Rebecca Clay Haynes

Seven More Months On The Road

2012-01-06T18:09:00.000-05:00

How does one get itchy feet and is there a cure for the affliction? Short of cement shoes mafia-style? Finding no way to quell chronic restlessness, I again surrender to this compulsion to roam and see the world for myself. Up close and personal. As it is. Raw and uncensored. Live.

On January 11, I board USAirways to Germany, an airline and country I've come to know well after frequent visits with my daughter and her family in Heidelberg, an hour south of Frankfurt. This will mean five rolicking days with 17-month old grandson Jacob -- he walks! he talks! he laughs! he sings! he's growing up too fast! Skype is wonderful but I can't hug and kiss my MacBook. As sweet as this slab of titanium can be.

Then it's onto British Airways bound for New Delhi with final destination Jaipur, a 50-minute flight from the Indian capital. In this "Pink City," I'll be attending the increasingly famous Jaipur Literature Festival, which welcomes a number of well-known Indian, American and other English-writing authors -- Annie Proulx, J.M. Coetzee and David Remnick, for example -- plus thousands of guests. The four-day event is free of charge, after all, and who could pass that up, especially in a country where storytelling goes back to the beginning of time? Am bracing myself for non-stop entertainment, enlightenment and chaos.

Art Inn Jaipur, a B&B and artist residency, will be my base for about six weeks. Hope to write like a madwoman and produce something of merit. Will also explore Rajasthan and beyond, depending on energy level and ability to rope fellow traveler. Also plan to pick up as much Hindi as that corner of my brain will hold.

First of March, I puddle-jump back to Delhi to begin a month-long stay at the Sanskriti Foundation, a walled artist residency smack in the city. Sanskriti provides three vegetarian meals a day and plenty of space and time to let the creative process flourish. In Jaipur and Delhi, I'll also be reading short fiction by Indian women and may, if lucky, get to meet some of these authors, either at the Festival or elsewhere. Regardless of history, language and culture, we so often tackle the same topics and issues in our work. Not to pigeon-hole women writers, of course, but certain themes are unquestionably universal.

In early April, my photographer friend, Pam Sparks, whom I met at the Babayan residency in central Turkey (so intrepid, she easily puts me to shame), will meet me in Delhi and we'll travel north to Bir, a town by the Himalayan foothills not far from Dharmsala. Bir is also home to The Deer Park Institute where we'll study the 37 practices of a bodhisattva with Tenzin Palmo, an Englishwoman turned Buddhist nun. Meditation, yoga and toodling around that vast region are also on tap. Not convinced I'll take up paragliding, the most popular sport in the area, but, then, should an adventurer refuse an untried opportunity when handed one? Even when said adventurer is petrified of heights, especially when strapped to an aircraft with "no rigid primary structure," as Wikipedia describes it?

Around April 25th, Pam will abandon me for the States and I, if I survive that paragliding experience (knock on wood), will head to Bali for a month's stay at Bali Purnati, an appropriately lush-looking artist residency not far from Ubud. This is where I expect to recuperate from three months in India, continue to write short stories and study the fiction of Indonesian women writers, contemporary and late, while melting in the heat of May.

Late May, I return to Germany for another delightful bout of Jacob and his 'rents plus a switch from tropical wardrobe to attire more suited for the near-Arctic. I'll then migrate north to Reykjavik and one of the many fishing villages tucked into mountain-hugged inlets in northern Iceland. Skagaströnd is home to the Nes Residency, whose lodgings and studios were recently carved out of an old seafood processing plant. I expect to eat my weight in fish and shrimp.

Skagaströnd will be my home for two months, during which I will, because that's all I know how to do, write my shivering little heart out. (I mention shivering rhetorically, of course, because Iceland does not live up to its icy reputation year round. At least that's what they tell me.) I'll also crisscross the island trying to capture its beauty with stills and video. As will I do in India and Indonesia. Now that I sprang for a DSLR, finally giving up on point-and-shoots.

Is it any wonder I'm having trouble sleeping at night? Excitement and fear bracketing similarly intense emotions keep me wide-eyed into the wee hours and challenge my ability to focus on packing a rolling duffel for three seasons. But, as we know, and as Georgia O'Keeffe once so bravely said, "I've been absolutely terrified every moment of my life and I've never let it keep me from doing a single thing that I wanted to do."

Related links:

Art Inn Jaipur
Sanskriti Foundation
Deer Park Institute
Bali Purnati
Nes Residency

Meet My Heroines: Freya, Isabella and Alexandra

2011-10-14T11:12:00.000-04:00

Not all who wander, as J.R.R. Tolkien once put it, are lost. And he, of all writers, might know. His characters were always on the move.

While men have long been the wanderers of human history, starting with the time, no doubt, when they were chasing a mastadon and kept on going, women have been, at least recently, quickly catching up.

Three of the many, many intrepid women who ran away from home and wrote about it in the 19th and 20th centuries come to mind: Freya Stark, a British explorer and the first Western woman to visit Arabia alone; Isabella Bird, who would fall physically ill when she wasn't on the road; and Alexandra David-Néel, a Frenchwoman who snuck into Lhasa when foreigners, especially women, were strictly forbidden.

These women and many others have inspired boatloads and now planeloads of subsequent generations, this writer included, to give it all up and pack our bags. Lightly, of course.

Freya Stark

Born in 1893 and often sickly, Freya turned to books for solace and pleasure. After reading One Thousand and One Nights when she was but nine, she fell in love with the Orient. But it wasn't until her mid-30s, after having studied Turkish and Arabic, that she took off for Beirut and Baghdad, shocking her compatriots who were likely sipping lukewarm tea and nibbling cucumber sandwiches when they heard the news.

Freya, however, was just getting warmed up.

She was soon on her way through the dangerous Iranian wilderness in search of The Valleys of the Assassins, without, of course, the benefit of Keen hiking boots, Leki trekking poles and GPS. She went on donkey, camel, foot and in the occasional automobile amid fearsome peoples guarding village and land. Eventually, she found the valleys and became the first explorer -- male or female -- to chart and write about some parts of them.

Petite, somewhat fragile, complex and multifaceted, Freya became one of the top adventure writers of the last century. I marvel at her mix of fearlessness and naivete -- she called one group of especially murderous tribesmen "as cheerful a lot of villains as you can wish to meet." Apparently, they also found her charming and, apart from stealing her belongings, which was an everyday part of their culture, treated her with respect and not a little bit of awe.

Freya was married in her mid-50s but separated from her husband five years later. They never divorced.

"One can only really travel if one lets oneself go and takes what every place brings without trying to turn it into a healthy private pattern of one's own and I suppose that is the difference between travel and tourism." -- Freya Stark

Freya died in 1993 at the ripe and well-worn age of 100. She had written more than 30 travel books, autobiographies and volumes of her letters.

Freya Stark Obituary in The New York Times

Isabella Bird

Isabella Bird, born in 1831, was also quite ill as a child and adult. But, funnily enough, her symptoms disappeared whenever she went away; that is, when she did what she wanted to do. And what she wanted more than anything was to leave home and see the world.

She started with a trip to America at the age of 23 -- her father gave her 100 British pounds and told her she could stay until it was spent. The result of that excursion was her first book, The Englishwoman in America, published shortly after her return home.

Isabella went on to travel across North America, Hawaii, Australia, New Zealand and Southeast Asia, including Japan. After marrying in middle age, and feeling sick for much of those six years, she was widowed, an event that prompted her to study medicine and return to her beloved travels.

At 60, and with modest means, she embarked for India, Tibet, Persia, Turkey, Kurdistan, Korea and Morocco and more -- among her many accomplishments, she would be the first Western woman to travel up the Yangtze River.

"I am doing what a woman can hardly ever do -- leading a life fit for a man."

-- Isabella Bird

Isabella also became the first woman inducted into the Royal Geographical Society and she published numerous works on her wanderings. She was planning another trip to China when she died in Scotland at the age of 72.

Isabella Bird's Obituary from the Journal of the African Society

Alexandra David-Néel

Born in Paris in 1868, Alexandra David-Néel had a strong sense of her destiny early on. By the time she turned 18, she had already traveled through Europe on her own and four years later she took off for India, where she stayed until her money ran out.

Shortly thereafter, she met Philippe Néel in Tunis and married him. The newlyweds, however, were not destined to live together long.

Fascinated by Buddhism, Alexandra soon returned to India and lived for a few years in a cave. She was the first Western woman to meet the Dalai Lama, and befriended a young Sikkimese monk, Aphur Yongden, who would become her lifelong travel companion.

By this time, Alexandra was in her 40s and hardly slowing down. While World War I raged in Europe, she and Yongden hunkered down in Japan. That's where she developed the idea to sneak into Lhasa as a beggar.

At the age of 56, already fluent in Tibetan dialects and culture, her hair made long with yak hair extensions and her skin darkened with ink, she trekked with Yongden through some of the roughest terrain and climates in the world to reach that holy land. The first Western woman to enter Lhasa, she would stay for what must have been two remarkable months.

Though by then legally separated from Philippe, she kept up a faithful correspondence with him until his death in 1941. After returning to France for about nine years to write -- and perhaps catch her breath -- she headed back to Tibet with Yongden, traveling this time through the Soviet Union, and stayed there for another 11 years.

By the time she made it back to France after World War II, she was in her late 70s. She continued to study and write there until her death at the marvelous age of 100. Her ashes were combined with those of Yongden, who had died years earlier, and scattered at Varanasi, in India.

Alexandra David-Neel wrote at least 32 books in both French and English. Her spiritual works influenced Jack Kerouac, Allen Ginsburg, Alan Watts and many others.

And so, these amazing women wandered far and wide but one could hardly say they were lost. They gave up the comforts of middle-class life to challenge themselves against elements and the odds. Two of them would survive an entire century. Perhaps hardy travel is a secret to longevity?

My own peregrinations pale by comparison and now, of course, Lhasa is a popular tourist destination. Travel has become little harder than scraping together money for a plane ticket and figuring out what not to bring.

So the next time I'm being frisked at the airport, I'll remember these brave risk-takers and all they had to go through to get where they were going. And I'll smile at the uniformed security officer as she pats me down with her sanitary gloves and sends me on my way.

An Awkward Moment in Kapadokya

2011-09-06T06:36:00.000-04:00

With the end of Ramadan last week, I was invited to accompany Willemijn, the Dutch host of my writer residency, and her Turkish Canadian friend, Ustun, on a visit to several older women still living in the partially abandoned part of our lovely village, İbrahimpaşa.

The women live next door to the residency, which Willemijn and her partner carved out of the ruins six years ago. Most of the neighborhood's former residents -- mainly farmers -- have long since moved into modern apartment buildings lining a paved road to the busy highway between Ürgüp and Nevşehir, Cappadocia's main centers of commerce and entertainment.

The neighborhood has rough, cobblestoned and deeply sloping streets -- alleyways, really -- that cannot be navigated by cars although some tourists don't realize that until they get stuck and must do 10-point turns to avoid the already crumbling walls. In the past, everyone used burros to get around and some still do. You can still hear and smell the animals nearby, and watch women with their long white outdoor headscarves leading them with their cargo along country roads in the distance.

That afternoon, when we knocked on Mrs. Rukiye's door, she invited us in, warmly embracing Willemijn and Ustun, whom she knew well, and just as warmly shaking the hand of the stranger.

After taking off our shoes, we followed her into a small, dark room with a floor covered in thick carpets. Single beds draped with colorful blankets lined two walls and the three of us sat on one while Mrs. Rukiye, who was quite petite, perched on the other.

Ustun pointed to the scrolled metal bars on the one window and told me in English that this meant we were in the women's part of the house, not, as Willemijn later assured me, to keep the women in, but, rather, traditionally, to keep the wrong men out.

After placing a bed sheet at our feet to catch our crumbs, Mrs. Rukiye bustled to the kitchen and brought out a huge round tray stacked with little bowls of treats -- dried apricots, unshelled and seasoned pumpkin seeds, garbanzo beans both plain and coated with a sugary white powder, pistachios and other items I didn't recognize -- plus three glasses of hot instant coffee with milk.

Mrs. Rukiye wore a patterned long-sleeved blouse, floor-length skirt and delicate, lightweight head scarf that covered every strand of her hair before flowing down over her shoulders. She complimented me on my blue eyes, which are, of course, unusual here, and I, through Willemijn as interpreter, returned the compliment. Her hazel eyes were highly expressive and sparkling.

Ustun and Willemijn kept telling her not to make a fuss over us but it wasobvious that Mrs. Rukiye not only enjoyed making a fuss but she greatly enjoyed thather guests were insisting she not do so. The delightful fuss amplified, naturally, the delightful fuss.

After much nibbling and sipping, we were invited to visit her rooftop terrace. Every old house here has such a terrace and because the buildings essentially climb up the hill -- their cave-like rooms dug out of the volcanic ash -- each looks down on those of its neighbors.

Ustun was the first to head up through the narrow doorway and Iwas next. Somehow, though, despite my small size, I managed to bump my head hard on theoverhead door frame. Without thinking, and reacting to the shock more than pain, I ducked, slapped my hand on my head and said “Ow, ow, ow”really loudly, just as I would back home.

Willemijn, who was right behind me, quickly rubbed my head and whispered “Forget about it,forget about it.”

I instantly understood. Willemijn had already told me several thingsabout the Turkish people – one, that they have a “no problem” culture; that is,problems are never to be acknowledged; and two, that no one should draw attention to themselves when hurt. Mrs. Rikiye, I knew, would be deeply embarrassed that she and her house had caused me harm.

I clamped my mouth shut, stopped my whining and stepped out onto the terrace where we all loudly enthused over the view and the potted flowers and vegetables she was cultivating under the constant sun.

Still, Mrs. Rikiye was looking at me with a combination of alarm, regret and sorrow, and she reached up to gently touch the top of my head. I smiled, briefly put my arm around her shoulders and felt her slip her arm throughmine. A moment later, we were gazing out over the stunning white landscape holding hands, which wecontinued to do until an easy moment arrived to separate.

She then offered me a fresh tomato from her rooftop garden and, after reflexively and foolishlylooking around for a way to rinse it (some of us are slow to learn), and being told it was perfectly fine asit was, I bit into the fruit, as one would an apple, and discovered it was one of the most delicious tomatoes -- sweet, savory and variations in-between -- that had ever crossed my lips.

Photos:

1. All taken with my cheap Sony Cybershot.

2. Views are from the residency's terrace, not Mrs. Rikiye's, although they are similar.

3. Traditional Turkish women do not generally want their photos taken, especially by someone they just met. Wanting to avoid another awkward moment, I respected that wish.

On Failing To Conform

2011-08-07T06:56:00.012-04:00

Something about finding myself married and pregnant at 17, then standing in a welfare and food stamp line, made me realize I'd fallen far out of the mainstream; that is, done a giant downward somersault from my middle-class suburban upbringing. And that I might never find my way back again.

While friends were off partying at good schools and preparing for solid careers, I was changing diapers and taking night classes at a community college, learning how to type so I could work a low-paying steno job during a deep recession and somehow keep my little family afloat.

The prognosis, dear reader, was not good.

But, being blessed with youthful adaptability and curiosity, I made new friends in our low-income housing complex -- while avoiding drug dealers and glass-strewn playgrounds -- and experienced life as a very poor person. I also applied every spare brain cell to finding a way out of this dark hole.

Overnight, I had become Becky in Wonderland.

I did, eventually, choose the door out but this early episode meant I could never quite adjust to the comfortable middle-class world again. I was no longer in step with my generation and peers.

A man must consider what a rich realm he abdicates

when he becomes a conformist. -- Ralph Waldo Emerson

I've never owned a house, have held few regular jobs, became a freelance writer so I could be there for my daughter but also pick her up and go when the urge came on, continued to live with minimal income, and spent every spare penny seeing the world and sampling human habitats, including the chi-chi neighborhoods of Paris.

Though essentially kicked out of the conformity crib at an early age, there was still some small, stubborn and insecure part of me that longed to climb back in, a part that wanted to go home and start all over again, that imagined such a thing was possible.

And so I went through an extended spell of trying to conform, finally settling down in one place and joining clubs and even a church and volunteering and trying to find happiness in watching movies and TV and giving parties and going shopping and out to dinner and developing a routine that had been designed -- by accident or intent -- to provide the illusion of safety, stability and abundance in what seemed an ever more dangerous world.

The effort nearly killed me. Not only did these habits provide little comfort but my ability to laugh, dream and even breathe began to disappear. In short, I became depressed.

This doesn't happen to everyone, and many of my fellow Americans are quite content with their piece of The Dream, even if it has severely frayed in recent years. But so many aspects of our culture -- from relentless consumerism to growing distrust of strangers and "foreigners," an overwhelming addiction to passive entertainment and chronic fears of financial ruin -- can cut us off from our joie de vivre and, in fact, the whole rest of this enormous and fascinating world.

"Be who you are and say what you feel,

because those who mind don't matter and those

who matter don't mind. -- Dr. Seuss

Though solidly suburban and middle class, and products of the post-war push to conform, my parents raised my siblings and me to be "independent," as they put it. They wanted us to "think for ourselves" -- not easy when all around are overt and covert messages ensuring we don't.

I'm not sure our parents expected us to be quite as independent as we became but such is the law of unintended consequences. (My first real act of independence would lead, of course, straight to the poorhouse.)

So I've now embarked on this middle-aged female fiction writer's slash journalist's slash adventurer's tour of the globe, spending as little money as possible with the hope and intent of keeping this nonconformist vagabonding life going until...well, until.

And maybe, if I'm lucky, I'll meet up with you, dear reader, somewhere down the road.

"If you obey all the rules you miss all the fun."
-- Katherine Hepburn

Photos:
1. Steno pool. Not me but almost. Source: National Archives of Canada

2. New England home. Similar to one I grew up in. Source: homesrealestate.com

3. Globe. Source: iconeasy.com

4. Discover. Source: 4.bp.blogspot.com

Ma Belle France

2011-07-24T05:44:00.004-04:00

There's little to compare with coming home.

Though American by birth, my heart and soul feel most alive and percolating when I'm somewhere on French soil. Perhaps it's because my ancestors were Huguenots forced to flee their homeland in 1685 -- and I'm merely returning their genes, albeit somewhat altered, to la patrie -- or because only in France are one's senses so delightfully tickled every single day, that I find myself, after eight years of self-imposed exile, once again in my élément and amoureuse.

