What Sand and Bare Feet Taught Me

I heard the vendor's voice on the warm breeze long before I opened my eyes and saw his bare feet in front of me.I was lounging in that daze-y space between nap and awake, that place of warm contentment, eyes closed but with the aura of orange-red suggested just beyond their lids.

I had been lying on the beach all morning, contemplating whether or not I ought to add another layer of sunscreen and deciding that a burn wouldn't be enough of a price for actually moving out of my blissful, cozy state.

"Fanta," he shouted, "cerveza, agua, Coca-Cola!" His voice got closer and closer. "Fanta, cerveza, agua..." until it was very close, and then it was, "Fanta, beer, water" in uncertain English. I opened my eyes and, as he passed, caught a glimpse of his feet as they shuffled by.

My first thought was, "Is it too early for a beer?" followed by, "Wait. He spoke English when he got near me." And then I was a little stung. "How did he know? Is it that obvious? What signs of being non-Spanish* did he pick up on?" I thought.

The answer was yes. It was that obvious. A quick examination of the damning evidence led me to these realizations:

1. I am super white. Glow in the dark pasty. No tan or pigment to speak of. At all. Except for maybe the red blotches of newly sunned skin that were beginning to form on my back and legs. I certainly did not look like I had spent any time outdoors. That is very non-Spanish.

2. My towel was sand-less. In other words, I had been preoccupied with keeping everything around me orderly, as if I were afraid the beach might actually get on me. Clearly I wasn't used to the grit of living anywhere near a sea.

3. I was still wearing my bikini top. I was pretty much the only one for miles with a top on (other than Rich who didn't even put on a swimsuit until nearly time to leave - another clue). Babies were running around on the beach naked and we had more clothing on than they wear in winter.

4. I hadn't been swimming.  Most folks had already dove into the (freezing) waves or had swam their morning laps. I even spotted an elderly gentleman doing yoga (standing on his head for at least 3 minutes) and then taking a lap.

5. My hair was still pony-tailed in a land where gorgeous dark curls are left untamed to wave in the breeze.

The beach in Grand Canaria reflects Spanish culture: It's warm. Relaxed. Not fussy. Like me.

As I allowed myself to repose in that easy environment, I began to realize how exactly opposite I am from that these days. In my realization, I acknowledged how tightly wound I am, how stone-faced behind my frenzied emotions. In fact, I can't remember the last time I let go. Certainly it was before I began my intense search three, almost four, years ago for a new international job. Somewhere along the way I forgot that every little thing isn't about writing the perfect resume or presenting myself in the most professionally appealing way possible. I have been making a first impression and worrying about miss-stepping in every avenue of my life, whether it be in getting a job, parenting, or deciding what to eat for dinner. My life has felt like one long agenda driven interview where I am hyper aware of everything I do and and say and the effect or appearance it might or might not portray. Some people call this anxiety. And as I am particularly prone to it, I long ago worked out how how to alleviate it without medication, but have forgotten to practice and practice and practice that remedy. The result is this tense, frigid, annoyed, static (non-creative) state.

My back instinctively tightened at the acknowledgement brought on by the oblivious beach vendor.

I decided that I would stop him on his way back and order dos cervezas (who cares if it was too early!) and do the entire transaction in Spanish, confidently, to prove to him that I belong here. I considered casting off my bikini top for the sake of shaking off my anxiety, even for one afternoon, but then reminded myself that I was still, fairly prone to sunburn and that some places are more sensitive than others.. Baby steps.

Baby steps.

*The Canary Islands are part of Spain, for those of you who may think I am being insensitive to Mexico.(ahem)

Morocco

   "Jack, baby, what do you remember about Morocco?"
   "I remember there was yummy things to eat in Morocco. I remember the donkey came. I remember the donkey."
   "What else?"
   "I think we couldn't touch anything. Why we couldn't touch anything?"
   "Because those things were for sale."
   "Momma, what for sale mean?"
   "It means that people might want to buy the things we couldn't touch."
   "Do you remember anything else from Morocco?"
   "I think that's all I know. We didn't see any butterflies in Morocco."

I have to admit, Morocco was the hardest part of our trip for me. Harder than slugging luggage through busy airports. Harder than keeping a three year old still on a 90 minute bus ride. What's worse is I really wanted to feel comfortable there.

To be fair, my viewpoint is a little skewed as I only saw the desert crumbles of Agadir on my way to Taroudant. Also, I was only on Moroccan soil for around 5 hours, most of it on a bus tour. Our guide, Aziz, was Moroccan and spoke broken English.

He made many jokes about how lazy the women get to be and that they are very happy to wake up, go to the market to buy meals for the day, cook for the family and then take a nap until time to prepare the next meal. "What I mean is they like life, the women.It is easy for them."

He was also seriously concerned that we Western tourists understand that Morocco was becoming wealthy and therefore as important as any Western European country, especially as several manufacturing companies were coming in and creating jobs for the people. "What I mean is, Morocco will be as good as UK and a very happy country." And then he would laugh and make a joke about shop keepers not really working until noon or so, or when they wanted. "It looks like we live in ruins, but the way it works is this. Men want garage. They make shop in garage and then build house on top, little by little."

All of these topics tended to make me feel a bit alienated, ashamed, or just plain sad.

As he spoke I watched children walk or ride their bikes to school. "In Morocco, boys and girls go to school together," Aziz proudly said. "We are not like other Arab countries. What I mean is boys and girls go to same school, no problem." I watched as the girls loitered on one side of the school yard while the boys played soccer on the other.

 "It is nice to be important," he interjected, " but more important to be nice." And he would laugh.

