Now Serving Number ...?

When class is at 9:00, I try to leave for 8:45.  It's risky because it leaves only a couple of minutes to spare for the elevators or greeting a neighbor on the street.  Most Argentineans I've met are generous with time which means in some cases, a pause to walk two blocks with a more senior neighbor might make you late.  Now that I know more people, the probability is going up that this happens more often.

I frequently walk on the same side of the street as the house.  In the morning, there is shade but also more activity.  It is now my habit to look down, left, right, center, down, left, right, center, repeat.  (I'm wearing sunglasses so it doesn't look as awkward as it sounds.  I hope.)  The sidewalk is uneven, often containing gifts from distracted dog-owners or a pop-up construction site.  Some mornings there is a line for the clinic.  When the queue is really long, I've caught myself holding my breath to avoid what airborne contagion might be hovering nearby.  

At the end of the month, the bank will have a line that will force you into the street for a half-block.  A friend has said that she's spent up to four hours in this queue for her mom.  There's a number system so everyone lines up early in the morning to collect a number when the bank opens.  Then the ticket holder should check in every 30-60 minutes to see how she or he has progressed in line.

Shops are just opening so I might catch a gate roll-up.  The bakery is in full swing and the pedestrian street is busy with people heading to and from the train.  The 1964 Chevrolet is still for sale (since at least May) and there's usually at least one Remis driver available on the next corner.  It's peak time for buses so this is the last hurdle before ringing the buzzer that will gain me entry to the building.

Despite all the classes, I'm still not used to the elevator which shoots up like a rocket and stops with a start.  Don't ever open the door early or it might earn you a few good words from the owner.

Life is a Highway

Looking back over 2017, a lot has happened.  In recounting them to a friend recently, I realized perhaps in the context of 2016 or 2015, these (to the third party listener) are small things, taken for granted when we are at home in our home of ten or more years in our native language surrounded by our own things and our friends and family.

Many of these changes of 2017 are more like the progressions of a yoga pose, monitored with intention and celebrated by those who watch both over time and are present in that moment.

I started to drive this week, out of need more so than choice.  My new normal has become walking:  gym, class, farmers market, grocery, church, shops, restaurants.  In a downtown, who needs a car?  This week, however, as I sat behind the wheel of a 2001 Clio adjusting my seat, the mirrors, and the steering column, I tried to remember the last time I drove a car with a manual transmission.  I think it was London almost ten years ago.

I did a quick comparison:  bad traffic in both.  (Confidence-building so far.)  London has left-handed driving but the scales start to tip in the Buenos Aires suburbs with aggressive drivers*, lanes as "suggestions", heavy horn use, and the lack of traffic signals at most intersections.  I took a few deep breaths.  [Here's a great overview of driving in Argentina.]

The car owner gave me the run-down on all the car's nuisances: gear-shift top pops off, demonstration of reverse which I still don't remember, lights on at all times and then I pulled out of the garage.  My co-pilot was great, giving me a running narration through the drive:  traffic from the left, drive straight, traffic from the left, you technically have the right of way, pedestrian, motor bike with no lights, etc.

I only killed the engine once at an avenue, the only time you can expect to have a full stop.  We arrived without incident and I was ready for a second application of deodorant.  Yesterday was my fourth adventure driving.  In the car to my left, who worked to pass me through two blocks, a small girl had her head on the open window ledge and watched me.  She was smiling.  I wondered if she heard me speaking in English or just wanted to watch the woman drive.

*London drivers can be aggressive but I generally knew they would obey traffic signals and pedestrian signals

For Pat

you inhaled
and consumed all space.
the room held its breath.
you exhaled
and were gone.

two days
of fever and pain,
nothing to do.
we changed
the cloth on your head
and held your hand.

two months
of popsicles
and cold drinks,
afternoon visits.
you fought sleep
when we were there.

seventy-four years
of hard work
and much to do.
you carried
a red bandana
and a pocket watch.

you smiled
you loved
you were loved

El Sur

It takes about a week to start to adjust to life in the South again:

Fall changes to Spring.
Pounds move to kilos.
Push doors open instead of pull.
Greet friends with a kiss.
Usually two tries to light the oven.
15 loads of laundry post-trip to recover (given the volume vs drying space ratio).
Four meals instead of three.
The grocery experience.
Signless Stops at intersections.
Nearly everyone stares at me.
Playing the piano.
Recovering Spanish.

I was still lingering with French on the first days with my brain not having understood that crossing the equator means I need to find the other words.  I've slipped into acceptance that making a salad now takes at minimum 30 minutes because all ingredients are as you would find them from your garden.  I discover again gratitude for the women who, when it's obvious I don't understand after two attempts in Spanish, reach into their memories for an English word or two.  I try to remember patience when I'm limited in the things I can do, knowing it's all a journey.

