Kate McVaugh's Rambles

The Curse Breaker of Cairo

2011-10-30T09:47:00.000-07:00

My new Parnormal Romance is now available at
Amazon .
The $.99 Kindle version will soon be available.

Curses, Egypt, hot romance, and so much more.

Best Urban Park

2011-07-12T09:58:00.000-07:00

It has to be the most beautiful urban park in the San Francisco bay area; Mountain View Cemetery, situated in Oakland California.

My days of cruising cemeteries in the US for the sheer macabre value of it all ended back in high school. I have visited ones overseas for their historical significance, but never saw much reason to drop by their more modern counterparts in the US. But when I had a third relative interred at the park, I took a more careful look.

How could I have missed such a glorious setting with its 226 acres of winding roads, beautifully arranged tree lined streets and sparkling fountains? It is a landscaped wonder designed by Fredrick Law Olsen, (he of Central Park fame), and dates back to 1863.

“Olmsted took a unique approach to Mountain View Cemetery. His park cemetery integrated the Parisian grand monuments and broad avenues. Olmsted also drew on a popular philosophy of the times, American Transcendentalism, to help shape his vision of the cemetery.” (mountainview cemetery.org)

One honestly feels as if they were in some European grand garden, transported back to a time when it was only man and nature. Situated on rolling hills, with what feels like miles and miles of small roads branching off of the main, fountain lined artery, it is a perfect spot for communing with nature.

On any given day you will find joggers, ladies pushing strollers, people walking their dogs, artists sketching or painting, and even children from a local day care having a picnic.

Many famous Californians are buried there. Charles Crocker’s massive tomb sits on Millionaires row, which, but the way, is where I would like to build a small cottage. Walking by his final resting spot you’d think you were on a lovely, narrow city street, surrounded by greenery, where cars have been banned. In front of you lies a spectacular view of the San Francisco Bay. Looking either to the left or right, you see nothing but green rolling hills, trees, and your peacefully resting neighbors.

Every time I go I find some place new to explore; some other bit of historical interest. There is the Civil War Veterans area, ringed by cannon balls of the era. There are beautiful chapels, amazingly elaborate crypts from a bygone era, and an overall peacefulness that belies the fact that you are actually in Oakland, CA.

It is easy to explore either with a map provided by Sunset View or just by turning up a road that looks interesting. (you can drive to most places, or park your car and walk.) Guided tours are offered twice a month.

For me it has become a place to get away from the commotion of the city; a place to clear my head, drink in nature, and maybe even commune with some souls from the past.
http://www.mountainviewcemetery.org/index.html

Kate

Where NOT to buy Cuban Cigars in Saigon

2011-05-30T17:30:00.000-07:00

My last night in Vietnam was to be coffee and Cuban cigars with a few friends. I’d heard that there was a top-scale stogie shop in District 1 in Ho Chi Minh City, and after some searching and a few phone calls, I’d located it.

Casa Habana Cigars is located on 41 Ha Ba Trung St, Dist 1, HCMC, just a block or so down from the Park Hyatt. Walking in I was very impressed; walls of glass windowed, temp controlled, cigar cabinets. This looked as good as the ones in Puerta Vallarta, Mexico.
.
I asked about Romeo and Juliet’s, knowing that they were what I had wanted to buy. They were out of number 4’s, so I looked at the number 2’s. I picked up a cigar and took a whiff; humm….not what I had remembered. I asked the manager about their packaging date, then turned the box over.
.
Oh, I said, these were packed in 2009, they’re two years old.
But that’s what makes them so good, she replied.
Huh?
Yes, I have many customers who insist on aged cigars, she assured me.
.
I knew this was wrong. I knew they were way past their shelf life, but spent $18 a piece on two cigars. I have no idea why I believed her, especially after I had asked her who imported their cigars.
.
The owner makes trips to Cuba to buy all the cigars, but he isn’t Vietnamese, he’s American, she told me.
.
I pointed out that this could not be possible since it was illegal for Americans to go to Cuba, let alone run an import/export deal with the country.
.
She assured me that I was wrong; that this was a legitimate business venture.
.
That evening we lit up the cigars and I kicked myself; they sucked. They were not the smooth, tasty Cubans I had sampled in Mexico. They were old, and not totally horrible, but certainly not worth $18.
.
In retrospect, I realized that I should have looked for a different brand and taken much more time in selecting my cigars. But the heat, humidity, and last day errands had gotten the better of me and thrown me off my usual cautious self when buying luxury items in places like Vietnam. However, that does not excuse a sleazy American from ripping people off and disseminating false information about Cuban cigars.
.
Now I must wait for my next trip to Mexico where the cigar shops are run by honest folks.

Kate

Building a Boat

2011-05-14T03:34:00.000-07:00

Every morning, since arriving in Mui Ne, I’ve walked along the beach and looked out at the lovely boats and thought that I really should find out where they are made and go see the builders in action.

And then one morning, just two coconut-tree lots down from the hotel, I noticed some construction activity going on beneath the canopy of the palm trees. Although I had walked along that stretch of beach several times a day for over a month, this was the first time that I’d noticed something other than coconuts.

And much to my great pleasure, there stood a boat workshop! I walked over and said hello to the guys and expressed my delight in finding them. I asked if it would be ok to walk around and look at the work they were doing; no problem.

It was absolutely amazing; a mini boatyard, out in the open, where they were building a beautiful, seafaring vessel with nothing more than very basic tools. I would need to document the work so asked if I could come back the following day with my camera.

Returning the next day, it was immediately obvious that the man in charge was a master craftsman. I watched in wonder as he and his crew worked on the boat with the minimum of power tools. They had a hand built-table saw and an electric drill and that’s about it. These were plugged into an electrical line that ran down a coconut tree and off to some unknown location. Everything else was done by hand.

I walked around the boat to get a better idea of the construction techniques. I watched as they bent the side boards to fit, marked them, removed them, and then lined the edges with drill holes. Into these they placed sharpened dowels which would be used to secure one plank to another on the sides of the boat. It took three people to achieve this next step; one to align the dowels/holes, another to hammer the top plank down with a large mallet, and the third to use other tools to insure a water-tight fit.

In the following days I would visit the guys to check on the progress and inquire about the launch date. Each time I was able to see another bit of incredible work. One day the boat was upside down as they sawed off large wooden plugs that are used to secure the inner cross pieces. After that, they painted the underside. Another day they had started to paint the interior and to build the removable inner planks that would cover the engine and hold. And finally, they told me that the boat would be launched the following day at 11am.

Not wanting to miss an early launch, I arrived at 10am to see another boat with four or five men, pull up to the beach. I assumed they were there to collect the new boat and I was right. I looked over to the new boat and saw that they had just started to paint the eyes on the bow. How could they set it off in an hour with wet paint?

I asked again about the time it would hit the water. Altogether, three men looked up at the sun, gauged what time it now was and reconfirmed that it would be at 11:00. It wasn’t until several days later that I realized that whenever I had asked about time, they looked up to the sun, even if they wore watches.

With that settled, I said hello to the new arrivals and my boat builders explained who I was. By this time, the master builder had left the final painting and engine hook-up to his crew and was involved in building another boat. I took a few more pictures and sort of tried to stay out of the way.

A couple of young teenage boys said hello, eager to practice their English. I asked why they weren’t in school and they assured me that they had afternoon classes and would soon be off. When they got bored with watching the workers, they ran off into the coconut grove to run around.

