Hemisphere. <br />
There's surfing. A lot of it. And yoga, which means there's access to good food. A direct correlation, actually. And there is a lot of it. The pace is nice. The amenities are comfortable without disregarding the fact that you're in a foreign country (except that its clearly a Canadian snowbird town). It's pretty. Slow. And of course there's Jesus looking over the town. In the daytime, it's clear there is no wedgie, and both of his arms are visible. I'm thrilled to hang out with Sophie again for the third accidental time in the last two months. What did we do without Facebook? Without proper wifi?<br />
<br />
My wonderful Canadian host took me to the Costa Rican border today. My first border crossing not in a tourist shuttle. Took two busses once I crossed into Costa Rica, none with crazy paint, music, stickers, or babies in my lap. Apparently the more advanced a country is, the less interesting it is culturally. I want to snicker at Inner Princess about this.<br />
<br />
Now I'm in Playas del Coco with other friends, and AC to boot. Inner Princess went to a proper grocery today. There were rice noodles. And green things. I cooked for myself. Inner Princess is pleased. <br />
<br />
There's yoga here, so I'll be eating well. The smell of burning trash is still present. A reminder that I'm still in Central America and should pay attention to how my backpack affects the locals. Because everything everywhere affects the locals.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br/><br/><div class="separator"style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHA5YtD4O3tmLVhjKjbdoT6Vcu-uLtl-cLqtdZb1p0HDHW91b9JbtzoSNGISxeynmT6IpGdw63PZxWknRpCFfoas5gUeBtyDQQulSHge0XXQpXFh93pGkfMKxl6obE9CeBwFYx5w/s640/blogger-image--691593469.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHA5YtD4O3tmLVhjKjbdoT6Vcu-uLtl-cLqtdZb1p0HDHW91b9JbtzoSNGISxeynmT6IpGdw63PZxWknRpCFfoas5gUeBtyDQQulSHge0XXQpXFh93pGkfMKxl6obE9CeBwFYx5w/s640/blogger-image--691593469.jpg" /></a></div> <br/><br/><div class="separator"style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwlsXXD3fZ3Wa0BuqjuGpaS58cny4ako-s6TWx1y0gqgj55lsLPJ0fY4mQnMAeA2LpX-1xd8ITAepdusQSD-V2Vw9EPf8UjXAxGCJvCE7OFkjH1ybWngoID576YpB_K54uGqTSSQ/s640/blogger-image--878697492.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwlsXXD3fZ3Wa0BuqjuGpaS58cny4ako-s6TWx1y0gqgj55lsLPJ0fY4mQnMAeA2LpX-1xd8ITAepdusQSD-V2Vw9EPf8UjXAxGCJvCE7OFkjH1ybWngoID576YpB_K54uGqTSSQ/s640/blogger-image--878697492.jpg" /></a></div> <br/><br/><div class="separator"style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1fHLl71LxdCftuytBHmx9ttWBCOd9MZlc6WxxrSix9OhD83w5EQdrjtqbwqFbTz0OGbOxz7eJUPKa7C4LpCiARVPP3v50t0q-s5156OlcqKf4y9cSKsky1aAVaT2IFsf6CQVmQw/s640/blogger-image-60177137.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1fHLl71LxdCftuytBHmx9ttWBCOd9MZlc6WxxrSix9OhD83w5EQdrjtqbwqFbTz0OGbOxz7eJUPKa7C4LpCiARVPP3v50t0q-s5156OlcqKf4y9cSKsky1aAVaT2IFsf6CQVmQw/s640/blogger-image-60177137.jpg" /></a></div> <br/><br/><div class="separator"style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEia4kblPvNgqhZnITJ7wgnpJPOlRtWIhptd5IOp10XErkod2vDZ7u7ftBkVAA93xnT3xByL6aIFzRuidOV7ZhmIfQsdxVq4Tl5sjd6krz6s9UZfFVPctLoF1vjenfsMo6zOK-Qo2Q/s640/blogger-image-2104538066.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEia4kblPvNgqhZnITJ7wgnpJPOlRtWIhptd5IOp10XErkod2vDZ7u7ftBkVAA93xnT3xByL6aIFzRuidOV7ZhmIfQsdxVq4Tl5sjd6krz6s9UZfFVPctLoF1vjenfsMo6zOK-Qo2Q/s640/blogger-image-2104538066.jpg" /></a></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12299860.post-62942426814140379172012-12-25T07:59:00.001-08:002012-12-25T07:59:49.539-08:00On second thoughtFive nights in the Corn Islands was fascinating. Eventually I got up the nerve to boat out to Little Corn for a day trip. The maturity of the jungle was absolutely mind boggling. There are no cars or motorbikes on the island. Just walking trails, wheelbarrows, horses and bicycles. <br />
<br />
Touristy but not lacking culture. Not as authentic as Big Corn, but much more beautiful. I mean the water is stunning from anywhere but the actual beaches were pristine. <br />
<br />
And there was yoga. Which means there was clean, delicious food. And fresh coffee. I didn't feel the need for pizza. So I went back to Big Corn, packed my bags and left the next day to spend a night on the island. It was extremely rustic and expensive, but an experience that's worth it. <br />
<br />
The night before I left Little Corn, I booked a flight, without a map or a plan, to San Carlos to travel down the Rio San Juan, which is the border between Nicaragua and Costa Rica. It's advertised as being similar to the Amazon, and the most pristine wilderness of all of Central America. <br />
<br />
9 seater plane with only two other passengers. Wow. Dirt landing strip. Whoa. <br />
<br />
The Río San Juan was a magical place. From the tiny plane I took a lancha to my hotel- Hotel Sabalos, about an hour east. The hotel is perched over the river and the views were astounding. For three beautiful days, I went to sleep to the sound of frogs and woke up to the sound of howler monkeys. I awoke before dawn to tour the river wildlife. Three types of monkeys, river otters, more birds than I could begin to describe. Different types of frogs, lizards, bats. So far, it is the highlight of my time in Nicaragua. <br />