The home away from home becoming home.

Mon Chat Mange*

Mont Tremblant, Quebec
September 2017

I took a two hour (ish) flight.
I read three books.
I walked kilometers.
I exhaled.
I started to relax.
I stumbled through French.
I laughed.
I felt grateful.

Thank you, Canada for a peaceful last look at the North side for a little while.

*Title courtesy of Duolingo and its occasional nonsensical sentences.

Nuestro Agradecimiento

This past week was an amazing blessing.  I'm overwhelmed by all the love in my life and was so happy that so many of my favorite people could spend time with one another and with us.

By request, my wedding toast:

One of the ongoing lessons of the Camino was the evaluation of things to carry with you.  We had the items which were necessary, those which were luxury, and the items that caused pain because the wearer was too stubborn to let them go earlier.

It took me hundreds of miles to let go of many things (both physical and emotional), and somehow in the process of letting go, there was room for something bigger than I could ever imagine.  And even more extraordinary was that this would be something that I did not have to carry, but would rather carry me.

At some point in our long friendships, each of you has carried Esteban or me.  We want to thank you for those moments and for the multitudes of others we have shared.  Thank you for being here with us today.  We are grateful for your love.

44 Watching 45

When I was a child, I thought there was one of you, America.

Around 5^th grade, I got a label and extra school work which included a book list.

I read Roots before I was thirteen and I learned there were two of you.

When I was a teenager, I wanted to go to a dance with a boy

That had a different color skin. I was told my dress would be ripped in two. 

Two Americas.

When I was in college, I had friends from around the world. 

They understood me when my hometown did not and I became even more passionate

That we all are created equally. 

When I arrived to work, I had colleagues all over the globe.

We analyzed DNA and we knew that we are all more than 99% the same.

The rest gets grace.

When I was a woman, I walked a long road.

I fell in love with a man who said he was from America but it was not my America.

And I was reminded that there are two.  Americas.

When I traveled South, a woman from the South of the North,

To the man from the North of the South, we both had lessons to learn

But there was always love.

When I came back to the North with a new President

I have watched my home country and families grow more divided. 

Oh my heart, two Americas.

And I’m sad to think that we are going backwards in time and space

To where it’s okay to say a word that we could not say at home, ever.

“Hate” has no place in a heart.

So I spend hours trying to find words and I will fall short.

But I cannot be silent.

And I will not sit.

In the Country

A positive of visiting parents for an extended period of time (after getting over the shock of being home for an extended period of time) is the appreciation of passing time in what I would have deemed to be uneventful moments at a younger age.

I've planted tomatoes with my father and noticed the baker's precision in his methodology.  The hole is to be of a certain size, followed by the addition of soil, natural fertilizer, water, the plant, and finally more soil.  A cage is prepared and secured with one final dusting, like powdered sugar through a sieve.  Each step is measured not only in quantity but with intention.

I've made an (all-natural) strawberry pie for my parents, however this time, I listened to my Mom's input and added an ingredient to the crust, putting trust in 60 years of experience over AllRecipes.com.  And she in turn, took time to watch and coach me, mixing the ingredients that she used to use and whipping cream "the old way" before speed and minimizing the effort to cook for two became the priority.

I've accepted that breakfast will be an hour without checking my phone, even if I'm just eating oatmeal.

We will have a daily conversation about rain and about the four groundhogs under the two sheds.

I will not walk to the gym but will instead spend a half-hour each way driving "to town".

I will sit with my Uncle just before sunset and watch birds move through the trees, trying to identify each one.

And they won't wash my coffee mug but will allow this one dish to sit on various counters (against 50 years of tradition) until I return to finish the second cup or to make a new one.

 

Be Attitudes

Some days I forget that it is hard to take risks, to make a change.  In many cases, a reward is received shortly after the risk and over time, perhaps the scary part is eventually forgotten.  Hot Air Balloon Ride.

Sometimes, changes are made slowly over time, one small step in front of another and in retrospect, the difference is visible.  Annual 30 days.

For others, the rewards are only visible over time, over 100s of questions of whether you're doing the right thing and of answering to your compass (or your therapist or to God) that indeed, it will be (or was) worth it. Argentina.

Over the course of this last year, I have been thinking of the people who made these changes easier for the making and this is my Friday list for blessings.