"Morocco is not concerned about religion,"he said. "You find people can go to the Muslim church or the Jewish church or the Catholic church. No problem. What I mean is people in Morocco are not concerned with religion. Religion is between the people's heart and God."

We spent most of our time in the souk or market in Taroudant. Taroudant is a walled city that has maintained much of its Arab tradition. The open air stalls were filled with mostly men, bartering and haggling, occasional donkey carts and several motorcycles. The air was full of amazing smells and the most beautiful, vivid colors I've ever seen. Shop keepers would pick up Jack and add him to their displays for a photo opportunity (always expecting a little Euro for their entertainment, though we didn't have much money with us). One of the tour guides shopped as he herded us through the market. He would interrupt himself to squeeze a tomato and ask a price, continue what he was saying mid-sentence, and then wave away the merchant.

We stopped in a "traditional Moroccan house" to watch a man pitch his homemade apothecary serums. He would ask his assistants (mute ladies who shared no smiles) to please pass around the perfume or hold out the chicken spices for everyone to smell. Then he would hold up a product and ask how many we wanted to buy. "He's a good salesmen, he is," one of the British men next to me remarked.

I couldn't leave the souk without bartering. I knew I was terrible at it, and was, by the way. I tried to smile as I bargained, but it came across as a frightened grimace. Fortunately, I was told with an annoyed wave of a hand, to just take the scarf I wanted to buy for the original price I offered (little more than a fourth of the initial price) and move on. I didn't feel cheated, but I felt incompetent.

I suppose this huge rambling post illustrates my own confusion. I really want to believe Morocco is this wonderful, free, exciting place that Aziz described. I really wanted to feel completely at ease. People were, on the whole, friendly. Yes, the culture was incredibly different from one I'm used to, though perhaps not so different from the Hispanic culture I grew up (and felt comfortable) in. But I didn't feel at ease that day. Everything felt very severe to me and dire. I watched people walk across the desert and I couldn't see where they were going. And I also saw tree climbing goats reaching for fruit at the top of barren trees.

Introduction: Portugal, Morocco, and Spain

So, hey folks, I can now officially say that I've been to Morocco, Portugal, and Spain!  My passport says so if you don't believe me. See? It's completely true... Sort of. Being on a cruise is like that. I would call it vaguely travelling- tip-toeing near places without waking them up; peeking through the blinds at a new place on your front lawn because you're curious, but snapping them shut for fear of being nosy; sampling the food aisle by aisle at the newest Costco location with no intention to buy . You get the idea. This is why, I suppose, cruises are so popular among the Q-tip crowd*. This is also why cruises are popular for parents of young children who need containment and entertainment. The vacation part isn't really about the travel.

The vacation part  means that someone else makes most of your decisions for you or narrows down the options to a manageable quantity. Someone else tells you exactly when to get on the boat and when to get off; that you have a choice between these two excursions in this country, one with limited walking, the other a bus tour; you are told where to go for a prepared meal (with wine and music) and at what time,and  where to drop off your kids for two hours so that you can sip a pint and whip your husband at Texas Hold'em and so on. That's the vacation part - the paring down of decision making.

The actual travel is sort of a pleasant side-effect.

Because cruising (or any canned tour, really) is what it is, one can only experience bits and pieces of what I consider the most lovely part of visiting a new country and or a new culture. One eye must be trained on what is authentic - genuinely meeting people and feeling that life is enriched as a result of a meaningful exchange with someone different from you, whether through discussion, sharing food together, creating understanding through a knowing nod, smile or gesture when language is a slight barrier, etc. The rest is simply the aesthetic - what we choose to believe according to our own consciences married to what we hope is real, the sterility of being somewhere new without having to actually be there, our expectations sadly (or maybe relievingly?) left unchallenged.

I suppose any travel can end up that way if one forgets to be intentional about the authentic.

When I remember or write about this experience, I want to be sure and consider both the authentic and the aesthetic. Here are topics I hope to have time to mention in this space:

1. Considering the pluralities of the cruise
During the cruise bands reincarnations of "Achy Breaky Heart" followed by "Dancing Queen":
Ginger -"I'm pretty sure this is exactly the sort of thing that Dirty Dancing mocked."
Rich -"I'm pretty sure this is exactly the sort of thing Dirty Dancing celebrated."

2. Mint tea in Morocco- Agadir and the Souk in Taroudant

3. Kids Club Star - featuring Jack Haag!

4. Una mas cerveza, por favor, senorita - and other opportunities to dust off my espanol.

5. La Playa, volcanoes, and forest - The lost city of Atlantis found

* Q-Tip - definition - slang for person of a certain age who happen to now have white hair and who wear, inexplicably, white shoes that match their hair color; generally Q-tips don't mind meeting strangers who remind them of their grandchildren on cruises, but beware - approaching them could mean being assaulted by uncomfortable political or racial discussion, and or diatribe about nationality and/or child rearing. Also note - most are quite lovely. British ones don't mind being topless on cruise ships.