The guys who had arrived on the boat wandered around and helped where needed. I brought out packets of cookies and they offered me tea. About that time I turned to check on the young ones only to see one of them starting to scale a four-story high coconut tree. I was concerned. I looked around. No one else was concerned. And actually at their age, 13 or 14, I would have been doing the same, being a tree-climbing enthusiast in my younger years. Except that trees in California had branches to help the ascent. I tried not to look figuring if he fell there were plenty of people around.

Not much later I heard the tree-climber call out to his friends below. I looked over but he was out of sight, somewhere up at the top. His friends kept busy arranging fallen palm fronds in a pile below the tree. He called out again, they stood back, and down came the first coconut. I never did see him come down but the next time I looked he was up another tree. This went on until they had a large pile of coconuts. They brought several over to the boat crew and then headed down the beach presumably to sell them to a restaurant or hotel.

A woman arrived with baskets from the market. I said hello and found out that she was part of the new boat group. In these situations I never really know who are family and who are friends and it doesn’t matter. What I really love about the Vietnamese culture is that everyone works as a unit, things are done together, food is shared together. A whatever-is-mine-is-yours attitude. That, and the feeling of camaraderie in situations such as the one I was watching.

I found a log to sit on, camera at the ready should they suddenly make a dash to the sea with the boat. Soon the woman brought her baskets over to the bow of the boat where they were loaded onboard. At first I thought she had been to the market and would sail back with the new boat. But the baskets were filled with offerings that now were carefully arranged on the prow; small bowls of a sticky rice concoction and carefully assembled fruit. Another dish held small crabs, I think. On the ornamental piece at the very tip of the prow, one man placed flowers and incense. All this occurred while the finishing touches of attaching gas lines and checking the engine happened at the back of the boat.

Finally, it was done. One man stayed in the boat and tossed handfuls of rice around the inside and o to the ground around the boat.. Then everyone gathered, the offering foods were taken down, and they sat in a small circle and ate. They invited over but I felt it was a personal time for the group and did not want to intrude.

And then it was time to load the boat onto the two-wheeled tow bar and haul it down to the water. I believe they said it weighed a ton. Some pulled and some pushed and others cleared the way. When they hit the small slope that led to the water they started to run. The new boat splashed into the sea. Some of the guys splashed water onto the sides of the boat while another dropped the rudder.

Three men remained in the boat, fired up the engine and were off, heading over to the port of Mui Ne. The guys from the other boat got in theirs and followed the new boat. The chief builder watched until it was almost out of sight, grinning, obviously pleased with his masterpiece. I high-fived him as he came up from the waters edge.

I wanted so much to tell them how special the experience had been for me; how fantastic they were at what they did, but I couldn’t. When I say I spoke to these folks it was in my very limited Vietnamese combined with a lot of sign language. I certainly didn’t have the language required, but I did have a bunch of great photographs. The next day I burned CD’s for both the builder and the new boat owners. I took them over to the coconut tree boat yard where they were gratefully received.

It was one of those truly magical experiences.

The next boat should be finished in about a week; I may just still be here when it makes its maiden voyage.

Kate

Coconut Tree Trimming

2011-05-08T21:41:00.000-07:00

Eating breakfast one morning, I watched as a guy drove in on his motorbike, one hand on the handlebars, the other gripping a 10 foot bamboo ladder. He parked his bike, took off his helmet and shirt, picked up the ladder he had placed on the ground, and walked towards the central part of the hotel. This looked interesting.
.When I returned to my room I found out what was up; he and his buddy were there to trim the coconut palms. Often at 8:00 am it is already rather hot but that day was overcast and even threatening to drizzle. This boded well for the men about to undertake the trimming of thirty trees.
.
The men, shirtless and shoeless, with small machetes in hand, climbed up there ladders that they’d placed against the coconut trees. Reaching the top of the ladder, they looped a fabric band around their feet to prevent their feet from slipping and ensuring a type grip around the trunk. These were real men.
With feet securely in place, right hand both gripping the machete and hanging on to the tree, they placed their left palm against the middle of the tree and pushed off. While doing this they pulled their knees up, inching up the tree at an impressive speed.
.

Some of the taller trees must be about five stories high and quite narrow at the top. Looking at them now I wonder if they ever snap under the weight of the trimmers. I’d guess they probably would if these guys were any larger.
.
Once at the top of a tree, the workers got lost in the foliage. You’d hear a whack, and then palm fronds and coconuts at various stages of development would drop to the ground. The men worked opposite sides of the property. The young ladies who work here stayed well out of the way until a call came from the top of the tree and they’d hurry to gather and sweep things up.
.
I was out with my camera trying to get good pictures of the work which was none too easy what with branches flying down and trying not to shot into the light which is hard when your subject is directly above you.
.
The whole thirty trees were done in under four hours. I think it would take the rest of us four hours just to scale one coconut tree.

Kate

No Power

2011-05-06T20:29:00.000-07:00

It was one of those god awful days in Mui Ne when the electricity is shut off from 8:00am until 5:00pm for routine maintenance. There is no prior warning and this is the fourth time it has happened since I’ve been here. I only have a fan in my room, no A/C and that’s never a problem except when there is no power and with no cross ventilation, it is impossible to breathe in there. I can’t write because my laptop battery won’t last more than an hour. I had things to do so I just took off to worry about it later.

On the way to the bus stop I went over the errands I needed to do; first was to go and pick up my train ticket for next week, next was to go to the ATM. And oops; no electricity means no ATM. The bus had arrived so I got on.

My guy who had the ticket was out and wouldn’t be back for two hours. So I walked to my next destination, the internet café where they sold blank CD’s. I mentioned my ATM problem and they assured me that ATM’s would work. I doubted this but gave it a whirl. No luck.
.
It was only 10am. Too early to go get that meal I had been dreaming about and too hot to do much else. I caught the bus back home.

Now what was I to do? I tried stretching out on the bed to read the one book I had and didn’t much care for, but just wasn’t not enough air. I tried sitting on my front porch but it was too uncomfortable.

Time crept on and I tried not to think about it being a wasted day. Then just when I was again thinking it was a wasted day I spotted a beautiful lizard on the rock right across from my room.
.
I do love lizards and had seen a spectacular blue-headed guy near the front of the hotel a month ago. Back near my room there are only these rather plain ones. This one didn’t have a colorful head, but he was of that pre-historic dinosaur body style. I ran to get my camera.
.
Carefully stalking him and trying to get a good shot did not turn out the way I had hoped. I only have one lens on my camera, but there is some zoom capability. And since it is my new, very expensive DSLR camera, I was sure it would suffice. Wrong. I’ll work that out later. But as I was trying to get a clear picture of my reptile who had noticed my approach and scooted up a coconut tree, I found a second brand of lizard.
.
Talk about camouflage! This critter was about 4 inches long and looked like coconut bark. Had I not been right on top of him in my attempt to capture the image of lizard number one, I would never have seen him.
.
I still have hopes of getting a picture of the blue lizard and this unbelievable moth I have only seen once. It was an army-green-cami painted moth.

It turned out that they do have a very noisy generator at the hotel which they turned on at 2:00pm. I flipped on the fan and cooled down and planned the rest of the day. Since I rarely walk to the beach at sunset I thought I should try to get a few more photos before I leave in a few days.