<br />
It's Christmas Day and I am on isla de ometepe. It took me 16 hours to get here from San Carlos. It's an island comprised of two volcanoes, one still active, in the middle of Lake Nicaragua. It's pretty. Isolated. Rustic. There are no busses running today so I ventured out of my crappy hotel to find somewhere nice to land for a few hours. Hiked 6 hours to a waterfall and back yesterday off of one of the two volcanoes. <br />
Looking forward to heading to San Juan del Sur tomorrow and then to finishing my trip in Costa Rica. <br />
<br />
Maybe when I'm a little more comfortable I will be able to write something more entertaining than a report of where I am. <br />
Merry Xmas to all who celebrate. <br />
Peacd <br/><br/><div class="separator"style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiji7ymmwROBYbBCnnDYduuSuzRf_usc2cinvC2h93qaG84q8Bb3w86zLLLa1Gxih9td2N6T-xpZUZrloNKm-g7Gj-VW36giv8vpv04zl_wc3_uh8-8V1niM2d7lKXinW59aWZF9A/s640/blogger-image--114355449.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiji7ymmwROBYbBCnnDYduuSuzRf_usc2cinvC2h93qaG84q8Bb3w86zLLLa1Gxih9td2N6T-xpZUZrloNKm-g7Gj-VW36giv8vpv04zl_wc3_uh8-8V1niM2d7lKXinW59aWZF9A/s640/blogger-image--114355449.jpg" /></a></div> <br/><br/><div class="separator"style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi41Rj0diuwHBJgzlbc-RdwhUPvbQG6FS2vI0xXEtDt-K18JFItgh6diORIFlRf5hopNsj7WXBesiu-hhtKrLRTjN8UqJzmIcrPe8KGqT3PFgaj4EQ62FqhzS3eMSbUC0gj6ehN7A/s640/blogger-image--1619491825.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi41Rj0diuwHBJgzlbc-RdwhUPvbQG6FS2vI0xXEtDt-K18JFItgh6diORIFlRf5hopNsj7WXBesiu-hhtKrLRTjN8UqJzmIcrPe8KGqT3PFgaj4EQ62FqhzS3eMSbUC0gj6ehN7A/s640/blogger-image--1619491825.jpg" /></a></div> <br/><br/><div class="separator"style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfsh8gnUWv9wR9qJ6E_7rGBrNR7KNZA0WyoVcpbHqe37EwFAp6-Wfq9oQMYbKux2nGomNlNfwl0B6v5OUIH8JaKd9Uf_ZwG9Z9rHQZBWWwGb1LaXUMIKc-QxobAUlEzlpD5T-OjA/s640/blogger-image--173492026.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfsh8gnUWv9wR9qJ6E_7rGBrNR7KNZA0WyoVcpbHqe37EwFAp6-Wfq9oQMYbKux2nGomNlNfwl0B6v5OUIH8JaKd9Uf_ZwG9Z9rHQZBWWwGb1LaXUMIKc-QxobAUlEzlpD5T-OjA/s640/blogger-image--173492026.jpg" /></a></div> <br/><br/><div class="separator"style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibGEOjsbB-Fx3KjoPz75yfV4O_XJFB2MuJejvDeuPVwu46b37ij-pgoBtRl7jPMD8KA7-ASww8fS5lxxrXOpZflKtH52uvQHnABd8BBiUXlfrVClR_SXSaoPqbWmfpRIdeh1Cn7Q/s640/blogger-image-1007050091.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibGEOjsbB-Fx3KjoPz75yfV4O_XJFB2MuJejvDeuPVwu46b37ij-pgoBtRl7jPMD8KA7-ASww8fS5lxxrXOpZflKtH52uvQHnABd8BBiUXlfrVClR_SXSaoPqbWmfpRIdeh1Cn7Q/s640/blogger-image-1007050091.jpg" /></a></div> <br/><br/><div class="separator"style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjn4MQAtcUHnUKRKb_nvkOSRjfAf3owvNrWEFVWMPKx365HbcOy7lHKG_hGttHaN8IXjjhcb-wdOYVspXgk2fMFO3wVYAGVlr_8BlW-TmgykDsHjnyGXpFgzEEVcJ-IKSfDTYEjeQ/s640/blogger-image--2076010118.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjn4MQAtcUHnUKRKb_nvkOSRjfAf3owvNrWEFVWMPKx365HbcOy7lHKG_hGttHaN8IXjjhcb-wdOYVspXgk2fMFO3wVYAGVlr_8BlW-TmgykDsHjnyGXpFgzEEVcJ-IKSfDTYEjeQ/s640/blogger-image--2076010118.jpg" /></a></div> <br/><br/><div class="separator"style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmEAZHdjT5dhLyZvAz9JoWLI_sArMo5FIOFyfQ0Y5B4PkJ-gZIR4v7WT4XfHdtLN7a40jQXDRP-ggXqP5q4JUraXBtV8vSRvQ2FTnDtpIkouJgRrBDOZnJi66TaC8nW7AX8Or2MA/s640/blogger-image-338150367.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmEAZHdjT5dhLyZvAz9JoWLI_sArMo5FIOFyfQ0Y5B4PkJ-gZIR4v7WT4XfHdtLN7a40jQXDRP-ggXqP5q4JUraXBtV8vSRvQ2FTnDtpIkouJgRrBDOZnJi66TaC8nW7AX8Or2MA/s640/blogger-image-338150367.jpg" /></a></div> <br/><br/><div class="separator"style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCSXKJYMXw69u4y7sCFGmKvr3g_cXwJi_EkfFDIUmQtbGOWas7mwer9btwRKHIPQxY_zSY26liQlI9zNH54pgeI3Nz1iVPcwQYs67WnhhLdjOMQQo9yuRicXWMu7C-3rK59AM-og/s640/blogger-image--1667973590.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCSXKJYMXw69u4y7sCFGmKvr3g_cXwJi_EkfFDIUmQtbGOWas7mwer9btwRKHIPQxY_zSY26liQlI9zNH54pgeI3Nz1iVPcwQYs67WnhhLdjOMQQo9yuRicXWMu7C-3rK59AM-og/s640/blogger-image--1667973590.jpg" /></a></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12299860.post-83331049006818404002012-12-16T17:48:00.001-08:002012-12-17T05:46:51.244-08:00Nicaragua: first thoughtsI've gotten laZy. Some may call it safe- I've been taking tourist shuttles between countries when I can. It is more expensive but expedites the passport process at both borders and the numerous 'tramites', as well as the chicken bus hopping. It also means a guaranteed seat with nobody handing me their baby, and a place to put my luggage (even if it's still outside and I'm never convinced it will end up in the same place I do). There are downsides to this, aside from having to be wanting to go exactly where they're going. There are no fried plantain or chicken vendors, no soap salesmen, nobody carrying machetes with gentle smiles, nobody reading the bible or trying to convince you to buy their lightbulbs. There are definitely not any singing clowns. But alas, nor are there bandits with guns, banda music playing at ear splitting volumes, or borrachos telling me only Latinos are allowed on the bus (this only happened once and he was annoying but harmless).<br />