Out and About

Visit pics on the Flickr of last week ends whirlwind road trip to Bristol for the International Kite Festival, Glastonbury Abbey, and a ride on a refurbished steam engine! :)

The End

Since the summer is coming to a close a little bit more quickly that I realized, this will probably be the last installment of

Notes on Traveling
Lesson 5: Sometimes Fear is a Good Thing?
Lesson 1; Lesson 2; Lesson 3; Lesson 4

When I was a kid I was afraid, A LOT. Mostly, my fears were semi-irrational and I was certainly more creative with my fears than most kids and their wimpy/predictable 'fear of the dark'. For example:

*As a child I was certain that the house would be devoured by fire, so I kept a an emergency kit-- stuffed animals, Payo (my security pillow), a flashlight, a butter knife(?), a map drawing (probably crayola) of the layout of the house, the mailbox meeting place, and detailed route information, detours in red -- in a zip-lock bag under my bed for quick retrieval, just in case. I made my extremely tolerant family conduct weekly fire drills with different plans of action should the fire be at this door, or maybe that one. (And yes, we did actually set off the alarm with a match each time, and yes, I did occasionally make us all crawl in case the smoke was too thick above.)

* For a while I was convinced that Mom, Dad, and the Putz were alien robots and that when I went to sleep they would morph into their true forms in order to ... I don't know.. do whatever dastardly things alien robots are wont to do. But I was more afraid that they would malfunction like that alien robot in the Superman III movie - with Richard Pryor? I really REALLY did not want to see that. People just don't recover from that sort of sight.

* In junior high, I knew the bad guys were coming for me. I knew that if I opened my blinds, I would be standing eye-to-eye with a deranged murderer, his face pressed up against the glass, or worse an angel! Or maybe I would see the ghost of the person who was buried underneath my bedroom in an unmarked grave because he was killed there and left to rot and no one knew about it because back then they didn't keep good records of stuff like that, and hey we did find an actual cannonball buried in our front yard which means that probably SEVERAL people died near and around our house... SO I didn't open my blinds or look out the window for a really long time. Uh. Actually, I still can't do it at night. Also, I PRAYED, eyes and hands clinched, that God would never show me an angel or a ghost, friendly or otherwise.

As I got older, my fears evolved into more logical ones, but were irrationally dealt with. I won't go into these.

The point is that I am a total 'fraidy cat.

I know now that I can control my fears, and I can talk myself down from some of them. (Yes, how very adult of me.) So I was very proud of myself for flying to London and being there alone for a while. I was ecstatic that I attended a workshop in Oxford by myself, but more than that had a BLAST and made new friends there. I wasn't at all afraid in Europe which may have been stupid since a small dose of fear keeps us (especially women) vigilant and safe.

But I was irrationally terrified sometimes in New York.

Mostly, New York is a loud city, and I have very sensitive hearing. Loud noises make me anxious, especially if said noises are a million sirens at night.. in New York. No one can go to The City without being constantly reminded of 9/11, but oddly in a stoic - no fear way. People LOVE The City and defy anyone to mess with it again. New Yorkers aren't afraid of anything anymore. They don't notice that there are cops on every corner with bomb sniffing dogs heeled at their sides. They don't notice the officer who walks down the aisle on the subway who is checking under seats, eyes constantly moving, who steps off of the train at each stop, looks both ways, says something into his walkie-talkie and gets back on - only to reopen the doors if he wants to double check. They don't notice that this is the forever norm, or that we can't go back.

We have become so accustomed to the fear, that it isn't fear anymore. It's life.

I was talking to a friend of mine whose little sister can't remember a time before orange alert. And it dawned on me that from now on, children will have to live in an orange alert world. What does that mean for them? What does it mean for our country? The world (which has been on orange alert FAR longer than we realize)?

Maybe I'm being over paranoid or pessimistic since I can't imagine returning to a time where we aren't afraid. And this is nothing new, seeing as the Cold War brought people to their knees - literally under their desks at schoolhouses.

I realize that probably in order for things to get better, worse things will have to happen, whether we are talking about another attack on "US soil", or whether we're talking about willingly giving-up our civil liberties and becoming a police state disguised as a safe haven.

The problem is our memories are short.
The problem is we make big guns and it is easier to point and shoot those guns than it is to negotiate.
The problem is we all want to be soldiers, both literally and figuratively, fighting for 'the cause' but are sometimes unsure as to what exactly 'the cause' is, and don't remember the rationale behind fighting for it.
The problem is we are fearfully reactionary beings and keep secret precautions under our beds.
The problem is we're afraid of angels.


And that scares the hell out of me.

It never fails..

Notes on Traveling
Lesson 4: Always Be Prepared
For further enlightenment see the following:
Lesson 1; Lesson 2; Lesson 3

Our ship lightly rocked into the Skagway harbor on the Fourth of July, and after a leisurely morning at the bacon trough, Rich and I stepped off of the boat and starting walking into town, excursion coupons in hand.

To our happy surprise, Skagway is still a genuine small town, full of small town pride and personality. It hasn't lost that quality, even though they cater to thousands of (surprisingly international) cruisers each day.

The town was bustling that day, and the streets were adorned with everything red, white, and blue. As we slowly waddled into town, Rich and I saw that there was a parade happening. This is not unusual for a small town on the Fourth of July (or on pumpkin harvesting day, or homecoming, etc.), but what was unusual was the number of bystanders waiting to get a glimpse of Bev and her can cans, the local fire department who were riding atop the decorated engine squirting water at the crowd, and the local kids who ran behind the truck squirting back with their Super Soakers. People cheered for the chamber of commerce float and for the glittery confetti that seemed to follow it. The obligatory classic cars decorated with beauty queens practiced in the art of waving meandered down the parade route, and locals in all sorts of costumes - from clown wigs to mounty garb, from red lipped brothel women to dachshunds wearing hot dog costumes - marched by surrounded by balloons and crepe paper, and all threw candy and kisses to the enthusiastic crowd.

