I love SF...

Hah! I think I lived here in a previous life.

Anyway, I do feel comfortable here but it's just a quick in and out trip this time but always time to visit my favorite little shops in Japantown. I feel like I single-handedly need to keep the economy here alive.

Now, I'm off to Seattle. Of course, Seattle is terrific but since I don't go to San Francisco as often, there's more of a sense of discovering old memories. Seattle doesn't really rain quite as much as lore will have it. When the sky is blue, it's beautiful here. Otherwise, it's just gray.

The Seattle Art Museum is very nice. I was able to catch the Impressionism show just before it closed. Very thoughtful presentation. The rest of SAM definitely had a Northwest flavor with a typical Seattle chauvinism towards its own.

I'm enjoying spending time with my father while my mother visits her sister and brother in the Midwest. (Note to Alisa: When John, Darlene and Nolan stopped by, I made rice and beans, plantains, and locro de papa -- Ecuadorian potato soup which we all enjoyed.)

I caught a couple of sets of my cousin Russ' gig in one of his rock bands. Yes, we're all a lot older but rock and roll keeps us young.

Partially Rainy Wet

Passages

Earlier in this blog, I opined on honoring the dead -- those who blazed the trails ahead of us. It was a bit too theoretical. These past two weeks have made me dig a little deeper.

In less than two weeks a 46-year-old neighbor Hillary and a 49-year-old former colleague/dear friend Kerry have died. Hillary succumbed to her battle with cancer; Kerry's life was cut short by an aneurysm. My ancestors had lived long, full lives. While I was sad when my forebearers moved to a different path, I can honor their lives, the differences they made, the battles they fought to make my life easier, etc.

Hillary and Kerry lived life fully but not nearly long enough. As I look into the faces of their brave mothers carrying on, I see glimpses of the future that is no longer there. How strong these mothers are who live with the unbearable grief of losing a child. I see in their countenances and carriages Hillary and Kerry as they coulda, woulda, shoulda have been. I think about the times that we should have shared growing old together. I should have been comforting my friends as their parents made their passages. Instead, I embrace their parents.

Kerry and I got together regularly for lunch or drinks. We easily flowed between gossiping about former colleagues and solving global issues; fashion tips and career moves; being silly, profane, irreverent and serious, thoughtful and profound. Not long ago, Kerry decided that we should block time on our calendars several months ahead for our get togethers. As I sit here trying to make sense of all of this, I stare at her name on my calendar for October 2nd and November 12th. I can't bring myself to delete these appointments. It's just not that easy -- hit the delete key and poof, she's gone.

Don't put off to tomorrow what you can do today. There are so many of these cliches and it's no wonder. This isn't a new lesson, just different teachers and learning moments.

Passionate Rebellious Wistful

A stitch in time

This battle-scarred, peaceful road warrior is now back home and has hung up her backpack for now. If you are new to this blog, you don't have to start at the beginning to get my drift but be sure to at least click on this link "On the road to Tunja -- possibly more than you want to know" before reading the following ones.

No matter how sweet the journey it's always nice to be back home. We had great food while we were away but I always miss being able to pick out my ingredients, herbs and spices and connoct something a little different each time.

I was able to get an appointment with my doctor to pull out my stitches. What a hassle! Once I said that I needed sutures removed, that started an interrogation. Then I felt like I was a game show contestant. Ooops, I said the secret word -- accident. The medical practice doesn't take accident cases. But, I convinced the assistant that I was not going to be involved in a law suit and answered the rest of the questions correctly. The grand prize was an appointment.

My doctor whom I really like wasn't at all happy once she saw what needed to be done. The sutures that the Colombian doctor stitched in were black so it was hard to distinguish from my hair. My doctor said that she would have used a contrasting color. Also, the sutures were thick and coarse not like the thin, flexible ones that she uses. Anyway, they were removed and the wound had healed well.

I discovered that my neighborhood grocery store sells all the makings for a delicious Colombian meal -- I found masarepa flour for making arepas (it's precooked corn flour, different from regular corn flour or corn meal. I got aji picante, guava paste, guanabana, maracuya, plantanos, etc.

So, I am able to stretch my vacation out just a little longer with the wonderful tastes of South America and by getting vicarious pleasures from reading Alisa and Nate's posts on their blogs.

Home Again, Home Again...

We wake up early (4:30 am) on Sunday. Alisa needs to make sure that I really leave so she accompanies me to the airport.