Blessed are:

• those who do not correct your grammar while or after you are speaking (unless you’ve asked them to).  Language is hard.  Understanding another is usually pretty easy, especially if you are one of 
• those who listen without interjecting 
• those who remind a person that a little bit of crazy goes with being valiant 
• those who make small breads and facturas
• those who smile freely and laugh loudly
• those who love first
• those who teach
• those who give strong hugs
• those who sit with you in discomfort as easily as they do in comfort
• those who share freely: food, water, time, or tears (as the situation warrants)
• those who encourage

Here's hoping I can pay forward as much as I have received.

Arbols

I've been watching these trees for weeks while I bike.
At the beginning of autumn, both trees were green.

Occasionally a bird would light on the branches on the right.
Meanwhile a green lemon emerged on the left.

Now green has turned to yellow and the branch is lower, heavier.
And green has turned to reddish-brown and the branch is higher, lighter.

In the same corner, both up and down.
In the same corner, both fruit and none.

The large window with new life.
The narrow window cycling inward.

I think about life and death and circles and leaves.
I think about nothing because it's easier that trying to sort a metaphor.

I think about how I've not seen a bird in a few weeks
And I wonder how both trees will look after the rain.

D-D-D Defense

Books have taken a backset lately to the Washington Post, Guardian, and NY Times with a side of Clarin and La Nacion.  (Aside:  "diario" is preferred to "periódico" here).  There is so much happening around the world that if I miss a day in 2017, it seems like I've missed a week's news cycle in 2016.

I did manage to nudge in A Criminal Defense by William L. Myers in the last month.  This debut novel by an attorney with thirty years of trial experience was a free Kindle read in April.  The novel moves fairly quickly with the main crime* and arrest occurring pretty early on in the book.  The characters were vivid with a few of them unlikeable by Chapter 2.  It is clear to the reader that the suspect is not completely innocent but the question of whether or not he committed the murder is open for most of the book (which lands it in the Crime Thriller category).  While I was able to guess a few of the turns the book would take along the way, the end was indeed a surprise.

The suspect's attorney is our main character and biblically speaking, he is not in a position to throw stones.  After reading through the passage describing one of his actions, I stopped reading the book for about a week.  Though I was interested in the conclusion, I couldn't believe that an attorney would make such a move...but then again, I've never worked in law.  I do know that sometimes "behind the scenes" is messy and nearly every stage has a curtain.

If you like legal thrillers where the good guys don't always have clean hands, add this one to your list.  At $3.99 currently, it's a pretty good ROI.

*There are several themes of criminal activity running through the book, but by "main", I refer to the murder of a journalist

Yo Veo

I see you seeing me

In that moment before you look away,

That I’m different somehow

Out of place, like a photo that just isn’t level.

I see you seeing me

When we lock eyes

Daring the other to turn away

And you will, unless you have something lewd to say.

I see you seeing me

As a child with shy eyes

But with a smile returned

Timidly and genuinely...that is if if I smile first.

I see you

As you dig through the trash looking for paper

As you take water from the street main

As you stop to pet a dog that isn’t yours

And I won’t let my eyes linger too long.

I will smile at you

Because I know the other side of seeing me.

Say Cheese!

Sometimes the only way I know what day of the week it is because of Spanish class and my exercise plan.  It has been an interesting transition to move from an Outlook calendar packed with meetings to just a few commitments per day, and usually only one of these is fixed with the rest moving in an ebb and flow fashion like the rest of this last year.

I have more time to cook.  Food is a gateway to culture (as I am sure someone has said before) and to language.  Grocery aisles filled with brands, descriptions and flavors. Vegetable stands packed with Spanish nouns.  Meat and cheese stores with only a few items that seem familiar.  Recipes dutifully translated between metric and imperial.

There is an art of kitchen translation.

So when I volunteered to make the main plate for the holiday family lunch with a day's notice, I was a little nervous.  Cooking for one adventurous eater is fine but for five others who like meat and who may not be as adventurous?  Well, I've always been a risk taker and a believer in the power of prayer.

The first time I had lasagna here I was quite surprised to find a layer of ham.  (Six months later,  I now expect ham in everything and when a dish is delivered without it, I am a bit over-joyed though I do try to use my Southern "this is wonderful" poker face.)  My mom has been making a wonderful vegetarian cheese lasagna for years and this was the dish I would try to replicate.

This culinary assignment taught me about pasta noodles, more about our crazy 1-10 oven, and that cottage cheese can only be found at specialty cheese stores.  (In the end I gave up on finding it when it did not translate well.)  Instead I substituted roasted vegetables from the week's trip to verdulería and I grated blocks of cheese.

Not exactly like Mom used to make (and it required an additional trip to the grocery store between layers two and three), but I was happy to bring a little piece of East Tennessee into Argentina.