Seriously, this was a sight that originated in some Leave it to Beaver montage or maybe from The Little Rascals. If I weren't busy clapping for confetti, streamers, and the jolly ranchers that were beaming people next to me (who, by the way, I only remember as large smiles, mostly Q-tip ones*), I might have imagined that I was caught in some sort of prosaic acid trip. But who can be cynical when dogs wearing top hats are parading by you?

After the parade, the town erected food stands (hot dogs, BBQ, and Crackerjacks all accounted for) and game booths up and down Main Street. We witnessed the potato sack races, three-legged races, and egg toss. Shop keepers ran out of their shops to participate, and no one minded - not even the international tourists - because the day was filled with that much glee.

After buying a Skagway volunteer Fire Department t-shirt (all proceeds going to support them) and a hot dog from the Bank of America booth (all proceeds supporting underprivileged children), Rich and I decided to go in search of the local brewery (all proceeds supporting the... uh.. local brewery). And after sampling all of the Alaskan brews (and receiving my free baseball hat for doing so), we decided to go in search of fudge and our free "genuine fake Alaskan bear claw".

Just as I was thinking that perhaps I shouldn't have eaten the extremely creamy and wonderful handmade Alaskan fudge after the beer samples, hot dogs, Crackerjacks, and bacon trough, and as Rich was still inquiring about the "genuine fake Alaskan bear claw", I heard - very faintly and surreally - these two words in the distance:

"Ms. Haag?"

My heart stopped.
Surely not. No really. Seriously? Here? Don't look up.

And then came,
"Ms Haag!!! It is you! I can't believe it! What are you doing here?"

I looked up, and sort of tried to smile, though anyone who knows me knows that when I try to fake an emotion, it looks really scary. Some might even use the word "psychotic" here, as my eyes sort of bulge out of my head and my eyebrows lift into some sort of creepy clown mask that leaves a very unflattering impression.

That look coupled with my gaping jaw must have made her fling herself at me - so that she wouldn't have to look at me anymore - for a hug. It was happening. I had traveled thousands of miles away, secure in my anonymity on a ship of thousands of people!

As a teacher, going anywhere public means that you will inevitably run into a student who doesn't understand that you are a real person outside of the schoolhouse. It means that in any given moment, you have to put on your school manners and stop saying, "fuck" every two seconds.

It means that you probably should not be wearing your newly acquired Skagway Alakan Brewery baseball cap, chocolate fudge smeared all over your mouth.

It means that under normal circumstances, you have carefully mapped out the local eating establishments and understand that if you go to that one, you might run into so and so, since she's worked there for three months - and you know this because you've read her reflective paper on how much she hates her job and that the boy she loves made it with her in the restroom there while on a break.

You know that if you travel across town to that establishment, there is less chance of being recognized, but that if you are, you have the following questions available on notecards for dialogue prompting: "So, how have you been this summer? Now, what college/trade school/ job will you being attending? How are your folks, brother/dog/ boyfriend/children?".

So, out of context, I am lost. I was completely unprepared when I saw this student in Skagway. I hugged her back, and awkwardly tried to chit chat with her in one of those conversations that you know is floundering with such verbal clumsiness that you and all of the animals within a mile radius are on edge, alert and awaiting some sort of predator warning. I excused myself from the conversation under the guise of caring about a "genuine fake Alaskan bear claw", and walked away a deer in headlights.

The rest of the day I looked for her. Just in case. I promised myself I would do better next time if I ran into her again because I didn't want her to feel like my blundering was a result of something she did, especially since my students and I have such a bond in the classroom. And I remember her fondly.

Unfortunately? Fortunately? I didn't see her again that day, and she wasn't on my ship. I spent a lot of time feeling bad about the awkwardness of our encounter, but at the same time, what the hell?!

Seriously.

* A Q-tip, in this case, is a person of a certain age, usually whose hair has turned white and who wears white orthopedic shoes. Q-tips are known to travel together to Alaska, especially on cruise ships.

On Church

I'm not sure I'm in the right time space at the moment to share this experience with you. I don't want it to sound too melodramatic or churchy so I am writing in the morning when I am at my most logical. It's just too oppressively hot to write in the afternoon for me, and my entries end up developing a major crankitude as a result. Nighttime generally gives way to sentimentality and clouded judgement for me (esp after a glass or two of Woodbridge), and this topic needs to be genuine in content. So, morning it is.

Notes on Traveling
Lesson # 3: Do Something Non touristy
You can find Lesson #1 here and Lesson #2 here.

It seems like forever ago that I decided to ask my school if I could go to England for the International Baccalaureate conference, but I'm pretty sure it was during the fall, close to winter break. The second I saw the Oxford conference on the IB website, I remember having one of those feelings - like I knew it was supposed to happen. But in the reality of the day, the idea of the school actually sending me all the way to England for training, especially since there were other conferences closer to home, was ridiculous. I actually had to get up the the courage to ask my IB coordinator if it was even a possibility, which means that I dreamed about it, had millions of conversations with Christine about it, and changed my mind a billion times. I remember asking on a day when I felt a little bit untouchable for some reason which means I had either had a really good day (rare last year) or an "I really don't give a shit" kind of day (more probable). I needed an adventure, after all, and I had been trying to get out of town for some sort of Jack Kerouac experience (with fewer drugs and less anonymous sex).

This is all a really long introduction to say that, to my astonishment, the IB gods smiled on me that day, and the verdict was yes. Go to Oxford, Ginger! My response was, "Really?!" followed by an internal, "Oh hell no! What did I just sign-up for? I can't fly by myself! I'll have to actually talk to people, and maneuver my way around England!? The Underground ticket people are scary, and what am I going to eat? I've only been to England 8 or 9 times! I'll have to make friends! How in the hell am I going to do this? Shit!" followed by, "This is exactly what you need. Get a grip. It's England. You love England. You are an empowered woman - read your 'cunt-lovin' womanifesto! Plus, you're not a complete stranger. You know people there.."