Here is Labastide-Espabairenque, a tout p'tit village in the Languedoc-Roussillon region of south-central France, and in particular La Muse, a writer/artist residency carved out of a once-crumbling nunnery embraced by chestnut, pear, plum, walnut, fig, cherry, apricot, apple and olive trees long ago planted between terra cotta-roofed maisons and gray stone walls. On the way here, I passed by miles and miles of sunflowers, their colossal yellow heads flirtatiously tipped to watch the sun overhead.

This is my first time in Languedoc-Roussillon, an area that tends to slip well below most people's radar, even of those as chronically francophiliac as I. While tourists rush to Paris and Provence, this largest wine-producing region in the world remains quiet, unpretentious, reasonably priced and delicious. Home to cassoulet, duck confit, wild boar, truffles, tapenade, hazelnut-flavored oysters and exceptionally fine olive oil, Languedoc-Roussillon maintains culinary traditions that go back hundreds if not thousands of years. (That said, I was heartbroken to notice a McDo in nearby Carcassonne the other day.)

La Muse is the brainchild of an American woman and her Irish husband -- in addition to their three young offspring, Kerry and John gave birth to this sprawling center of inspiration and peace for those of creative bent. One can feel the energy of past residents emanating from its thick, ancient walls. Each bedroom is cleverly named for one of the Olympian muses -- mine is Clio, a muse of history also known as The Proclaimer in ancient Greece.

In keeping with Clio's reputation, I proclaim that of the three residencies I've attended since May, since the start of an extended writer's journey around the world, La Muse resonates most closely with my spirit. ("Extended" meaning I have no idea where or when it will end.) I'm joined here by four other artists and writers -- from the States, South Africa, Canada and Germany -- all seeking the same fecund terroir in which to raise up their art.

I will stay at La Muse for three weeks, and no doubt be devastated when they kick me out, but hope my work on two short stories and a non-fiction book proposal will produce, of sorts, a bumper crop.

With all that ripening fruit on heavy branches outside the door, I'm surrounded by nature's abundant example and have little excuse not to follow it.

I am, after all, once again chez moi.

Photo notes:

Having broken my first camera in southern Italy, and lost my second in Germany, I am, alas, sans ability to take photos. Maybe that's a good thing but it does mean I must find non-copyrighted images online.

1. French Huguenots in their finery, or are those their everyday clothes?

2. Languedoc-Roussillon grapes, but then that was probably obvious.

3. Clio as painted by one of my favorite artists, the great Vermeer.

Tuscany: The Self-Conscious Landscape?

2011-06-27T06:44:00.000-04:00

There are perhaps few places in the world more ripe for the painting than Tuscany. Since the start of all time, painters have flocked here to turn one of Earth's most stunning landscapes into fine art.

Just to utter the word Tuscany can make the painter salivate and his or her brushes quiver with excitement. Sometimes, however, they tremble with dread.

Unable to draw a straight line, I'm awed by the artist's passion as well as the struggle to create something fresh from a vision so ancient. Because its beauty can seem to mock the artist, challenging the creative soul to do it one better, not only to match but to exceed what exists before their eyes, the landscape can overwhelm and cause some to abandon the effort.

By its very existence, Tuscany can both beg the cliche and reject it, leaving the artist with little place to go.

Tuscany was created by grape farmers who cared less about aesthetics than business. Finding the terroir ideal for vineyards -- the confluence of sun, soil, temperature and precipitation irresistible -- they planted vines of appropriate varietals in neat rows up and down the slopes, creating the patchwork of diagonal, horizontal and vertical lines that elicits such squeals of delight from every passing tourist, especially in the early morning and evening when warm light and dark shadows heighten its allure.

Alongside those carefully planned acres, each like the quilter's prized swatch, those same farmers added the silvery green of olive trees to be later harvested for oil and fruit.

They built grand homes and walled villages of local stone, perching them on hilltops and hillsides for all the world to admire and covet.

And then, more prosaically, they inserted long, rusty tractors that amble between each row, keeping the tall grass -- nature's little joke? -- from suffocating the delicate, young clusters on which their livelihood so precariously depends.

Rather than intrude on its surroundings, however, that squeaking equipment, heard everywhere from dawn till dusk, provides a welcome contrast to nature's silent tones and texture.

Can it be said that the vintner is also, if unwittingly, an artist? That the landscape is the grape grower's canvas and the vine and bush his pigment and paint? While the winemaker likely had little intention of turning his land into a work of art, it becomes such nonetheless.

And does therein lie the rub?

Morning Haiku from Noepoli

2011-06-05T09:40:00.006-04:00

Uno

Empty is the town

Under heavy summer rain

Church bells ring.

Due

Harsh words in the street

Two kisses on each cheek

Footsteps fade away.

Tre

Valley green and warm

Lonely car on winding road

Tunnel up ahead.

Quattro

Dog wakes up from nap

Howls at alley cat nearby

Gray sky wets them both.

Cinque

Wild fennel, strong sun

Harvest now for noonday meal

Dirty hands dig deep.

Sei

Olive trees in row

Go this way and that way up

Always ripe for lunch.

Sette

Yellow petals glow

Mountain slope their happy home

Fall is far away.

Otto

Family laughing

Sharing tales at table near

Dishes to be washed.

Nove

Breakfast on terrace

Coffee, ricotta and jam

Rinaldi morning.

By Rebecca Clay Haynes

A Terrace of Noepoli

2011-06-02T05:39:00.023-04:00

It all begins and begins on the terrace.

Never ending.

Not the meandering hills of silent dwellings, some abandoned by the young, still others by the old when nightly visits to Mass one day bring that good rise to heaven. Nor the sky flowing down from Rome and Solerno when it tires of the rush up north.

So goes la vita in Noepoli, a town unseen by the rest of Italy, a proud little cluster high on a Basilicatan perch, a tight bundle of heavy stone and beams, a heft of wood no longer found in forests that still roam the slopes of brown and green. So many shadows, so many shades.

And a riverbed gone dry before its time.

The fruit seller and his truck clatter along slender, cobbled streets, his morning patter drawing mothers and widows and, one of few voices in the alley, beckoning from beyond thick walls and hearts. His peaches are ripe and pomodori red to the core. He sends us off with plastic bags rustling with lunch.

Beyond the terrace, cliffs and dales beg for wings to give us lift over this forgotten fortress. Look down across the ribboning roads and silver-green olive trees and golden blossom-strewn cliffs cut through by a tunnel rarely used but by the few who love to live and die here.

A dog gives warning from doorsteps below while cats tussle and a baby wails with hope next door.

The chants of women float out from a church and descend over lounging men in the piazza like a soft rain from the divine. And all above the rooftops, swifts make the most of a late-afternoon meal, their language so common yet exalted when heard from within this terra cotta world of melancholy, antipasti and exile.

But oh, the summer. Early summer on this terrace of brick and basil. A breeze quickens as we await the glory and solace of sunset. And the busts of poet men, their backs to the west, stare not at us, not at the reddening horizon, but at the never-changing walls of Noepoli.

Have Duffel, Will Travel

2011-05-03T09:52:00.011-04:00

In which the author leaves home

with some clean clothes and a laptop.

It was at the green age of seven that I started plotting my escape from home, hometown, home state and even home country -- sitting perched at the top of my favorite blue spruce and listening to train whistles in the distance helped instigate and nurture those thoughts.

But, still so unbearably young, I was forced to stay within the limits of my suburban neighborhood, travel only up the nearest treetop and imagine the far more exciting lives of little girls in distant lands.

Those childhood longings eventually took me to Paris as a 22-year old single mother -- on a Soviet ocean liner, as my friends and family have heard a hundred times -- then wherever my limited funds, which I chose not to spend wisely on a house or retirement plan, would take me. I had just one compulsion at the time, and that was to explore and experience the world. Close up. And personal.

Now, at the ripe age of -- well, some things are better kept secret -- I'm embarking again, this time on a year-long-or-more self-assigned sabbatical at inexpensive writer residencies where I will continue writing short stories and the occasional non-fiction. With luck, some of it will find its way into print.

Destination? Europe to start, specifically Germany (stop-over to play with wiggly, little grandson), then south to Italy, west to France, east to Turkey and back to the States for two months in Santa Fe, where I once spent three years as a journalist and two-stepper. Some of my stories take place in that enchanting high desert.

This itinerary will carry me from mid-May through mid-December, when I'll come back for the holidays.

The first half of 2012 is still generally uncharted -- just the way I like it -- but I am slated for a six-week residency in Portugal during March and April. Also hoping for a thumbs-up on applications to southern Spain and southwest Ireland.

Those plans still leave time to be filled, and I'm examining options in Iceland, India, Rhodes, Vietnam, Cambodia (Edited to add: Thailand and maybe Burma, both new suggestions from friends) and countries in Central and South America (including a drop-in on Peace Corps friends in Belize) -- all locations where the living promises to be fascinating, fruitful and cheap. If I get up the nerve, and things don't get too out of hand in the Middle East, I'd love to do some scribbling in Egypt and Morocco.

So why am I doing this? Why not stay home and create? Funny you should ask.

Inasmuch as one can fully know oneself, and discern all or even a few of one's motivations, I would say it harkens back to those hours spent high in that evergreen. One is either afflicted with a restless spirit or not. America was founded by the roving and nomadic, and my ancestors go nearly back to the beginning. My own fidgety gene, it seems, has merely been reactivated.

My husband of 15 years, on the other hand, has little interest in travel, and, if he does venture abroad, prefers destinations that are familiar. I, however, loathe doing anything twice and am perpetually on the prow of my own little ship, spyglass in hand, scanning for the next horizon.

Perhaps that's why my favorite books have always been about Arctic explorers and seafaring adventures. And one of my favorite characters was not Becky Thatcher but Huckleberry Finn.

After years of mostly staying put, and complaining much, I'm ready again to roam. Thankfully, with my husband's blessing. Truth is, he's looking forward to uninterrupted time in his country library where he can wander unimpeded through philosophy, literature, science, religion, history and comic books to satisfy his own curious mind. The imminent arrival of his first grandson should also keep him out of trouble.

The writer residency idea came from my artist sister, Amy, who's been rambling across residencies (some of which I'll attend on my own journey) for nearly two years. She occasionally flies back to Boulder, but most of the time hankers for the next landscape, international creative community and unexpected inspiration. She's already warned me the residency experience is addictive, and I have no reason to doubt it.

I'll be blogging some while on the road and look forward to any comments or suggestions. For posts on past adventures and misadventures -- in France, the Soviet Far East, Kazakhstan, Central or South America, for example -- please leaf through the archive.

For information on writer residencies, click here. ResArtis provides the most comprehensive listing on the Internet.

Photos

1. A beautiful old locomotive from before my time.

2. Palazzo Rinaldi. My first residency coming up in southern Italy.

3. Painting by Henry Loos, 1871, also before my time.

4. Painting by Amy Guion Clay during a residency in Berlin.

Waking Up In Nicaragua

2011-02-14T12:18:00.020-05:00

Parrots make an excellent alarm clock.

As does loud honking through the streets well before dawn, deliberately prodding locals out of bed and into mini buses and trucks packed with other commuters heading to Managua and towns along the way.

And then there are the toucans, monkeys and dogs, who keep up a racket until the end of breakfast and we students have settled into class. By then, the grounds are buzzing with workers come to build new structures, tend to vegetable gardens, water trees and sweep away the dust.

It was the dry season at La Mariposa, a residential Spanish school in the heart of Nicaragua, considered the poorest of Central American countries apart from Haiti. We students were all grown-ups, or at least appeared to be so, and had traveled thousands of miles to intensively learn the language -- recent college grads to senior citizens, we converged on this developing country from relatively privileged lives in the U.S., Canada, Australia, New Zealand, Germany, France and Britain.

And that was just the batch during my two-week stay there this winter.

Learn we certainly did. With one-on-one grammar and conversation classes five mornings a week -- each lasting two hours for a total of four each day -- it was impossible not to chip away at those irregular verbs and quirky idioms and a vocabulary that never had quite enough words resembling English. While I struggled with the past and present tenses, my more advanced schoolmates were tackling the dreaded subjunctive. You could hear their groans from far away.

Speaking of groans, most of us missed about a day of class for what I call Nicarao's Revenge, a side effect of vulnerable internal plumbing. We could rarely pinpoint its origins -- water? food? something we touched? -- so just sipped a "special" herbal tea or popped a Pepto-Bismol and listened to kind admonitions of patience. Once we got over the horror of its symptoms, we could laugh it off and say to its next victim, with a sly wink: "This too shall pass."

Our friendly cooks

As we gradually discovered, there was a lot more than parrots to wake up to in Nicaragua. In addition to Spanish, the Nicaraguans taught us much about life in this up-and-coming world. They are a young, engaged and energetic population eager to overcome a turbulent past and catch up in a fast-moving and competitive global economy. At the same time, they face numerous challenges, including a culture of corruption from both right- and left-wing leaders who have long exploited and exported their natural resources -- timber, coffee, labor, etc. -- for personal gain and left the rest of the population to founder.

Nicaragua's history generally started around 1520 when Gil González Dávila arrived on its shores; the first Spaniard to visit, Dávila and his men packed up as much gold as they could before being attacked by local chieftains on their way out. One of those chiefs was named Nicarao -- some believe he may have inspired Dávila to later name the land Nicaragua.

Fast forward to 1821 when Nicaragua finally became independent from Spain, a key event that hardly meant the people's troubles were over. An ambitious American named William Walker managed to declare himself President in the mid-1800s -- his diabolical plan was to set up slave states throughout Central America. But his reign soon collapsed and his life ended by firing squad in Honduras. In 1909, thanks to ongoing political disarray that threatened U.S. economic interests in the country, U.S. Marines arrived in Nicaragua to begin 20 years of occupation.

The Great Sandino

Around that time, a left-leaning Nicaraguan General named Augusto Cesar Sandino put together a small band of guerillas and started making life difficult for the conservative government and unwanted Americans soldiers. Later, the notorious Anastasio Somoza Garcia, then head of a National Guard created by the Marines, tricked Sandino into signing a peace agreement and had him assassinated as soon as the ink was dry.

Che Guevara Photos

After decades of cruelty and repression, then-President Somoza -- who is rumored to have dropped his enemies from helicopters into active volcanoes -- was himself gunned down in 1956. Still, the Somoza family would not give up until 1979 when the last one, Anastasio Somoza Debayle, was overthrown by the increasingly powerful Sandinistas. Shortly thereafter, Ronald Reagan began his secret and ultimately unsuccessful Contra war against the socialist government. Today, Sandinista Daniel Ortega heads the government but faces opposition in next November's election.

Elizabeth

Despite centuries of foreign interference, Nicaraguans seem to be wasting little time nursing resentment; instead, they're welcoming efforts at sustainable tourism and development like those at La Mariposa. Paulette Goudge, the British woman who built the eco-hotel and school five years ago, is determined to help locals not only make a decent living but find ways to grow and thrive.

Marlon

Our teachers were excellent, having been trained by Paulette and her Nicaraguan manager, Bergman. I'm especially grateful to three of those teachers; Elizabeth, a young married woman with two small children, who is now also studying English in Managua to expand her career options; Marlon, who gave up a computer job in Managua to teach Spanish and, more importantly, start up a soccer league* to help street kids gain self-esteem in his hometown; and Richard, who taught us about internal and regional issues such as rising domestic violence and ongoing border tensions with Costa Rica.

And my fellow students? We shared our stories over breakfast, lunch and dinner (food was healthy and delicious, by the way) and bonded like teenagers at summer camp.

There was Leonie, a Dutch woman who had been traveling through the country with her Canadian husband and 12-year old daughter; Alan and Jan, a wanderlusty retired couple escaping the London winter; Cat and Martin, a musically talented young duo from Melbourne; Benita and Ed, Americans who were also visiting a son living in nearby León; Jasmine, a young American who quit a steady finance job to see the world and chart a new life path; Christa, a retired German woman also seeking refuge from the snow and ice; Per, a Swedish carpenter planning to build a house on land he bought further south in Nicaragua; Jack, an American who came to study the language and catch fish (he also tackled a big spider in my room); Lisa, an American nurse who longs only to settle down in Nicaragua one day; and many, many more.

Alan, Leonie, the Author, Jan

I had never been to Nicaragua and knew no one at the school when I arrived but when I left two weeks later I had about a semester's worth of Spanish in my brain and a whole bunch of intrepid new friends.

I also plan to take up offers to visit them in their native countries.

That is, if they ever go home.

*Note: Marlon's soccer league currently has 10 teams with 12 boys each. One team calls itself "The Dirties," because the kids are poor and not always clean. Many have belonged to gangs and, without something better to do, succumb to drugs and petty thievery. That said, Marlon has seen some rise above their circumstances -- thanks in great part to the discipline, cooperation, medals and trophies that come with being on a team. If anyone would like to contribute to Marlon's efforts, please contact Paulette at La Mariposa or let me know and I'll pass on your interest.

For more information on La Mariposa:
La Mariposa Spanish School and Eco-Hotel

Call Me Gigi

2011-01-18T08:19:00.002-05:00

One dilemma faced by many Baby Boomers now becoming grandparents is what these new little people should call us when they're old enough to call us. While parents-to-be pour over names for their imminent offspring, there's little help for those of us on the other end of the spectrum -- should we settle for something traditional or reach for a handle more modern, more 21st century, more befitting our reputation as cultural revolutionaries and rule-breakers?

In my own quest to answer that pressing question, I first considered some old stand-bys:

Granny? Nope. Sounds too much like a Clampett. Even if she was feisty.

Nana? I ain't no senior citizen. Yet.

Gram? Ditto. Also sounds a little small.

Nonni? Hey, that doesn't sound right, either.

What to do? What to do?

Now that my daughter has blessed me with a grandson, the pressure is on to pick just the right name; after all, it will be mine for the rest of my life. I grew up calling my mother's mother Grandmother because she was a rather formal woman -- she was still wearing veiled hats and gloves into the 1970s -- and did not want to be reduced to a nickname. My father's mother was Grandma, which seemed to suit her just fine but, given options, I bet she would have gone for something more creative.