Some people think its safer, and it probably is. But I take them because I'm lazy. And because the difference between 14$ and 45$ doesn't mean I have to eat ramen for a week, or not bring fresh food home to my children. I take the easy way because I can, but I never for a second turn my knowledge or my heart away from the 90% of the generous people who live here that don't have this choice. <br />
<br />
Our shuttle picked us up in northwestern El Salvador, and drove 10 hours across the Honduran and Nicaraguan border. The difference in the quality of the roads was almost immediate during the three hours of highway driving in Honduras. Pot holes bigger and more plentiful than I've seen in New Orleans (how sad to use this as a viable example), horses and bulls in the roads. As it got dark, not one light helped our exhausted driver through the labyrinth. Once at the Nicaraguan border, our van was sprayed with something toxic, trying to stop the spread of some pig-borne pathogen, and the roads cleaned up again to our final destination. <br />
<br />
Truth be told, I came to Leon knowing I wasn't going to like it. I don't remember what it was that I'd read or seen or heard. I do recall thinking I'd probably love the people in this extremely progressive (for Latin America) town, and was prepared for the heat. But I wasn't prepared for La Griteria. <br />
<br />
Now I love love love experiencing cultural holidays in the places they originate. I love learning about the food and the emotion and the special ins and outs that there are. I love a good party, and a display of fireworks. But three days of oppressive heat and never-ending fireworks had me on edge. The people were just as interesting or even moreso (see "guerrilla" post. Learned so much from the tour guides who grew up in the war) than I imagined. Having kitchen access brought me to tears as I was able to eat vegetables every single meal. Listening to the singing that was rampant in the doorways of homes presenting altars to the Virgin was fascinating. But those dang fireworks NEVER stopped. I found myself fantasizing about Earthlodge and a treehouse by myself. Somewhere I could sleep more than two or three hours at a time. <br />
<br />
I did have wonderful Santa Cruz companions and a Kiwi friend I'd met at earthlodge a month prior in town at the same time which made Leon a fantastic stop. And an indulgent sushi experience with all of them. But I was ready to move. <br />
<br />
I got myself all worked up and headed north to Matagalpa, in hopes I could find a finca in the cloud forest to just have a little peace. Was I still enjoying myself? Yes. But I needed a recharge. <br />
I took the bus to Matagalpa, checked into my hostel and slept. All day. I emailed every finca haven in the area and most were booked so I stayed in the hostel another day. There was nothing of any interest directly in town so I pretty much stuck around the hostel and ate pizza. A lot of pizza. I don't particularly like pizza, but as a vegetarian in a completely non-touristy developing country town, and after a few questionable meals, pizza is safe. <br />
<br />
And then the most amazing thing happened. I was walking in from a pizza meal and there were two girls sitting on the couch. They weren't sleeping in my dorm so I hadn't met them yet. As I walked past, One of them spoke English in the most beautiful accent I'd heard in a while, "the Saints game should be on this channel." Louisiana. I backed up slowly and said, "Saints game?" and joined them on the couch. The two women were Peace Corps volunteers, taking a breather after a meeting in Managua. One was from Northern Louisiana, but last lived in nola, the other from NYC. We spent the rest of the day eating yet more pizza, drinking beer and watching football- well, pretending to watch football, really. It was really fun, but I was ready to move forward. So I took a bus to Granada, hoping my previous travel companions were still in town. <br />
<br />
They were not, but it was no bother. Granada was every bit as colonial and international as I expected it to be. Antigua about 20 years ago. Clean(ish) streets, renovated and/or restored colonial buildings that made New Orleans' high ceilings wince with jealousy. Horse drawn carriages, both elegant and rustic, a main plaza so beautiful it seemed unreal. Gardens and ancient doorways that would make even the most modern of modernists swoon. <br />
<br />
Expatriates. Hundreds of them. Mostly retirees, and I could hear myself saying ... Yeah, this is good. Aesthetic. Clean. International. Hot weather. Close to the beach and the mountains. <br />
<br />
And then I noticed most were single men in their 70's, or hard lived 60's. Many of them with much much MUCH younger Nicaraguan women. Girls. All of my heart wants to "go into that." But I will stop there. Many people don't notice this. They're lucky. <br />
<br />