That's when I decided to write to Mark and let him know that I might be in his town, hoping that he would have dinner one night with me so that I would at least see a familiar face. He immediately offered me hospitality and invited me to stay a few days before/or after my conference.*

To make a long story short(er), I took him up on the offer and spent a few days in London (Southgate - sort of the burbs of London, in a very different burbs kind of way) before I headed to Oxford for my conference.

During this time, I was privileged enough to see the goings on in Southgate and to meet several of Mark's brilliant friends! They were all so receiving and kind! I felt immediately at home with them, a sure sign of good-hearted folks.

On my last day in Southgate, Mark and I opted to go to church, possibly an odd thing to do when one is in London for a short time. and definitely a non-touristy thing to do since it wasn't a service at Westminster or something like that. Mark apparently adores the Quaker church in Southgate called Winchmore Hill. I was curious about it, thanks to his description. I had never been to a Quaker church before and for some reason I was really drawn to the idea. I honestly had no idea what to expect, other than what I had read on Mark's blog and what he mentioned to me in some of our wonderfully eclectic (frantically ADD) conversations.

So we went.

The service was different than any I had ever attended (and I have attended several denominations of Christian churches here (Baptist, Methodist, Church of Christ, Lutheran, Catholic etc.) and have even been to a Mosque for prayer time and to a Krishna church) in that it was a service of meditation. You sit in meditation for 30 to 45 minutes and if you feel led to speak, you simply stand and say what you are moved to say, the idea being that the participants are unified in the spirit, and each person's words further your experience. There is no structure or sermon. There is no music. It is all about contemplation and "silent waiting."

Anyone who knows me knows that within my anxiety ridden bones, "silent waiting" would sound almost tortuous for me. I am, after all, a tad OCD and ADD and I have to get things done according to my list. But that day (the whole day, even before the service) I had been still. I was completely calm and could breathe mindfully.

And we waited, silently, in that wood paneled room.

The first thing I thought was, "OK. Here you have me. I'm still. Oh shit. You have me, still." And I was confronted about my angry bitterness and my overwhelming need to not rely on anyone or anything, especially something as abstract as God, or a husband, or friends. And I did some confronting about Dot Wonderful, too. Especially about my Dot. And as I was beginning to shake within all of these confrontations, someone stood up to speak.

She mentioned the laughter of children who were playing outside near the church and the beauty in the simplicity of that.

(tears - and I felt embarrassed to have them in front of my friend, Mark, and the strangers in the room)

And then someone else stood up and read from a Quaker book of advices and queries. She read #21: Do you cherish your friendships, so that they grow in depth and understanding and mutual respect? In close relationships we may risk pain as well as finding joy. When experiencing great happiness or great hurt we may be more open to the working of the Spirit.

(more tears - and I reached out my pinkie finger to Mark for him to hold with his pinkie finger - like Amy and I used to do when we were kids at First Baptist El Paso, and like I continued to do with Lisa and Jen during any time when we needed each other, and like I do with Rich when I want to remember that friendship first connection with him)

And there was catharsis in that moment. And I felt warm, like I was standing in sunlight on an almost cold day. I felt that for the rest of the day - when I was having tea with the congregation, avoiding pictures on the Winchmore Hill grounds, having lunch at the art gallery.. Even when I had to say a quick good-bye at the train station and was sad to go so soon.

And I carried that warmth with me to Oxford, where I had one of the best camp-like experiences of my life and met more dear, dear people.

Because of the cathartic peace and stillness of that particular morning, some of my anxiety was calmed and my mind released its tensions for the rest of my time in England.

*I have to express my gratitude to Mark for allowing me to stay at his place in London. Not only was it helpful to me in that it made my first lone excursion across the pond familial and less overwhelming, but it also made London "real" to me, as opposed to it being the dream-like, Shakespearean wonderland that is portrayed when one stays only in touristy parts of town. Plus, Mark is way fun! So, thank you Mark and Ilham for allowing me, without any hint of my being an inconvenience, to be "one more thing" on your overbooked agendas. Thank you for your generosity and complete kindness. Oh - and for showing me around your neck of the woods. Hi to the glorious green peas and kind people at Mr. Bagels!

Glacier View. Bike and Brew. How'd you do?

I'm still not sure if my brain is ready to tell this story, but I think I'll HAVE to give it a try seeing as a very dear friend of mine recently informed me that I am his #2 favorite blogger. #1 updates more than me, so BAM. I lose. Sucks to my assmar. Just. like. that. So if this is long winded and heinous, send your hate mail to Buffalo.. (grin)

Notes on Traveling

Lesson #2 - Rain Gear Is NOT Embarrassing!

(a review of lesson#1 can be found here)

So before I left for England, the first of my summer tour trifecta, it was raining beaucoups* here in the Metroplex. It was STILL raining when I returned home 10 days later. It was raining so much that they posted those (seemingly obvious) highway signs that read "Turn around. Don't drown!" for those morons who 'take the chance' in their itsy bitsy Ford Pintos and Chevy Vegas and cross the white water rapids that happen to be newly raging (inconveniently) through an intersection, blocking the most DIRECT route to their IHOPian destinations.**

Anyway.

It was raining.