As instructed, we arrive at the Bogota airport three hours ahead of my flight. Flying is a hassle post-9/11. Although I carry on my bags, there are still long lines to get the required tax-exempt form, have my bags weighed, go through the security questions and get my ticket.

I am told to be at the gate two hours ahead of the flight. So, it's time to say good-bye to Alisa (sob, sob). With all her comings and goings, one would think I could do this easily.

I go through another security check. This time the agent asks to see my nail clippers which are in my sewing kit. She then tells me that I can't bring safety pins or needles on board and confiscates mine. I don't point out that my keys and Pentel pencils are probably more lethal.

Only at the last checkpoint before entering the plane did they mention my full water bottle. At none of the checkpoints did they care about my 3-1-1 (3-oz bottles in 1 one-quart plastic bag). The agent tells me I have to drink up all the water. I laugh and say "no es posible" so he waves me through.

During the flight, I watch the movie Kung Fu Panda in Spanish. This ties together all of the themes of the bad movies I saw while traveling martial arts and obesity (Jet Li, Jackie Chan, Daniel Craig and Eddie Murphy). Well, before I know it, six hours have passed and I'm in NYC.

So now, everyone wants to know the highlights; just boil down the two weeks in Panama and Colombia. Here are my Top 10 good memories:

10. Discovering that La Macarena in Bogota is a wonderful bustling alley with comidas tipicas and not a cheezy dance hall.

9. Arepas -- grilled corn flour cake often stuffed with cheese or other delectables

8. Kuna women's amazing beadwork worn on their legs and arms

7. Bucaramanga and Tunja, two small cities in Colombia; just saying Bucaramanga makes me smile.

6. San Blas islands and the delicious food on Der Stahlratte

5. The sweet generous men sitting at the crossroads along the road to Magangue

4. Cartagena

3. Aji, a picante sauce

2. Getting a room at a hostel with a hot shower

1. Traveling with Alisa and watching her move effortlessly between generations, cultures and languages

Alas, two weeks fly by especially when one is having fun. What a wonderful adventure! Thank you, thank you, Alisa, for letting me tag along.

Tunja to Bogota

Already I'm getting sad as the days slip away and I know that soon I will have to leave for NY. But, let's stay in the moment and enjoy the present. The gift of Alisa. Our time together.

The rest of our bus ride to Tunja was uneventful. The silly Eddie Murphy movie Norbert was playing and, from the snickering by the passengers on the bus, the politically incorrect fat jokes and sophomoric flatulence humor translate well into Spanish.

We arrived in Tunja and stay at a cute hostel with much welcomed toasty woolen blankets. The higher altitude bring on much chillier temperatures and at 2800 meters I could hear myself panting for oxygen when we walked up tiny inclines. Tunja is another very nice small city with an impressive Plaza, yet another tribute to Simon Bolivar.

We find a small restaurant still open. Alisa convinces them they can put together a meal for a vegetarian even though they don't think they can. I enjoy their crispy rice. They even give me a little bag of ice to take home for the bump on my head.

My aching muscles welcome the comfy bed and I sleep well despite the noisy street traffic. In the morning after a hearty breakfast, we set out to explore Tunja. Very cute. But, I need to take it a little slowly today so we miss their famous ceiling art.

It's a short walk to the bus station and final intercity bus trip for my part of this journey. We get to watch 007 Casino Royale. It's quite violent in any language. However, we suffer no self-inflicted drama on this bus trip. It seems to take forever to reach the Bogota bus station after we enter the city limits. But, I don't dare stand up to go to the lavatory. I wait until the bus reaches the station. Alisa goes out to retrieve our bags but the bus driver is eager to pull away because he arrived late. But, Alisa bangs on the bus to let him know that I'm still on board. Whew! I am able to disembark

We stay at the annex of the Platypus Hostel. There's a nice double room with a hot water (hurray) shower and wireless Internet. It's very conveniently located. How nice! Tonight there's a birthday party with pizza to celebrate one of the travelers. The hostel provides the beer. We meet some interesting people. Definitely, this annex with its higher-priced separate rooms caters to an older crowd than the main hostel with it dormitory rooms.

The small slice of pizza wasn't enough for my dinner so we run out and grab some arepas which are more than filling. We're clearly in a happening neighborhood on a Friday night. A nearby bar is hopping with loud music. From our room it sounds like we are in the middle of the dance floor. I will join Alisa in sleeping with ear plugs tonight.