It’s lovely in the early evening as the sun goes down at 6:00 pm. The tide is way out and local folks keep busy picking up various types of edible shell life. The families from the neighboring little shops walk through their backyards down to the beach. Kids and mom’s and dad’s and dogs romp in the shallow water. My favorite little tiny dog seems to be the alpha who lords over the big ones.
.
Feeling invigorated by the cool evening weather and wonderful sights, I smiled as I unlocked my room only to be greeted hundreds of flying termites.
.
I’d had this problem after the rains when I lived in HCMC. I’d learned that one need only turn off the lights and open the windows. When the bugs had attacked the room a few weeks ago after some rain, I did just that. But this time the windows had been closed so I didn’t understand where they’d come from.
.
I walked to the bathroom to make sure its window was shut and was greeted by a horror movie scene; one million flying and crawling termites covered the sink, tub and walls. These guys don’t bite, but they were flying down the back of my shirt and I couldn’t deal with the invasion until the next morning. I went to the front desk and two of the ladies came back with me to fix the problem.
.
They came with a can of bug spray which I always try to avoid using, but this was desperation. As I sat outside my bungalow, they sprayed and swept and washed away the invaders. At one point I walked back in to see that one young woman, after spraying half a can of insecticide, had closed herself in the bathroom to clean it. I told her it was not safe and to open the door. No problem, was her response.

Eventually all the bugs were gone. I installed the mosquito net over the window as I do every night, turned the fan on full-force, and kept a wary eye out for any more flying bugs.

I went to bed and was glad the day was over.

Kate

International Worker's Day

2011-04-30T21:30:00.000-07:00

International Worker’s Day is celebrated on May 1st throughout much of the world. In the US, it is called Labor Day and is commemorated on the first Monday in September. The interesting thing here is that the May 1st date is in homage to the American workers who were killed and injured during the Haymarket Riot of 1886, where they were striking for an eight-hour work day.

I find it amusing that socialist, communist, past and present anti-US governments should choose an American incident as the date on which to honor their countries workers.
.
I believe we in the US did, at one point, celebrate the day on 1 May. I had heard somewhere that the US decided to change it to Septemeber so as not to be associated with all those commie countries who had absconded with the date. As intriguing as that sounds, it can’t be right. According to the US Department of Labor’s website, the first Labor Day was celebrated on September 5, 1882.
.
Here in Vietnam, it is a four day weekend and the beaches are packed. My hotel had been booked out months ago so I had to leave my pool-side living quarters and move to another small room for two days.
.

What I want to know is how did I acquire all this extra stuff? I came with an overweight suitcase and small backpack. When the gals at the hotel helped to move my belongings it seemed I had an extra five bags of junk. Yes, I have way too many seashells, but I have not bought anything here. Maybe I just didn’t cram my items into the suitcase as well as I did on the way here.

Yesterday afternoon, when the holiday spirit was in full swing, I had to go “in to town”. The quotes are there because it really isn’t going into town, but rather traveling a few kilometers down the road to where my acupuncture doctor is and then another few klicks south to eat at a restaurant that is ok.

.
This is always a bad idea at 1:00 in the afternoon. It is always hot at that time and has gotten noticeably more sweltering in the past few weeks. Yet I insist on taking the city bus which rolls by every twenty minutes, most of the time. Sometimes I only wait a few minutes and there are times when I have waited twenty-five minutes. Even in the shade this can get to be a bit much. Still, it is preferential to any other means of transportation here.
.

Most people rent a motorbike, (motor scooter), or go by motorbike taxi. I do not. There are millions of taxis available and, on occasion, I have coughed up the few bucks it costs to go down the road, but they are also a bit terrifying. You see Mui Ne is still located along a narrow, two-lane road that is not wide enough for two tourist buses to safely pass each other while heading in the opposite direction. Now add to this the concept that you must always pass the driver in front of you. And don’t forget the people on bicycles and various forms of farm animals and pedestrians along the route. For some reason, I feel the safest on the bus even when the drivers go hell bent for leather along the way, hand glued to horn, swerving across the other side of the road in order to pass anything in their way.

Now to all that, remember that it is a four-day weekend and traffic has increased 1000-fold. I normally would never describe myself as having frazzled nerves, but yesterday I did, along with being overheated and generally just getting sick of it all. I have reached the point where I need to move on.

The beach is lovely and living out of a suitcase is fine with me. Not having a kitchen is not. In normal everyday life, I do not dream about food or look forward to the next meal. But this has been simply too many months of not eating properly or eating horrible restaurant meals. I have started watching cooking shows and competitions and drooling.

I have less than two weeks left at the beach and am thinking I should be leaving today. But there are a few fun things coming up next week and I still have the final five pages of my novel to knock off. And although the hotel and beach are packed with way too many people, my little temporary room is sunny, quiet, and breezy, and everything will go back to the way it was by Tuesday.

Happy Worker’s Day!
Kate
[photos taken in Phan Thiet]

Kate's Mystery Novel now available on Kindle

2011-04-11T20:36:00.000-07:00

"Murder, Jaz, & Tel Aviv" is now available as a Kindle edition.

Much cheaper than the print edition. Just as funny.

Thanks

Kate http://www.amazon.com/Murder-Jaz-Aviv-Kate-McVaugh/dp/1439222282/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&s=books&qid=1302579248&sr=1-1

[click on above link to go to Amazon]

Coconuts - Things I Didn't Know

2011-04-06T04:31:00.000-07:00

I love coconut. I’m not talking about that shredded, sweetened crap one buys in US supermarkets. I’m referring to fresh coconuts that are picked off the tree, machete-ed opened, and drunk. And when you’re finished, you have the guy crack that baby open so that you can scoop out the gelatinous inners and have dessert.

OK, so you live in the US or Europe or some other place where palm trees don’t grow coconuts. That’s a good reason for never having tried them. I, on the other hand, have spent a good many years in parts of the world where coconuts grow in most people’s back yards. So how is it that now, after all these years in extreme proximity to the product, am I just learning of its medicinal properties?

My leg was cramping about a month ago and I knew I was getting dehydrated. I drink tons of water and had rehydration salts, but nothing was really helping. I’d searched for Gatorade but couldn’t find it. And then I was told to go out and get a coconut. A coconut? For dehydration? It seems that coconut water is all I needed to replace the electrolytes that I had been losing.

Further research turned up the fact that during WWII, coconut water was used in place of plasma when supplies ran short. It is still used to this day as an IV saline solution; so much is it like the body’s own fluids. But possibly the most amazing fact I learned is that it is packed with potassium. The equivalent of 15 bananas!

About two years I read something about needing all these milligrams of potassium per/day and had not been able to work out how to do that. There was nowhere near the amount I was supposed to be ingesting in any of the food combinations I could come up with. Granted, if I am not in the tropics, I can’t eat a coconut a day, so I am making sure I get my daily dosage while in Vietnam.

I am also sort of mad at myself for not knowing this sooner. I wasted years not taking advantage of the local coconuts. Even though I have always thought that their water and meat was sublime, I simply never ate that many.

I'm busy making up for lost time.

Kate

Temple of the Whale

2011-03-25T21:08:00.000-07:00

I came to Mui Ne because it’s on the beach. I wanted a place to write and relax. Most days I don’t leave the hotel grounds except to walk on the beach or go for a meal close by. There really isn’t much to see right in my neighborhood other than tourists and tourist related industry. So I was rather surprised that the tourist map I had bought contained more than just advertisements for local restaurants and clubs. There are several places of interest within a 30 minute bus ride. Today’s trip was to the Whale Temple.