I knew Alaska would be cold and wet, too, so in between trips I went looking for rain gear. Even in the middle of a metroplex monsoon, rain gear is surprisingly hard to find, so my mom was generous enough to buy a raincoat for me in Lubbock(!)and brought it to me in Alaska. My amazing Aunt Gagi also brought rain ponchos for all of us, so you'd think I'd be covered.. Right? Literally. Covered - by a rain poncho, a rain coat, and a stylish brolly that I bought at Covent Garden in England where it also rained every day.

Too bad I forgot to bring any of this rain gear on my bike and brew experience in Juneau, Alaska..

The brochure for this excursion said that participants would take a "leisurely and scenic" bicycle tour to a gorgeous glacier where we would stop for a little ho cho (hot chocolate) and a picture op, and then head on to the brew part - a tour of an Alaskan brewery and free samples for everyone.

"Yes!" I thought to myself upon reading said brochure. "I've been cycling for a few months now, and am sort of in shape." AND "I like beer! Odd combo, but good for pictures.. OK, let's give it a go!"

We signed up.

First of all, the word "leisurely" means something VERY different in the lower 48. Apparently leisurely in Alaska means up-hill, across major intersections, at a fast pace, in the rain. I did not understand this initially. Oh and I can't forget to mention the bears. "There may be bears near and around you at all times. If you see one, ride faster than the guy next to you, and you'll be fine." (a small panic.)

But I digress (again).

While we were being fitted for helmets and bikes (-my assigned bike was different from the others and required special breaking instructions... holy shit..) the tour leaders offered us some rain gear. I thought, "Nah. It's not really raining. It's just a little drizzle. I'm not afraid of a little rain. Plus look at how silly Rich (who had opted yes for rain gear) looks in his "high water, a size too small" rain pants that don't completely cover his jeans.


There are attractive men around.


I'm not going to wear THOSE in front of them. I'm fine. Well, OK, I'll take the rain jacket, but I REFUSE to wear those goofy looking pants."

Having that particular thought process was a mistake that immediately came back to kick my ass. Literally.

Here's the picture proof:

My "special" bike with the "special" breaks did NOT have a "special" splash guard like the others, and as one may or may not understand (because she grew up in the desert), when it rains puddles form. If one rides a bicycle through said puddles without a splash guard on her bike, the mud and water spin onto one's back and back side - which is precisely what happened to me!

We had not even stopped for the ho cho OR brew part of the trip and already my ass was completely wet; my jeans were stuck to my knees because when jeans get wet, that's what they do, which, it turns out, makes pedaling very difficult. On top of that, I was way out of breath and was actually making excuses about not being used to the high Alaskan altitude - though I've since learned being at high altitude has nothing to do with being north on a map. Alaska happens to be right at sea level..


Also, there were times when we were riding up-hill, rain whipped and cold, that I should've walked my bike since I was riding so slowly that my bike almost turned over for lack of propulsion. I could audibly hear the freaking bears snicker and snear, "Too easy.. That's just too damn easy. Plus, get a load of her pants.."

(sigh)

The good news is that I was in high spirits (yes, before the brew) and was able to make jokes about wanting to find some sweet jumps.

The attractive men took it upon themselves to mention how wet my pants were. Perhaps it was because I kept shrieking like a teenage girl, "Hey! I can't believe how wet my pants are! Look at this! Ohmahgod! It's probably the altitude!" over and over.

I don't want to sound like it was a ruined excursion. In fact, it might have been my favorite one! And, after the brew, I really didn't care about my pants at all or about the fact that with every step, my panties wrung a tiny stream of water down my legs. I took out (literally in the form of a body check) any and all frustration on one of the attractive men hecklers at the end of our frantic hike back to the ship, which is a different story for a different post.

The moral is don't be embarrassed about rain gear. Wearing it could prevent high levels of embarrassment, though I'm sure I would've found a different path to total self-mortification on this excursion.

* So, here in Texas we say "boo coos", but I just realized that what we are really saying is beaucoups - as in the French merci beaucoups (thank you very much). We totally bastardized that one.

** "Wow, rants are easy to come by," said the girl who is now drooling for pancakes

all of this AND they want my face on a marquee in Times Square!

I'm home from The Big Apple! They begged me to stay on Broadway since I'm (what they call) a natural; they applauded my sweet dance moves and natural, God given singing abilities. Ok, Ok.. so only a couple of people were enthusiastic. But they have connections, if you know what I'm sayin'.

Um. Right. So the rave reviews came from a homeless man who was already clapping to himself before I walked past and a guy from Brooklyn who said, "fogedda bout it."

And the guy from Brooklyn was actually responding to a question I had about a ferry ride and not my performing talents.. which I guess is a good thing.

Whatever.

I can say that made an impression there.

I'm home, safe and happy, but they'll have to calf-rope me to keep me here for long. :)

(pictures to follow)

Briefly..

Alaska is amazing.

That's really all I need to share.

I don't think that I can verbally express to you the beauty that is inherent in Alaska, the spirituality that accompanies the nature, and the miracles - the designs of water, ice, earth, and air that illustrate godly art (inspired moments !) sometimes configured in different orders , but crafted and purposeful.

And cruising is so much fun! It was nice to have a "home base" for all of the excursions. I even got to unpack. Also, there are always a million things to do on the ship: There were art auctions, wine tasting, karaoke, tango lessons, towel art class, a spa, and MORE! Rich and I didn't take part in many of the extras - we found other things to do.. BUT cruising is a lot of fun! See these pictures for the proof (of the ship activities and excursions):










(Click here for more Alaska pics OR visit the Flickr badge).

I LOVED getting to have this vacation! I am a very lucky girl! (Thank you, Mom!!!)