Truth is, there weren't a whole lot of choices back then. Middle-class America was especially conformist in the Fifties -- the Baby Boomer generation, of course, had yet to make its presence truly known. Everyone on my New England block had a "Grandma" or a "Nana" or, if they were Jewish, a "Bubbie." In the same way every kid called their parents Mom or Dad, grandparents got stuck with familiar labels.

Being a Boomer who has done little by the book, starting with becoming a Mom myself at the age of 18, it's my nature to avoid the road most traveled. Since Jacob's arrival in August, I've played with a few possible names and in the interest of family harmony decided to test them on his parents to see if any might fit.

First, I proposed "Ya-Ya," which is a grandmotherly name from the Greek, but Alex, who is German, immediately countered with "Nein, nein." I could see his point, especially if, as a result, I became the go-to grandparent who always said Yes when he and Jennifer said No.

For a while, I was big on "Booma," which combines the concept of "boomer," of course, and "ma," so that I wasn't completely rejecting the old for the new.

But Booma, alas, was met with indifference.

When I noticed my daughter was referring to me as "whatever she's going to call herself" to little Jacob, I realized I needed to accelerate the process and come up with a final answer.

That said, a grandparent can assume a certain name or even persona but when the child learns to talk, he or she may hand that Grandma or Grandpa a new one. Take my brother-in-law, for example. At some point, Morgan's grandson decided to call him "Ting." No one knows how that came about -- not least because Morgan himself evokes anything but a slight, metallic-sounding ring -- but the name has stuck and there isn't a word in the English language that will make his face light up more than that one.

Another in-law family member goes by Uppity. Aunt Jinny is a rather distinguished lady of 90-plus whose slew of grand- and great-grandchildren have called her Uppity for decades -- not because they thought she was a snob but because the first grandchild successfully used that name to get her to pick him up. And it has worked with every new member of the family after that.

I don't think men agonize over this dilemma the way today's women so often do. My husband, for example, called one grandfather "Pops" and, having very fond memories of this Pops, figures that name will work just fine.

I'm glad for him.

One day, I found a long list of "trendy" grandmother names. Many varied little from the old warhorses, especially MomMom, which seemed only to compound the problem.

There was also Babe, which was cute but risky -- too closely associated with a pink pig turned film star. And then there was LaLa but I didn't want my home to end up as LaLaLand. YaYo was interesting but if it morphed into YoYo, I'd get no respect -- apologies to Mr. Ma. Hmm.

Pippy conjured up long-stockings, which are so last-last-century -- we're trying to be modern here. G.M. would probably drive me crazy while Foxy was sure to draw some unwanted stares from passersby.

Just when I was about to give up, I noticed two letters on the list -- GG. Being a French speaker, I took to them right away. GiGi, with the Gs pronounced softly, reached deep into my francophile psyche. I may never have been a courtesan-in-training or Leslie Caron, but I've read every book by Colette and have long favored my French ancestors over the Celtic ones.

So there you have it, dear Jacob. Just call me Gigi.

What do/did you call your grandparents and/or how have/will you tackled/tackle this serious issue when/if the time came/comes? (How's that for a convoluted survey question?)

Photo at top right is of my grandson: Jacob Frederick Massmann

I'll Be Up In A Minute

2010-07-09T08:56:00.013-04:00

One of the many things to love about Europe is the cemeteries. Not that I don't appreciate the world of its living -- museums, architecture, cuisine, languages, you name it -- but Europeans do, with their eons of history, have a certain knack, a je ne sais quoi, when it comes to remembering previous manifestations of their personal gene pool.

The charming old city of Heidelberg, Germany, which was not bombed during World War II, has a cemetery that, for those of us predisposed to mortality, provides an unexpectedly pleasant home away from home. I sometimes stroll down its shaded pathways on the way from my daughter's apartment into town -- its soaring trees provide a brief respite from the summer heat. The cemetery is called Bergfriedhof, which means Mountain Peace Yard, a perfectly apt name for such a vast and rolling park dedicated to the quick and thousands of their dead.

As with all cemeteries inside a city, one is immediately struck by the contrast of quiet hush within and noisy rush without. Germans tend to be serious by nature and design, and they can be even more pensive when caring for their deceased. Every day, silent older women, no doubt wives, daughters and sisters of the deceased, tend the begonias, impatiens, hydrangeas and other splashes of color that belie the lifelessness below. They sweep up the rare scrap of man-made litter along with leaves and twigs that might besmirch the otherwise serene order around each resting place.

In the meantime, young people zip by on foot or bicycle, most with earbuds to block the eerie silence with the pounding rhythms of those who still believe themselves immortal.

The black and gray gravestones are carved with names, dates of birth and death and the occasional quote from a melancholy philosopher. A few wealthy families adorn their plots with carved figures whose heads bow in grief at their passing. Understandably sad, of course, but all of this mourning sometimes makes me long for the highly whimsical Pere-LaChaise Cemetery in Paris where tombs are dressed up with soaring nude reliefs (Oscar Wilde), clusters of bright stone roses (Edith Piaf) or burned-out candles (Jim Morrison) and where the dead seem more amused than sorry at their demise.

On a personal note, I have already chosen my epitaph: "I'll Be Up In A Minute." Trying to decide whether to have a stone hand reaching up or out through the monument or urn...

Bergfriedhof caters to the middle and upper-middle class of Heidelberg, some of whom, like the astronomer and urologist, want us to remember them for the good they did in society. There is also the occasional famous person -- the great sociologist and economist Max Weber, for example, who studied at the University of Heidelberg down the road, is buried here, as is the celebrated lyric poet Hilde Domin, who escaped Germany during the 1930s and was later refused asylum in the U.S. Domin spent the war in the Dominican Republic, returning to her homeland in the 1950s with her husband, whose family had been wiped out in the Holocaust. They settled in Heidelberg where she had also been a student.

A portion of the cemetery is dedicated to Heidelberg's past and present Jewish community, whose graves line gentle walkways that wend up and over sloping hills. The stones are often etched with Hebrew letters and the Star of David. Many of the death dates end in the 1920s, a sad reminder that those family lines most likely vanished through escape, forced migration or execution. Other plots, whose family members still live nearby, remember those deported to France, for example, or who perished in Buchenwald or other concentration camps. Their death dates are marked with the year and occasional month, but their remains, of course, lie elsewhere.

Just a few steps away can be found the graves of other German families who remember their fathers and sons who died as soldiers during the same war, their death dates equally vague and their bodies most likely buried on the battleground where they fell. Their names appear with the occasional Iron Cross, the now banned symbol of the Germany Army.

This likely unintended but perhaps inevitable juxtaposition of these two German communities in the horrific mid-20th century sends a message that cannot be ignored -- we all become equal in death.

Still, cemeteries can be about more than sorrow and regret. That's why I spend time in them when I have a chance, especially in Europe. Not every day, mind you, but often enough to shake me out of my complacency and remind me how fortunate I am to be alive right here and right now. Perhaps that's why new Buddhist monks are often made to meditate in cemeteries -- graveyards do keep things real.

Denying death won't make it go away, and acknowledging it won't bring it any sooner. But if we would just let it, this awareness might deepen our breath, lighten our burdens and enliven our step.

Especially on the way to the cemetery exit and the delights of the living -- good food, art, conversation, music, friendship, maybe even the occasional passing balloon, right outside or above its heavy stone walls.

Text and Pictures © Rebecca Clay Haynes

Lost and Found in the Andes

2010-02-12T12:30:00.047-05:00

After traveling through Ecuador for a week this past January, my six companions and I arrived in Baños, a dusty hot-springs village in the foothills of Tungurahua, a volcano whose chronic indigestion could be seen -- and heard -- from the outskirts of town.

Baños had been evacuated twice in the past ten years because of "Little Hell," as the Quechua have long called the beast in whose shadow they live. Despite some concerns, the town's 17,000 residents had no plans to leave again -- on their last return, they had found their homes looted and belongings gone.

The morning after our arrival, I opted out of a trip along the Avenue of the Waterfalls, having just made it through the Avenue of the Volcanoes and desperate for a break from the non-stop sights. Alone in the lobby of our Posada del Arte hotel, I heard three men speaking what sounded like Russian. Knowing a few words myself, I barged in on their conversation only to discover a moment later that they were, in fact, speaking Polish. And anyone who knows anything about that faraway part of the world knows that Poles harbor few soft spots for Russians.

But, seeing my embarrassment, and appreciating the few Polish words I quickly flung their way, one took pity on me by switching to English and suggesting that if I had nothing else to do that day -- other than to show off my language skills with complete strangers, he seemed to imply -- I might want to take in a sauna and massage at El Refugio, a "spa garden" on the edge of town.

In my usual impulsive fashion, I hailed a taxi and for a dollar rode a mile out of town to the resort, which consisted of one modest, single-story building with a collection of flowering bushes out front. Treeless, grass-covered mountain slopes rose up in every direction, seeming to overlap each other in shades of green but mostly brown, all around. La Sierra, like the whole country, was in a severe drought -- this, their rainy season, was anything but.

Several women in gray smocks greeted me inside the door, their polite smiles barely masking some mild confusion. "What are you doing here?" their eyes seemed to ask. I tried not to take their nervous stares personally, and soon realized that they had as much skill in English as I did in Spanish. Just about nada.

But somehow -- with the help of a large poster showing each service in big, color close-ups -- I managed to sign up for the baños de cajón, masaje antiestress and limpieza de oidos, or ear-cleaning. All for about forty bucks. I put off a decision on the limpieza intestinal, or intestinal scrubbing, even though the Polish guy back at the hotel had -- while sparing me the details -- highly recommended it.

One of the women directed me to take off my sandals and place them in a plastic box. I waited for her to have me remove the rest of my clothes but instead she gestured for me to follow her outside onto the gravel-strewn parking area. Perplexed, I hopped around on the harsh, pebbly surface in my bare feet until she pointed toward what looked like a cabin perched on a small hill in the far distance.

Smiling wanly as if I were a difficult five-year old, she said "caminar" and made the universal sign for walking -- two fingers pointed down and stiffly waggling back and forth -- before disappearing back into the building.

I stood there in the parking area doing a series of 360s, trying to figure out how this fit into my usual concept of a day at the spa. Alone but for gusts of wind determined to wrench off my hat and blow it far away, I glanced back at the building, half expecting -- and fully hoping -- that the woman would reemerge, and, in so many words, tell me there had been a big mistake, that she had not meant to leave me out there in the harsh midday sun all by myself and that it was time for my seven-dollar "hot bath in a drawer."

Then it occurred to me that the baños de cajón might be in that distant cabin so I headed in its direction, gingerly stepping on the stones and pebbles and other bits of sharp debris that seemed destined to shred my tender soles to bits. It didn't take long for them to start aching and stinging and otherwise not feel in the least bit well.

I gradually followed a series of signs that said "siga," which I figured must mean "follow" or "continue" up along a whole series of rocky paths, with the occasional respite of grass, climbing higher and higher into the mountains and further away from the refuge.

"Some refuge," I thought, wondering with increasing petulance why the spa garden would put their clients through this "little hell." What had that Polish guy been thinking when he recommended this place? What kind of cruel joke was this?

Still, I hiked upwards, holding my hat down tightly against the increasing gusts, and followed the "sigas." I gradually began to notice large wooden plaques with what looked like quotes carved into them and tucked somewhat discreetly into bushes along the path -- here was one by Disraeli and then more by Emerson, Shakespeare, Churchill and others.

Considering my circumstances, I hardly had the time to try and translate them, even when I did notice words like "amor" and "vida." The cabin was still far away, the sun had no mercy and the ever-colder wind seemed increasingly determined to blow my brains out through my dirty ears. I was getting thirsty. Why didn't I bring my water bottle? And now my feet were truly on fire -- burning and crying out for leather, plastic, anything but this.

I looked in every direction -- not a person, a house nor even a llama in sight. I was part terrified, part exhilarated to find myself alone in this wild part of the Ecuadorian Andes but...should I turn back? It wasn't too late. It couldn't be too late.

As I finally approached the cabin, it occurred to me that someone somewhere was having a good laugh over this -- the place was locked and abandoned. I knocked then banged on the door but no answer. No bath, no friendly welcome, no water, no relief. I looked down the barren, virtually lifeless mountain and wondered how I had let myself fall for this.

That was when I noticed a "siga" sign on the edge of a narrow tree-lined trail leading past the cabin, further into the mountains -- despite my misgivings, I kept going, slowly moving up and over the next peak. I was losing track of the time; had I been climbing for five minutes or an hour? How many miles had I covered? And when, I wondered, would I reach a point of no return?

I began to imagine the headlines: "American Woman Disappears in Andes: Thought She Was Heading to a Sauna." "American Woman Found Delirious in Andes: Bloodied Feet Amputated." "American Woman Survives Month in Andes: Vows Never to Return."

Some time later, I came upon a sign saying "El Muro de la Reflexión," and a seating circle of huge stones overlooking the next valley. Nice, I said sarcastically, glancing over the cliff and into another valley below -- a wall of reflection. I briefly reflected on whether I would ever get out of this mess then continued up the path until I arrived at another stone circle with a sign "El Muro del Perdón." Hmm. They were asking a lot. If I ever did see civilization again, I thought, I might see my way to pardoning these women but, for the moment, forgiveness was not on the tip of my tongue.

Just below that spot, I saw a tranquil and inviting orchard sloping down in the general direction -- it seemed -- of the refuge. Best of all, the fruit trees were carpeted with thick, fluorescent-green grass -- I all but ran, singing, into the lush valley.

That soft carpet carried me past more quote plaques, some outbuildings and piles of trash and rubble, all the way back to where I had begun my journey, to the gravelly parking lot which my happy soles now flew right over, barely noticing the slings and arrows of misfortune right beneath them. I had come full circle.

As I limped into the refugio, the same women greeted me at the door, this time with smiles that hinted that they knew what I had just been through.

"Okay?" One asked timidly. "Está bien?"

"Si," I said, mustering a grateful smile. "Muy bien."

They led me to a changing stall where I put on my bathing suit and headed for a room lined with about ten large wooden boxes -- three had live human heads sitting on top. I stifled a laugh. Each head had a small white towel wrapped loosely around its neck -- the eyes watched me silently as I dragged myself into a neighboring box. When I collapsed onto the narrow wooden bench inside, the attendant closed its door behind me.

As eucalyptus vapor rose up around me exposed head, I smiled at my three now giggling and Spanish-speaking companions and saw through the window the mountain I had just climbed. My feet, I think, smiled with me. That was when the final quote I had seen came back to me, the one I had noticed just as I completed that final lap:

"Just because you've died doesn't mean you ever lived." -- Stanislaw Lec (1909-1966)

I closed my eyes. Maybe those Poles -- this poet and the guy back at the hotel -- were onto something. I could only guess that the barefoot hike, punctuated with pithy thoughts from history's greatest thinkers, was meant to spiritually, emotionally and even physically prepare the fresh client for the pleasures to come. And that the lack of shoes was meant to connect our bodies and minds more directly to the Earth. It was not, I concluded, an exercise in S & M.

Note to self: Nail down more Spanish back home. Drop Russian.

Tungurahua suddenly belched in the distance. The other women seemed also to sense that low rumble and, with eyebrows slightly raised, we glanced at one another from our steamy cabinets. But none of us raced for the exit.

At some point, the attendant had me leave my box and plunge into an icy cold bath. The other women laughed as I shrieked and sputtered then stumbled back to my box for another round of delicious hot steam. It was their turn next.

I began to look forward to that massage. And I decided to get that intestinal cleaning after all. Could anyone say they had fully lived if their personal plumbing had never been scrubbed?

Rumble on, volcano, I thought. Rumble on.

Of Christmas Past and Presents

2009-12-16T13:25:00.014-05:00

One of my favorite holiday memories is of skiing the glittering, snow-packed slopes of the Santa Fe Ski Basin, just a 20-minute drive up Canyon Road from my low-rent apartment in the adobe city below.

I traversed those intermediate trails from morning till night on Christmas Day, nearly the only skier on the mountain, and barely stopped long enough to have a cup of hot chili -- my holiday meal -- and to tighten my boots.

I've rarely been all that sentimental or even excited about Christmas, except for those few years when my age was in the single digits and there was always a slight possibility that something "wicked cool" -- in the language of the day -- might be under the tree that morning.

That was back when I spent the weeks before Christmas hunting down the presents that my mother had hidden somewhere in our little house, and nearly always in their cluttered bedroom closet.

As the oldest, I took on that job with a zeal that could overcome all obstacles. Stacking a chair with books, clothing, even shoes, I climbed as high as possible to poke my fingers all around the upper shelves until I felt the distinctive corner of a box. All worthwhile presents, I knew, came in a box.

Next step was to carefully examine each box, which was already wrapped in red or green paper, for a tiny, faint initial -- B, D or A -- that was usually, but not always, penciled in near the tape. I was the B -- for Becky, and those were the only boxes I cared about. The others were for Dicky and Amy.

In my most brazen moments, I tore back a corner of the wrapping paper, bit by bit, trying to see what was inside. It wasn't enough to know something had your name on it, I had to know what it was before it finally became mine -- I am still a failure at handling the agony of anticipation.

After figuring out, or not figuring out, what the box contained, I would then try to tuck the torn part back in with the rest of the paper, assuming my mother would never in a million years notice that I'd been snooping. She might later give me a hard look, and even ask, but I had developed and honed such fine skills of denial that short of stretching me on the rack, I would never confess.

My younger brother and sister would beg me for clues of what Santa might have brought them -- they were no better at waiting than I was -- and I would eventually give in, but not without telling them "yeah, yeah, they got something for you, too. But just don't tell or I'll kill you."

Unlike most kids I knew, who tore open their presents the minute the sun came up on Christmas morning, flinging ribbons and bows and paper and boxes aside to get to the next one, we were forced to put down a bowl of Rice Chex first and then open each gift one at a time.

That meant sitting through my brother getting a stupid cap pistol or cowboy hat and my sister getting a stupid pair of hand-knit mittens or colored pencils and my mother getting a stupid box of chocolates and my father getting a stupid winter hat that looked just like the stupid winter hat he got last year.

I don't remember most of what I got for Christmas as a child -- unlike my husband who has lists of every present he received starting at age two -- except that I'm pretty sure there was an Easy-Bake Oven one year and a Midge doll and a Barbie doll another. With teeny-tiny fashion outfits hand-made by my mother.