The local bus let me off within two blocks of the little temple, located in Phan Thiet, the “big” city at the other end of the bay.

According to the blurb on the tourist map, the Thuy Tu Temple was built in 1762 by fishermen to worship the whale. It goes on to say that there are nearly 100 skeletons at the temple, more than half of which are 100-150 years old. It mentions a burial ground within the temple which has been used for beached whales. And that’s about all I knew before I got there, and pretty much what I knew after I left. At times like these I really, really want a translator. What could be more fascinating than a place where whales are worshiped and have been for centuries?

.
Since I was unable to talk to the source, I had to rely on the internet and got a bit more information.
.
Worship of the Whale God is a religion practiced by coastal fisherman in Vietnam and dates back to at least the early Khmer and Cham cultures. They believe that this god protects them while at sea and will guide them to shelter in a storm. Whales are highly revered creatures in Vietnam and have never been hunted here. If a dead whale or dolphin washes up on the coast, there is an elaborate ceremony performed to mourn and honor the mammal. It is then buried and three to five years later exhumed; the remains then carried to the temple to be worshiped. From what I have found, it seems the last whale funeral was in 2002. Once a year, around August, there is a large festival in honor of the whale and to ask for protection on the seas in the coming year.

I arrived at the small temple and was ushered in by a gentleman collecting the nominal entrance fee. From there one walks into the room which holds the intact skeleton of a fin whale. A placard stated that it was 22 meters long, (aprox 67 ft) and I believe it said it weighed 65 metric tons. I think this whale passed on to the great ocean in the beyond, either 50 or 100 or 150 years ago. (I’m not sure that I understood the man at the temple, or if the internet information was accurate.)

There were a few local people visiting the whale. I saw a woman reach out and touch the fin of the skeleton. Being raised in a culture where you are never allowed to touch a museum exhibit, it bothered me a little. But then I noticed a young man, clearly not a tourist, doing the same thing and I believe they were communing with the whale’s spirit, not desecrating its remains.

From there I walked over to the temple proper. Music and chanting was blaring from loudspeakers that came from a small room to the left where men in bright blue costumes were praying.

After making sure it was all right to enter, and then if it was ok to take pictures, I stepped into the first room with its central alter in golds and reds. There were also smaller ones on the sides. A few older folks sat around the edges and some others were lighting incense and praying. I did try to ask about it all, but my limited Vietnamese was not going to work. One gentleman guided me up to the alter. When I saw the donation box, I took out some money and put it in, then pointed to the incense. He kindly took out three sticks, lit them for me, and showed me where to stand. I said a few blessings for the whale god and for my mother, who loved whales. When he saw that I had finished, he took the burning incense and placed in the pot on the alter. Then he mimed that I should fold my hands in front of myself and bow.

This room led to a small passageway that held the remains of whales gone by. Again, I couldn’t ascertain just how many creatures were stored there. I then walked into the back room that also opened out onto an ally.

Another alter covered the wall facing away from the ally. In front of it, and out onto the street, tables were set for some sort of lavish luncheon. I had no idea if this was a weekly affair or if it was some special occasion. In a room to the right, women were preparing platters of food while young men waited outside, later to deliver the food to the tables. When people started to arrive for their meal, I left the temple.

When I first arrived I had noticed that across the street was a workshop of people making those little round rowboats that one sees all over Vietnam. They are completely constructed of woven bamboo. I had wanted to take pictures but again, the instinct to be non-intrusive took over. As I walked out of the temple and again looked across to the boat shop, I saw that there was a tiny drinks café set up in a courtyard adjoining it. Perfect; I’d buy a drink and hope I could talk to some people and take pictures.

I got my drink and sat at the table watching a man making lamps out of pieces of bamboo. He pointed to a fantastic mural on the wall across the way and said he had painted it. Then he excused himself as he was already late for the prayer service across the street at the temple.

His wife stayed around and introduced me to the five dogs she had, all very friendly. When I finished I got up and walked over to takes pictures of the boats. Being that it was lunch time and temple time, no one was actually working on the boats. I will have to go back another time.

I think it will be a mission of mine to find someone associated with the whale religion and who also speaks English. I really need to know a lot more about this wonderful faith.

Kate

Super Full Moon

2011-03-20T00:32:00.000-07:00

The Super Full Moon of March 19th arrived in Vietnam last night. After reading that it only occurs every 20 years or so, and that the moon would be 14% larger than normal, I readied myself with moonrise information. I scouted out the hotel grounds for photo op locations. I had no idea where the moon would rise but was out and searching at 5:40pm.

I’d read on the NASA site that the best photos are taken when the moon is still low on the horizon and there is an object, like a tree, in front of it. There are lots of palm trees around but I knew they would be too tall to get a shot of the moon just coming up. I needn’t have worried; it was still light until after 6:00pm and I couldn’t even find the moon. Eventually I did, it was beautiful, but even my new, very expensive camera was not up to awesome lunar shots. I went out several times during the night, but had no further luck in producing the beautiful moon picture I had hoped for.

That adventure over with, I needed to start on a serious effort of eating properly. The worst thing about hotel living is that you can’t prepare much of your own food. Buying fresh fruit and carrots is no problem. And last week I made the 35 minute bus trip out to the only supermarket in the region and was able to stock up on Corn Flakes, cashews, soy milk, and orange juice. (in those boxes that have a shelf life of 50 years.) But that really isn’t the best way to eat for weeks at a time.

One would think that in a locale which was only small fishing villages until about ten years ago when the tourism trade took off, it would be easy to get a fantastic meal of grilled fish. Not so. Yesterday I tried yet another local restaurant and I swear the fish had been marinated in mothballs.

And that brings up another question; what type of fish have I been ordering? The menu may have several different fish listed but when I question further I find out they only offer the one fish I have eaten since arriving. It is not very good, it is always overcooked and the flavor goes from bland to hideous. I find myself forcing down food and trying not to think about what I am eating or where it came from.

There are also my particular food requirements. I don’t do MSG. This has nothing to do with philosophical or religious reasons, but bad-reaction reasons. Migraines and puking for a day or two after ingesting the stuff is not pleasant. When I go into any restaurant I tell them, in three different languages, that I can’t eat MSG. (Ajinomoto, Bot Ngot, Knorr). Sometimes they tell me they don’t use it but when questioned further say, “but it’s just a little.” And even when they swear they will not use any, they do.

So I will try to figure out how to eat well. And I will try to ignore the closet moths that are multiplying at an alarming rate and, I assume, devouring my clothes. And I will also remember that cleaning with water-only is how they do it here, so must just get used to it. The rest of it is still on the amazing scale, so I think I should do just fine.

Kate

No Tsunami in Vietnam

2011-03-12T18:50:00.000-08:00

As I walked back from a late, fish lunch two days ago, I received a frantic text message from a Vietnamese friend in Ho Chi Minh City. She told me of the Japan earthquake and tsunami. Since I am at the beach, she urged me to run for the hills as fast as I could.