Home Again Home Again Jiggedy Jig

Now I am home from trip #2,
Alaskan cruise and bike 'n brew!

:)

Pictures and posts are coming soon, time permitting..

Dressing Dilemmas

Right. So, I know that I look younger than I am. This is partly because I try to keep myself young by playing and laughing as much as possible. Also, it's because I probably dress "younger" than my age.

This, I promise you, is not my fault.. Entirely. Do you know how hard it is to find appropriately aged clothes for a young 30 Something? Especially when the teens are stuffing their bras and wearing the styles meant for the 30 Somethings, smearing the clothing’s grown-up reputation and rendering it unavailable to the original target demographic? OK, so I too do some padding to be able to "fit” into some of The Man's idea of the "perfect shape" outfit - a dress made of 3 short pieces of dental floss for the "average" 34-24- 32.

Fucking media!

So, all of us normal shaped 30 Somethings are left with rock star t-shirts, bikini fit v. apple vest denim, geriatric fit.

I choose to go a different route and aim for the boho chic look. It's comfortable, loose in a stylish way, and can be worn, eccentrically sometimes depending on the bead strand, to many events. Hell, it can even be sexy when worn right, especially when paired with secret sexy underwear.

Unfortunately, though, it does make one look younger than she is.

So, I'm wearing my Bohemian pants - loose, but stylish - and a t-shirt for my trip across the pond. I realize that I will not be attending any professional workshops or picking up any men on the flight, so who cares anyway? I met my goal of being able to survive an overseas flight comfortably. Period.

It turns out that dress DOES matter. Here's what happened that fateful day:

Notes on Traveling
Lesson 1: Dress

It occurred to me that being dressed in Bohemian garb is perhaps the wrong thing to do on an airplane.

First of all, I'm sitting at the bar at "The Mexican Cantina" where one can order food that is neither Mexican nor Texican as far as I can tell.

(What the hell is gourmet Mexican food? How can you "dress up" beans, tortillas, and cheese? Oh right. Put a Mexican Flag on a toothpick and insert it into the beans. Got it. )

Whatever. I'm there for the "Cantina" part.

An astonishing ID check (thanks Bohemia!) and glass of the cheapest CabSav later, and I have made friends with both the bartender and the nice gentleman next to me and am feeling pretty good about myself and the forthcoming adventure. About that time, I decide to return a phone call from my moma, a former travel agent, who thinks I have a shot at upgrading my seat on what is to be an extremely FULL flight. She knows her stuff when it comes to travel, so I thought I ought to at least try talking to the counter person about "generously" relinquishing my seat in coach and paying for a (possibly cheap, according to Mom) last minute upgrade.

I amble confidently to the counter, where two staff members are talking business and wildly gesturing to each other. I stand there patiently. Waiting. Not going to interrupt. My question is not really important, after all.

It's a mused query, really.

Still waiting.

Still confident in having made new Cantina friends and remembering that I’m wearing my secret sexy underwear.

One of them glances at me and returns to her "very important" conversation.

A woman with a Prada bag steps beside me and both women immediately turn to cater to her question, which was something to do with her HUGE Jackie-O name brand sunglasses fitting in the carry on bin or would she need to purchase another seat?

Whatever.

Still waiting.

Finally, out of pity I think, one of the women turns to me and says, "May I HELP you?"

I smile politely (breathing in the "patience is an egg that hatches great birds" mantra) and ask my question about upgrading my seat. Here is how that conversation went:

Person on Staff: May I HELP you?

Me: Hi. I hear that this is a very crowded flight and was wondering how much an upgrade would be.

PoS: (sizing up my Bohemian pants and help humanity t-shirt and then shaking her head) No.

Me: Um. (Last I remember, "no" is not a price) So are there any? Is business class full?

PoS: Business class is not full.

Me: Great! How much is an upgrade?

PoS: (amused grin) Thousands of miles. Thousands and thousands.

Me: (confused, not remembering the whole American Airlines Advantage miles program and feeling like I'm actually speaking a different language) Excuse me?

PoS: (walking away and annoyed) Thousand of dollars!

And that's it. She was gone. I was left standing there bewildered in my Bohemian pants and sexy underwear, confidence shaken, wondering what had just happened, and wishing for a reenactment of that scene in "Pretty Woman" where I got to flaunt my "worth" in her face, saying, "Huge mistake. Huge!" But that's not real. And really, I didn't have thousands of dollars or miles to spend on anything. She was right.

[And scene]

Look. I understand that sometimes there are dress code rules. I understand that in a capitalistic society, the affluent are catered to. See Paris Hilton, OJ, or the MANY other celebrities who get special treatment legally and otherwise. I get that. I get that it’s wrong. But I do get it.

BUT there is no reason for anyone to treat anyone else with that level of disdain and inconsideration. And I represent the majority of Americans socio-economically. I am genuinely very lucky! I get to live out my travel dreams and choose what I want to wear on my adventures. Hell, I get to eat whenever I want! Lucky, lucky girl!

This will serve as a reminder to me to treat ALL people with loving kindness, including judgmental PoSes behind counters.

I got over it really quickly, as I met the loveliest person on my flight who had the most interesting things to say, and who helped me find the right train in the madness that is a London train station.

Pics!

Here are some of my favorite UK '07 pics:

Click on the links above the pictures for the rest which are (sort of) organized by sets according to what city/town I was in at the time:

London/Southgate

Oxford

Punting

Bath

Lost in London

Feel free to peruse, comment on, and/or ignore any and all of the photos!! :)

London Blogging

So, I'm in London, and you may be asking yourself, "What the hell is going on? Ginger is blogging. She's in London. And she's blogging? Not touring or pubbing or floating down the Thames to the Globe Theatre? but BLOGGING????(!)"