Granada is stunning and so much lies within twenty minutes of it, it makes a perfect base camp. Like wandering the streets of a preserved colonial city isn't enough to be grateful for, two volcanoes overlook the city. I've only explored one, Mambacho, which was like a fairy tail of jungle trails leading to views of Lake Nicaragua, smoking volcano Masaya, the city of Granada, the collapsed crater of another volcano now a warm water lake, Laguna de Apoyo. <br />
<br />
I spent the next two nights in a cabana with an outdoor shower and bathroom at this lake. The first night there, I got all the sleep I needed, tucked inside a fancy mosquito net, listening to geckos make unfathomably loud noises for such small creatures and me saying to the night sky, "that's right! Now do your job."<br />
<br />
The second night was more of the same Central American noise I am really really trying to accept and get used to. Club music from across the lake pumped up to such volumes I truly don't understand how any of them have their hearing intact. Maybe they don't and that's why the music is so loud. Who knows. <br />
<br />
The taxi picked me up from the lovely resort on the lake and took me to the airport, with a break for a flat tire on the highway in Managua- what's a story without a story? And now I am blogging from my Caribbean bungalow 40 miles offshore at Big Corn Island. Rich in culture, English speaking black creole replaces Spanish, though I find myself sometimes wanting them to speak Spanish instead, as the Caribbean cadence sings its way through my brain, only half understood. On the other hand I want to listen to it for hours, studying word choice.<br />
Him go to the party. <br />
S'good.<br />
Aright. <br />
How ya mama en em?<br />
I see more now why people say New Orleans is so Caribbean in nature. Though much more impoverished, in many ways I feel like I'm home. There was a funeral today for a young man who took his own life after his wife left him. Most of the island went to the funeral. They drove and marched past my divorcee bungalow, carrying umbrellas like a second line. But silent. It was a beautiful sight. <br />
<br />
Originally I planned on going to Little Corn island, 7 miles away by sea, with no roads or cars. An idyllic paradise. Rough seas has me thinking twice. As does knowing the island is completely tourist centered. Though this isn't necessarily a bad thing. <br />
<br />
To be honest, I'm kind of craving pizza. <br />
<br/><br/><div class="separator"style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNT9VCEhtM6TfqA8Ta0fClIHIwgYGW4LuazlohT8fXrhwFa12rYT2cWEBkL8tCevGNS6Hj_Pl_LMSWw4Bx0NdqWmFNrB2JyZ_3TbcrBVls4zOa5TMCFMxK6XsLqk6Rxo49qH2vbw/s640/blogger-image-1450360785.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNT9VCEhtM6TfqA8Ta0fClIHIwgYGW4LuazlohT8fXrhwFa12rYT2cWEBkL8tCevGNS6Hj_Pl_LMSWw4Bx0NdqWmFNrB2JyZ_3TbcrBVls4zOa5TMCFMxK6XsLqk6Rxo49qH2vbw/s640/blogger-image-1450360785.jpg" /></a></div> <br/><br/><div class="separator"style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPQYbSfr1PxVKAoHbgPJskEv95ob1BcFAqN78HWJFirtGnQu6skeammKhijMW3rBNiJrEJvL_sFFrQBBS85jgyKpXx9sHIwii3CL4s9P5Zk3Xo6taVMfJeHUyZQb0SZfuZcebUNQ/s640/blogger-image-587091454.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPQYbSfr1PxVKAoHbgPJskEv95ob1BcFAqN78HWJFirtGnQu6skeammKhijMW3rBNiJrEJvL_sFFrQBBS85jgyKpXx9sHIwii3CL4s9P5Zk3Xo6taVMfJeHUyZQb0SZfuZcebUNQ/s640/blogger-image-587091454.jpg" /></a></div> <br/><br/><div class="separator"style="clear: both; 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<br />
He wasn't talking about bad hair or Duran Duran. Gael is a professor at a university in Georgia, and this was his response to my question, "when did you move to the states?"<br />
<br />
That thing that happened in the 80's, (and in the 90's) is apparent everywhere that I have been in Central America. Contras, Sandinistas, FLMN, zapatistas. Different names in different places, all with similar history. <br />
<br />
I remember hearing about the wars in the 80's. I remember being in middle school and my 9 yr old brother being glued to the Ollie North trials. I remember hearing about 'gorillas' in this far-away place. I had no idea that these far-away places weren't very far away. <br />
<br />
Gorillas. Words are powerful. I knew they were speaking of men, not animals. But the images in my head were quite strong. Hairy, mud-covered men hiding in the forest shooting any moving being. Whispers and sneakiness. Che. Presently we hear the word in the media when talking about current wars and even in marketing. Gorillas. <br />
<br />
In Spanish, the word for war is la guerra. This is the base word for 'guerrilla' , or fighter/militar. This conjures up a different image somehow, something more conservative, like a regular soldier. As if war could be conservative. <br />
<br />
The 80's weren't very long ago. The war in El Salvador didn't end until the 90's which feels like it was just yesterday. It's been interesting to hear locals speak of this time period, especially the differences in thought among the rich and the poor, and the confusion and mixed feelings of the middle class. Life has changed in this not-so-far-away place for most Central Americans. <br />
<br />