A little freaked, I got to my room and turned on the CNN and BBC. Tsunami warnings had been issued for the entire Pacific Basin, but I didn’t see Vietnam on either the maps they were showing or on the countries listed. I flipped to the Vietnamese channels where no broadcasts were being interrupted with tidal wave warnings. I text-ed my friend with this news. She wrote back to say that Vietnam had no tsunami warning system and I needed to get away from the water.

Still a bit nervous, I went to the lobby area and spoke to the owner. He more or less laughed at me. There was no problem in Mui Ne and never is a problem here. Apparently, because of the geography of the area, it is where ships are told to come when there is any sort of storm at sea. He told me that the name Mui Ne means Safe Harbor. OK; I was mollified for the moment, but did keep a close watch on the news and the sea level. If I saw the water suddenly retreating, I was ready to make a run for it.

The internet had been on and off for most of the day so I thought it best to email folks and let them know that all was ok here at the beach. Back watching the news I find out that Northern California is on a tsunami watch. What was up with that? I’m not that far from Japan, and all is well, yet San Francisco was busy preparing for destructive forces from the ocean.

I stayed up long enough to see that Hawaii got a slight hit but couldn’t stay awake to watch the California events, although the waves were to arrive within the hour. How could that be happening so soon after they left Japan? It takes 12 hours to fly from San Francisco to Taipei, yet the tsunami made the trip from Japan to California in seven hours? Next time I travel, I am going by tsunami.

Kate

What I Wake Up To Every Morning

2011-03-07T19:14:00.000-08:00

From the window of my little room, I can see and hear the ocean which lies less than 50 yards from where I sit. Mui Ne is a bay without giant waves crashing on the shore. Still, I can listen to the constant ebb and flow of the water as it laps upon the sand and rocks me through the night.

In the continual warmth of the day, most often cooled by a gentle wind, I gaze up at the coconut palms backed by brilliant blue skies and wonder if there is anything more beautiful in the whole wide world.

I have no idea why it took me over six weeks in Vietnam to finally get to a beach where I know I belong. In part, I wanted to visit with friends and be in a place that I knew well which happened to be in the big city. And then there was the decision of which beach to go to. Contrary to what one reads in the guide books, I do not find the tourist beaches to be very alluring here. And I am just not up to roughing it on a secluded patch of ocean of which there is probably no shortage.

There are, of course, a few beautiful islands, but then you are stuck on an island, costs are high, and there really isn’t any local population to delve into, which is important for me when I travel.

It was around six years ago that I first came to Mui Ne. It was my first trip to a Vietnamese beach, it was close to Ho Chi Minh City where I was working, and friends told me it was lovely. I was happy to find a hotel that was away from the central area that everyone seemed to rave about.

I remember walking a few kilometers down the road to the “center” of tourist-town. It consisted of one hotel after another, no space in between. The beach was packed with mostly young ones drinking, surfing, parasailing, and sitting on the beach. It was not my scene; it had not been my scene even when I had been one of the young ones.

For me, the beach is solitude and waves, collecting seashells and meditation. When I was last here, I remember enjoying my somewhat isolated retreat where I could go out every morning to watch the fishermen pulling in their nets. I also knew that just a few years prior, this area had been only fishing villages and figured that in another few years even that stretch of beach would look like the crowded areas.

So that was my dilemma; where was I to find that elusive beach atmosphere with some of the conveniences but without the party-life and noise? I searched and searched on the internet and finally decided I might as well give Mui Ne another try. It was the right decision. Not everything in Mui Ne has been overbuilt. Sometimes one simply has to take the risk of ending up in hell to find paradise.

The fishermen are still here. They still go out in their little boats and still haul their nets in every morning. I like to sit at the beach entrance to my hotel and watch the morning rituals of pulling in the nets. But it makes me self-conscious; as if I am intruding on their time with the sea. Or maybe it bothers me that I am the rich gal who can afford to watch them work so hard for so little money. I want so much to capture it all on film, but it seems too invasive.

This morning I did go out and I did take pictures, along with several other tourists. But before I left the beach I handed one of the women a bit of money, thanking her for letting me take photos. I will never be comfortable with the rich gal status I carry with me when in countries like Vietnam. I only hope that I am making a favorable impression and not offending those who live here and who have called it home for centuries.

Kate

Windsurfing in Mui Ne

2011-03-03T20:39:00.000-08:00

Coming into Mui Ne in the taxi, I’d noticed a banner strung across a hotel. About all I could understand was Windsurfing Competition and March 1-5, the rest being written in Vietnamese. Well this was fortuitous. Once situated in hotel number one, I cruised the internet for details. Yes, there was a PWA, (Professional Windsurfer’s Association), contest going on right here in town. The problem was that the PWA site didn’t list where in Mui Ne it was happening.

Once in hotel number two, I continued my search for windsurfing details and was just about to go out on the street to flag down surfer-types when I stopped to chat with another hotel guest sitting in the shade in front of her room, five-month-old baby on her lap. We talked about the kid and I noticed a surfboard lying to her right. It turned out that her husband was in the competition and she told me to go down to the Full Moon Resort to watch.

A little background on me and surf related sports; had I grown up at the water’s edge, (and not across a bay that lead to the Pacific Ocean), and had that shoreline been in a hot weather location, (and not frigid Northern California with its 50°F/ 10°C water), I would have been a surfer.

The ocean is my lifeblood. There is nothing on earth that clears my mind and replenishes my soul as does a walk along the beach listening to the sounds of the crashing surf.

Even growing up turning blue in order to romp in the waves of Stinson Beach didn’t deter me from the dream of catching a few waves on a board. (But access and equipment did.) It wasn’t until I jumped into the warm waters in Southern California at around 14 that I realized I had been tricked into thinking one must endure pain in order to play in the ocean. From that time forward I think I only tested the arctic waters of the north a few more times. I knew what was available and I was holding out.

Landing in San Diego to go to college I, of course, lived in Ocean Beach. Everyone there surfed or scuba-ed and I watched with vicarious delight and with more than a bit of sadness that I wasn’t out there with them. One apartment I had overlooked the Ocean Beach Pier and the waves beyond. I actually would have a few surfer friends call to ask how the waves were at any particular time of day. All I could answer was, They’re breaking.

I moved to another apartment where my neighbors were all into, at the time, cutting edge sports like hang-gliding and windsurfing, which was so new that one of the guys was hand-manufacturing boards. They invited me for a windsurfing lesson and I was over the moon. Little did I know that I was not going to be able to master the sport.

Maybe I was past the age of developing water and sailing skills. My friend kept telling me to snap up the sail and make sure the wind was at my back. I tried and tried but just couldn’t manage to hold that contraption in the right position to catch the wind. I don’t know how long I was out on that little lake when I finally gave up, lay down on the board, and began to paddle towards shore which was taking a long time. My friend easily sailed out on his board and towed me back in.

And here I am, all these years later, still dreaming of my little surf shop on a white-sands, tropical beach. Possibly I’ll never have that, which is ok, but that doesn’t stop me from my surfer girl mind-set.

I caught the bus down to the Full Moon Resort, which is one of the high-dollar joints in town. The entranceway and surrounding gardens with brilliant flowers and lots of shady palms looked charming. With many of the hotels along that stretch of beach, it is just a matter of walking through the entrance, out through their beach café, and onto the beach proper. Not quite the case with the Full Moon. It sits above the beach on a mini-cliff requiring climbing down a bunch of stairs to the sands below.