And the answer is Yes. I am blogging. But in my defense I am freaking TIRED! In short (the reduced Shakespeare version, only not nearly as funny nor tragic... mostly just reduced) I was here in London a week ago and met Mark's fabulous Green Pea friends who have taken such good care of me. I got to hang out with Brother Corduroy and his girlfriend, Ilham, and her two brilliant, gorgeous, fantastic, creative, wonderful (can you tell I like them?) daughters.

After three days of meeting and greeting followed by my first (intense) Quaker church experience and a (breathtaking) Sacred exhibit, I went off to Oxford for 4 fab days of conferencing with the IB program. And what could be better than hanging out with fellow (and international) literature geeks in one of the most literary places on the planet? It was like having 30 soul mates in one place, and we all became quick friends. We spent time together, discussing poetry, prose, and drama. We sat in the pub where J.R.R. Tolkien and C.S. Lewis shared manuscripts and ideas, and we discussed the value of language and what globalization is doing to cultural identity which is very much language based.

We went punting together (complete with strawberries, champagne, tuxedos, and an attack swan), and had very English garden parties where we wandered around, gesticulating with glasses of Cabernet Shiraz, agreeing "thusly" and "verily." One time we found ourselves at an Oxford theater (formerly Oxford Castle), where we sat outside under tartan blankets and watched a modern version of Hamlet backed by such bands as The Killers, Garbage, My Chemical Romance, etc. After that was a night of super intense pub crawlery, including a stop at the pub where Clinton, "did not inhale."

I can't wait to show you the pics!!

After Oxford, I spontaneously went to Bath with my new friend, Ginelle, who is originally from Canada, but who teaches in Bahrain. We spent time hanging out in the squares of Bath where I read tons of Mary Oliver and fell madly in love with nature, and where I pretended to be claustrophobic like Jane Austen who longed for open fields of flowers, even though she didn't recognize the fact that she was living in one of the most astoundingly beautiful places on the planet... I know that makes no sense, but when you read Mary Oliver or Jane Austen you'll know what I mean.

So, I'm back in London where the Green Peas welcomed me back yesterday with open arms, bagels, and cafe lattes. Seriously, I want to move all of you here so that we can all sit at Mr. Bagels, drink coffee, and gab about the mad goings on around town.

I had a lovely dinner with another friend, Nicoletta, last night in an area of London called "Noho" which is the north version of "Soho". We had girlie strawberry drinks, entertained the idea of stilettos, and ate at a very French (3 course) restaurant. We shared with each other some of the secrets of our hearts and traded wisdom that can only be shared with people you may or may not see for another year. We ended the evening with amaretto hugs.

I got sort of lost in London today and wandered around (apple in hand), accidentally stumbling into Parliament Square (just as Big Ben struck 2:00) and ambled along the Thames to Blackfriars until I got tired, partly from walking, partly from stop and go cider tasting. Now I'm back at Mark's where I sit contently blogging and watching the gorgeous British rain clouds float heavily by his window, over his budding veg garden.

And that's just how it is.

Safe and Happy Check

Quickly quickly,
I just have a spare second before I hop on a train to Bath with a new pal. I've been in Oxford for four days (punting and pubbing all around) and will head back to London after this spontaneous Bath excursion. I've had a blast so far, and will need some serious convincing to not move here permanently. (Going to Alaska is a good motivator..)
Anyway,
HI FROM THE UK!!
I miss you!!

London Calling.. and then Alaska... and then NYC

Tomorrow I'm off on an adventure (Viaggio!!) and may be gone from the comfortable space of this blog for a little while.

Here's the sitch:
I'm flying to London tomorrow where I'll be attending a 4 day workshop in Oxford for the new International Baccalaureate (IB) class I'm teaching at school. I've (sort of accidentally) sandwiched said workshop between 6 days of what I'm calling "reflection time" in London. (Thanks to Mark and his housemates for letting me crash the barbecue for a few days!!) And for the first time since college, I won't have a Rich to lean on or an agenda. That's the adventure part to me. I am going to force myself to throw away all (or most) lists and BE. Hopefully I'll run into some interesting happenings and will come back with loads of stories and new friends. (And I'll try not to get arrested, Mom! No promises, though.);)

Two days after I return from that adventure, I'm off to Alaska with my family!! I get to go to Vancouver where I'll embark on a 7 day cruise for more adventures. We'll do day excursions in all of the towns along the way, but the one I'm looking forward to the most is the "Bike and Brew." Yep. They're going to give us bikes and beer and see if we can NOT launch ourselves off of a mountain.(I'm imagining ET for some reason..) OK, so it isn't THAT ridiculous. But that's how it plays in my head. Mostly, I can't wait to spend time with my crazy family and friends, since we always manage to make the most of our insanity and have a great time!

Two days after that, I head to New York with Fougs for another 3 or 4 day IB conference at the UN school! Anywhere I go with Fougs is a BLAST. Plus, I'll be having some serious withdrawal angst from not having seen her in so long. I may be dead tired from the other adventures, but it won't matter since hanging with the Fougs is SURE to ROCK! Hopefully I'll also get to see Annie and John and the family (+ 1 by then!!).

Wish me luck (especially on the London part since I'm the most nervous about it, and also since I'm terrified of flying in general and this will make 6 flights in 30 days!).

I'll try to check in if I can find internet access.

Until then friends, be well!

Viaggio!!