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)...