Not that it mattered as this was the spot where the event guys were set up, manning a number of laptops. It was also and the main filming area for both foreign videographers and Vietnamese press photographers. I ordered an ice coffee and joined the ranks of the press corp. I didn’t even need the press pass that they all had hanging around their necks.

Since the wind had yet to pick up to an acceptable sailing speed, the contest was on hold. This gave me time to check out my photographic competition. Right. These guys had the bad-boy mega lenses. I pulled out my new, very expensive Canon, with its little bitty zoom. I made eye contact with one of the photographers and pointed to my camera and then to his and laughed. I walked over and asked about his very expensive Canon and that 400mm lens. The lens alone weighed close to 6 kilos. I looked out to where the action was to take place and knew it was a virtual impossibility to get any good shots of folks jumping their boards over the water. Even if I walked down to the sand, I wouldn’t get much. My alternative was to hang out with the guys getting paid to do what I was trying to do and take pictures of them and the sunshine.

I sat back down to sip my coffee, took off my lens cap and saw some grime on the lens. It hadn’t occurred to me up until then that I should have brought a lens cloth with me. And why the heck didn’t it come with my very expensive camera? But hey, I was surrounded by pros; they’d know what to do. It took me a few minutes to gather the courage before approaching one of the men and asking how to clean my lens. He asked me to hand him my camera. For less than a split second I worried about him dropping it. (I don’t ever hand this camera to anyone to even take a picture of me). Of course I quickly realized that my camera was much safer in his hands than even in mine. He called out to his buddy to lend him the required materials. With the gentlest care imaginable, he first cleaned the lens with one cloth and then finished it with another. At least I now know that this is a two-step process.

Every ten or fifteen minutes an announcement came over the loudspeakers informing us that the competition was still on hold due to lack of wind. Mind you, I thought it was quite breezy, but apparently it was not enough for windsurfing. And it was already past 3 in the afternoon. And the sun goes down by 6pm. The guys would look at each other and shake their heads. I’d look and say something like maybe tomorrow. The last announcement I heard before leaving was that if the wind picked up they would start at 4:05. That was enough for me. I hopped on a bus back home.

I might head out again in the next day or two if it gets really windy. I don’t think I can get any good pictures but I would like to watch the guys and gals take to the sea. And more importantly, just being around the whole surf scene makes me very, very happy.

Kate

This is my one winsurfer shot; a speck on the landscape. I took a peak at the same shot done by one of the real guys with the big lens, and you can read the name on the riders sunglasses.

Travelling to Mui Ne

2011-03-01T20:13:00.000-08:00

The only way to get to Mui Ne Beach is by bus or train. I didn’t relish the thought of either even if it was only four hours away. It has to do with the one major downfall of travelling alone; who watches your bag when you go to take a pee?

A bus trip would have meant going to the very crowded backpacker section of Ho Chi Minh City, which gets even more crowded in the morning when all the buses line up to take tourists and locals to vacation destinations. It would have meant watching your suitcase get thrown in the storage unit under the bus and then just hoping it will be there when you arrived. It also meant a long, uncomfortable trip, maybe with a potty break; maybe not.

.
So it was to be the train. And what the heck was wrong with me? I come from a long and honorable line of railroad engineers; it’s in my DNA. I love trains. I love the sound and the chug-a-chug, and the ability to get up and roam around. Except there still remained the problem of who watches the bags. Worst case scenario I just might be able to avoid leaving my belongings in search of the train loo if I stopped drinking anything 24 hours before the trip.
.
I came to Vietnam with a big suitcase, a small suitcase, and a backpack that contained laptop and camera. There were definitely things I could leave at a friend’s house thereby deleting the small suitcase. As I sat on the larger one trying to zip it at 5:00am yesterday morning, I wondered how I still had managed to be travelling with so much weight.

The taxi dropped me at the station at 6:15 which gave me forty minutes to wait on the platform and try to sort out just how I was going to get that heavy bag up onto the train and after that, just exactly where I was going to put it.

.
Luck would have it that this guy saw me walk over to get on. He looked as though he might have spoken English, but he didn’t say anything. Just pointed to my bag indicating he would help, then hauled it up onto the train and without my even asking, shoved it behind the last two seats. Fantastic! I was set. Except that that wasn’t my assigned seat. Once again, I had forgotten to think things through. I should have requested an aisle seat, I should have asked for the last seat in the car. I got anxious for no reason at all since it turned out those last two seats were empty. And it was then that I realized that in the future I will just pay for two seats and make sure they are in the back of the car. Considering the trip only costs around $4, double that price is worth the comfort and freedom of mind.
.
The ride was comfortable since I had two seats and when I did need to get up and move, I looked around the train car; people looked normal. I didn’t see any thugs or shady characters so just left my backpack in my seat. The train toilet was at the front of the adjoining car. Having been in a Vietnamese train bathroom before, I knew what to expect. A squatter toilet. On a rocking train. Much more dangerous than on an airplane with turbulence. I then made the mistake of hitting the flush pedal and only speedy reaction time saved me from a soaking wet shoe.

I was now no longer so obsessed with watching my belongings. I stood between the cars and let the rhythms run through me. I began to hum along with the four measure repeating cadence that the train made as we rumbled through farm land and jungle. It was as close to a samba beat as I was going to get and seeing that it is just about Carnaval time, I did a few Brazilian steps to the tempo of the locomotive.

The scenery was lovely and I thought of pulling out the camera but with dirty, scratched-up windows, nothing would have looked very nice. Also, it was simply too labor intensive to haul it out.

.
Once at the train station in Phan Thiet, I hopped in a taxi for the twenty minute ride to my hotel. Yet another harrowing trip along a narrow two-lane road, taxi driver honking and passing everything in sight. At least this car had functioning seatbelts.
.

Within twenty seconds of arriving at the hotel, I was already getting bad vibes. I could see that the rooms were not what I had expected. Although on the beach, there were no “sea views”. Two long buildings of guestrooms ran along either side of a central garden/courtyard. I passed one with an open door and it was pitch black inside at twelve noon. But what was most troubling was the surly staff.

.
In all my travels in Vietnam, and in fact the world, I don’t think I have ever been to a hotel where the staff made me feel as if I were imposing on them. And then the gal at reception tells me there are no rooms because they over-booked. I pointed out I had a reservation and she got upset. They finally took me to an upper level room. I saw at least four other empty rooms.

The room was small-basic-basic, but since it was relatively new, it was clean. Being upstairs it was bathed in sunlight from the huge windows that ran across the front of the room. OK, that was nice. But then I noticed that the windows didn’t open. And I noticed there was no mini-fridge, but there was internet access. That’s another major change fro just five years ago; no budget hotel had internet then and now every place, from cheap to five star, has Wi-Fi available in the rooms.

.
The place was fine for the night but not for anymore than that. Just before I had left HCMC, I ran into a friend who had given me a name of a hotel in Mui Ne that was reasonably priced and very nice. So after dropping off my bags, I headed out to walk down the street to find it. On the local map I had picked up, it was just down the road.

After walking twenty minutes I realized this was another Vietnam tourist map that greatly distorted distances. I stopped to ask how far the hotel was and found out it was another 5K. This time I did not mess up the conversion to miles. I then asked about a city bus. I just happened to be at the bus stop and one would be by in fifteen minutes.