I come from a long line of Grinches -- my father rarely picked up our tree until two days or even the day before Christmas, choosing one of the last on the lot, the one that had been left behind. I appreciate this far more now than I did then -- having such a scrawny Christmas tree was embarrassing at the time, especially when comparing it to the big, lush ones that filled the corners of other people's living rooms for weeks before the big day.

Later, this humble tree set me up to love the tear-inducing finale of A Charlie Brown Christmas, when Charlie Brown, depressed from all the commercialism, tries to decorate the drooping branches of a nearly needle-less tree for a school play. He gives up and goes away.

Finally, Linus finds the tree and starts to breathe life into it with ornaments and flashing lights from Snoopy's doghouse -- in the end, the little tree is glorious and all of the characters gather round to sing "Hark, the Herald Angels Sing."

This year, my husband and I are planning a big Christmas Day brunch for two, then the unwrapping of a few simple presents -- one at a time -- before heading off to the local cinema to catch the dark comedy "Up in the Air," which seems to be opening nationwide that day just for empty-nesters like us.

In the meantime, don't anyone dare tell my husband I've been snooping around in the closets.

Photos:
First: Not really me. www.abc-of-skiing.com
Second: Christmas card my husband made before we were married.
Third: Knitter's website: www.gettinitpegged.com
Fourth: Christmas card my husband made after we were married.

The Rebranding of Tiger Woods

2009-12-04T13:10:00.002-05:00

I'd already been thinking quite a lot about the trend of personal branding, especially among savvy young artists, singers, writers and athletes trying to distinguish themselves in their highly competitive markets, when Tiger Woods drove his Cadillac SUV over a hydrant and into a tree and began the near-overnight unraveling of his own carefully designed image and label.

As a household name, Tiger Woods has been synonymous with superhuman self-control, self-discipline and focus, essential qualities for such success in a game as precise and demanding as professional golf. As a seemingly reluctant celebrity, his rare appearances with the media only added to his stature and dignity in the hearts and minds of his fans.

My husband has been such a devotee of Tiger Woods that we've sometimes had to cancel plans so he could stay home and catch the guy win another tournament. I would often remind him that there were other players on the course who deserved some attention and respect; instead, he would change the channel rather than waste time watching second-rate "chumps" like Phil Mickelson, Steve Stricker or Padraig Harrington address their ball.

Tiger didn't always win, but he prevailed often enough to become the highest-paid and most famous athlete on earth.

Add to his astounding skill with a stick and a ball his reputation as a serious and devoted family man, and you have the perfect one-man show to help peddle big American cars, oil companies, financial consultants, sports drinks, cell phones, running shoes, video games, razor blades and fancy watches, not to mention laser eye surgery and private jets.

So why did he get so sloppy with his personal life? Why did he risk his empire for a few extra rolls in the hay? Why did he allow himself this ignoble fall from grace?

I'll let others speculate on those questions.

Personally, I don't care one way or the other what Tiger Woods has been doing in his free time. I was never caught up in the hero worship, and usually rooted for other players to win -- don't tell my mate! -- because I found Tiger's constant winning a bit of a snore, really. And because sitting around on a beautiful weekend afternoon watching little white balls soar through the air is rarely my idea of a smashing good time.

But many people do care about what he's been doing in his leisure hours, and that's where his brand will suffer greatly. Tiger is now -- for the first time in his life -- an object of ridicule. Did you hear the one about his new name -- Cheetah? Or about how his three alleged mistresses add up to a triple bogey for the world's best golfer? Or have you seen the music video with Tiger's alleged voice mail to a girlfriend playing over women singers softly repeating his words again and again?

The jokes and puns have only just begun. Tiger's new image, alas, is of a sex addict.

One once-devoted but now furious fan, who had run his tigerwoodsisgod.com blog since 1997, just shut down the site after posting a series of diatribes against his now fallen deity. Where once he had built this "First Church of Tiger Woods" in homage to the one he believed came closest to a perfect human being, he has now slammed the door on all of those illusions -- pumped up by the PR machine behind Tiger's brand -- and his love has turned to hate.

Like so many others, this groupie discovered that Tiger Woods never really was an icon or a hero or an idol or a god, but that all along he was just your basic run-of-the-mill human being -- as Tiger pretty much told us in his first statement to the press last Friday -- and as susceptible to "transgressions" as the rest of us.

Hard to know if and when he'll hit the links again, but Tiger will never again be viewed as impeccable and flawless, even if his game stays winning and strong.

And that, frankly, could come as a relief to those of us who have never been and never will be anything close to perfect.

And to those of us who might have other plans for a golf-season weekend.

Afghanistan: Nothing But a Fool's Errand

2009-11-13T13:00:00.002-05:00

For anyone trying to write about Afghanistan, the war in that ornery, cantankerous and choleric nation is one of the fastest-moving targets around.

Writing about it, like fighting it, is like playing dodge-ball with a fruit fly. Like shooting minnows in the sea. Like pitting Wile E. Coyote against the road runner -- and we all know which character the U.S. military plays in that cartoon.

Anyone who thinks the Afghan people will ever just sit down and play nice with Uncle Sam would make a perfect buyer for oceanfront property in Arizona.

If they could get a mortgage.

But I digress.

No wonder the White House is entertaining so many potential strategies and can't seem to pick out one good one just yet. Obama is now rightfully taking his time, weighing each option, and asking for more ideas on how to proceed.

In my humble opinion, any strategy other than withdrawal is doomed to fail. Withdrawal will also fail in its own way, of course; once we pull out, the country will revert to its natural state -- a rugged land full of fierce fighters who will train their sights away from the Yankee invaders and back onto their own people.

So why should we throw more human bodies in the form of American soldiers at an effort that cannot succeed no matter how many years and devalued dollars we invest?

Common sense plus history -- especially the comical Great Game waged between Russia and Britain there in the 19th century -- will tell us to pack up our toys and leave Afghanistan now.

Russian attempts to control the country in the 1980s also led to nothing but widows and the eventual collapse of the Soviet empire. And we need only look at British efforts to tell Americans what to do 250 years ago to know that no people want foreign troops on their soil.

And I would argue that Afghani "minutemen" are a lot tougher and more numerous than our home-grown version back then.

My brief experience in Central Asia -- where I spent five months on a US-taxpayer-funded media project in the comparatively mild-mannered Kazakhstan -- tells me that what we call corruption in America is simply the cost of doing business there. And that these nations' leaders long ago learned how to tell us what we want to hear. They know just how naive Americans can be.

So, are the endless battles and skirmishes and firefights and downed helicopters in Afghanistan helping in any way? Rumor has it that we went into Afghanistan to prevent Al Qaeda from inflicting another September 11th on America. But rumor also has it that Al Qaeda has prudently moved to Pakistan and, if 9/11 or recent events are any example, most terrorist plots can just as easily be hatched in European cities or on U.S. military bases in Texas anyway.

In fact, our presence in Afghanistan is only making matters worse, especially by helping to destabilize nuclear-bomb-owning Pakistan and to recruit young Muslims who have nothing better to do. And there are lots of young Muslims with
nothing better to do.

In the meantime, we've already pumped $144 billion dollars into Afghanistan. Apparently, that works out to a million bucks per soldier per year. And we don't save money when one of them gets killed -- we just replace him or her with a new one.

It will be no cakewalk to pull out of Afghanistan and I, like many people, fear for those locals who aided our misguided efforts, and for the women who will surely suffer if the repressive Taliban return.

Similar arguments were used to keep us in Vietnam long after it was clear to most Americans that victory there was impossible. If the U.S. military had continued to believe an end was in sight, we would still be bombing rice paddies and dropping napalm on the jungle, if there were any rice paddies or jungles left.

(Maybe we should bring back the draft. That would almost guarantee an imminent withdrawal from Afghanistan and its sister war in Iraq. Once enough American boys and girls were sent over to fight -- and not just the poor and needy -- the whole thing would be over lickety-split.)

We should never have gone on this fool's errand in the first place, and should have let the Afghans work out their internal problems themselves. But that is another story, another president, and the mistake that led to all others.

In the meantime, again, we're quibbling over how much modest proposals for health care reform might cost or how much we might have to spend to fix our mediocre educational system or to clean up our inner cities or help put Americans back to work.

America is falling apart while our bright red blood and crisp greenbacks paint and litter the barren Afghan hills.

A writer for Britain's Guardian recently compared the endless war in Afghanistan with the darkly funny movie Groundhog Day, in which Bill Murray's character must repeat the same day again and again. It is only through being forced to reexamine his life and priorities that he manages to break that vicious cycle.

Would that America do the same. Our clock, too, is ticking.

Is That Supposed to Be a Good Thing?

2009-11-11T12:50:00.009-05:00

One of the downsides to being a news junkie is the occasional lack of discrimination, especially when it comes to reading the local rags, which, as we know, are so hungry for readers that they will cover just about anything to draw people in and drive up advertising revenue.

Crime -- the more horrendous the better -- plus fires, accidents, big weather events and sports rivalries are the mainstays of local news reports just about everywhere in America. Without them, reporters would have little to talk about beyond county commissioner meetings, municipal sewage problems and traffic tie-ups on the beltway.

This time of year, seasonal food and topics in education also make their way into the headlines. And if this past week is any example, I'm not sure that's always a good thing.

One of the "most popular" stories here recently was about a local guy who ate 35 local chili dogs in one sitting at his local bar -- he is now a local celebrity. The photo of him with his buddies in the bar -- his cheeks bulging with one of those "dogs" -- earned him his 15 minutes of Warhol-predicted fame.

This big story came on the heels of a bunch of food-related articles during the annual State Fair, where every year excited locals line up to try the most outrageous and, if news reports are to be believed, the most delicious grub ever invented on the face of this good Earth.

This year's favorite bite? Chocolate-covered bacon. Tip? Don't cook the bacon too much; something about its sogginess makes the semi-sweet coating taste even better.

Few local reporters waste ink or airtime asking locals if they really should be stuffing their face with such "food" every autumn, but then I'm just a spoilsport who doesn't appreciate the ingenuity that goes into combining pork and candy.

Our state agricultural commissioner was quoted as exclaiming: "Believe me, I've tasted it, and it's wonderful." Since the pork industry runs this state, I'm thinking he might have an interest in promoting this newfangled way to serve pig. Never hear him say much about eating more fruits and vegetables.

There were also candy bars dipped in funnel-cake batter, including deep-fried Oreos, deep-fried Snickers and deep-fried Ho-Hos, plus deep-fried pickles, deep-fried bananas and deep-fried macaroni and cheese.

"Anything you can fry and put on a stick, they'll buy," said one vendor proudly. (Not sure how you get mac 'n cheese on a stick but anything's possible at the State Fair.)

While October's mass gluttony is now moldy news -- though it still sticks in my craw -- a story in this morning's papers brought up the question of how to improve our schools' educational standards and ensure our children get the best education money can buy.

It seems that a local middle school has hit on a novel approach to raising the funds needed for digital cameras in the computer lab, especially when last year's candy sale didn't work. (Maybe they needed to deep-fry those Hershey Kisses. Just a thought.)

So, the idea is to have parents fork over 20 bucks to buy their kids an extra 20 points on their grades -- that would mean 10 extra points on two tests of the student's choosing and possibly raise a B to an A, for example, or an F to a D.

Apparently, a parent advisory group concocted the plan and the principal endorsed it, saying it wouldn't make any difference on the student's final grade.

A spokesperson for the state Department of Public Instruction said she understands that schools are struggling with the recession but questioned whether selling grades might teach students the wrong lesson.

Kids have until November 20th to get their money in. Less than a week before Thanksgiving.

Deep-fried chocolate-coated turkey legs anyone?

Late-breaking news: County school administrators just nixed the grade-selling activities in our nearby town, thanks to all of the publicity. Now that is a very good thing.

Neighbors in High Heels, and Other Petty Complaints

2009-10-28T05:19:00.031-04:00

I love to travel. For all the usual reasons. See new sites, eat new food, breathe new air, meet new people, walk new streets, take new pictures, hear a new language, think new thoughts, buy new tchochkes.

Traveling takes us out of our comfort zone and demands that we adapt to a new longitude, new culture and new bathroom. This can be exceedingly good for the brain, which otherwise becomes complacent and even lazy when everything in its vicinity is already known, familiar and under control. The cerebral synapses need a good slap every once in a while.

It used to be, of course, that humans traveled comparatively slowly -- when we weren't running across an African savannah, we were on the back of an animal or in a carriage or on a boat. Whatever the mode of transport, it moved at its natural pace over the surface of the Earth. We spent days, weeks and even months getting to where we were going.

Then came the airplane and before we knew it we were spanning continents and time zones in mere hours. We can beat the sun at its own game. The high speed of our travel has become such a given that we yawn at the thought of it. Oh, that -- it's just a Greyhound in the Sky. And I'll be in Dubai by tonight.

If it takes eight hours to fly from Philadelphia to Frankfurt, say, then we expect our entire self -- body and soul -- to arrive at the same time, to reassemble itself as quickly and wholly as if we'd driven our car from DC to Boston. We believe ourselves beyond jet lag -- too modern, too sophisticated, too hip to be slowed down by such now-manageable forces as gravity, physics and the speed of flight.

But when we look back after our first few days, we realize that the time is a blur -- we know we spoke and ate and laughed and blinked and walked and slept, but was that really us? Only part of our being was really on the job. The other part was crawling across the Atlantic, trying to catch up.

I also hate to travel. For all the usual reasons. Feeling disjointed, out of my context, vulnerable, betwixt and between. Will my hotel room be on the ground floor next to the elevator or on the top floor, in the back and away from traffic, as I had requested? And why do so many Germans -- who have otherwise gone green, recycling every gum wrapper and powering their cozy Häuser with wind power -- smoke as if they were facing a firing squad and had just five minutes to live?

And what about that woman in the hotel room next to mine? Doesn't she realize that high heels on a hardwood floor naturally clash? That they cannot possibly work together? Especially when she gets up at five in the morning and races around her 200 square feet for three hours? Do I bang on her door and then throttle her or just hope she trips down the stairs on her way out?

Okay, I'm not that mean. I don't wish her any ill will, and remind myself that she knows not what she does. She deserves more pity than wrath. I tell myself this over and over until some small part of me starts to believe.

And then I remind myself that my two weeks here are too short to waste on mental squabbles with unknown neighbors, and that soon I will be back in my rural home where the only person in heels is me. But never before dawn.

Photos:

1. Climbing up to the Philosophenweg, a trail that overlooks the city and river. Really brings out the philosophical side of its hikers.
2. With friends and family after dinner.
3. The reason I'm visiting Germany -- daughter, Jennifer, on the Alte Brücke crossing the Neckar River.

Why No Nobel Prize in Fashion?

2009-10-12T14:30:00.095-04:00

The Nobel Prize Committee has been handing out awards like candy this past week -- and that was quite a sugar-coated jaw breaker for Barack Obama -- but I just don't understand why there is never a recipient from the fashion world.

That said, it has been quite a year for Nobel firsts.

More women than ever took home a gold medal -- plus a sack of Swedish kroner -- in the areas of economics, chemistry, physiology, medicine and literature; one for research into economic governance, two for delving into the mysteries of chromosomal activity, another for the most in-depth description of ribosomes to date, and still another for her critical depiction of life behind the Iron Curtain. A few men in physics received Nobels for work related to optical communication and an imaging semiconductor circuit.

And then, of course, the President of our United States got the startling news that he had won the 2009 Nobel Peace Prize for world-saving acts yet to be committed, and his opponents have been raising campaign funds on that vast left-wing Swedish conspiracy ever since.

Now, these Nobel Prize accomplishments are all well and good, and we're proud to be breathing the same air as these brilliant people, but are science experiments and fictional books the only game in town?

What about the research that goes into making sure people don't walk around naked all day? It deserves a second look.

True, fashion is not the only category that has been slighted since the awards kicked off in 1901. There has never been a Nobel for mathematics, either, an oversight that also smacks of bias -- one can only assume that Alfred, who made his fortune inventing dynamite, saw no need to recognize people who simply dabble in numbers, and maybe he felt modern civilization already knew enough about adding and subtracting and that machines would one day take over all that crunching anyway.

For those of us tortured into learning the multiplication tables as an innocent child, the fact that there is no Nobel for math makes all the sense in the world.

But I digress.

Because even if algebra and calculus get no respect, shouldn't the science of clothing? I mean, these Nobel Prize winners studied what goes on in our economies, our bodies and our dysfunctional societies, shouldn't there be some recognition for those hard-designing men and women paying attention to what hangs on the outside of our bods?

I don't know how much of any given nation's GDP goes to buying the latest shirts, skirts, dresses, pants, vests, shoes, gloves, sweaters, jackets, coats, scarves, earrings, necklaces, bracelets and rings, but I would think that apparel plays a serious enough role in every economy that any economist worth his or her hat would see the value in that.

And it beats spending years staring at economic charts and graphs and still getting it wrong about the recession.

Medicine also applies here -- everyone knows that the best drug for just about any human being is a new outfit with a touch of bling. A Nobel Prize in Fashion could also, of course, hook in with the physiology category since the better we look on the outside, the better we feel on the inside. Any fashion magazine can tell you that.

And then there's an application to chemistry -- putting together just the right blouse with just the right skirt would be like mixing baking soda and vinegar which, if I remember correctly from Chem 101, would turn any well-dressed woman into a walking volcano.

This is why I just don't understand why fashion designers -- from those premiering their latest creations on the runways of Paris to those knocking off those ten-thousand dollar dresses for KMart -- don't get more attention from the eggheads in Stockholm.

Much peace has been bought over the decades with the perfect pair of shoes, especially when they're running away from a fight.

Shouldn't that be the basis for the best Nobel of all?

Spring Break Part I

2009-10-09T12:50:00.004-04:00

The only people who would think it was a good idea to let three 17-year old suburban high school girls go to Ft. Lauderdale for spring break would be other 17-year olds.

But somehow our parents -- maybe because they needed a spring break themselves -- drove us to the Greyhound station in Boston early one snowy morning in February 1974 for a 36-hour bus ride that would take us down Route 95 and into the deep south.

My school record had been so dismal, and my behavior so unruly, that my parents probably wished I would just move to Florida and stay there.