Lasagna as a Spanish Lesson
May 2017

Side note:  the more traditional dish for 25 de Mayo is Locro.  (Filed away for future reference)

I Will Carry You

One year ago I was walking from Los Arcos to Longroño (per my GPS a distance of 18.65 miles).  I started walking at 6:40 a.m. with a German man who drove me crazy.  We got lost before breakfast and shared a laugh over cafe con leche with other Pilgrims at our lemming behavior.  In my journal, I noted that this was the day I laughed the most (to date) and I met the first person who, instead of telling me my pack was too heavy (like every other soul on the Camino), said I should be proud that I could carry it.  It was a welcome perspective.

I earned another new blister, saw two rainbows as well as snow-capped mountains, was passed by a man on a horse (the only day this happened), and took a homeopathic crystal from a stranger from Vienna to help my feet.*  I shared a hard story to help another and along the way encountered beautiful stacks of rocks (cairns) with notes tucked away.  I wrote that it reminded me of the prayer wall in Jerusalem.  Sometimes we have to physically leave something behind in order to do it emotionally.

Between Los Arcos y Longroño
May 19, 2016

That day's quote from GBC P@1ge was especially fitting after the walk:

"I was amazed that what I needed to survive could be carried on my back.   And most surprising of all, that I could carry it."        - Cheryl Strayed

* There have been only two times that I can recall accepting medicine from a stranger:  this occurrence and while I was on my Giligan's Island I Think We're Going to Die Alaskan Cruise.  In general kids, don't accept medicine from strangers.

Supermercado Un Otra Vez

Six months later and I'm again in the supermarket on a Saturday evening.  I'm marginally better but my partner still needs to skirt me out of the way of an oncoming shopping cart in the cleaning products aisle.  The woman was not stopping.

A few aisles and twenty minutes pass, and flour disappears from the shelves while I try to decide if I need "0000" or "000" having a very Mr. Burns "ketchup or catsup" moment (though no one had to take me away).

I linger in the small "imports" section and wonder how a bottle of A1 or Barilla pasta sauce can make me feel wistful.

Still, I forget the oatmeal.

The traffic outside mirrors the supermarket and I have a flashback to dodge ball.  If you don't move quickly, you're a target.  Every fourth street will be a two-way avenue and only these have traffic lights.  For the others, they are alternating direction one-way streets with no stop signs, and traffic operates somewhere between these maxims:  "may the better man/woman win" and "every object will remain at rest or in uniform motion in a straight line unless compelled to change its state by the action of an external force."*  If there's a dip in the road for water to run, the other side has the advantage.

Pedestrians move where they can, frequently crossing mid-street.  Bright colored clothing is an asset.  Beware of honking horns and stray dogs.  Look both ways because bikers and occasionally cars like to break the rules.  And if you make it through this pinball motion, most days this is enough to feel like you've had a good day.

* Newton's first courtesy of Nasa.gov

Mochila o mochilita?

A year ago, I was trying to decide what to take with me and what to leave behind.  I had a very naive idea of the things that would be important for this trip.  Over the course of the 550 miles, I kept a running list of the things I let go and the things I chose to carry even though I knew they were a burden.  (There's a broader life lesson in this for another day.)

Camino planning - Draft #2
May 2016

Most of the things in this picture were packed, though two of the hats and the swimsuit were omitted (and they would not be missed).

I took Marie Kondo's advice and thanked an item before leaving it behind along the way.  This seemed to make it a little easier for the black tank and the water bottle.  (The Lush deodorant was not in this category since 1) it didn't really work and 2) the Irish contingent told me it made me smell like roast lamb.)

For months, I have been living a semi-nomadic life with items either in Huntsville, at my parents, and or here with me in Argentina.  Frequently, I've been in one place wishing I had "the thing" that was in another.  But it's been fine.  I've always had what I absolutely needed and this, like the Camino, has left me thinking quite a bit about the things I should carry.

Picaduras

Monday I took a small break from spreadsheets, and I offer this little Ode to the Mosquito:

The mosquito is biting me
Would you leave me alone?
Can’t we find a way
To share this little home? 

By my count it’s
Three times ahead
At least today you’ve
Stayed away from my head. 

A swat in the laundry
But I know you’re still around
Waiting and flying
Until exposed skin you’ve found.

At current, I have nine bites.  Apparently they will be at their worst for two weeks more (más o menos).

Refrescante

While I was on the Camino last year, one of the unexpected joys I had was the smell of fresh, dry laundry.

After two weeks, it became clear that I was really only going to wear one set of clothes daily.  I had tried rotating in another set however a pair of pants with wicking fabric that could dry more quickly after rain was more important than warm calves, and a shirt that would not get me chastised by nuns due to showy shoulders was more important that being cool.