.
I instantly fell in love with the new hotel the minute I walked through the front entrance. It had beautiful gardens, and wide open structures and it just had to be way above what I had hoped to spend. But I persevered. A smiling young man came out to greet me and I explained what I was looking for. He took me over to the front desk and handed me a room price list. There must have been something wrong; rooms for $16? I must have looked shocked because he quickly explained the 10% discount. Still not quite believing that this could be true, I asked to see the rooms. They were similar in size and darkness to where I had just come from. I asked to see something with more light. I have booked the room for a week and will move there in a few hours. I will pay $18 a night because I want hot water and breakfast, otherwise it would be $14. This still just doesn’t make sense, when everything else around here starts at close to $40. Even the backpacker places are $12.

I will be very happy to finally unpack for a while and not have to get on a plane or train. And I am at the beach, the most wonderful place to be in the world.

.
Kate

Tra Que Vegetable Village

2011-02-24T23:52:00.000-08:00

Not far from the center of town lies the small village of Tra Que, where families have been growing and selling vegetables for around 500 years. It didn’t look too far on that deceptive map of the city, and I had been assured it was only around 2 kilometers. That’s an easy walk, I thought.

Once again, I have fallen into the foibles of not using metric for the past three years. I am not that good with exact measurements or weights, but kilos and kilometers are easy. A kilo is about 2 pounds, so when I am checking the price of fruit in the market, I divide it into half a kilo and instantly know the price per pound. The same with kilometers; one K equals about a mile and a half. Good enough for a rough estimation of distance. The problem on the day I went to Tra Que is that I converted kilometers into pounds and thought it was less than a mile walk when in fact it was over three miles and probably closer to four.

I made this grand discovery of my mistake somewhere around the hour walking mark, with no vegetable farms in sight. I stopped for a drink and asked the owner how much farther until I reached the village. He said it was only 200 meters away. That’s about half a lap on a 440 track, and I could easily do it.

As I passed out of the town area and found myself on a narrow road with traffic zooming by, rice fields to the left and right, I debated just stopping, hoping a bus or taxi would drive by to take me back to the hotel. I could see some buildings way off in the distance but just didn’t think my knee would last me that much longer. I was also rather hot and tired. But a friend had told me how fantastic a place Tra Que was and I couldn’t report back that I wussed out partway there and turned back. I trudged on. And I am so glad I did.

Cute little houses run along the lanes leading to the fields of vegetables. Around a few bends and I found myself looking out over a large plot of land, with immaculate rows of brilliantly colored herbs and vegetables. My friend had told me about a little place to eat in the middle of all this and eventually I found it, tucked into the back side of the fields.

I walked into the covered eating area which really wasn’t a restaurant with menus. I think they mostly do meals for prearranged tours. Nevertheless, they staff greeted me warmly, had me take a seat, and brought over a glass of local tea made of ginger, basil seeds, lemon grass and sugar. It was wonderful. I explained that my friend had told me that I must eat Bahn xeo, fresh spring rolls. The chef told me that it would be no problem; I could walk around the gardens for thirty minutes and come back to eat.

I walked down a concrete path that had dirt paths leading off to either side. I gazed down on perfect heads of green lettuce, laid out in perfect little rows, which lay next to lines of other edible greenery. As I understand it, all the families in the village have their own plots of land within the big field. Several people were out their working the land and I’d occasionally see someone fly by on a bicycle only to return a few minutes later with a basket of freshly picked produce.

I said hello to an older woman who walked along the path. I told her how beautiful everything was. She smiled, leaned over and snapped off a stem of coral colored gladiolas and handed it to me. I continued on down the main path until it reached the river. Had I not done that horrid trek out to the village, I would have walked along the river bank, which was lined with more cute houses.

It was so quiet and peaceful out there. I could easily imagine living in a little house and going out to my garden to plant and collect food. Listening to the breeze and birds I realized just how tourist-congested the town of Hoi An really is. This little trip was a lovely respite from all the hawkers and all the buyers.

I ambled around a bit more then back to the café. It had been getting a little warm out in the sun, but it was surprisingly cool and breezy under the wood canopy of the restaurant. A short while later my meal was brought over on a handmade platter lined with banana leaves. A pile of assorted fresh greens took up a large area. Next to it were little shrimp tied into bundles of other leafy things. There were delicate egg omelet thingy’s and rice paper wrappers. The waiter demonstrated in which order to pile on your fillings, wrap it up, bit it in the sauce, and eat. It was sublime.

Not wanting to walk back, I asked if there was a bus that went by. I was told they could call me a taxi. I have no idea why I had never taken a taxi before in Hoi An. Maybe I thought it would be too expensive. Maybe I thought the distances were too short to warrant a ride. Whatever my reasoning, I was happy to have them order a cab, and be back in town in no time.

Kate

The Russians in Town & Boat Ferries

2011-02-18T06:04:00.000-08:00

Coming upon a road block on one of the main lanes in the central district, I thought, Oh no; had there been an accident? A crime? I looked at the yellow crime-scene-type tape stretched across the road and the official guys in green government uniforms stopping anyone from entering. In all cases of injured bodies lying in a street, I quickly find an alternate route. But I didn’t see any. I didn’t see any misshapen bicycles or motorbikes. I didn’t see anyone being hauled off in handcuffs. In fact I couldn’t see anything out of place.

Finally we were let through and that’s when I started noticing western men and women with walkie-talkies and several guys in US military fatigues, a jeep and a truck or two dressed up to look like US military vehicles of the Vietnam War era.

One man obviously involved with whatever was going on sat on a shop stoop. I went over to get details. He was Russian, spoke about five words of English, but I did ascertain that they were making a movie. Damn; once again I hadn’t brought my camera. I really do need to buy a cheap one so that I will be prepared at all times for that prize winning photo.

A large green truck with a canvas canopy over the back was parked at the end of the block. They were just getting ready to film the peasants being shuffled in. The Vietnamese extras were rather well attired for a war-era film, but had been grimed up a bit. As they filmed, I watched the reaction of the onlookers, most of them born years after the conflict had ended. I did notice one gentleman in his 60’s and wondered what he was thinking.

The shot finished, I walked closer to the truck and saw who I assumed was the leading lady. Anorexic enough to look like a starving young woman from the countryside, she nevertheless had enough make-up on to look like a Vogue model. Three people simultaneously worked on her hair and maquillage before the next shot.

I debated running back to my hotel to grab that camera, but decided not to. However, I was definitely going to pack it along the next day and come back with the hopes that they would still be there. They weren’t.

Several days later, I ran into the crew in a different part of town and, of course, was without camera. But at least this time I approached the Vietnamese crew members and asked if they would be filming the following day. Yes, they would, but it would be down by the river. The following day, after almost giving up on ever finding them again, I finally was at a film location with a camera.

This time they were shooting a scene that involved a boat laden with chickens and bananas. It was a very artistically arranged vessel that looked in much better repair than the real, working boats alongside it. I went directly over to a man who appeared to be in charge and started asking about the film.

It is going to be a TV movie about love during the war. I asked why a Russian production company was making a film about the Vietnam/American conflict. He pointed out that the Soviet Union had consultants working in Vietnam to help with the communist agenda. That made sense until I later thought about it and only remember seeing portrayals of US soldiers and Vietnamese, and not one Russian. Then again, I only saw a few takes being filmed. I would love to see the final cut, but I’ll either have to go to Russia, or possibly be in Vietnam when it is shown.