It was our final semester, a special time when many students -- at least back then -- did even less schoolwork and homework than usual. We didn't really have much to take a break from, since we were doing little more than showing up for the occasional class and waiting to see which college might accept us when the admissions letters started rolling in -- or not -- come April.

Still, escaping the boring New England snow for the fun-soaked Florida beach -- and getting a chance to play grown-up -- seemed like a "wicked good thing" to do at the time.

When Nancy, Debbie and I slipped into the tall, cushy seats of the huge bus, we felt only eagerness, excitement and pride. The only buses we had known till then were those orange school buses, which now seemed puny and even laughable by comparison.

I'm not sure why but somehow we had the brains to sit up front, near the driver, and avoid the crowd of teenagers and hippies -- mostly boys -- clustered in the back rows, even though they kept calling out to us to join them. We were hardly goody-two-shoes but I could tell they were looking for more trouble than we were interested in -- drinking, shouting, laughing and smoking under the glare of lights near the bathroom.

By the time we headed out of the station, the bus was pretty much packed, and most of the other passengers were older men in suits and ladies in dresses plus a smattering of the elderly and young mothers with children.

When we arrived at New York City's Penn Station about five hours later, a bunch of people got off the bus while a line of newcomers stood waiting by the door to get on.

That was when a middle-aged man who had been in a rush to get off the bus stepped right back on with two New York policemen in full uniform right behind him. A scuffle started up in the back with people shouting and swearing -- a bottle even smashed on the floor.

I moved from my seat on the aisle to one by the window, tucked my bag under my feet and discreetly lifted my head to see what was going on.

That's when I saw the troublemakers being led up the aisle and off the bus by the man and one of the cops -- the boys were in handcuffs and muttering under their breath. The other cop stayed behind and began going row by row, asking to look inside the bags of some of the other young people on the bus and moving his way slowly toward the front.

Debbie and Nancy and I looked at each other with our mouths wide open.

"Can you believe it?!" we said without making a sound. "Oh, my God."

I kicked my bag further under my seat and watched out of the corner of my eye as the cop led someone else off the bus.

A few minutes later, the next batch of passengers started filtering onto the bus and settling into the vacant seats.

"That guy was an undercover cop," someone said. "Those boys had pot," another one piped in. "I could smell it." "Good riddance," said a third.

I breathed a trembling sigh of relief and gave my bag a final but gentle shove under the seat. The bus rumbled out of Penn Station into the snowy sleet, making its way through Lincoln Tunnel and onto the Interstate where its big nose pointed toward the promised sun.

We giggled, curled up in our seats and took a good, long, carefree nap.

Where Has All The Time Gone?

2009-10-06T08:51:00.009-04:00

When I was a senior in high school, the quote I used under my yearbook picture paraphrased the great English poet, John Milton:

"How soon hath time, the subtle thief of youth, stolen on its wing my one and seventeenth year..."

Believe me, I was no wise-before-my-time teenager -- I was a party girl who lived in the moment, as children are wont to do, thinking little of the past and nothing of the future. But I must have figured out that my life was going to change very fast once I ran out that door with my diploma. And it did.

In that vein, and for your pleasure, I've assembled a few favorite quotes from far wiser men and women than I.

Time is what prevents everything from happening at once.

-- John Archibald Wheeler, American physicist
Coined the term "black hole"

***

A good holiday is one spent among people whose notions of time are vaguer than yours.

-- John B. Priestly, English novelist
Authored Man and Time

***

Without music to decorate it, time is just a bunch of boring production deadlines or dates by which bills must be paid.

-- Frank Zappa, American rock composer
Asteroid in his name: 3834 Zappafrank

***

The butterfly counts not months but moments, and has time enough.

-- Rabindranath Tagore, Indian poet
Won Nobel Prize in Literature

***

Time is the coin of your life. It is the only coin you have, and only you can determine how it will be spent. Be careful lest you let other people spend it for you.

-- Carl Sandburg, American writer
Won three Pulitzers

***

Time spent with cats is never wasted.

-- François-René de Chateaubriand, French author
Considered the father of French Romanticism

***

I'm trying very hard to understand this generation. They have adjusted the timetable for childbearing so that menopause and teaching a sixteen-year-old how to drive a car will occur in the same week.

-- Erma Bombeck, American humorist
Wrote popular column and umpteen best-sellers

***

The soul doesn't wear a watch.

-- Prem Rawat, Indian-born spiritual teacher
His foundation provides food and water to the poor

***

The time you enjoy wasting is not wasted time.

-- Bertrand Russell, English philosopher
History of Western Philosophy became best-seller

***

Time is a great healer but a poor beautician.

-- Lucille S. Harper

No idea who she is

***

Image sources:

1. Black hole photo -- random source
2. English painting by George Morland
3. Drawing by Baron C. DeGrimm
4. Butterfly photo -- random source
5. Coins photo -- royalcoins.com
6. Painting of cats by Daniel Merlin
7. Car swerving sign -- random source
8. Melting Watch, Salvador Dali
9. Lotus painting, Amy Guion Clay -- www.amyclay.com
10. Self-portrait in plastic

Don't "Ask Your Doctor"!

2009-09-30T08:42:00.017-04:00

Fidgety in school? Shy in crowds? Feeling blue? Tired? Can't sleep a full eight hours every night? Get a little annoyed from time to time? Trouble focusing at work?

Got sniffles? Just can't exercise or eat right? Don't have time for your period? Prefer one pill a month for bone health rather than daily calcium? Eyes a little dry? Can't get it up? Have to pee while out playing golf or rowing on a lake? Ate too much garbage for lunch?

Unless we retreat to a cave with no media access, we can't escape them -- ads for prescription drugs are in our face the minute we pick up a magazine, fire up the Internet or watch TV, especially the network news. Pill vendors are pushing their product day and night.

More than half of all Americans are now taking at least one prescription drug; the most common are for cholesterol and high blood pressure, according to Medco Health Solutions, but a whole slew of new pharmaceuticals covers an ever-expanding range of diseases and conditions, some real, many made up.

The Mad Men still exist! Those clever, empty people on Madison Avenue figured out the perfect catch phrase to sell more pills -- "Ask your doctor." And so we do. And then the doctor hands us a prescription (easier than an argument) and the pharmacist hands us an orange vial and the pharma companies laugh all the way to the bank.

Most of the time, I do believe, the whole system is playing us for suckers and we are falling right in line. And heck, if our insurance company will pay for it, and it promises to fix some annoying problem, why not? It's better than eating oatmeal for breakfast to lower cholesterol or changing our lifestyle to reduce stress. Right?

As with snake oil salesmen of the past, who sold bottles of useless and sometimes toxic elixirs to unsuspecting men and women in small towns across the United States, we find it hard to resist the lure of a quick fix. We often laugh when we see these characters in old movies -- we like to think we're smarter than our grandparents and great-grandparents and wouldn't fall for the fancy huckster. But the sad truth is, we're not. In fact, we may be a whole lot more dumb.

Truth is, we've lost all common sense. We forget there's a price to pay for everything.

Yes, I know there are people whose lives are saved by the drugs they take. And yes, there are people who really do function better on their meds. But I'm not talking about people who really need them. I'm talking about the rest of us.

The pharma industry feeds on the prevailing view in our society that anything that might compromise our efficiency, productivity and 24/7 happiness is a condition or disease that can and must be treated. As that market approaches saturation, the next step is to fabricate novel conditions and the drugs to treat them. Pills are the little workers designed to keep our inner factories in tip-top shape. Or are they?

A few examples from my own humble life.

Some years ago, I went to see a new gynecologist for insomnia. She immediately gave me a script for the antidepressant Paxil* and rushed me out the door. I took the things for about five months and while I did sleep a bit better (which may have been a placebo effect), I felt very flat and lifeless the whole time -- the pills had robbed me of my fizz. Quitting was terrifying; I was nauseous and anxious, fell over if I tried to stand up, and hardly slept for a few weeks. When I called her office in a panic, her assistant blew me off and essentially hung up.

The good doctor, who had so blithely prescribed these pills, had seemingly forgotten about me by then.

Recently, I went to see an orthopedist for muscle cramps caused by overdoing it at the gym. The ache had persisted for months so I finally decided -- against my better judgment -- to ask a doctor. He immediately ordered X-rays from his own in-house equipment then diagnosed me with degenerative disk disease.

I was shocked and dismayed. He prescribed one set of painkillers for daytime, even though I told him I had no pain during the day, and another set for night, when the ache would start up. I got home, looked up that diagnosis on the top health Websites, saw that the symptoms did not resemble mine in the least and realized that this was his standard response to every complaint -- a vague disease and a stack of painkillers.

I never took a single one, and before returning them to the drug store read the long list of side effects. Heart attack and stroke were the two biggies. I don't remember the rest.

Doctor knows best? Despite Congressional attempts to curb undue influence on MDs, many physicians are snugly tucked into the pockets of Big Pharma, handing out at best useless and at worst highly addictive and potentially dangerous drugs like penny candy.

Through my own trial and error, I determined that my muscle aches were aggravated by a magnesium deficiency -- I wasn't getting enough from my grocery-store supplement and so turned to powdered mag, which took away the ache in a few days. I also discovered that powdered magnesium helps me get a better night's sleep. For pennies!

We all know people, mostly the elderly but increasingly the middle-aged, who take many pills a day, and if you ask these otherwise intelligent, well-informed people what they are for, they will tell you they're not quite sure but that the doctor told them to take them. And once they're on those pills, they're afraid to go off. They're hooked on their pharmaceutical cocktail for life. And, as we all suspect, half of the drugs simply treat the side effects of the other half.

Fortunately, I was too young to have been part of the mass ingestion of hormone replacement therapy, back when menopause was a disease, but I had already decided I would resist what I heard was huge pressure from doctors to just take the pills and shut up. I know many women today who are now worried that they will be among those who get the cancer or heart attack or stroke they would otherwise not have fallen victim to, all because they took a drug they really didn't need.

Having worked as a freelance writer for the pharma industry, I came to believe that many of the ordinary people who work in it -- from operations to IT to communications and even to marketing -- don't really know what their company is doing.

They want to believe that what they're doing is for the good of humanity and, in some cases, it is. They're well-trained and good at their jobs, and are proud to hand out business cards from a corporation on the Fortune 500 -- they also have some of the best health insurance money can buy.

But they often know little about how their tiny sliver of the business might have contributed to the research, development and marketing of a drug for restless leg syndrome or overactive bladder or erectile dysfunction or even low testosterone, now called Low-T syndrome.

And one wonders about the fake people in the commercials; I used to occasionally hire actors for gigs when I worked in New York -- I know how tough finding that kind of work can be, and how much they can get paid for pretending to have sexual problems or osteoporosis or depression or acid reflux or even an enlarged prostate.

Then there are the actors who should know better, like the cheerful and ubiquitous drug peddler Sally Fields. As it turns out, her monthly osteoporosis pill (I won't write the name because even bad publicity is better than no publicity in this industry) costs a whole lot more than the alternatives -- and helps drive up the cost of health care in this country -- but because The Flying Nun is shilling it, women line up in droves.

Most drugs hawked in the media today are new to the market -- the idea is to create a blockbuster as quickly as possible, pushing out the competition and establishing the brand before it goes off patent and is replaced by generics. Many of these new drugs have yet to be completely tested for safety and efficacy, as we saw with some pain killers and other drugs that actually killed a good number of innocent people before they were finally pulled from the drug store shelves.

Where was the FDA when we needed them? Also in the pockets of the prescription drug cartel?

I finally couldn't write drivel for the pharma industry anymore and quit, even though it meant giving up a six-figure income. But the minute I said "No" to an assignment for the last time, I felt a rush of wonderful new vitality and health and energy course through my veins.

Now that is a drug I can live with.

A few articles and books:

*Are You Depressed, or Just Human? Andrew Weil
Study Shows More Americans Taking Prescription Drugs, USA Today
Disease Mongering: Good for Big Pharma, Bad for You, by Andrew Weil
Medical Editors Push for Ghostwriting Crackdown, New York Times
The Truth About the Drug Companies, by Marcia Angell
Our Daily Meds, by Melody Petersen
Selling Sickness: How the World's Biggest Pharmaceutical Companies are Turning Us All into Patients, by Ray Moynihan and Alan Cassels
Getting Well: It's About Time, Wall Street Journal
Epidemic of Fever Phobia, Dana Ullman, Huffington Post

Un Potluck à la Française -- Making Boeuf Bourguignon at Home

2009-09-21T17:00:00.015-04:00

A few days ago, I got it into my head to whip up a batch of Boeuf Bourguignon -- or Boeuf à la Bourguignonne -- the luscious, wine-drenched beef stew first made famous in America by our beloved French Chef Julia Child and most recently by Julie Powell when she burned it to a crisp then remade it for no-show guests in the hit movie Julie and Julia.

(Does anyone else think those names should have been reversed?)

This past Saturday, we had about 30 Francophone and Francophile guests arriving for a potluck; members of our French-speaking club share the hosting of this monthly event and September was our turn.

Now, un potluck français is no ordinary covered-dish affair -- don't even think about offering a mayonnaise-drenched potato salad or chips and salsa or thawed shrimp with cocktail sauce or fried chicken or pigs in a blanket or crackers and pimento cheese or green beans topped with little marshmallows.

One must make un grand effort for this crowd -- and that's exactly why I attacked, if you will, Julia Child's recipe from Mastering the Art of French Cooking, with relish.

This called for, in brief, four and a half pounds of local, grass-fed beef, half a rasher of organic bacon, one-and-a-half bottles of Côtes du Rhône, a large sweet onion, a couple of small carrots, some garlic, a bag of frozen pearl onions (so you don't have to peel them -- Mark Bittmann says it's okay), a pound and a half of button mushrooms (called champignons de Paris in France), organic beef stock, various herbs, small amounts of olive oil and -- yes -- mounds of butter...not a complicated list of ingredients but enough to keep me busy for at least five hours.

Though I'd made beef burgundy numerous times in the past, usually following the Joy of Cooking version, halfway through preparing Julia's recipe I realized I had never really made Boeuf Bourguignon at all.

What I had made back then was some pale imitation -- a shameless knock-off. True, it had taken half the time, but, as in everything in life where we cut corners, there had been a price to pay.

To accommodate this extra-big batch, I dusted off a 5-quart Dutch oven inherited from my husband's gourmet father (Bax had made just about every one of Julia Child's recipes before Julie Powell was even born), which would double as a serving dish on the stove. The light and dark green pattern is the same used by Julia at one point in the film.

Baxter preparing a meal in the 1970s.

And so I spent a glorious Child-like Saturday afternoon in the kitchen -- chopping, slicing, washing, drying, searing, sautéing, braising, pouring, measuring, tasting, smelling, smiling, re-tasting, writing emails, checking Facebook, reading the news, playing online solitaire, stirring and re-tasting -- before finally turning off the oven and computer and cleaning up the kitchen for company. (Okay, Julia never checked Facebook...)

Though one should always make a big effort when making Boeuf Bourguignon, one should never appear to have made any effort at all.

I wish I had some hilarious story to tell about the cat eating the beef while my back was turned or drinking all of the wine myself and no longer being able to distinguish between an onion and a clove of garlic or spilling the whole thing onto the floor (as I did a roast turkey and veggies one Thanksgiving years ago) or crumpling into a sobbing, frustrated mess on the floor.

But the happy truth is that the whole thing came off without a hitch. That's how easy the recipe is to follow.

A few Julia Child tips and highlights?

Make sure the beef is absolutely 100% thoroughly dried before searing it in the very hot oil.

Toss the seared meat in several tablespoons of flour in the oven for four minutes then toss the mixture and put it back into the oven for another four minutes -- then and only then, add the liquids. This browns the flour without burning it.

Watch the onions turn a delicious caramel brown before braising them with an herb sachet (fresh parsley and thyme plus a bay leaf) for another 40 minutes.

Sauté the mushrooms quickly in small batches with very hot oil.

Use that fuller-bodied Côtes du Rhône rather than (my usual) Pinot Noir.

Yes, there really was no burgundy in this Beef Burgundy.

Downsides?

None, unless you count the additional time.
None, except that I couldn't find -- or didn't try hard enough to find -- a single chunk of bacon with its rind still attached, so I used that regular sliced bacon instead. I'm sure Julia's recommendation would have added even more flavor.

As our guests arrived, I hit them first with the aroma emanating from the stew, which wafted down the driveway, followed by the lifting of the lid to show off its rich, glistening color, so shimmeringly beautiful. And then came the tasting.

The verdict?

Magnifique! Délicieux! Formidable!

Bon appétit! I cried out in my best Julia Child accent.

The few Americans loved my imitation and we all repeated the phrase over and over again, throwing back our head and shoulders and belting it out with gusto.

But the French just stared at us and shrugged.

C'est qui, cette Julia Child? Who, they asked, is this Julia Child?

For a PDF version of the Boeuf Bourguignon recipe, posted by Knopf Doubleday, the book's publisher, click here.
For just the brown-braised onions, click here.
For the sautéed mushrooms, click here.

Two Weddings Interrupted

2009-09-14T17:43:00.009-04:00

Though not as popular as June, September is a big month for weddings. Maybe it's the added bonus of an end-of-summer celebration, an ushering in of cooler and crisper days, and the opportunity to feature rich, warm colors at the ceremony and reception.

But two joyous and much-anticipated weddings scheduled for this past weekend -- one in North Carolina, the other in New York -- will now never take place. Ever.

Separate tragedies left one young bride without her groom and another young groom without his bride.

Early last Saturday morning in Raleigh -- a clear and sunny day -- Christopher Raynor, who worked in construction, was on his way with two of his favorite buddies for a final single-guy breakfast before tying the knot at 11 o'clock with his fiance, school teacher Karen Taylor. No doubt in high spirits, they rode in the best man's car -- Raynor in the back.

Just at that moment, James Howard Early was headed toward a busy intersection with a yellow light. Maybe he was running late, maybe not, but for some reason he went sailing -- or bombing -- through after the light turned red and crashed into the groom's car as it was driving across to the other side.

The impact threw Raynor from the vehicle and another car, just passing by, ran over him.

Raynor died instantly. Instead of a wedding, family and friends arrived at the church to attend a hastily assembled memorial service.