The daily wear transpires into daily hand-washing with a lye soap and if one was lucky, a spot in the sun to dry.  If I was late to an alburque, I got a shady spot and that meant the odds went considerably down that the clothes would be dry by sunset.  This in turn would lead to an internal debate:  re-wear dirty, dry clothes or wear clean, damp clothes?  There was really no great answer but the good news is that most of your peers would smell like you did.

During the last two weeks, there were magical days when a laundry would be available to the guests.  Occasionally, there would also be a magical man or woman that would launder, dry, and fold your clothes.  (This hit a peak at both the Parador in León and at Hostal Santa Maria in Cacabelos.  The low of lows would occur in Melide where after a day of walking in pouring rain, nothing would be anything less than wet a day later.)

Fast forward a year.

My unexpected joys appear in other ways, including Monday's gift:  the sound of English spoken softly nearby.  After a long run and a splurge for a hamburger, I was reviewing the week's workout when I could hear it.  A couple at a nearby table were talking and there was a lilt of English from a native-speaker.  It was like music.  I tried not to eavesdrop but I did so enjoy the melodic tones of the British* accent and the avoidance of the occasional direct, hard tones that permeate castellano here.

Don't get me wrong, there are a number of things I do adore about the language in my new surroundings, but there is something about "home" that's tied up in hearing your native tongue.  The day prior, I had a Spanish conversation with a German woman in which we connected over the idea that sometimes our heart's native language cannot be expressed in our current home's words.

So like clean laundry, it is just enough to keep me going for the next section of the journey.

* This experience also generated a follow-up conversation and my generation of an impromptu decision tree of "How you can tell if someone is North-American or British"

La Temporada

It's my first full spring in the Southern hemisphere...which means it is my first Autumn.

I notice the changes from summer.

The temperatures are in the 70s mostly with an occasional breeze.  At times, I would even say it's cool.  I can finally wear jeans again.  My first thought when I felt the warm sun through the cool air that first non-sweltering day is that "Spring is coming," but it's now otoño.

A gardener was turning the ground and I could smell the wet brown soil, and I wondered what he would plant.  Then I remembered, it's not Spring, it's otoño.

Tomatoes are delicious.  They melt in your month and remind me of my parents' garden.  I thought they will be even better soon, but it's not true.  These are the last tomatoes of summer.  Otoño is here.

The rains bring falling leaves not buds.

The sunset creeps forward.

And soon, winter will arrive and I'll fly away to summer.

Valentino Goes to a Funeral

We lost my Uncle while I was somewhere over Brazil.

The husband of my father's oldest sibling and a man I always knew as a farmer.  When I was a child, he was one of the circle of men that would get a seat at the dining room table on Sundays.  (Due to the number of people in attendance, the odds were roughing 1 in 12 that one could have a chair.)  These men would drink coffee and talk, and a few might smoke a cigarette.

It was this man, along with his son and another two Uncles who would form the dialog of the first poem I would ever publish.  I was between thirteen and fifteen and a teacher saw something of value in a few lines about cattle.  I had liked poetry before that day but seeing the words in print left me hooked.

Today I sat with my Aunt.  We held hands and did not stand.

I thought of the poetry in a wife's grief.  It definitely would not rhyme.

"Dust to dust" as the burial words go.

As I was walking back to the car, a friend commented that I was wearing the wrong shoes for a funeral.  A square heel, they were the better option for standing in wet grass.  As I was cleaning them later that day, I was sure that I still sank a little. After all, I had held another Uncle's arm as we stood by, watching roses in the wind, thinking of him and of our own mortality.

Happy Trails

When I'm leaving home, one of the things on my mind is (to no one's surprise who really knows me) what food am I most likely not to have and will miss over the next n weeks.*  Normally, it's pizza with garlic but this time a cheeseburger was weighing heavily on my palate.   Was the cheeseburger worth a three terminal change and a 15 gate walk?   This was this question I pondered as I was sitting in the international terminal last month.

In four months, I had yet to have a cheeseburger in Buenos Aires so I made the trek.  It was 6 pm and high traffic for commuting and dinner yet I managed to take the last table at Grindhouse.  I had just placed my backpack in the chair and was standing when a man asked me if the table was taken.  I said that it was but I wouldn't mind to share.

I ate in silence while reading the news.  He was talking on the phone checking availability on size 15 hiking shoes.  When he finished the call, he thanked me again for the seat and he started a conversation about favorite burger recipes.  This headed to the traditional "where are you headed" and "what do you do" conversation zones and with this year, I have a pretty un-average response.  As it turns out, so did he.