Gael's family had to make a decision and live with it. His father and sister stayed in Nicaragua while he and his mother immigrated illegally to the US. With the cost of airfare to Mexico and paying Coyotes for help crossing the Rio Grande, they could only choose one parent and one child. With the 100% likelihood that Gael would be drafted into the war at a very young age, his mother made this extremely difficult choice to leave her daughter and husband and save her son. Gael's mother pushed him to learn English and do well. He did. And Gael went to graduate school and now teaches international studies to some very lucky students. <br />
<br />
And fortunately, his story has a happy ending- his sister and father joined them in south Florida ten years later. He says his sister always understood the choice. I can't imagine how difficult this must have been. The thought of not being around my brother for ten years leaves me gasping for breath. And this is just one of many many stories I've been listening to. <br />
<br />
More of the good stuff later. For now, I'm trying to rewrite and redraw the pictures in my head to read "guerrilla". And learn again about that thing that happened in the 80's, while I had the freedom to have bad hair and listen to Duran Duran. Gael gave me his information, both in the states and here in Nicaragua. He hugged me as he and his cousin and student I jumped out of the back of the pick up. <br />
<br />
"Please keep in touch! I need to feed off your energy," he said, as I was thinking the same thing about him, "and remember now you have family here in Nicaragua, too."<br />
<br />
I may have to take one of his classes. <br/><br/><div class="separator"style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTNTv1aSSrGKaUPaRfkwsBJ1IzsJqjnoGdPttYs3h7NgSy7QrTwf16zDivY_qYoMVFlwM5Yn1-8f9Hm8z3fWAxCX_h43EO4D0zY0qz4EtD14oXLAJxG4Ht5Hk3oRYMJGfizdRu6Q/s640/blogger-image-1497029464.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTNTv1aSSrGKaUPaRfkwsBJ1IzsJqjnoGdPttYs3h7NgSy7QrTwf16zDivY_qYoMVFlwM5Yn1-8f9Hm8z3fWAxCX_h43EO4D0zY0qz4EtD14oXLAJxG4Ht5Hk3oRYMJGfizdRu6Q/s640/blogger-image-1497029464.jpg" /></a></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12299860.post-8630195443101178262012-12-08T19:00:00.001-08:002012-12-08T19:00:37.181-08:00Trying to get on the mapEl Salvador is relatively new to the travel scene. Recent wars and dangerous drug and gang problems kept it a place of media bullying for some time. <br />
Having progressed to a "second world" country (I find this term odd), more security in place and a stable economy, El Salvador is trying, desperately, to make its way into the guidebooks as a tourist destination. <br />
Before leaving on this adventure, my mom went searching for a book. There wasn't one. The small section in Lonely Planet does a good job reiterating what ES tourism is touting, but that's just not a lot. It was quite strange trying to get around after the ease of its much poorer neighbor, Guatemala. <br />
In any case, explore we did. After El Tunco, we spent a night in the capital, sick as dogs from something we ate, and finally headed up north to the small colonial art town of Suchitoto. We liked it so much we stayed two nights and ended up traveling for five days with just one change of clothes. This was remarkably easy, and quite nice to be so unencumbered. We roamed the cobblestone streets and cute little shops -and spent quite a bit of time at our hotel pool, overlooking a lovely lake that wraps itself around the city. Also included in this journey was a visit to the museum of cinematography of Don Allejandro Coto, a Salvadorean icon, as well as my friend Xavier's uncle. In his museum were medals from over 50 countries for his contribution in the arts, as well as gifts from world famous artists, including a painting by Diego Rivera. We also ate our only pupusas in El Salvador there, cooked by the wife of "the" Gringo, Robert, from San Francisco, ca.<br />
From Suchitoto, we headed to La Ruta de las Flores for their well publicized food festival. We based ourselves in a sweet little hotel/hostel in Juayua and explored the area. Once a shock factor experience with things like iguana and frogs on the menu, the food feria in Juayua is now pretty tame, and we tried a couple new dishes. We also took a short tour of neighboring Ataco, known for its colorful<br />
murals, and a coffee tour. We headed back to the capital for mom's last night, and then I scooted back to El Tunco, where our new friends from Santa Cruz were, to take a 10 hour shuttle from northwest El Salvador, to Leon, Nicaragua. Sure beat chicken bus jumping!<br />