That same morning, at Yale University in New Haven, Connecticut, police were scouring a medical school laboratory for clues to the disappearance four days earlier of Annie Le -- the pharmacology doctoral student was to marry her sweetheart Sunday on Long Island.

While some initially speculated she had developed cold feet, those who knew her well said that wasn't possible. But she had not been seen since Tuesday morning, when surveillance cameras recorded her going into the research building but never coming out.

During the time when she would have been seeing to the final preparations for her nuptials with Jonathan Widawsky, a graduate student at Columbia, police discovered bloody clothing behind ceiling tiles in one of the labs.

On Sunday -- her special day -- they found her body stuffed behind a wall in the building's basement. As of this writing, police are believed to have a suspect, someone she may have known, in her murder.

Sadly, these kinds of tragedies happen with such regularity that after we recover from our initial shock -- how could that Raleigh driver have been so careless and that New Haven killer so merciless -- we watch them vanish from the headlines and life, as always, goes on.

Is there anything to be learned from these so-unexpected, so-unpredictable disasters? These terrible events that happen on the eve of what would have and should have been the happiest days in the life of the victims and their betrothed?

Some often take away from such stories a reminder to cherish every moment of every day because our future could be taken away from us at any time. But even then, and rather quickly, we forget, and once again we take our own life and especially those of our loved ones for granted, expecting them always to arrive when they say they will.

The more practical will simply argue that Raynor might have survived the car crash if he'd been wearing a seat belt or that Le might have been able to fight off her attacker if she'd been carrying a weapon. (One Website really did see in this situation an opportunity to defend a gun-toting America.)

Such tragedies do cause me to reflect on how people and events can suddenly come into our life -- lives that feel so carefully organized, controlled and safe -- and turn everything upside down, whether by design or accident.

But mostly, such catastrophes leave me speechless. On a practical level, I can remind myself never to run a red light and to proceed cautiously into an intersection. I could become more wary of strangers and even the people I know, but what an appalling way to exist in this world.

Journalists report on such events with the detached air of one who is simply paid to inform the community of a loss, in the same way they write up the latest political and economic news.

Theologians and other religious leaders provide their own explanations, or at least try to comfort survivors and others suffering from the loss.

Some people might see in these terrible events a reason not to believe in a God, an all-knowing, all-seeing deity who would nevertheless let this kind of suffering go on; others might see in it a reason to believe -- that despite our weaknesses and frailties and mistakes -- there is a creator who loves us.

Some scientists might explain such events as random collisions of energy with no rhyme or reason whatsoever -- that two human lives have been snuffed out is purely incidental.

Frankly, I'm at a loss.

Joe Wilson Wins No Matter What

2009-09-11T11:15:00.023-04:00

Hail Joe!

That's what the Republicans were secretly thinking when they publicly condemned the South Carolina congressman's outburst during Obama's speech Wednesday night.

And now conservatives are lining up in droves to put their money where that mouth is. Wilson apologized, of course, kinda sorta, and is now raking in the dough from delighted supporters -- they're thrilled because he not only had the guts to publicly challenge the President but he also managed to kick up a nice, big dust storm in the press and liberal world.

The battles in Congress these days are all about getting sand in the other guy's eye -- anything to whip the lefties into a fury.

Don't you realize what's happening, fellow Dems? We're falling for the whole thing!

Our outrage -- pundits, bloggers, comedians, and more -- is only making things worse. As long as he stays on the front page, the more we lose. And the more cash the conservatives take in for the next election.

And now nervous Democratic politicians are doing what they can to appease the Wilsons of this world. Instead of standing firm, for example, some Senators -- Baucus and Conrad -- are combing through their health care reform bill to be absolutely 100% sure that all illegal immigrants are excluded from the insurance exchanges. To make sure no one but no one gets through the cracks.

That way Wilson can't call them liars anymore.

Watching the Democrats squirm is high sport for the opposition in Washington. And we squirm easily and often.

I wouldn't be surprised if the Republicans start grooming Wilson for a presidential run.

What we needed from the outset was to ignore the guy just as we would an annoying kid at a party, and send him to his room without dinner.

End of story.

Instead, in a misguided attempt to protect Obama from the bullies, we've been throwing fuel on the little flame he started, and now it's turning into a blaze that threatens to consume only us.

Joe Wilson wins no matter what.

People: Just Minor Variations on a Theme?

2009-09-03T08:30:00.008-04:00

Who am I? Who are you? And who the heck -- we would like to know -- are they?

It's such a lovely day that I thought I would shake it up a bit by pondering one of the great head-scratchers of all time; that is, what really is our human nature?

Far more agile minds than mine have tackled this question up and down and all around since humans started walking upright, lighting fires and plastering their hands on the inside of caves.

From before Plato and on to Aristotle and Lao-Tse and Rousseau and Locke and Marx and Darwin and Freud and Arendt and E.O. Wilson -- and so many in-between -- the great thinkers have wracked their brains over who, what and why we human beings are.

The conclusion from the big wigs, I'm sorry to report, is inconclusive. No one, it turns out, really knows.

The human being's first duty...is to think about himself until he has exhausted the subject, then he is in a condition to take up minor interests and think of other people. -- Mark Twain

My own limited view is that we -- all six point eight billion of us -- are but minor variations on a single theme. No exceptions. Like separate little ditties, we are each composed with a set number of notes -- all that differentiates us is the configuration.

So what are those notes? They're what determine our skin, hair, eye color and other physical features, of course, plus some personality characteristics and a predisposition to certain abilities, diseases and disorders. Scientifically minded people call them genes.

Those notes also make us animals; they make us want to eat, sleep, reproduce and fight to survive. And they make us human -- they spur us to love and be loved, to laugh and to cry, to think too much and to try and drive faster than the bozo in the next lane.

We each get a unique collection of good notes and bad notes. Of high notes and low notes. Of middle notes and post-it notes.

It is our job to make the best of them.

But if we don't like our personal set of notes, can they be altered? And even more importantly, can the theme itself be changed?

Many of us, especially Americans, are blessed and cursed with the idea that if we try really, really hard, we can transform ourselves into something completely new. We are constantly spurred on to remake ourselves, especially if we feel we were created in the wrong key.

Everybody wants to be Cary Grant. Even I want to be Cary Grant. -- Cary Grant

My cats can't become dogs (not that they want to) and a sheep cannot possibly -- no matter how much it might gaze longingly into the next meadow -- turn into a cow. A maple cannot transform itself into an oak and a cricket can't morph into an ant.

But what is that theme of which we humans are just a minor variation? Ah, therein lies the unanswerable question. Are humans mere shreds of matter that just happened to evolve into our current form? Or are we the children of Adam molded by a God who loves us? Or something else altogether?

I was just admonishing my cat this morning to make more of an effort to become an athlete. "You're an American cat, Booboo," I said. "You need to exercise more. It'll help lower your cholesterol and prevent osteoporosis. We can go out running together. Come on. Do it for me."

She looked at me with that icy gaze usually reserved for staring down canines, knowing full well -- and seemingly comfortable with the knowledge -- that she is but a minor variation on the ineffable theme of cat.

And as for her humans:

Whatever you may be sure of, be sure of this: that you are dreadfully like other people. -- James Russell Lowell

And the music, as always, plays on.

Good-bye, Teddy Kennedy

2009-08-26T11:40:00.003-04:00

When the young Teddy Kennedy campaigned for the Senate in front of our suburban Boston home, my whole family ran out to greet him.

For months, my father had been actively campaigning for Kennedy and others on the Democratic ticket, standing out in front of the local dump, weekend after weekend, handing out fliers and asking for votes.

But on this fall day in 1962, Teddy Kennedy stood on our sidewalk and I, about six years old, looked up at that grinning face with the big teeth that was leaning down to say hello and I shook his big hand.

My mother handed Teddy Kennedy my kid brother and ran into the house to get the camera. She raced back out to take a picture, only to discover the thing was out of film.

In the meantime, Dicky was kicking and screaming -- screeching, really -- to make this strange man let him go. Sobbing hysterically, he was returned to my mother's arms.

To this day, my brother is a staunch conservative, and opposed to just about everything the Kennedys stood for.

For most of us, though, when you grow up near Boston as the child of outspoken Democrats, you come to believe that the Kennedys are somehow a part of your family as well.

Later, as a teenager, I would spend many a wild party weekend at a friend's summer house in Falmouth Heights, just a short drive from the Kennedy estate in Hyannis. Not only did we consider the Kennedys our relatives, we also saw them as our neighbors.

Distant neighbors, for sure, but still, at the same time somehow, one of us. And we one of them.

Barely a year after I shook Teddy's hand, his brother John was assassinated. Like so many Americans, I remember that day only too well. By then seven years old, I was riding my red, white and blue bicycle up town to get a bag of penny candy when I saw grown-ups crying in the streets.

"The President is dead!" They were calling out in anguish. Knowing only that something terrible had happened, I joined in with my own tears.

I don't remember Robert's death -- I was in full puberty and far too self-absorbed to care what was going on beyond the confines of junior high school, boys and going steady with them.

A year later, Teddy got himself into big trouble when his car went off a bridge in Chappaquidick and a young woman drowned. Suddenly, the Kennedy name was damaged, perhaps irrevocably -- the adults wrung their hands over this latest development. It seemed that this Kennedy was destined only to disappoint -- that the nation-changing work begun by his older brothers would end with them as well.

But then Teddy Kennedy pulled himself together and went on to become what President Obama called this morning "the greatest Senator of our time." Long known as "The Lion of the Senate," he would see more than 300 of the bills that he wrote become law.

In the Senate for nearly five decades, his impact on American life runs long and deep, especially in the areas of education, health care, civil rights and immigration.

Many of us now regret that he will never see what we hope will one day be the realization of one of his greatest goals -- the enactment of universal health care in this country.

At the same time, for many Massachusetts residents, and regardless of political party, Kennedy's greatest impact as a Senator was what most people expect of a politician -- that he or she represent the interests of their state and its constituents in Washington.

Sometimes, this meant eschewing lofty goals and just keeping it simple.

My mother, who still lives in our family home, often said of her long-time Senator: "I'll always vote for him. He brings home the pork."

In the long run, despite more ups and downs than most of us would ever experience in a single lifetime, Teddy Kennedy carried on the legacy of his family name, and then some.

And then some more.

May you rest in peace, Teddy Kennedy. Your time on Earth was good. RIP.

(Kennedy photo from the Associated Press.)

When Will Obama Re-Take the Ball on Health Care?

2009-08-18T13:35:00.002-04:00

With football season now gearing up, it's hard not to think of this health care reform debate as the Super Bowl of politics.

So much of our political, economic and social life over the years has been in preparation -- in training -- for this big game.

That's why things have been getting so ugly. The need for reform is so great, the stakes so very high and the opposition so powerful.

Those of us in favor of significant health care reform essentially elected President Obama to be our quarterback. And -- unless the news reports prove me wrong, and I hope they do -- it looks like he might be giving up the ball too many times in the first quarter. And as we all know, few football teams can win when the QB forgets how to throw or give clear direction.

Many Democrats in Congress fear they're about to be betrayed, after they've been tackling opponents over the public option at Town Hall meetings across the country all summer.

And those of us who cheered on Obama during the primary and general elections, putting in countless hours to register voters, canvass neighborhoods and call voters again and again, are watching our dreams of a reform touchdown slip away as the game clock winds down.

Yes, We Can. Hope. Change We Can Believe In. Huh?

Instead, we're getting secret deals with the pharmaceutical industry, a probable reversal on the public option and a push for so-called health insurance "co-ops"?

As Wendell Potter, a former health insurance company spokesman pointed out on CNN.com this morning, the health insurance industry is running the whole show. Working with big PR firms, they're coming up with more key messages than reform opponents can manage to spew out on a single cable news show or picket line.

These masters of manipulation are controlling the debate. Are they also controlling the White House?

Is there really just one coach directing both teams?

New York Times commentator, Bob Herbert, wrote this morning that "Insurance companies are delighted with the way 'reform' is unfolding. Think of it: The government is planning to require most uninsured Americans to buy health coverage. Millions of young and healthy individuals will be herded into the industry’s welcoming arms. This is the population the insurers drool over."

And with no public option, we will have just one option -- the private insurance industry.

Herbert also says to forget about those co-ops, a proposal that pretty much just popped up out of nowhere over the weekend. Watching them play the Blue Cross Blue Shields and Aetnas of this world would be like watching peewee footballers go up against, say, the New England Patriots.

And unlike in those sentimental underdog movies from Hollywood, those little coops can't possibly get a winning goal in the last ten seconds of the game.

Obama campaigned to become a "transformational" president who would fight the big money and special interests, Eugene Robinson reminded us in the Washington Post this morning.

And as Obama faces this, the biggest challenge of his young administration, Robinson asks where will he "draw a line in the sand?"

Okay, so we're all grown-ups and we accept that politics requires some compromise and that campaign promises are just that -- promises. But if Obama compromises us out of real reform on this critical issue, before we even get to half-time, he will turn around to find his team has left the field and abandoned the game.

In this writer's humble opinion, a loss of this magnitude will leave Democrats -- and the country -- with a political price to pay for generations to come.

We're also grown-up enough to know that there is no incentive whatsoever within the medical industrial complex to reform the system itself, no matter how much the major players may pretend to go along with the gag. Too many people are making too much money to truly want to alter the status quo.

At the same time, some Democratic leaders, including Pelosi, Rockefeller and Feingold, seem to be putting more muscle into the game even as they watch their QB stumble down the field, and this renewed effort from Congress offers some hope for an eventual win.

Because if we lose this game, the GOP will regain some of its former power -- if you'll forgive another analogy -- like a hurricane gathering strength out in the Atlantic.

While the full force of that storm may not be felt until the elections of 2012, our best chance right now is to blow some really cold wind in its direction and push it back out to sea.

Health Care Reform in America: A View From the Trenches

2009-08-14T14:10:00.006-04:00

It's one thing to watch snippets of Health Care Reform Town Hall meetings on the evening news, but entirely another to find oneself in an auditorium packed with 850+ people, including a bunch who are angry, belligerent and even violent.

This particular Town Hall took place last night in Durham, North Carolina with U.S. Rep. David Price sharing a panel with three others, including Dana Cope, head of the state employees association (which hosted the event), Gary Greenberg, a physician who runs a local free health care clinic (funded by donations and staffed by volunteers), and Chuck Stone, director of North Carolinians for Affordable Health Care. They were four men, all pro-reform.

One protester later complained that the panel was stacked, that it should have included voices from the other side of the aisle -- that's one point this writer will easily concede to the opposition. The process should always remain democratic, no matter how messy, painful, inefficient and even weird it may become.

After the pledge of allegiance, and exhortations from the moderator to remain civil -- we were in the genteel South after all -- at least five angry young men were escorted to the door, one with his middle finger pointed defiantly up on the way out.

In the beginning, each panelist briefly argued for the overall importance of reform in the health care and health insurance industries today.

Stone reminded the audience that the nationwide debate is not about President Obama nor illegal immigrants nor Democrats and Republicans. He did point out, however -- in a little dig to the conservatives in the crowd -- that Republican President Teddy Roosevelt supported universal health insurance in the early 20th century, and that Democrat Harry Truman also fully supported national health insurance after World War II.

"Health care should be a basic human right," Stone said, followed by loud cheering from the those who support universal coverage and equally loud jeering from those who oppose it.

Price later outlined the shared principles of the five bills currently moving through Congress, emphasizing that everyone must have access to affordable health insurance and that everyone needs to be brought into the system. He argued in favor of a public option.

At the same time, he wisely acknowledged the complexity of the situation. "It won't be simple or cost-free." But, he reminded the audience, every other industrial country in the world has already figured out a way -- in short, it's about time for America.

At this point, a guy in the balcony hit another guy in the face, creating a distraction that lasted a few minutes until the perpetrator and his victim were ushered out and all attention returned to the stage.

After Price spoke, about forty "cons" lined up in front of a microphone on one side of the auditorium, with an equal number of "pros" on the other. In case there was any confusion, each microphone had a "con" or "pro" sign attached to the stand. But somehow, a few cons ended up on the pro side, robbing reform supporters of their full chance to be heard.

On the con side, one woman became increasingly upset as she tried to read her written remarks. She finally blurted out: "Socialism is one step before communism!"

One man asked why we should have a government-run health care plan when people in other countries hate their own systems and are trying to get out of it.

Pros in the audience called out "Where?" "Who?" "Which countries?"

Exasperated, the man finally shouted into the microphone: "The Soviet bloc!" and sat down.

At various times during the debate, the cons shouted at the panelists: "Let me have a choice!" "Health care reform should be supported by the Constitution!" "How can we believe you?" "All the money the government has is stolen from us!" "Liar!"

In one of the more bizarre twists of the evening, an elderly physician seized on the wild rumor about "death panels" and insisted that Obama's plan would "kill off grandma and grandpa."

Price explained the value of the "consultation" option in the bills and that he himself had taken advantage of the opportunity, offered through his personal Congressional health insurance plan, to meet with doctors and discuss how he would like to be treated at the end of his life.

But there was no sign that the physician or any other cons listened to a word of the response.

In another twist, one con cleverly quoted Whole Foods CEO John Mackey's op-ed from Tuesday's Wall Street Journal, in which Mackey argued that while "we clearly need health-care reform," he is against a "massive new health-care entitlement that will create hundreds of billions of dollars of new unfunded deficits and move us much closer to a government takeover of our health-care system."

Instead, Mackey proposed eight alternative reforms to help lower the cost of health care, including tort reform.

This was the argument picked up by the con last night -- if doctors didn't have to pay such high malpractice insurance fees, they could charge their patients less and health care costs would drop significantly. Tort reform, he said, would solve the problem entirely.

Price argued against any tort reform that included a cap on awards -- which only frustrated the con side more -- but some liberals acknowledged among themselves that limiting payouts might not be a bad thing. However, the impact of tort reform on overall health care costs, Price said, might be just one or two percent.

The irony was, well, delicious. Who would have thought the health food champion of liberal baby boomers everywhere would be feeding the cons some of their best lines?

(As an aside, a number of universal health care proponents are now boycotting Whole Foods as a result of Mackey's stance against government-led reform.)

After nearly two hours of sometimes thoughtful, often hostile discourse, I came away from the meeting with mixed feelings.