The ice packs have really brought the swelling of the bump on my head down considerably. On Saturday morning,we finish off the arepas from last night's dinner and head out to explore Bogota. It's very walkable although we are warned against flashing cameras on certain roads. But, it's beautiful. Again, I'm audibly panting as we climb some hills for magnificent vistas of the city.

The main Museum of Gold is closed for renovation but there's a very nice temporary exhibit. The gold pieces are nice but I find myself attracted to the ceramic pieces. It is nice that they display nongold objects along side.

We find ourselves tantalizingly close the Monserrate and debate back and forth about climbing versus taking the cable car. We decide to ride up and walk down. The views are spectacular. The walk down the rocky path is difficult for me. My Bass sneakers are great for walking around the City but provide no grip for the smooth, slippery rocks and don't have enough cushion for my tender feet against the sharp, jagged rocks. I feel like the pampered princess and the pea every time I step on a little rock as I wince in pain. Alisa bears with me as I wheeze my way down the steep but beautiful path. The StairMaster at the gym doesn't have a setting for this kind of training.

But, I make it down as older people than I trot past me. Alisa miraculously guides us to the road taking us back to our hostel. Along the way we sample some delicious roasted corn. I treat my abused feet to a soothing massage. We explore the market across from the hostel and find some souvenirs. Shopping is hard work so we head back to the hostel for a little relaxation.

Later, the thought of dinner speeds up the recovery and we again hit the pavement. We walk and walk looking for the right place. Alisa is very persistent. I would have been fine with pizza. I'm so glad we searched further. A nice man at a pizzeria pointed us in the right direction to La Macarena, a little treasure trove with lots of restaurants serving typical Colombian dinners.

Alisa and I share one dinner. She takes the very hearty hominy soup and I have the vegetarian plate with rice, beans, squash and salad. We both leave very contented.

We're told that I should be at the airport three hours before my 9 am flight so we arrange for a taxi at 5:30. We've caught on that showers are only hot in the afternoon not in the morning (we speculate that they might use solar power to heat the water). I decide that I won't be able to endure a cold shower in the cold wee hours of the morning and enjoy a very hot shower in the evening.

Sweet dreams are mixed with sad emotions knowing that I need to leave Alisa in the morning.

On the road to Tunja -- possibly more than you want to know

What! Not enough gory details in this little travelogue for you so far?!! OK, then here it comes...

But, first, let's talk about the lovely Bucaramanga. We wake up on Thursday in this nice little, bustling Colombian city on the road to Bogota. Low-key but active and certainly not intrusive. Just right for these city slickers craving for some quaintness but with a little civilized diversions on the side.

We find a nice restaurant for breakfast on a side street. I think at this point after yesterday's long journey, cardboard would have tasted good. But, the eggs and arepas are really delicious! We walk around and discover a very interesting town with very good vibes. Alas, we decide that we have another long bus ride ahead so we don't linger here long. We could hop in a taxi to the bus terminal for four dollars but we spend a little extra time to rub elbows with the locals and find our way to a collectivo and hop on the bus to Tunja.

And, thus benignly begins the bloody tale. It's a nice bus. The scenery is beautiful. The movie on the bus monitor is Jackie Chan and Chris Tucker -- there's a lot of evil to be fought in the US; how fortunate that we have all these kung fu masters saving our skins. It's a long drive. After several days of this, we're getting used to the bus swerving along the two-lane road passing slower vehicles even around blind curves. The solid yellow line has no meaning here. There've been a few close calls but we're at the point now where we're not sucking air every time we pass a long row of big trucks.

Just after I stand up the bus swerves and then (something new) the driver slams on the brakes. I lose my handhold and go flying to the front of the bus. Not very graceful but I'm fine. Suddenly Alisa is screaming that we need to get to a hospital. Oh, dear! Did the bus hit someone? I quickly get up. There's nothing wrong with me although I did crunch the back of my shoulder a little. Oh, no! Alisa has bloody tissues in her hands. Is she hurt? She hadn't gone flying through the air. But, I'm no dummy. It doesn't take me that long to connect the dots. That's my blood coming out the back of my head. The bus has now pulled over the side of the road. My head doesn't hurt; I didn't lose consciousness. But, all that blood. All I could think is how I'm so glad it was me not Alisa because I would have been a basket case if it had been she gushing blood like a geyser. But, she's fierce; she doesn't lose her nerve and competently attends to my care.

Meanwhile, I try to focus my thoughts on relaxing, breathing, closing the gash. There's a doctor on board. The blood flow is stemmed; antiseptic is applied and I'm bandaged up. We stop at a nearby town where there's a doctor at a clinic. Apparently, the passengers agree that the bus can wait while I get patched up.