In all, El Salvador was really tranquil. The people were very nice and helpful, and the countryside was pretty. We enjoyed. <br/><br/><div class="separator"style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh37L622QPUe63ns_BfpvmEGUvsSXFAXWmF_Mhr8RYiczzW9oMZOuU4PNO4h5ZPiEoRN60VLL3h8wW_WS7Nf5hLOLSgBxxBjaIjhdDeM0PlggPhzfC-Mbleh8Gk3eD83QV0PZV8fA/s640/blogger-image--1322835264.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh37L622QPUe63ns_BfpvmEGUvsSXFAXWmF_Mhr8RYiczzW9oMZOuU4PNO4h5ZPiEoRN60VLL3h8wW_WS7Nf5hLOLSgBxxBjaIjhdDeM0PlggPhzfC-Mbleh8Gk3eD83QV0PZV8fA/s640/blogger-image--1322835264.jpg" /></a></div> <br/><br/><div class="separator"style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgutSBybqBE_ZlhUJh2TTmh_0u3HrzPbi5fgk95j2itsfUDJXwHr2S2uLi43FycyD9NlX5HaKMUkcRffsDF0f3MdmyxK7aKq1PpYOfsTM-JDaanEpQCvSULWEEL1UnEXT9CBHc5Eg/s640/blogger-image-2097450807.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; 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text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlbPi-h8xDZWv7f5VY54JnisAfSHxxpjKYjH8Hwh3MRmSAnXQTfPjIXPhfl5CtrvrwMG3H0sjgtkT4e7ISPgO3FZRnKIx0ZD7TKGy4ZVbXdrbqi0H82z9AmFUhGCeVdlhyZ8SflA/s640/blogger-image--1460336824.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlbPi-h8xDZWv7f5VY54JnisAfSHxxpjKYjH8Hwh3MRmSAnXQTfPjIXPhfl5CtrvrwMG3H0sjgtkT4e7ISPgO3FZRnKIx0ZD7TKGy4ZVbXdrbqi0H82z9AmFUhGCeVdlhyZ8SflA/s640/blogger-image--1460336824.jpg" /></a></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12299860.post-50053626376982629972012-11-26T19:01:00.001-08:002012-11-26T19:01:45.900-08:00A sunny place for shady peopleThat's what this guy's El Salvador shirt said when I was in Europe like ten years ago. Only been here two days and love it. But missed a week in guatemala-<br />
Some highlights-<br />
Dinner with my Guatemalan family and Pauline and Lisa and my teacher, Ana. <br />
Three beautiful days at La Iguana Perdida in Santa Cruz la Laguna on lake Atitlan and having a child guide take us to Maximon (look it up). Meeting people there from Santa Cruz and Humboldt and sharing thanksgiving dinner with a singing ER doc from Washington DC and a family of five from the greater New Orleans area, traveling for an indefinite amount of time while homeschooling their children. And having one of these children, age 12, serenading the entire international crowd of about 70 with classic guitar songs. Funny conversations that start with the sentence, "so on my way here, someone stole my didgeridoo". And then the accidental interview to finish up a school year with 4th graders in Panajachel at a private school started with UN values that started with gringos years ago and now serves 85% guate families, 50% for free. <br />
<br />
Mom flew in Saturday morning and we spent a night in Antigua, had lunch at the most gorgeous place with Carolina, and then ran into a couple I had met at the lake almost a month ago. Last time I saw them, they'd literally jumped on a chicken bus to Guatemala City, the man hanging off the bottom step and onto a pole, so full that the door wouldn't close. I guess he made it!<br />
<br />
We shuttled the next morning to El Tunco, El Salvador and have spent the last 36 hours soaking up sun, wading in the water and on the black sand, eating ceviche and lobster, and "liberating" turtles. I love it when Spanish / English translations aren't exactly the same. <br />
<br />
Tonight we are sitting at our tiny hotel on the beach, eating mahi mahi made by an el Salvadorean chef who lived in Louisiana in the 70's and has a voice like the godfather, with a lovely couple from Hawaii and chilling out, while being protected by an armed guard with a machine gun. It's all good! <br/><br/><div class="separator"style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmdc1CLEfFfCuhK4l2ynHVIw_FLsJa1N_Nw-enYkJml-wLhK58ZvwP7w0DK-DMprXcHen8rlqweRHUR9-ZZMESLqrmmv_1zlOy9oVk3BXVot-tQJJswlsc3hT0rg9A5xhogpvEiQ/s640/blogger-image-2108779330.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmdc1CLEfFfCuhK4l2ynHVIw_FLsJa1N_Nw-enYkJml-wLhK58ZvwP7w0DK-DMprXcHen8rlqweRHUR9-ZZMESLqrmmv_1zlOy9oVk3BXVot-tQJJswlsc3hT0rg9A5xhogpvEiQ/s640/blogger-image-2108779330.jpg" /></a></div> <br/><br/><div class="separator"style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1acE2I_LVJGDFzLKuby1fdIHwVQLxd1xrq4YnLhmyOZL0op6kE_NcSYrb2ypY-Es21i-4RIYV1idLD6oQlD8eWs4Nfh-0pDag0j6kOWQPAXFN2-ZkVtvQ0vFelwhFw1Jvoi4oSA/s640/blogger-image--2017530675.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1acE2I_LVJGDFzLKuby1fdIHwVQLxd1xrq4YnLhmyOZL0op6kE_NcSYrb2ypY-Es21i-4RIYV1idLD6oQlD8eWs4Nfh-0pDag0j6kOWQPAXFN2-ZkVtvQ0vFelwhFw1Jvoi4oSA/s640/blogger-image--2017530675.jpg" /></a></div> <br/><br/><div class="separator"style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvk7hZDjFh8A2TjVWmZKToQ3O3PvDGVyLBN43YVGnl6ykzYfCWsftRqkt85DNbL0gzCymo74EFvbvUCkJNKYFfA4UiX3lvQk6LHTpV9nRaxZ9O_on4NbM-Wdw59EsHb59sWX_tIQ/s640/blogger-image--1231353392.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvk7hZDjFh8A2TjVWmZKToQ3O3PvDGVyLBN43YVGnl6ykzYfCWsftRqkt85DNbL0gzCymo74EFvbvUCkJNKYFfA4UiX3lvQk6LHTpV9nRaxZ9O_on4NbM-Wdw59EsHb59sWX_tIQ/s640/blogger-image--1231353392.jpg" /></a></div> <br/><br/><div class="separator"style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvU0fjzzYXiAbKnlpRaLVMw5uIOgUyiefhjxFyoU430iqeVB-zpvoIkJ_sTjou1OUWvKEnv7H_F2huKY3TVthoNF8FuoJDt8IojT5ZrQHyOEn2Ns2dE77hur4B4dzfUBaPlQdOeA/s640/blogger-image-1598773355.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvU0fjzzYXiAbKnlpRaLVMw5uIOgUyiefhjxFyoU430iqeVB-zpvoIkJ_sTjou1OUWvKEnv7H_F2huKY3TVthoNF8FuoJDt8IojT5ZrQHyOEn2Ns2dE77hur4B4dzfUBaPlQdOeA/s640/blogger-image-1598773355.jpg" /></a></div> <br/><br/><div class="separator"style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjql4GeAyjg1pLUEbdOqIJNSrgPpjfL4SNueQhognSLfyxAznad9fFVRtUVuler0mKauib_zwcbCssWY2wc3Flj6LWCNup8Qmvg7loSsHoTnTv06R7xFP8h5QXlVQTZXCK5R8Pu6w/s640/blogger-image-374445539.