The young man sitting opposite from me had plans to quit his job and had secured a pass to through-hike the PCT.  According to the stat sheet, the Atlanta airport services on average 275,000 passengers per day.  I had to know this figure in order to calculate the odds that two persons with engineering backgrounds would come to decisions to have burgers at equivalent times on February 20th and who also shared the goal to effectively put their career on hold...to walk...a lot.

In 2016, 5657 permits were issued to hike the PCT with visitors from 41 countries.  Like the 277,854 pilgrims on the Camino last year, only a smaller percentage walk the distance over 500 miles.  (It was  12.11% for the Camino using St. Jean as the starting point and 12.25% for the PCT if we use the self-reported finisher numbers.)

So there we were.   It was one of the most enjoyable dinners of my life.  We talked strategies and shoes and life and books and blisters and people who are our cheerleaders.  Immediately I felt a kindredness that's quite impossible to capture with these few words.

So wish my new friend luck in the next month as he finishes preparations for his journey and best wishes, sir, that I will see your name on the 2,600 mile list.

*where n = value between 3 and 12 in 2016

Strawberry Fills Forever

One of the things I have really missed is an oven that has a temperature scale.  At current, the dial on the front goes from "0" to "10" like the speedometer of a 1967 Chevy Nova (though I think technically if we are using this analogy, the Nova would go to "12").  Until this trip (my fourth), I didn't know I could adjust the oven's flame.

And so it was on the 25th of February that I boldly set out to make a birthday cake.  

The assets:

• According to Google, I should aim for between a 2 - 3 to get the correct conversion to Celsius for the oven
• A "receta" in Spanish (thus ensuring I could have on hand all the ingredients)
• Eggs so fresh I washed them myself
• A plastic cup that has measurements for everything from "harina" to "arroz" to "Taza" (but somehow missing the reading water)
• A brand new baking pan in Size 38 (which I thought was about the size of an 8x11)

The challenges:

• The oven
• A "receta" in Spanish
• The metric system
• A hand mixer with a whisk attachment that had attachment issues
• A baking pan which turned out to be more like 8x15
• Three hours before the party

After whipping a fair bit of butter and sugar onto any surface within a one-meter radius, I did feel I had achieved a consistency that matched batter at home.  The remaining ingredients were partially beaten/thrown with the final touches whipped in with a wooden spoon.  The cake was rather plain* so I decided to add strawberry pieces to give it some pop.

This turned out to be a good thing because in no way did the batter actually fill the pan so what I would be later left with as it emerged from the oven (as described to a friend) was a measles-speckled Nebraska cake.  

Many blessings to the brave Argentineans that hesitantly took a bite after the traditional singing.  Many thanks to the host for ensuring that glasses were always filled with an additional nod to the birthday boy that didn't seem to mind that the candle in the center was a votive.  

On occasion, valor is rewarded and by a small Southern miracle, the cake made by the older, pale unmarried gringa was light and tasty.  

*I can usually tell how a cake will turn out by sampling the batter.  Plain is probably boasting.  Side note however, I survived raw eggs in yet another country.

Scoping It Out

 

It's really hard to photograph birds, especially through a telescope.  A few birds from my trip to Ecuador above.

March 2016

It has been some time since I had a book in hand that I didn't want to put down.  Eating, drinking, chores, work, and a sunset all took a backseat this week as I devoted one entire day and one very nice evening into night finishing Lost Among the Birds by Neil Hayward.  I had mentioned that I had anticipated I would like it and that I would find a few things in common, but it really is extraordinary (and inspiring) to trek another's journey through a year of unknowns.

It has been one year, one month, and two days since I left the day-to-day world of 5:30 am gym, 7:00 am breakfast, 8:30 am work, 3:00 pm finish my triple venti latte, 7:00 pm home (if I'm lucky) with maybe another trek to the gym in the evening before dinner to clear my head.  In the ten years building to this very conscious decision to say "no", I think I had only one relationship in the same city as my abode, preferring to trek across the US and to Europe than taking the plunge to stay put long enough to let someone in my life for more than a few seasons.

In my big year, I flew something like 90,000 miles to three continents for six countries to knock off 11 items from the World Heritage Site list, including a 560 mile walk across Spain.  I was out of my home country more than in it during 2016 (which incidentally is one of the reasons I have never had pets).

In January last year, the only item I had planned was that I would go to the Galapagos and to see Machu Picchu.  I bought a backpack and binoculars in February.  The rest evolved.  It was April 19th when I purchased my ticket to Paris confirming my start of the Camino May 13th.  I started reading the guidebook on April 20th during my flight to LA and began to panic a few hours later over the fly-over states wondering if I was, perhaps, in a bit over my head.  My solo journey ended in June with plans to go to Argentina and the rest of the year was made up on the fly (pun intended).