On the one hand, I was hopeful that after all of these deep-seeded fears and rumors and wild accusations are elicited, tackled and dispelled -- and the rage and protest simmer down -- politicians and constituents can get on with the business of putting together a plan that, while it certainly won't please everyone, addresses the desperate need for serious health care reform in a country too great to leave so many of its people without help.

On the other hand, the resistance to change runs deep in many people, and they are clearly determined to cling to that fear and loathing.

Perhaps it's because they have so little and they're desperately afraid that someone -- and the government is a favorite whipping boy on this one -- will take it all away from them. They're joined by another group of reform opponents who have so much; their fear, too, is that government will take it all away from them.

The key ingredient in this debate seems to be fear of change and fear of the government.

After the meeting, a number of pros and cons continued their arguments outside under the glare of TV cameras. I noticed one pro vehemently explaining to a con the crux of the whole thing: that a good national health care plan would mean that no one, under any circumstances, would be denied health care.

The con, whom we had seen earlier at the microphone, seemed to be listening intently. Whether he was just preparing a retort or absorbing this insight I couldn't tell. Unfortunately, I didn't hear his response, if he even had one.

But something about that brief one-on-one exchange gave me hope.

Perhaps there will be significant reform in this country after all?

Some additional sources:

A Brief History of Universal Health Care Efforts in the U.S.

Whole Foods CEO John Mackey's Op-Ed in The Wall Street Journal

Bill Clinton Urges Progressive Push on Health Care

Ad Campaign Counterattacks Against Overhaul's Critics

A Primer on the Details of Health Care Reform

Grandma/grandpa puppet photo from www.puppetshoppe.com

Birthdays, Vanity and Middle Age

2009-08-11T12:40:00.006-04:00

Nothing like a birthday to make us once again come to terms with time's assault on our looks, physique and, most importantly, our precious vanity.

Shame on us, in this culture of youth, for letting lines and wrinkles creep onto our face, that part of ourselves we must put forward to friends, family and strangers -- when we're not hiding behind Facebook -- and that ends up defining us in ways we'd rather not be defined.

I'm not as old as I look!

Birthdays, of course, come with a slew of mixed feelings. On the one hand, we're relieved -- or at least we should be -- to have survived another year. Not everyone makes it this far.

On the other hand, we're appalled that another 12 months have passed and we still haven't written the great American novel or stopped gravity from dragging down our once firm and spotless skin.

A friend of mine once told me -- when we were both in our comely thirties -- that when she looked at older women -- the age we are now -- she wondered why they didn't just kill themselves.

That's back when we thought lines and wrinkles could be kept off our face and extra pounds off our body simply as a matter of will; that women who let themselves look old or even middle-aged had just given up a fight that otherwise could be won.

The good news is that this friend is now -- and she can correct me if I'm wrong -- happier now than she ever was back in those earlier days. As lovely as she was, she couldn't help but think she wasn't. In her 50s, she can finally relax into her life and stop caring so much what other people think. Most of the time.

Mixed feelings.

As an aging character in Six Feet Under once said, "There comes a time in a woman's life when she realizes that she is no longer the youngest and prettiest in the room." That epiphany can either devastate her or liberate her.

If we're smart, we'll take the freedom over regret.

The recent passing of Eunice Kennedy Shriver reminded me of how stunning a woman in her late 80s can be -- she was by far the poster girl for graceful aging. Her ever-present smile was one of the keys to keeping her looking vital and vibrant. Age didn't matter.

I like to think that I and my fellow baby boomerettes are ripening rather than aging. And that we won't be fully ripe until we fall off the tree.

Until then, we are just getting juicier, tastier and sweeter.

Some of the best wines for foie gras and dessert are made from grapes that have been on the vine so long they've reached the stage of "noble rot." Only those grapes go into a Sauternes or Gewurtztraminer.

If we ripening gals could just be bottled, we'd cost a fortune and be sipped with great care.

Coming Out From Six Feet Under

2009-08-06T12:47:00.093-04:00

After spending the past six weeks buried under five seasons and 63 episodes of the astounding HBO series Six Feet Under, I'm greatly relieved to find myself not only still alive but maybe a bit wiser and even -- dare I say it? -- a stronger person for the experience.

Far be it from me to say anything this positive about a TV series -- I usually resist getting sucked into a long-term commitment to a single plot, set of characters and made-up world.

Give me the occasional rerun of Seinfeld or even The Andy Griffith Show and I'm usually happy.

But Six Feet Under is not only hugely entertaining -- causing me to hold my breath for inhumanly long stretches, with the occasional burst of laughter or tears in-between -- its relentless and unflinching reminder of my own mortality brought me out of my persistent state of denial and into an even fuller, more vibrant relationship with my life. And I didn't have to personally lose a loved one to get here.

For those of you who either watched the series when it aired, or have already done your time with it on DVD, none of this is news.

But for those who haven't, Six Feet Under is the story of the 30-something Fisher boys, who run a funeral home in Los Angeles, plus their family members, friends, lovers and enemies.

It took me years to get up the nerve to try it -- the thought of watching undertakers at work and play made me want to walk, run or climb onto the nearest space shuttle. Anything to escape the grimmest and least welcome of all human topics -- death.

And then one day in June my husband and I decided to overcome our reservations, a decision immediately followed by an obsessive lining up of the next discs on Netflix, waiting by the mailbox, clearing our calendar, popping big bowls of popcorn and settling in for round after round of drama, comedy, tragedy and, most importantly, redemption.

I can just imagine the writers meeting every week or even every day to come up with 63+ ways for their fellow Angelenos to die -- their meetings must have been full of the darkest jokes, the only way they could get through it all themselves.

Nearly every episode starts with an accidental, violent or natural death -- some bizarrely amusing -- which produces a corpse the Fishers must then embalm, reconstruct and make up in time for an open-casket viewing in their parlour, which is on the ground floor of their home. The Fishers also spend much of their time comforting the deceaseds' relatives, not all of whom are bereaved.

Nearly every aspect of modern life makes its way into the both lofty and more prosaic story lines -- gay relationships and marriage, drug use, adultery, betrayal (big theme), teenage angst, promiscuity, adoption, surrogacy, mental illness, religion and spirituality, racism, feminism, bad parenting, narcissism, random violence, the contemporary art scene (superb and often hysterical insight into that world), emotional and sexual confusion, funeral styles (including green), middle-aged angst, and so much more.

If you're exhausted just looking at that list, you're not alone. By the time you reach the closing credits, you will feel like you have seen it all. And I won't lie -- if you haven't guessed already, watching the series will take you through the ringer. It can be grueling, made even more so with the in-your-face graphic-ness of it all.

It's especially grueling when you're watching several hours of it night after night. It was only after the final episode that I could relax again and finally get a decent night's sleep.

The producers and writers believe they raised the bar on television series with this one. It's now been four years since that final episode was first broadcast -- and many other well-made series have come and gone since -- but I'd have to argue that after Six Feet Under, I don't need to see many more.

We'll all be six feet under someday, or tucked away in an urn or sprinkled over a favorite landscape -- some of us sooner, some later -- and we have no choice but to watch our family and friends someday breathe their last.

But while we're waiting for the inevitable, Six Feet Under can provide a powerful, virtual guide to experiencing it more fully and wisely when it does knock on our door.

The ultimate message is that reminder we so often feel after a death in our own family or community-- the importance of living our own life to the fullest, moment by moment, with great thanks, gratitude and joy.

The Mountain Man Part V (Final Episode)

2009-08-03T14:32:00.016-04:00

(continued from preceding days)

It was only about half an hour later, when Jamie and Jim were sitting in the front seat of his old Ford pickup, on an overlook up in the Sangre de Cristos, gazing west at a crescent moon with Venus and what looked like Mars off to the side, that she began to regain herself and think how crazy she was to let this guy cart her off like that.

She kept her distance on her side of the torn vinyl seat.

He was smiling at her. "That was amazing how you handled yourself. Most gals I know would've whipped her butt so fast..."

"Well," she said, "that's not my style."

"Your friend's pretty nuts," he said.

Jamie wanted to ask him what he expected, if he was going to flirt with every woman who came his way.

"I see a lot of women like that," he said. "You can tell when they've been super lonely back in their big city and something about the wild west just gets 'em going."

Jamie wondered if he thought she was one of those lonely women from back east, too.

"You know what I told her when she started yelling at me?" He said, stroking his chin. "I told her 'Give people a piece of your heart, not a piece of your mind.' Saw that outside a church once. Stuck with me ever since. Not that I'm religious or anything."

"I'm not looking for anybody," Jamie said, looking down at her fingers locked together on her lap.

"Honey," he said, reaching out and stroking her hair. "Everybody's looking for somebody. Ain't nothing wrong with that."

She looked at him. His face made her heart leap for a moment. "Just, just who are you, anyway? Some kind of mountain man or something?"

"Wish I was," he said. "My great-great-whatever uncle was Jim Bridger, the greatest mountain man ever, and I guess I'm trying to bring him back alive. Hard these days, though. Just don't fit in anywhere."

Jamie nodded. "I think I know what you mean. What were you looking at at the gallery last night?"

Jim laughed and smacked his knee. "Did you notice that? I go there all the time just to look at that thing. That's him. Jim Bridger. Some sculptor made it out of a photograph. Looks just like him." He smiled sheepishly. "I go there and talk to him."

Jamie smiled. "Does he talk back?"

"Well, don't you ask the funniest questions. Like you're reading my mind. Of course, he talks back. Except I'm the only one that can hear him."

They stared out at the sky in silence for a while, watching as storm clouds wandered up from the south and streaked lightning down onto the desert.

"I love it out here," Jamie said. "You can really hear yourself think."

"Yup," Jim said with a quick laugh. "A lot of people do a lot of thinking out here. Not sure what they're thinking about but they do a lot of it. Mostly about making money far as I can tell."

Jamie turned to him. "And how do you make money?"

"Oh, do a little of this, a little of that. That's how it is out here. But I'm okay. Got a house out west of town and a place to do some painting, you know, my own art and stuff. Get up to the mountains for a long stay couple times a year, too, so it's a good life."

A good life, Jamie thought. She had been looking for a good life for a long time.

Jim moved toward her. "I know I just threw you over my shoulder a short while back," he said, "but now I'm wondering if you'd let me kiss you. That's all."

Jamie leaned toward him and did let him kiss her. And that was all.

For the time being.

When she returned to DC, she stayed just long enough to quit her job, give up her apartment, sell her things and pack up the rest then drive her own car across country back to Santa Fe.

In the meantime, Maureen called her to apologize.

"I don't know what came over me," she said. "I'm so embarrassed I could climb under a rock and never come out."

"Don't even think twice about it. It was such a strange night for both of us."

"He was just so cute, I couldn't think straight." She paused. "And I know I sound nosy but will you hate me if I ask what happened after you left? Bill told me Jim hauled you off like a bag of potatoes."

Jamie laughed. "He did. And right now I'm on my way back out there."

Maureen gasped. "To be with him?"

"I think so. I don't know. We'll see. I hope so. It just feels like where I'm supposed to be."

"Hold on, Jamie. Do you know what you're doing? I mean, do you have a job?"

"Not yet."

Maureen sighed. "You're so brave. If I don't get out of New York by tomorrow I'm going to completely lose it. I never knew how miserable I was until that night at that bar. Do me a favor? Keep in touch? I'm going to find a way to get out there myself if it kills me."

"I hope you do," Jamie said. "I'll be looking for you."

Maureen never did make it to Santa Fe, but Jamie lives there to this day, in a small house west of town. Jim lives there, too. She teaches yoga and sometimes waits tables, and he paints and sometimes helps build a pseudo-adobe house for people moving in from out of town, and several times a year he goes off into the mountains for a few weeks or even longer with his friends or by himself.

It is indeed a different and often enchanted life.

The End

Photo released to public domain by P. Bramwell.

Jim Bridger is a distant relative/ancestor of the author.

The Mountain Man Part IV

2009-07-31T12:40:00.010-04:00

(Continued from previous days)

When Maureen raced out of the ladies' room, she slammed the door open against the wall, where it stuck.

Jamie stood there in that blue neon light against pea green walls and watched Maureen now yelling at Jim, who was leaning against the bar with a bottle of beer in one hand. He seemed to be smiling then shaking his head and at one point even waving her away with his free hand.

This is my time to leave, Jamie thought.

The crowd was smaller now so exiting without catching Maureen's eye was going to be a challenge. She started to inch her way along the wall behind the few cowboys and cowgirls still swaying to the music then turned and headed straight for the door.

"Oh no, you don't!"

Jamie suddenly felt a wet splash on her back -- the cold made her gasp, and her whole body shiver.

"Look at me, you, you, you..."

"Maureen," Jamie said with another shiver. She took a deep pranayama breath, turned slowly and held out her hands with her palms up. "What are you doing?"

Maureen, whose whole life had been about career and success and fine things -- at least according to what she had told Jamie -- now had red eyes smudged with mascara and her white silk blouse was hanging out over her short black skirt.

"I'm protecting what's mine!" Maureen shouted, throwing down her glass.

Jamie stepped toward her, gently shaking her head. "You're the one he went home with last night, aren't you?"

Maureen glared at her.

"Nothing happened!"

Jamie glanced over at Jim who seemed to smile sheepishly and shrug.

Maureen awkwardly shoved Jamie's arm. "All we did was talk!"

Jamie stepped back and took another deep breath. "Maureen," she said quietly, "that's not my fault."

"Yes, it is! He just wanted to know about you!"

At that point, Maureen lunged for Jamie and tried to slap her in the face with both hands.

Jamie grabbed Maureen's arms and held them tightly away from her face. All those years of yoga were finally paying off. Maureen started kicking at Jamie's legs but couldn't reach them.

The few remaining honky tonkers were making a loose circle around them -- some of the men were laughing, even goading them on, while the women watched silently, arms crossed tightly over their chest.

Jamie held Maureen's flailing arms, even tightening her grip, until she felt the other woman gradually relax and finally crumple to the floor, head down, shoulders slumped.

As Jamie stood there, her mind reeling, trying to catch her breath, wondering what had just happened, she saw Jim walking toward them from the bar.

Without a word, he lifted her up and hoisted her over his shoulder. Jamie faintly struggled for him to let her go then gave up.

"It's okay," Jim said softly, carrying her out the door.

The crowd broke out into cheers and applause.

Jamie lifted her head and saw Bill help Maureen to her feet. The two walked together back to the bar.

Part V on the way...the last installment. Probably Monday.

Photo from www.yoga.lovetoknow.com

The Mountain Man Part III

2009-07-30T12:30:00.012-04:00

(Continued from Part II yesterday and Part I the day before.)

The parking lot was jammed with pick-ups -- mostly dusty, dinged and dented. Jamie slipped her Chevy rental into a little space, pushed back her seat and briefly closed her eyes.

Three days ago, she'd been doing advanced asanas in Georgetown, today she was about to go two-stepping in a Santa Fe honky tonk with a desperate woman from New York and a couple of mountain men.

Or whatever they were.

"Over here!" Maureen called from the bar, waving her arms and laughing when Jamie finally walked in. The place was packed and noisy -- she could see Maureen between Jim, the mountain man, and another man against a big mirror and flashing Pabst sign.

Surrounded by more neon and colored Christmas lights, a band of five was playing a woeful cowboy song -- something about pick-up trucks, lost dogs and ornery women -- while dancers in flouncy skirts or big black hats moved slowly and mournfully around the dance floor.

As Jamie made her way to join her new friends, the musicians changed to a fast song. Jim suddenly stepped forward, grabbed her by the waist and rushed her onto the dance floor.

Grinning, he took her right hand, put his left on her waist and started to count -- one, two, one two three, one, two, one two three -- then to move her around the floor, following the flow counter-clockwise.

After a few stumbles, Jamie began to feel the rhythm and follow his lead, sliding one foot forward for a beat, the other for the next beat and three quick steps to finish the sequence. The fringe on his jacket flew out as they moved quickly to keep up with the others.

"Your friend just couldn't get it," he said, squeezing her hand. "But you, you're a natural."

They stayed for three fast-paced songs. At one point, Jamie could see Maureen watching them intently from the bar.

"My turn!" Maureen called out when they took a break.

"I can't," Jim said, laughing. He took a big swig of beer. "Your friend here plum wore we out."

"Oh, come on!" She wrenched him off the bar stool and pulled him onto the dance floor.

Jamie watched them move around the room with the crowd, both laughing and carrying on, especially when Maureen stepped on his toes or spun in the wrong direction.

"My name's Bill," the other mountain man finally said to Jamie. He had straight gray hair under a broad hat and wore a black cowboy shirt with white designs on the shoulders. "Wanna dance?"

Minutes after they started up, Jim cut in, handing Maureen to Bill and taking Jamie again by the hand and waist.

"You're the only one I want to dance with tonight," he said, smiling down at her. His face was shiny with sweat and his blond hair even curlier than Jamie remembered.

She didn't notice Maureen refuse Bill's hand and then stomp off the dance floor. Maureen ordered a shot of whiskey -- straight up -- and put it down all at once.
Then she ordered another. Bill wandered off to to find someone else to dance with.

"How could you?" Maureen later said to Jamie in the ladies' room. She rummaged in her bag for her favorite bright red lipstick. "I thought you were my friend."

"Well, I mean, we just met," Jamie said, watching Maureen in the mirror. "I don't know what's going on."

"You're stealing my new boyfriend," Maureen said, putting on the lipstick. "That's what's going on."

"Listen, Maureen, you can have him for all I care. He just keeps wanting to dance with me. I can't help it."

Maureen blotted her lips with a tissue.

"We'll see about that."

Part IV coming up tomorrow.

The Mountain Man Part II

2009-07-29T21:23:00.006-04:00

(Continued from Part I yesterday)

One thing that makes all hotels in Santa Fe equal is the proliferation of glossy magazines in each room, stacks of thick booklets to help guide tourists through the maze of galleries and restaurants on which the city's lifeblood and lifestyle depend.

On the same Friday afternoon, after their separate arrivals that morning, Maureen at La Fonda and Jamie at The Days Inn read the identical full-page ad from Evening Moon Gallery on Canyon Road -- with a painting of distant Deer Dance figures against a brilliant sunrise -- and decided to attend an opening that evening for an artist from one of the pueblos nearby.