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjql4GeAyjg1pLUEbdOqIJNSrgPpjfL4SNueQhognSLfyxAznad9fFVRtUVuler0mKauib_zwcbCssWY2wc3Flj6LWCNup8Qmvg7loSsHoTnTv06R7xFP8h5QXlVQTZXCK5R8Pu6w/s640/blogger-image-374445539.jpg" /></a></div> <br/><br/><div class="separator"style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAiszbuHnlWsnlmbtx_UYswhoePbZ-gl_MrgKobD1oZo_m7n4DtLpFjIWZXiJGP7okmEJyy3lvmIZxHN9tAOSQCIPmJgsPPTGqTz0GzfMn5N8x-47xBzAyTeAdGYyqy4uVZGR7yA/s640/blogger-image-688290066.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAiszbuHnlWsnlmbtx_UYswhoePbZ-gl_MrgKobD1oZo_m7n4DtLpFjIWZXiJGP7okmEJyy3lvmIZxHN9tAOSQCIPmJgsPPTGqTz0GzfMn5N8x-47xBzAyTeAdGYyqy4uVZGR7yA/s640/blogger-image-688290066.jpg" /></a></div> <br/><br/><div class="separator"style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5OfjgqnsNDvDKQ61RWwu-1PdPA5BiIyskp3c7sJeI4VJhA0qE84-VHxdrE2wcpBjeLvXY4ApRSdB7RZT_DgKtAwciqnwmZe7WopwDfnROtMU7_s5g6caJWnnX9fjUMmSkMkuLCw/s640/blogger-image-1161456317.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5OfjgqnsNDvDKQ61RWwu-1PdPA5BiIyskp3c7sJeI4VJhA0qE84-VHxdrE2wcpBjeLvXY4ApRSdB7RZT_DgKtAwciqnwmZe7WopwDfnROtMU7_s5g6caJWnnX9fjUMmSkMkuLCw/s640/blogger-image-1161456317.jpg" /></a></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12299860.post-11751583688209691952012-11-17T20:17:00.001-08:002012-11-17T20:17:12.988-08:00HeavenI'm not a religious person. I am Jewish by culture and family ties, but don't have any tenacity about there being an absolute truth when it comes to religion. As an educator in the public sector, and a minority, I'm a firm believer in the separation of church and state, and I'm definitely sensitive about religious language. When it comes to matters of the heart I know that people respond and react in well meaning and loving ways, and try to be sensitive in my own reactions and responses. <br />
<br />
Last week, my nurse mom and I had an IM conversation about the different terms for death. She said in her profession, they say amongst the staff that a patient has "gone to heaven". This bothered me. What is heaven? And how can one define when another is 'going' there? How long does it take? Where is it? I am just too pragmatic and roll my eyes at that (gotta work on that part). There are too many beliefs in the world about death and the presence or lack thereof of an afterlife. People often talk about how to explain what happens AFTER death. But how do you tell someone that a loved one has died? Even the word 'died' is loaded. It's passive. Deceased. Demise. Depart. Perish. Succumb. And those are only the passive synonyms. <br />
In truth, often it is a passive experience. Passive- passed away. Passed away doesn't carry any religious connotation like "gone to heaven", so I like it more. When I was very ill and in the hospital this year, during late night nurse shift change my nurse knelt by my bed, placed her hand in praying formation and said "G-d bless you." While well meaning, this really irked me. "May you be well," would have sufficed. <br />
<br />
So here I am the night of my grandmother's death. The second grandmother I've lost in the last 6 months. And while I don't believe in heaven, I do believe that if one believes there is one, then it is an absolute truth for that person. I don't know if my grandma, if either if my grandmas, believed in heaven. But I know if they did, then they are both there, perhaps having a cup of tea, or more likely some delicious pastry my grandma Viola made, talking about the similarities and differences in their lives, and how they both ended up settling in the same suburban area. And how each of their lives were affected by their religion during World War II, and each had husbands that served in the military in America, and each had lovely children, one of each who would meet each other very early in their lives, and share their memories of their first granddaughter, ME, when they were still very young themselves. And how each of them would have three more grandchildren each (one more shared) and how fortunate they both were to live into their 90's. <br />
I couldn't be with my grandma Florence today, but she was heavy in my heart while we ventured out of the city. The pictures were taken, unknowingly, around the same time my grandma took her last breath. Think what you will. <br/><br/><div class="separator"style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgORGHA2yfkvHM-0MypayMCFepj0fzAfh6OWS29qYeB4rXkiqPvcbnTRvxQ8yvfxFgpwnZVPxvUN9XL9fWINixUvzg1c343oKhbqbcG1ADtJ3xSAqSCkTdR9w6jEc0LxUq1pg8CFQ/s640/blogger-image--2106847222.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgORGHA2yfkvHM-0MypayMCFepj0fzAfh6OWS29qYeB4rXkiqPvcbnTRvxQ8yvfxFgpwnZVPxvUN9XL9fWINixUvzg1c343oKhbqbcG1ADtJ3xSAqSCkTdR9w6jEc0LxUq1pg8CFQ/s640/blogger-image--2106847222.jpg" /></a></div> <br/><br/><div class="separator"style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUO2SYT8Sekf4bhHSvT5y_e_Ixg6acYDg41C-2-GEA5OHMy4NL5voKeUneTJ_W15EKFaGLQr8TfzISPbzV4JTczIBTMBTMCEG2LEJKwS4LqjypRmOPMSD_i0cuoE-n_ObyOI8i9A/s640/blogger-image--1597095874.