My journey was indeed different than that of Hayward's year, but I fully appreciated the late commitment to a goal, the honesty about his relationships and the pursuit of something that, to explain it aloud to another, sounds just a little bit crazy.  I was happy to know another person traveled with a book in hand, appreciated baseball and followed a passion without knowing exactly how it would turn out.  I enjoyed his anecdotes of sleeping in cars, the pleasures of coffee, and the friendships forged just because you like birds.  I even enjoyed all the descriptions about our flying friends.  As someone who has been compiling all the notes of her own adventures, I also appreciated his scientific note-taking so that he was able to share his trips with the rest of us.

For those of you who don't quit your jobs or happen to like birds, I think you'd still very much enjoy this read.  I'm sure you have at least one friend like us and perhaps it will help to understand our brains a little better, or it just might encourage you to take a little adventure on your own.  Maybe it will inspire you to linger at the window a little longer or take an old reference book off the shelves to check a few colors.  I'm glad I purchased the hard copy; I'm certain I will read it again.

Regresado

When I hit the jet bridge, I was met with the sweltering heat of summer (again).  In the peak of holiday season, I have had a month away and my skin is an alabaster sign that I'm new here.

Except I'm not, and I am.

In thirty-two hours I've been to the grocery, renewed my gym membership, picked up the gifts of onion and cheese pastries from the shop across the street, and successfully navigated our out-sourced house cleaning.  Laundry is in progress.  I've made two meals today along with my cafe con leches.  

I'm less than an hour from sunset and Spanish is retreating from the front of my head to the back, needing rest and a reprieve from conversation.  Language stamina is the part that comes back slowly and I'm reminded again that I'm new.

A Bird in View

Though I enjoy the outdoors, I've often associated bird-watching with AARP cards.  I've had a copy of Birds of North America on my bookshelves for years but I don't know if I've opened it more than once or twice.  This spring's splurge trip to the Cloud Forest in Ecuador gave me a wake up call.

My lodge had birding activities in the morning and evening and an open invitation to "Hummingbird Garden."  Ninety-six photos and three videos later, I became a fan.  The guides could quickly distinguish varietals of Tanagers and finding a Toucan to photograph through a telescope was more exciting than any of my dates in 2015.  I saw more species of Hummingbirds in three days than I have in my entire life.

Of course then the above, combined with my sabbatical-ing, drew me to Neil Hayward's Lost Among The Birds:  Accidentally Finding Myself in One Big Year.  Neil went birding for his Big Year in 2013.   We have biotechnology in common and I wonder what else I'll find as I get ready to open the pages (again on a plane).  I just might have to bring the binoculars out of storage for the next journey.

Love Under Four

Valentine's Day cards will be a little late
Turns out I had a holiday date
With a newborn and a couple of kids
Aunties do whatever they're bid.

Upstairs, downstairs, tell me a story
(Just make sure it isn't too gory)
Include Cinderella and a mean, mean ghost
And perhaps a horsey tied to a post.

Carry me, take me, that's my mat.
Keep to the routine, don't vary that.
And at the end of the day with sticky hands
They'll hug your neck and remind, "You can"

The Hardest Part

When you're waiting on a baby
Don't ask "how are you?"
You just might end up
With a head full of stew.

Don't ask "can I help"
Or "where does this go?"
"I'll do it myself"
With heavy sigh she might throw.

It's hard to find balance
Between too much and enough
When you're trying to be a helper
You need to be made of thick stuff.

Ode to Clouds

Somewhere over Argentina
October 2016

If I had a lifetime of cameras balanced with leisure, I'd take photos of clouds every day.

Where There's a Will

I have not been able to write a coherent stanza, paragraph, or thought for some time.  My notebook contains starts and stops.  To be exact, I haven't been able to write since January 20th.  The news, already at the forefront of my mornings, took an even larger role, with each new day coaxing some new emotion between outrage and sadness.  Friends and family suggested that I not read the news so much because "it was making me upset".  This advice echoed that which I'd heard given to older relatives and I found an empathy for my grandmother that I will never get to express.

Clearly I needed another outlet.

From my previous trip to Parnassus, I'd picked up a couple of books just for me to enjoy this month.  It is especially an indulgence as I'm currently sans most personal belongings and like the Camino, I'm taking my things with me wherever I go.  Books then are certainly not on the top of my packing list.

I don't know if one of you mentioned Will & I by Clay Byers or if it was just the title to read for me now but I took this little memoir from the shelves, and on a day when I decided reading the news was done, I opened the cover.