I'm totally lucid, not feeling any pain and my Spanish is good enough to get a chuckle when someone asks Alisa if I am her sister. My poor baby! This incident has temporarily put some years on her. When the nurse puts my head on a silver platter, I motion to Alisa to get a photo of this. The staff had escorted her out to get her calmed down. But, she goes beyond the call of duty and documents the whole process (which you really don't need to see).

So, short story shorter -- I get about 10 stitches and a tetanus shot. The bus company picks up the $10 charge and we're back on our way. I feel so embarrassed to have delayed all of the passengers. But, everyone is so nice. An American on the bus and the doctor have words of advice for my care.

I double check with the travel doctor at Columbia Presbyterian Hospital. I'm so glad that he gave us his e-mail address. He countered some of the advice I had been given. We were able to pick up some ice while we were in Tunjas and Bogota so the big lump on the back of my head is much smaller.

I know if this happened in the US, I would have a big shaved, bald spot on the back of my head. Instead, the doctor patiently worked around my hair so that I could preserve some dignity. Plus, the doctor was able to suture without putting me under. She was a little chagrined as she noted that the US doctor who has to pull out the stitches will think that Colombia is such a backwards country because it doesn't use staples or dissolvable stitches. But, what a bargain at $10!

A big thank you to everyone who played a role in this drama. Especially, to Alisa who ably took charge, translated and daily checked on the status of my wound. (Hey, I know it's a gruesome task but if my baby, the neuroscience/psychology double major, can perform experiments on the brains of mice, she can surely check to make sure that my stitches aren't getting infected.) To the concerned passengers on the bus. To the doctor, nurse and staff at the little clinic on the way from Bucaramanga and Tunja. To Wiki and WebMD for providing instant access to information about concussions and the care of sutures. To Dr. Simon Tsiouris at Columbia Presbyterian for responding speedily to my e-mail queries. Muchas gracias!

No kettle at the end of this rainbow in Mompos

When traveling in dreary weather, one looks with excitement at any sign of a break in the clouds. So too when it's not just the weather but the whole ambience that's dreary. The road to Mompos was littered with crater-sized potholes. Drivers are very adept at winding their way around the biggest ones but it's all relative. We pass other vehicles coming at us on the right side of the road while we're driving on the left side.

Of course, the Lonely Planet charted out a bus route to Mompos but that's not good enough for us. These intrepid travelers ended up taking a very local bus to the Cartagena bus station (or close enough for the gringas). It seems that the bus attendant is just eager to fill up the bus and move on so it doesn't matter if the bus is not going exactly to the bus terminal. Anyway, there are always locals around who are ready to snatch our bags from us and carry them for a tip. So, we hop onto a bus which we are told would take us to Magangue so that we can get a boat. Generally, buses, etc. take twice as long as the officials say they will take. It seems that drivers kind of make up their own route and pick up other passengers along the side of the road. After traveling for not-quite-the-official-length-of-time, we're told to get off at a crossroads.

The driver points in the direction of some trucks carrying cows and says that we could get a ride the rest of the way to Magangue. Thank goodness, Alisa understands better than I as she walks past the trucks and to the shops on the other side of the road.

So, after chatting some locals, we get presumably the last seats on a collectivo to Magangue. But, of course, along the way a few people get off and a lot more people hop on. There is no sense of personal space. The two children behind me keep rubbing against me, touching my hair, my clothes, etc. Not in a playful way that kids sometimes do and it certainly wasn't malicious. It just seems that I am invisible and they and their limbs just need to move around. When we boarded, we were told that we didn't have to pay. Alisa's buddies felt badly that we had already paid the previous bus for a trip to Magangue so they've taken care of our fare. But, that doesn't stop the driver from demanding that we pay more. Oh, well, everyone gets something out of this -- the original bus people got our full fare to Magangue; the nice men can feel good about helping us out; the collectivo ended up getting gringo fares from us; we paid what the locals paid for the ride.

A little more drama in Magangue...what do these guys do when there aren't gringos around to hustle for a little change to carry bags a few feet. Unfortunately for them, we're strong women who pack lightly and can take care of our own belongings.

Alisa guide us to the boats. I only get a little worried when I noticed that they aren't overcramming passengers on and they even had out a life jacket to each person (hmmm, that reminded us that Der Stahlratte crew never pointed out any life jackets on our cruise from Panama).