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUO2SYT8Sekf4bhHSvT5y_e_Ixg6acYDg41C-2-GEA5OHMy4NL5voKeUneTJ_W15EKFaGLQr8TfzISPbzV4JTczIBTMBTMCEG2LEJKwS4LqjypRmOPMSD_i0cuoE-n_ObyOI8i9A/s640/blogger-image--1597095874.jpg" /></a></div> <br/><br/><div class="separator"style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhoktK3t0gcWPrPDkqf-EIcuhyphenhyphenbk2HLc7DSOKUnD1EkZkhFWB853cK6iMx6-b79S2uG-1TLirBjjhzhIgSdfOD0LXo4kEGCImJ7lSXQLEFio_z9-tjyGF6htfGXTlc1Jm9HKmNl6w/s640/blogger-image--1949623183.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhoktK3t0gcWPrPDkqf-EIcuhyphenhyphenbk2HLc7DSOKUnD1EkZkhFWB853cK6iMx6-b79S2uG-1TLirBjjhzhIgSdfOD0LXo4kEGCImJ7lSXQLEFio_z9-tjyGF6htfGXTlc1Jm9HKmNl6w/s640/blogger-image--1949623183.jpg" /></a></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12299860.post-43819839541868130122012-11-16T16:02:00.001-08:002012-11-16T16:02:23.146-08:00DecisionsI just got word that my grandmother is dying. She's 90, so the time was going to come at some point. But this wasn't the point we were expecting. <br />
<br />
Even if I got on a bus to Guatemala City right now, I could be on the first flight tomorrow to Phoenix. But she probably won't make it that long. And I don't see how rushing is going to change anything. My dad is thre. My uncle and aunt are there. My cousin flies in tomorrow. <br />
<br />
I'm not quite sure what to do. DecisionsUnknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12299860.post-76348609059292980452012-11-13T13:35:00.001-08:002012-11-13T13:35:14.357-08:00ChocolateThis is said with an accent of course. Cafe de chocolate, dulces con chocolate, pan de chocolate, chocolate con jenjibre, naranja, manis, nuez, licor. Chocolate entero, en polvo. <br />
<br />
And most of it is amazing. They really like their sugar here so a few times my taste buds have been overpowered by crystallized sugar. But for the most part, it's delicious. As is the coffee. Looking forward to bringing a pound back to Xela to have in the apartment in the morning. <br />
Still in San Cristobal. Still enchanted. Pauline's friend Lisa left to return to xela today. Pauline and I will leave Thursday. A week here and I still can't wait to come back. I'm really going to have to explore the option of spending an entire summer here. Or if when I figure out what I want to be when I grow up, be able to work from here for a month or so. It's just such a treat to the eyes and senses. And not hot. It's quite cold at night, and sunny and in the high 60's low 70's in the day. Perfect. No smog. Crisp air. I could go on and on....<div class="separator"style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVxj2XhouP5ORDZCEP5T7M1_CmRm5pifcKJYOwlQS3ZYmoOmtL23rhbQKXh36pUcINqSC_SnUX8aa_vYYxQPgqI80dKkd26Y_Dn53tPO6TW5_ZZQKCk-56jAM6ZI80LqpiYFvOKg/s640/blogger-image-2133748294.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVxj2XhouP5ORDZCEP5T7M1_CmRm5pifcKJYOwlQS3ZYmoOmtL23rhbQKXh36pUcINqSC_SnUX8aa_vYYxQPgqI80dKkd26Y_Dn53tPO6TW5_ZZQKCk-56jAM6ZI80LqpiYFvOKg/s640/blogger-image-2133748294.jpg" /></a></div><div class="separator"style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgF4HHNdnQ-CfXNlu4feDYEPFF_r3PgaIbUaSmo7foLtAl-R1TGMJnBTP-9Sppm_mYTHHXhLa9_Xa0xh8cS0ea-D8ZG2hxYQ5DtMgMrmBcwDmD83reshPtVr8OS7nfBIYFmZbhqeQ/s640/blogger-image-1756908759.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgF4HHNdnQ-CfXNlu4feDYEPFF_r3PgaIbUaSmo7foLtAl-R1TGMJnBTP-9Sppm_mYTHHXhLa9_Xa0xh8cS0ea-D8ZG2hxYQ5DtMgMrmBcwDmD83reshPtVr8OS7nfBIYFmZbhqeQ/s640/blogger-image-1756908759.jpg" /></a></div><div class="separator"style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg852eDGlgLE4bko_v5cN44XmLWSN7DunXOv69mIYJ-Rejsbgr-5uL9vbRXKjnfj1zSECBB6ujWQUJB8BE0TS7VqB8llUbMCS35TXZ9mxtfUh5wtNSY6ILzRN6qPna7vxEwoTvfog/s640/blogger-image--1740261704.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg852eDGlgLE4bko_v5cN44XmLWSN7DunXOv69mIYJ-Rejsbgr-5uL9vbRXKjnfj1zSECBB6ujWQUJB8BE0TS7VqB8llUbMCS35TXZ9mxtfUh5wtNSY6ILzRN6qPna7vxEwoTvfog/s640/blogger-image--1740261704.jpg" /></a></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12299860.post-67228075497625010572012-11-10T10:27:00.001-08:002012-11-10T10:27:01.855-08:00Farmers marketThere's not much to say. Organic coffee, different kinds of cheeses, purple broccoli, honey, gorgeous pasteles, pesto. Seriously. I am going to need to come back here and live here live here for a month at the very very least. Yes I wrote live here twice. <div class="separator"style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEju71c5RvHMHvfD1Fo6WlU2VFa6CnjCw_0XFgW7APjTY-BbPII3TM16gU_flEVc6aa_OF8we_EMf9NSQHPF_mU7m9nt4yNd7MOOu9fR8mCEWbsqQBC0zuQOU73xlBsCdn0Hh-PT6Q/s640/blogger-image-95654947.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEju71c5RvHMHvfD1Fo6WlU2VFa6CnjCw_0XFgW7APjTY-BbPII3TM16gU_flEVc6aa_OF8we_EMf9NSQHPF_mU7m9nt4yNd7MOOu9fR8mCEWbsqQBC0zuQOU73xlBsCdn0Hh-PT6Q/s640/blogger-image-95654947.jpg" /></a></div><div class="separator"style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiv0ih-txPIIswggDXuwzbWGP1jNXMoGhUE1KayBw8DhDjeQIEmH0D4jGdDrNK-gBlyR68tU5fTnfon6IFZ5EI8gpgmlyUT74CzMdB9TzXR72JMvTBzrE45OU3bjCXw0ceGTbyWqg/s640/blogger-image--1464629497.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiv0ih-txPIIswggDXuwzbWGP1jNXMoGhUE1KayBw8DhDjeQIEmH0D4jGdDrNK-gBlyR68tU5fTnfon6IFZ5EI8gpgmlyUT74CzMdB9TzXR72JMvTBzrE45OU3bjCXw0ceGTbyWqg/s640/blogger-image--1464629497.jpg" /></a></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1