The settings were familiar:  Birmingham, Chattanooga, Sewanee.
The accident was terrible.
The recovery, Clay was told, would be limited.

Will is Clay's twin so Clay has a direct measure of current life and potential.  His memoir is matter of fact, as an observer at times rather than the participant.  I think this is the way we manage telling the difficult sometimes.  His journey is brave and throughout the read, I could feel the strength of his heart and of his will (independent of brother).  Communication was a significant hurdle during the recovery and as he fights to overcome this obstacle, Clay finds himself a writer, and dare I say, a singer.

So this was the story to break my pattern and to find words again.

When in Castellano

I was roaming through the bookstore with no idea what I was looking for. It was such a treat to be able to read all the titles. (Add this to the multitude of things I’ve taken for granted before this last year.) It was not crowded so I could wander the aisles in my normal clockwise fashion: recommended reads, fiction, mystery, poetry, YA, memoirs, travel, music.

The first title that caught my eye also gave me a start: When in French: Love in a Second Language by Lauren Collins. North Carolina girl falls in love with French man, communication develops in English, they marry and she delves into the French language. On the book jacket cover, I read that she told her mom “she’s given birth to a coffee machine.”

I told my boyfriend’s mom I liked her dead fish as I watched her fish tank (not realizing there were two Spanish words for fish with one being food and the other a live fish).

I’m not sure I’m ready to read it. I know I want to do so, but my face is still a little metaphorically wet from my accidental wash with our bidet.

Miss Betty

I had not seen him in over a decade, but I had heard the news.

They had been married for nearly 60 years.
Pneumonia had taken her lungs.
She would never recover.
What do you do with the machine?

After the decision, they sat together for an entire day.
Three was the hour but that pushed into four.
It wasn't easy to say good-bye.
How do you find the strength?

I didn't know what to say.
We talked about the birthday we celebrated.
We talked about the family.
We talked about her.

He had tears in his eyes and pain in his heart.
He had a smile and a big hug for me.
I gave him a helium filled decoration.
He accepted it.

And then I watched him walk away trailing a green balloon.

Mira tu Paso

Frequently, I think of A Year in the Merde by Stephen Clarke.  Though a different language, I'm developing a new set of observations and humorous anecdotes from spending a heap of time in another country.

I have reached the point in the immersion experience where people do not automatically know that I am (North) American after my first few words.  I've recently had a waiter think I was from Brazil after I managed to maintain a conversation throughout dinner.  I don't always know what others are thinking but after an extended interaction there is a visible undercurrent of confusion/suspicion until eventually I explain that "I'm not from around here".  The next statement is always "ooohhhhhhh" and faces change.  The interactions turn a little less stilted and the other parties lose their assumption that my IQ hasn't quite made the charts.  Frequently I will catch someone surveying my clothing - top to bottom and then bottom to top (and last night, a woman did this cycle twice).  While at times it's uncomfortable, it's nonetheless interesting, and at times amusing.

My first trip, I was worried about standing out, but over this stay I've come to realize that I will always do just that.  The color of my skin, the lilt in my voice, my body shape, the things I say when I step in dog mierda (BA has this in common with Paris), and my combination of eccentric clothing from around the globe are different.  It's my confidence that has changed.

A "To the End of the World and Back" Read

As is usually the case, another set of flights translated into another title on the Kindle.  On New Year's Day I wrapped up my first read of 2017 with When I'm Gone: A Novel by Emily Bleeker.

At the onset, I honestly couldn't remember if this book was something that I'd read before.  It seems however that my brain was trying to correlate this novel of the death of a wife with a side of mystery to the other title Gone in my Kindle library (which isn't a fair comparison).  [Apologies, Ms. Bleeker.]

Our main character, Luke, the widower, has lost his wife and in an effort to finalize all the things you wish you would have said if there were more time, Natalie has left a series of letters to be delivered to Luke over the course of the first year following her passing.  It is never easy to observe someone's grief from the sidelines (even through digital pages), however the friendship he develops with Annie (Natalie's best friend) gives hope for the reader from the first "breakfast for lunch".

The read was quick and I was engaged in both the characters and the storyline.  Natalie has a purpose for introducing people into Luke's life and I won't give all that away, though you will love Jessie.  My sole complaint was that the ending wrapped itself up a little too quickly.  (It seemed like 350 pages to build and 15 pages to end.)  It was a little like my 2016 in that way, and maybe this was the reason I was hesitant to reach "Acknowledgements".  I liked it and it was over too soon.

Savor those beautiful moments, readers.  We just don't know how many we'll get.