After a speedy ride through a wide, lush river/marshlands, we disembark, fight off some more baggage hustlers and share a bumpy ride to Mompos.

When we arrive, we try hard to find an Emerald City at the end of a yellow-brick road or at least an unpolished gem somewhere. The hotel is cute with rocking chairs to greet us; there are noisy parrots in the lobby to add local color.

But, let's face it...it's like traveling in a covered wagon, fording vast waters, navigating miles of rugged roads and arriving in a little town in rural Arkansas. Not that there's anything wrong with Arkansas. And, this is certainly typical of something but do I really want to write home about it!??!!

Even after some food, a good night's sleep and a fresher outlook, we walk around town and still searching for the charm and justification for the long trip here and the longer trip ahead.

But, the senor at the hotel has a friend who will give a ride to El Banco so we can get a bus to Bucaramanga. Alisa bargains through the hotel man and is able to get a reduced rate. As the locals start piling in, Alisa sees that even they are paying more than we did for this wonderfully air-conditioned van. But, the people keep packing in. I guess the driver will make up the difference in our fares through volume. But, he keeps our row of seats fairly empty. We keep making stops along the way. The driver gets phone calls and suddenly we find ourselves going down an unbeaten path and picking up other passengers. Wait a minute! The driver's assistant wasn't sitting with us when we left the last stop but he keeps showing up at the next stop cramming more people and a box of chickens in with us. Oh, I get it. He is riding outside on top of the van with our luggage. Somehow, he decides that the very large man making phone calls and getting emails from his Blackberry and sitting shotgun next to the driver should move to the row behind us crammed in with three other people. The woman with the chickens gets his spot. There's a little grumbling from the people from the last row who don't want to ride four across. Meanwhile, Alisa and I who besides the little boy riding on his mother's lap may be the slimmest people are only sharing a seat with one man.

Somewhere along the way the driver stops the van and has the passengers open the windows. I guess the air-conditioned ride is over and we will be wind-conditioned. We pass by vans going the other direction with two or three people riding on top. I get a little worried about how they choose who will ride up there if any more people get on.

Long past the time that we were told the ride would take we arrive in El Banco. Alisa who is eager to find a job in South America auditions for the job of driver's assistant and helpfully retrieves our luggage so that we can make our bus connection.

Of course, the bus which is supposed to leave in 15 minutes doesn't leave for 2 1/2 hours. So, we nibble on a few munchies. This is a long day without much sustenance and a 7-hour bus ride ahead of us.
But, the bus is comfy and the scenery is pretty -- very rural but the ever-ubiquitous cellphone tower in the background. Many of the houses don't have electricity but all along the way there are handmade signs offering cell service for 200 pesos a minute.

The bus stops and we watch a similar sized bus cram its way onto a little barge for the trip down the river. Oh, no! The bus ahead of us is also going to somehow fit on that little barge. Here we see the second bus squeezing on.

Hold it! We are also getting on. There are three big buses on that little barge which is being towed by two tiny boats.

I guess they know what they are doing. We safely get down the river and motor our way to Bucamaranga. After a while the pirated DVD copies of popular movies come on. I get to practice Spanish watching Jet Li overcome all sorts of evil types. He's very talented.

We pull into Bucaramanga. The people seem to be very nice; maybe it's just too late for the hustlers to be hustling. Or, maybe I'm just a weary traveler and this little town just looks like a great place to nestle in.

Cartagena

They should write songs and film movies about this place. And, yes, "they" have many times. What a beautiful city. We prefer the old parts of town and don't really venture into the "modern" parts.
The locals, including the officious immigration guy, love to chat with Alisa. With all their talk about kidnapping her and marrying her off, I think we need to get a homing device on her.

Alisa enjoys the night life here while I just enjoy soaking in everything. And, we have built-in friends here as we keep running into our Stahlratte freunde.

Alisa does a terrific job keeping our travel authentic. When we traveled to meat-centered countries when she was younger, I would steer us to other ethnic restaurants where there was sure to be good vegetarian options. So, we ended up eating Korean food in Austria and Chinese food in Portugal and pizza wherever. But, Alisa persists and we sample excellent local fare. The varieties of arepas are far beyond what we get at Manhattan street fairs.


But, it does get wearisome at times being a tourist and knowing that we are being overcharged. I better get over it or as usual I'll get home and wonder why I didn't buy any souvenirs. It doesn't help psychologically that there are 1700 pesos to a US Dollar. What!! They want to charge me 40,000 pesos! Hold on, that's still a bargain for a US tourist.