They found themselves in front of the same plate of orange cheese and green grapes and red wine, surrounded by a noisy, chatty crowd of locals who hardly noticed nor cared that they had just traveled hundreds of miles to be among them.

"How do you like Santa Fe?" Maureen ventured to ask Jamie, who was nibbling on the grapes but avoiding the cheese.

"It's completely amazing," Jamie said. "It's my first time and I can't believe I'm finally here. I've dreamed of this for so long."

Maureen laughed. "Me, too! It's just so beautiful. And unique." She lowered her voice. "I feel a little out of place, though. There's definitely a scene here, if you know what I mean."

For the next half hour, the two shared their life stories -- work, family, disappointments in love, dreams and aspirations -- the kind of opening up women often do when they are either looking for a new friend or think they might never meet the other person again.

Maureen nudged Jamie with her elbow. "Look," she said, pointing to a man with his hands in his pockets staring at a bronze sculpture in the corner. "He hasn't budged in 10 minutes."

Jamie could only see his profile. He wore what looked like a tanned buckskin jacket with long fringe hanging over the chest and sleeves. His hair was blond and wavy and a leather hat hung from his neck down his back.

A little over the top, Jamie thought.

Maureen gulped down her wine and poured herself another glass. "God, he's so sexy. I've never seen anything like it."

And before Jamie could blink, Maureen was over in that corner striking up a conversation with the mountain man.

Jamie wandered around the room, gazing at the artist's work, which consisted primarily of raging red skies, Native Americans in full costume and a few wolves howling at the stars. The crowd was starting to thin out when Maureen came racing over, her cheeks flushed and the mountain man on her arm.

"We're heading over to the Casa Sena for drinks," Maureen said. "How about lunch tomorrow at the Coyote Cafe? I've heard it's fabulous. Here's my card. Call me on my cell in the morning, okay?"

The mountain man smiled at Jamie over his fringed shoulder on the way out.

The next morning, Jamie hiked up around the Santa Fe Ski Basin and was starting to feel light-headed from the altitude when she called Maureen and left a message on her cell, saying she could be at the Coyote Cafe by one, if that worked for her.

"I have so much to tell you!" Maureen said when she returned the call. "See you at two!"

Jamie was starving by the time she arrived at the cafe's cantina and immediately ordered the Chimayo Red Chili Caesar Salad and iced tea. She ate two pieces of warm focaccia with sun-dried tomatoes and rosemary dipped in olive oil while waiting for Maureen to show up.

"I'm in love!" Maureen called out as she crossed the dining room in a hurry and dropped into her chair. "So sorry I'm late, but Jim kept me up till the break of dawn and then, well, we had a late breakfast, if you know what I mean."

Jamie was surprised to feel a twinge of envy -- while she had been watching re-runs of Friends and The Simpsons in her dingy hotel room, Maureen had been out all night with this guy who, even if he was overdoing it with the western garb, was better looking than any male she had ever seen walk the streets of the nation's capital.

"He's got a friend, you know," Maureen said with a wink. "And he'd like us all to go out two-stepping tonight at some honky tonk on the edge of town. Sounds like it's near where you're staying."

"I'm going riding for the rest of the afternoon" -- Jamie felt a brief shiver at the thought of getting on the back of a horse for the first time -- "but I could meet you later on. The question is, what the heck is two-stepping?"

Maureen laughed. "I have no idea, but if it's with that hunk, it's got to be good."

Part III coming up tomorrow.

The Mountain Man Part I

2009-07-28T10:29:00.090-04:00

Santa Fe is not America. It's not really New Mexico, either.

It's The City Different in The Land of Enchantment.

At least according to the brochures.

But no wonder so many people, especially women, who visit Santa Fe for the first time end up going home, quitting their jobs, selling their houses or condos, saying goodbye to friends and family and hightailing it back to that big high-altitude town for the promise of a far different and far more enchanted life.

Maureen Silvan was one of those women. With a full head of auburn curls, and a wardrobe of mostly petite, black and finely tailored outfits, she did not look anywhere near her 39 unmarried years, despite 20 of those years spent in hyperactive New York.

She had carefully worked her way up to director of a midtown fine art gallery, one that catered to corporate clients and was open only by appointment except on Fridays and Saturdays, and had cultivated a select group of midtown friends with whom she often went to the Met -- both Mets -- and tested the latest restaurants.

"I'd test the chefs, too," she often told her friends, "but if they're not married, they're gay. Too bad because they're always so cute."

And then they would all exhale a collective sigh.

Jamie Patterson was another one of those women. With shoulder-length black hair, green eyes and a three-year old wardrobe, she had been trying to make it as a yoga teacher in a city that had no use for stretching or meditation unless it was stretching the truth or meditating on how to get more pork for the folks back home.

She had ended up in Washington as a congressional intern straight out of college but now, at 38, still single and chronically broke, she was looking at a job at Starbucks or finally giving into her father and making a push to get back into the political scene through one of those PR firms around 19th Street.

"What I'd really like to do is get married and have a kid," she told a few friends over salad in Adams Morgan, "but ever since Paul left for Chicago last year, I can barely stand to look at another guy."

"It's a nightmare to be single in DC," one said.

"If you didn't come here already engaged or married, forget it," said another.

And they all shared a collective sigh.

That summer, for the first time, Maureen booked a two-week vacation to Santa Fe where she would stay at La Fonda on the Plaza. She rented a Range Rover so she could drive up to those quaint towns further north, especially Chimayo and Taos. In addition, she bought tickets for two performances at the Santa Fe Opera -- one a premiere -- and arranged for a full spa day at Ten Thousand Waves just a short jaunt up into the Sangre de Cristo mountains.

"I'm so excited," she told her friends about ten times the night before she left.

"We're so envious," they all said, practically in unison.

"Wouldn't it be great if I met somebody?"

They all toasted her trip with glasses of Merlot and secretly hoped she wouldn't meet anybody, least of all a man.

Jamie also booked a vacation to Santa Fe for the first time, hers for four days, and reserved a room at the Days Inn on Cerrillos Road. She rented a compact car from Budget so she could drive into the desert and stare at the big sky.

She also found an old backpack from college so she could do at least one day hiking into the mountains and maybe even camp out. And she hoped to do a late afternoon horseback ride through the pinyons and juniper if the group had a last-minute cancellation.

"I can't wait to get away from all of this concrete and feel that natural energy around me," she told her friends.

"And maybe you'll meet a gorgeous cowboy," one of them said.

"I hope not," she said. "I just want to be alone in the stillness. No distractions."

They toasted her trip with a mango lassi and secretly hoped she would finally meet a good man.

The next part will appear in tomorrow's post.

Photograph is of the author's distant ancestor, the mountain man Jim Bridger.

In Defense of Puttering

2009-07-27T14:20:00.001-04:00

What did you do this weekend?

If you rode your bike 50 miles or went to five parties or helped build a Habitat house or saw the Rolling Stones live or finally finished your novel or helped your kid build a space ship or learned to play the sax or kayaked the Cape of Good Hope, you're happy to hear this question at the office Monday morning.

But what if you just puttered all weekend? What if you didn't do much more than move stuff from one room to the other, fold the laundry, cook a few light meals, watch four more episodes of "Six Feet Under" and play with the cats?

To putter is to "work lightly," a concept often anathema in our work hard and play hard world, where the most points go for level of excitement, exoticness and exertion, plus the ability to elicit envy in friends, family and colleagues.

French President Nicolas Sarkozy has probably never puttered in his life. To read about the intensity of his regular schedule is to first turn dark green, but then a shade of light green, which is what he probably did when he nearly fainted during a jog near the Chateau de Versailles Sunday morning.

The main factor? Fatigue. Official prescription? A little rest. My two cents? A little puttering now and then would do wonders.

I used to make better copy, as they say, than I do today. Back when I spent my weekends sailing through the Soviet Arctic or hiking in Kazakhstan or dancing with the Mudheads at Zuni or touring the porta potties of the Loire Valley or gazing at Lenin in his glass tomb on Red Square.

I haven't entirely given up on adventure, and I don't putter every weekend -- there is more to life than organizing one's socks, after all -- but when I do give into the urge for a quiet Saturday and Sunday, I try to reap its calming, soothing, health-boosting and ultimately energizing benefits.

I've come up with these three sure-fire ways to enhance your own puttering experience:

1. Don't feel guilty. Many people feel it is selfish just to stay home and do nothing but listen to music and change lightbulbs. They feel that if they have not alleviated world hunger, the entire weekend has been wasted. I understand this guilt -- and desire to help others -- but hope that we can let ourselves off the hook from time to time.

2. Don't distract yourself with thoughts of more exciting things you could be doing with your time. Stay in the moment. The fact is that you are not in London at the latest Tate exhibit nor standing in the ruins of Machu Pichu at that particular moment so there is nothing to do but empty the wastebaskets and watch the chickadees squabble in the birdbath.

3. Don't apologize for not having climbed Mount Everest or learned how to make the perfect souffle in the south of France rather than having trimmed old leaves from your indoor plants or thrown out a semester's worth of science experiments from the fridge. Mt. Everest will still be there when you get to it but those leftovers from last month won't wait.

I do some of my best thinking while puttering, just moving quietly through the house.

Other times I put a golf game on TV while I'm puttering. That's because golf provides a metaphor for life -- however imperfect -- with its three-way combination of a powerful swing with a driver at the tee, a less-powerful swing with a smaller club on the fairway and then the gentle, focused swing with a putter on the green.

A lot of these great players -- even the ultimate master Tiger Woods -- can lose a game with lousy putts. You have to be able to drive hard in life but you also have to know how and when to ratchet it down and putt easy. Real easy.

Marriage Ain't For Sissies

2009-07-23T11:05:00.001-04:00

When my dear husband and I were married thirteen years ago, I was a big sissy.

I didn't know I was a sissy -- after all, I was 39 and had been around the block more times than I could count -- but once we tied the knot, I could see that this whole new enterprise was going to require muscles I had never used or that had gone slack.

D. is 11 years older than I am, and he, too, had no idea what he was getting into, even though much of what we would later have to deal with was evident from the day we met. But we might as well have been teenagers for all we knew about turning a relationship into a marriage.

We had both lived as single parents of a single child since being divorced from our first spouse 20 years earlier, and both of those marriages had been brief. This was a plus -- we knew how lonely that life could be -- and a minus, because we were now in middle age without having been honed and chiseled by the daily routine that goes with a lifelong commitment.

Living with one's flesh and blood was a breeze compared to sharing the day-to-day tussle with a stranger who has suddenly become family.

We don't realize how set in our ways and blind to our ways we've become until we marry someone, especially someone from another planet, which most spouses are.

This is one of the first shocks in a new marriage, and its reverberations can be felt for years as after-shocks continue to rumble from morn till night.

How, what, when and where we eat, sleep, work, wear, rest, vacation, read, think, desire, say -- you name it, on some level, one or more of these basic aspects of human existence are going to clash with those of the other grown-up human in the house.

I'm an edgy Yankee; my husband a laid-back Southerner. I like to get out and see the world; he prefers to stay home and read. I speak my mind; he weighs his words carefully. He's a dreamer; I've got my feet on the ground. I'm antsy; he's the poster boy for patience. He spouts philosophy; I spout political and financial updates. He likes things to stay the same; I thrive on change.

Opposites can attract and also repel. Unless we marry a clone, most marriages mimic a dance in the style of Jules Feiffer -- racing toward and away from each other on a regular basis.

Some days we can find ourselves so far apart we wonder who this other is and why we thought it was a good idea to hitch our wagon to their mule. Or we become so close we breathe in unison and can't bear to be apart for a minute. And we keep on dancing just that way.

Part of the dance involves compromise, a word that was in neither of our lexicons for at least the first years. The battle to change the other from the very beginning -- or at least to get them to adapt to our ways -- was on!

Compromise calls for a strength that as sissies we didn't always have. We had to and still have to train and retrain for it every day. The ability to negotiate also calls for courage -- not usually a trait of sissies, either. As sissies, we want everything our own way.

Being forgiven and forgiving the other also requires a strong backbone, and it can build up an equity to be drawn on for a lifetime.

As single adults for those two decades, my husband and I were used to getting most everything our own way. During that time, we focused on ourselves and our child -- an extension of ourselves -- and that made us take our own particular wants, needs and desires very, very seriously.

Taking oneself very seriously when living alone affects no one but us. But it can seriously gum up the works when one is in a for-better-or worse and death-do-we-part situation.

In this era of such extreme solipsism, it's a miracle anyone stays hitched.

The good and bad news is that the marriage is often the third entity in the household. It seems to have a survival instinct of its own, thwarting the wishes of the other two occupants. The marriage seems to know that if the husband and wife split up, it dies. Kaput. Finito. Cold-stone dead.

So it will fight hard for its own survival, even when those in it are vying hard to pull the plug.

Even when we're behaving like sissies -- too weak and whiny to do the hard work -- this marriage, with its easily uttered but hard-kept vows, grabs us by the back of the neck and takes us off our self-designated opposing teams and makes one bonded team out of us again.

* Weightlifting photo from brainfitforlife.com
* Wrestling photo from mmamadness.com
* Silhouette dance photo by Derrick Bruce
* "Marriage of Mars and Venus" from Pompeii
* "Marriage" by Marc Chagall

Shoes Make Our Feet Stupid

2009-07-15T12:30:00.018-04:00

If you're like me, you spent a lot of your childhood summers barefoot. Not because you didn't have shoes, but, well, because that's what kids do. Or used to do.

You walked, ran, rode your bike, climbed trees and even played kickball with nary a shoe on either foot.

And then something horrible happened -- you grew up, and you've been trapped inside a pair of shoes ever since. And if you exercise a lot, your feet are now trapped inside padded, hyper-supportive athletic shoes, too.

In many ways, though, we've all been wrong.

Studies increasingly show that letting our feet run free can be the best thing for them -- for the toes, heels, ankles, soles, knees and, possibly, our entire body. Even our brain.

In one study, researchers from Chicago's Rush Medical College finally gave up on having patients with osteoarthritic knees use padded shoes and orthotics and braces when they failed to provide relief.

Surprise! After going around barefoot for a while, the patients' knee pain was significantly diminished. Their joints seemed to love that shoeless treatment.

As it turned out, and contrary to what we have come to believe, the impact on their knees was much less when their feet were barefoot than when gussied up with artificial help.

In another example, researchers in South Africa compared the feet of the Zulu and Sotho -- who spend most of their lives barefoot -- with Europeans, who only go barefoot in the shower, if then. The takeaway? Those African feet are far healthier than the European.

Maybe that's one reason Kenyans and other Africans excel in so many marathons. The Ethiopian Adebe Bikili won the Olympic marathon in Rome in 1960 while running barefoot.

And what about children? I recently heard a story about well-meaning parents who insisted their infant son wear supportive shoes all day long, including at his day care center, with the belief that he needed shoes to learn how to walk.

Those shoes had the opposite effect -- their son was held back from advancing to the next group because he was the only one who couldn't walk. He stayed back, still crawling, the story goes, because his feet had no strength and could not feel the ground, a critical aspect to mastering the walk.

Our soles have an astounding number of nerve endings -- about 200,000 -- which help us keep our balance and know what we're walking on. These nerve endings, according to an article in New York Magazine (see below), send messages to the rest of the body, activating a series of "neuromechanical-feedback mechanisms" that help protect our joints.

We lose this sensory input when we're tucked into a pair of shoes. Our feet get stupid and our joints suffer.

A 1961 book called "Take Off Your Shoes and Walk" by Simon Wikler, found that children who went barefoot often had less deformed and more flexible toes than those who always wore shoes. They also had flexor strength, denser muscles on the bottom of their feet, greater agility and range of hip movement and more flexible glute and hamstring muscles, which helped them better touch their toes.

Our bare feet use a natural motion from the heel to the toe, which researchers believe helps our entire body absorb shock. With their intentional lack of flexibility, on the other hand, shoes change how we walk. They distort our gait -- the built-in heels, even in running shoes, also increase pressure, and the potential for damage, on the knee.

The shoe essentially takes over and decides how we will walk, not the foot. We've adapted -- and often badly -- to our shoes.

For years, I wore the latest high-tech walking/running shoes, having been convinced that this is how I should take care of my feet, legs and joints. I've also used orthopedist-made orthotics to compensate for overpronation.

Oops.

Researchers at McGill University in Montreal found that, paradoxically, the more padded a running shoe, the harder the runner hits the ground with it. It's instinctual -- we land harder to try and overcome the unnatural shock absorption provided by the padding. We naturally want and need to find our balance through direct contact with the ground.

Going barefoot allows us to feel what we land on. And it allows our body to naturally absorb the impact of our steps. While shoes distort our perception, bare feet can read the ground perfectly.

The conclusion is...drum roll, please...people who wear expensive running shoes -- those stuffed with padding -- experience far more injuries than those in cheaper shoes (with less padding) or bare feet.

So what do we, in our day and age, do about it? We probably can't go to the office or most stores and restaurants sans footwear.

We can, however, if motivated, find ways to go barefoot as often as possible.

I recently started weaning my feet from their dependence on shoes and going barefoot around the house and backyard -- I've been delighted at how much more connected I feel with the ground now literally under my feet.

My tender soles protested at first but are quickly adapting to their liberated state. They tingle and, when keeping still, seem to pick up the very vibrations of the Earth beneath them.

Gradually toughening up, they're now looking forward to new adventures, like a walk around the neighborhood and maybe a hike into the woods. And then, eventually, a nice, good run.

In the coming months, my feet will be testing the limits and, I expect, getting stronger, healthier and smarter. And I hope to throw out the orthotics.

What about your tootsies? Ready to regain some of that long-lost freedom?

Healthy feet can hear the very heart of Mother Earth. -- Sitting Bull

________

A few good sources:

Fabulous article in New York Magazine. Highly informative -- and even amusing -- as the author tries to convince New Yorkers to go barefoot.

Society for Barefoot Living. Provides lots of inspiration and links for a barefootin' lifestyle. These folks must have soles of leather.

Running Barefoot. Some enthusiasts run marathons shoeless.

Sandy Watsey's Blog. Her take on the topic. She mentions that going barefoot might also help prevent varicose veins among other common leg problems.

*Post title comes from a friend of a friend of a friend.