There are a lot of nice side trips to take from Cartagena but I look at what it will take for us to get to our next destination, Mompos, and I think it might be better to hold onto the extra day in our itinerary just in case we need it later.

And, so we move on from the Holiday Hostel with strains of the Democratic National Convention coming from the TV in the common area (our double room is behind the hanging laundry)...

Going with the flow

For a jaded New Yorker getting around while traveling just isn't the same as hopping on the subway or hailing a taxi around town.

After getting to the coast of San Blas, we peeled ourselves out of the Land Cruiser like we were olives in a press. The driver backed up a very slippery, steep, muddy hill and we retrieved our luggage. Then, we had to lug everything down the other side of the muddy hill with too few logs strategically placed too far apart for my short legs. How did the guys with their loaded-up bicycles and the women with their flipflops make it down!??! Well, somehow we all did and made our way into two long dugout canoes.

Floating down the river through the lush vegetation reminded me why I got all those shots and glad that I'm taking anti-malarial pills. It was beautiful. I had plastered on the sunscreen before we left but it was no match for the blazing sun beating down on us. The Kuna people paddling by didn't need hats, sunglasses, sunscreen, etc.

When we reached the Caribbean, the spectacular scenery changed to picture-postcard perfect vistas. The blue-green water with the puffy white clouds in the amazing blue sky framed by random lush green islands. As our boat paddlers glided us through the water, we reached some habited islands with a few sail boats anchored offshore. I saw one beautiful large boat and thought too bad we can't go on that one. But, then our canoe slid along side and we began unloading. This was it! Our home for the next five days and four nights-- Der Stahlratte.

How can I summarize five days and four nights?!

People
The wonderful, competent crew were 3/4th German-speaking. I was able to brush up on some German vocabulary (which actually wasn't so good for the rest of my trip because German words kept popping up when I reached for Spanish).

The other passengers were interesting, seasoned travelers from all over and most like Alisa were at some stage of their own amazing journeys.

The Kuna people who stopped by the boat to sell their wares provided a tantalizing glimpse of another world. There was a man with his son who provided healthy, fresh produce and took away the empty aluminum cans for recycling. I'm not sure why I was so disappointed to see the son eagerly hang around waiting for the crew to offer him a drink and then for him to quickly ask for a soda. But, check out my terrific ankle bracelet that a Kuna woman wove on me. Both of her legs from ankle to knee were beaded in a fantastic design.

The accommodations
When we first boarded, Alisa and I were not quick enough to claim bunks. So, the only two left were top bunks with guys on the bottom. It was a little awkward when my bunkmate threw open the curtains while I was changing clothes. Katya, one of the crew, was very nice to ask Paul, a fellow traveler, to give up his double room at the back of the boat for Alisa and me. And, wonderful Paul was more than gracious to do so.

The crew laid out the rules upfront. Yikes, I thought, one toilet and shower for 19 people. The rules included that men had to sit down (no exceptions) when using the toilet. But, they were encouraged if they preferred to pee standing up to aim over the side of the boat. Anyway, it all seemed to work out.

Food
The food was terrific. So, vegetarian-friendly. We each signed up for a day of kitchen duty. I think that added to the delight. Huge fresh fruit salads (please note, Nate, loaded with bananas). Delicious breads. Hearty soups. Exactly my kind of food.

Venue
There are not adequate adjectives for the idyllic settings. Even being there during the rainy season didn't put a damper on the trip. The islands with white sands looked like a movie set. I must admit though that my tender feet were not able to stand up to the little shells and pebbles that always seemed to be waiting wherever I stepped. But, it was beautiful to look at.

Note to self: I will need to toughen up my pampered feet if I'm going to survive on the open seas. I wasn't even able to climb the pole ladders on the boat unless I was wearing sandals.

The Boat
What an amazing, old-fashioned sail boat! We only had all of the sails up once when we first boarded and sailed to the uninhabited islands that would be our backyard for two days. But, even then with all of the sails up, the boat still had to operate under motor. When I asked the captain about this, he seemed surprised that anyone would even comment on this. (He didn't know he was talking to card-carrying member of the Manhattan Sailing Club!) He said that the boat was so old and big that only under very ideal situations with just the right winds could the boat go with only sails. The riggings are beautiful but it must be very difficult to tack and jibe.

But, when we were "sailing" at night, the engine was a little too loud, hot and oily for Alisa and me to sleep in the room next to it so we ended up sleeping in the common areas.

All-in-all, this was definitely a great way to start our trip.

August 19th Tuesday

I usually don't write travelogues day-by-day but also I don't usually go away for two weeks. So, it seems easier to keep track of events by day. What a luxury to be traveling for two weeks! I haven't taken a two-week vacation since I was at the Bank where it was required that officers be away for two weeks at a time every year (supposedly so they could see if we are cooking the books).

However, for this trip, I'm so far behind in journaling but here are some impressions.

Okay, it's not fair to judge a whole country after only 30 hours in its capital city. And, maybe I had high expectations based on a small sample size. How many Panamanians do I know? More than enough so that I can confidently make some generalizations -- warm, friendly, competent, courteous, suave (hmmm, now that I think about it, all my Panamanian friends are men!).

Maybe that's why the women we met in Panama are so surly -- they think that all the best men have left their country! Well, that's not true. The men we have encountered here are very nice, warm, friendly, helpful, etc.

We arrived to check in at the hotel a little after midnight. The clerk wants to charge us for three nights if we stay two nights because we arrived after midnight. What!!?! But, she will only charge us for one night if we leave by 3 pm. It doesn't make sense but we gladly decide that one night is enough at the Hotel Parador.

Anyway the food is good. Vegetarians can do fine in Panama even if the restaurant claims not to be able to have vegetarian food. We enjoy the rice, beans, picante sauce, veggies, fruit, etc.

The old city in Panama is beautiful. Like anyplace going through a rebirth, there are not so pretty and/or safe sections abutting the restored areas. The architecture is beautiful, a little reminiscent of New Orleans.

We were able to get a double room at a hostel for the second night. This is great because the van will pick us up here early tomorrow to take us to San Blas.

I couldn't help getting taken in by the travel talk by the wizened backpackers at the hostel. There was a fellow who had just made the reverse trip (from San Blas to Panama City) and he was full of horror stories -- slogging over unpaved roads in the rain, having to get out and push the van up the muddy hills, etc. I can't wait. As we crowd into the old truck, I'm not sure that the other women in flimsy flipflops or some of the unbuff men are going to be much help.

Apparently, the driver had been told that there was a mother and daughter traveling together. We were pulled out of the back and given seats in the cab. Thank goodness, I was very claustrophobic in the back not able to really see out the little windows. But, the cab was no bargain. Not much room for three people. Oh, hey, there's no glass in the side windows and it's raining. And, the door in warped so it doesn't close all the way. Hmmm, who needs to have a door handle since there's a hole to stick one's hand it to lift the latch?!! The mud quickly covers the windshield since there are no wipers. But, the driver seems competent and he weaves in and out of traffic.

Kuna Yala (San Blas) is an autonomous territory on the northeast coast of Panama. It consists of a narrow slice of land on the coast and about 350 islands -- most of which are uninhabited. How civilized! The Kuna people wanted to have their own government and so they do. The Panamanian (and the US) navy does not dare encroach their boundaries.

We'll be entering the world without an Internet connection, no newspapers, radios, etc. We're out of touch on what's going on at the Democratic National Convention. But, the Kuna people don't appear to be any the worse for it. I think we'll survive very well also.

August 18, 2008 Hitting the Road

Travel day is finally here. This is my first international trip with Alisa since 2000 (Ecuador). At that time she declared her independence and the right to travel from them on internationally without a parent. Spain in 2002 with her doesn’t count because she was the host in the country where she was spending her high-school junior year abroad. Since then, we’ve both been doing some traveling (she more than I) but in much different directions.

I couldn’t believe my eyes/ears when she asked if I wanted to join her as she started her current adventure. Well, of course, I do! But, I thought I better give her a chance to reconsider in case she really hadn’t meant to invite her mom. After waiting a measured interval, she again extended the invitation. I swooped it up and accepted without hesitation. This Japanese-American sansei didn’t demurely wait until the requisite third invitation was proffered before saying, Yes!

Sí, se puede! Now, we´re off, ready or not. For me, I’m just packed for a two-week trek. Alisa is packed for her two-month trek from Panama to Chile and then setting up a new home in Patagonia. Now, I’m a relatively light packer but she even more so. But, there’s no way I’ll be caught toting more luggage than she.

I´m so excited to be going to Panama. Ever since reading David McCullough´s Path Between the Seas book about the building of the Panama Canal, I´ve wanted to go. The flight was uneventful and even flying out of Newark wasn´t too awful. The flight was full but seemed more so with a couple of cranky babies.

But, we arrived and shared a ride into town and finally found our way to a hotel with a room and a pool. We were tired but excited to start on our journey.

Inoculation

OK, I’m armed and very dangerous. I’ve been jabbed and am stuffed with the kernels of all kinds of awful diseases.

But, I’m not inoculated against enthusiasm. Thank goodness. The days are counting down.

We went to the Travel Clinic at Columbia Presbyterian Hospital to get our shots and prescriptions. I told the guard handing out passes in the lobby which doctor I was there to see. He couldn’t find a listing even after I spelled the name several times. But, then, finally, success – I’m cleared to enter! So, in a loud voice he says, “You’re going to Infectious Diseases!” Was it my imagination or did the people behind me really give me a little more space!?! It happens that only Infectious Diseases healthcare professionals are able to give Yellow Fever shots.

Well, even the scary things that the doctor warned us about are not dampening our excitement for our trip. So, many things to do and so little time. We have to-do lists for our to-do lists.

Will this Type-A mom be able to chill and ride shotgun while accompanying her more laid-back, world-traveled daughter? Yes, definitely! Just glancing at my watch reminds me to take a deep breath and accept things for what they are and enjoy the serenity of not trying to change things that are not under my control (Hmm, am I talking baseball or life? Is there a difference?).

PRW

Education is the vaccine for violence. --Edward James Olmos

Look homeward, Angel

You can come home again (and again and again). It’s always magical to welcome family and friends back to the Big Apple.

How great to hear about Alisa and Nate’s travels across the country and Alisa's across many borders and get to share vicariously in the excitement of their adventures (especially when my most exotic trip this summer so far has been a subway ride to see to the new Madagascar exhibit at the Bronx Zoo).

It’s always wonderful to share good food and conversation with those we love. New, as well as well-worn, recipes just taste better when shared those we love. There’s even a temptation to get others to enjoy what we enjoy. !@#$%, I couldn’t sneak the bananas into the sorbet. Actually, I forgot that Nate doesn’t like bananas. Life needs to have an Undo button (what if there were a blender that could unpuree food?). Oh, well, at least he didn’t detect the bananas in the waffles when smothered with maple syrup. (Just kidding, Nate..or am I?)


Anyway, it's great to be able to experience the City through fresh eyes. Who knew that scorn was so readily available at such an affordable price ($1.25!!)? And, all these years I had been paying dearly for it. You can always get whatever you're looking for in New York for cheaper if you know someone who knows someone.

Hope you are able to enjoy a homecoming or a homegoing with someone you love.


PRW

Reduce, Reuse, Recycle

Honoring the dead

Yes, it's almost a cliché that dying is a part of living. Anyway, celebrating one's ancestors seems to make living just a little more grounded, so to speak. Obon, the Japanese festival to honor departed relatives, is a way to make all of this joyful while at the same time sacred with drumming and dancing.


In NYC Obon is celebrated on the second Sunday of July right in the middle of Manhattan (Bryant Park) during the hottest part of the day. By contrast, in Seattle, for example, Obon is held on two days in the coolness of the late afternoon/early evening.

But, hey, I’m a New Yorker. I’m tough. I can take what Manhattan offers and own it. The dances (Bon Odori) in New York are different from those that I learned growing up except, of course, for the old perennial standard, Tankō Bushi, the coal miners’ song. I sometimes think about going back to the land of my roots to see if the dances there have evolved. Maybe, it’s only my memories that are stuck in the past.


For now, how nice it is to live in the moment – not reinventing the past or yearning for a better future. Just as I'm centering myself in the present, I see a face from the past. I think this can't be. But, it is -- it's Lori whom I've known from grade school through high school. I haven't seen her for over 25 years! I'm so glad to re-connect. We had first connected in NY after seeing each other on the subway. New York really is a small town!

Yes, the past can co-exist with the present and the future in ways that aren't always immediately apparent.

So, embrace the here-and-now but honor the past. Hug a grandparent today (if not your own, then someone else's)!

PRW

seeking Peace, Respectfulness, Wisdom


If you haven’t changed your mind lately, how can you be sure you have one that is still working?

Narcissistic or 21st Century...

...or is it 21st Century to be narcissistic? Why do I need a blog? I've never been one to keep a private journal. Why should I need to reserve a space in the very public cyberspace for myself?

Maybe it's just about tipping points. After one lurks around and puts postings on other people's blogs, there just comes a time to return the favor.

Whatever..here it is...ready to report on the next big adventure. Stay tuned.

PRW