I was glad I happened to be down by the docks at that particular time, late afternoon, because the transport boats were coming in and going out. It is an amazing feat to watch. Boats filled with motorbikes and bicycles pull up to the quay bringing folks home from somewhere down the river. In a well-choreographed procedure, people and their modes of transport are off-loaded at a quick pace. A few minutes later, the reverse occurs, motorbikes being pushed up a ramp then aligned in precision and with a speed that is truly impressive. While that is going on, another guy is lifting bikes onto a platform above the boat. People pile on and off they go, just as another boat is coming in.

Maybe I should take a ride on a boat.

Kate

Full Moon Festival

2011-02-17T06:44:00.000-08:00

Hoi An celebrates the full moon every single month and last night I got to join in the festivities.

Strolling in the late afternoon along the river walk, I passed people busily setting up make-shift stalls of colorful luminaries. Yo can buy one or as many as you want. As soon as it gets dark, you light the candle inside and send it on down the river. Or better yet, you take a ride in a boat and set it out in the middle of the river.

Farther along the way, I paused in front of a group of Buddhist monks and followers lighting incense and intoning prayers at the river’s edge. I closed my eyes and let the sounds and smells and prayers envelope me in a spiritual embrace.

As the light of the day slowly faded away, I ate a meal of tasty steamed fish in a café just a few meters from the river, and watched as more lantern vendors set their wares out on the sidewalk, and more people appeared on the street.

Walking past all the riverfront activity I decided I really should buy a little floating lantern to send out with all the others. I was deciding who I should buy from when I happened upon a group selling lanterns to benefit a children’s home.

One of the young women working at this booth told me I could now walk over to the edge of the river and place it in the water. That was not going to happen. Except for the candlelight and minimal electric light from the silk lanterns strung about, it was darn near pitch black. It would just be my luck to fall in. She kindly offered to place it in the river for me. She also handed me a fortune which I read and then placed inside the lantern. When the candle burned down and ignited the fortune, it was her hope that it would come true for me.

The area by the water was starting to get a bit too congested especially since it was so dark. I headed to the next lane up from the river which was adorned with colorful lanterns. Shops were open and all of them had placed offering tables out front, brimming with fruit, lucky paper money, incense and other items.

I stopped in front of a young man playing the most beautiful traditional music on a very simple wooden flute. Further down the street several other musical groups began to appear and fill the air with sweet sounds.

A small bridge crosses the river inlet and it was packed with people enjoying the view in all directions. I walked across, stopping to look down on those who had boarded boats for an evening cruise to deposit lanterns in the river. Depending on the level of the water, there is often not quite enough head room for those passing under the bridge. I watched as passengers quickly flattened themselves to avoid major injury.

On the other side of the bridge there are numerous, permanent stalls that sell silk lanterns in every shape, size and color. At night, when they are all lit up, the street becomes one fabulous land of enchantment. On Full Moon nights, everyone seems to be there to marvel at the spectacle and take pictures in front of the brilliant displays.

Everything winds down at about 10pm which seems reasonable. After all, it will only be a few more weeks until the next full moon and the whole affair begins again.

Kate

Clinton Stayed Here?????

2011-02-15T07:01:00.000-08:00

I am in a really, really nice hotel. I am by no means a 5-star traveler, but am way past the super-budget rooms of my younger years. I suppose I’d be categorized as a Flash Packer, which is the group between the two extremes. And this hotel is a bit above that level. However, when a friend raved about it and I looked it up on line, I decided I could do with a taste of very modest luxury for a few days before looking for something a tad less expensive.

As it happened, there was a promotion going on so I received a 10% discount. And after two days here, I was given even a larger discount. When I compared the wondefullness of the room and the amenities, including a huge breakfast spread, it was coming out to not much more than the other hotels I had considered.

These other hotels are where one runs into difficulties, at least in Vietnam. What you see on their web page is rarely what you get. I pretty much knew this before making my latest journey here. My instincts were further confirmed when I started to notice that all the hotels I looked at in HCMC seemed to have the same picture of the rooms available. Fortunately, a Vietnamese friend did all the leg work and booked a place for me. After I’d been in that hotel for a while, I went on a scouting expedition to see how the online hotel pictures compared to the real-time view. It was frightening to see how little resemblance they bared to their hotel websites.

This was just one more reason I was more than happy to stay at a hotel where someone I knew had recently stayed. I loved the hotel and my room the minute I saw it. I wasn’t so thrilled that the “city view” was actually a balcony opening on to a small street with a view of the neighbor’s living rooms, but it was better than the alternative of an interior view to the pool and other guests’ rooms. I wasn’t overly concerned when the guys across the street had their Saturday night beer party on the front porch. But Monday morning at 6:30am I started to get worried. It was then that I realized there was an elementary school across the narrow street and less than half a block away.

I’m always up early, I don’t mind the voices of kids in a school yard, but they do things differently here and it was yet another Vietnam fact that I had forgotten. Monday morning is outdoor assembly time. All the kids are in the yard, (which is directly across the way), and one teacher is on a microphone that is so loud it can be heard for miles. She’s yelling something and all the kids are responding. This went on for close to an hour. And that didn’t seem to be the end of it. I swear at least a hundred kids at a time were out for recess the entire day. The noise never ceased until around 4:30 when I saw the last ones leave.

Ready to sit down and write, I was jolted out of my chair by music blasting at nine million decibels. I thought that maybe there was a nightclub nearby. It turned out to be the small kiosk next to the school, or at least I think it was. I couldn’t even see any people. It was so loud I could feel the reverberation in the floor. This simply was not going to work as a place to relax and write. I needed a view of rice paddies or jungle.

This morning I told the young man at reception about the problem with the noise and that I didn’t think I would be able to stay here much longer. He assured me that it only happened on Monday. Not being 100% convinced of that, I spent a good part of today searching for different accommodation. I made a list of the places I had found online before coming here and searched through sites like TripAdvisor for recommendations. I marked places off on my little map and hit the road.

Nothing is that far away, but the hotel-provided maps leave off a whole bunch of streets making things much farther than expected. It seemed I had walked forever before I got to the Phuoc An Hotel. They had very nice rooms listed online for $20 a night and I was hoping to get a discount for a longer stay. Guest reviews seemed to speak well of their establishment.

As I walked into the hotel I was greeted by a young man inquiring how he could help me. I asked what the price for a room was. He said, “$200.” I figured there was some language miscommunication so restated the question. I got the same answer. This time I asked if he meant $20, not $200. At this point he began to get rather agitated and wrote out “200”. I said something about that not being possible and did a quick check to make sure I was not at the Hilton. The 30-somethings walking down the stairs with backpacks assured me I was in the right place.

By this time the guy was waving his arms and repeating, “$200 a night”, over and over. When I didn’t jump at the opportunity to book the room immediately, he said, “Bill Clinton stayed in this room”. Huh? Again he kept repeating “Bill Clinton”, “very special room”. It took me about a minute to finally ask about rooms other than the Clinton one.

“Oh”, he said, as if understanding for the first time, “you want a different room?” I nodded my head. “We don’t have any others.” A bit more questioning and I finally was told that
the rooms started at $30. It was time to leave.

All told, I spent about four hours walking around looking at hotels. They were either more expensive than the one I am in, (and of a far inferior standard), or slightly less costly but of a way lower standard. So bum knee throbbing, I hoofed it back to the river, found an upstairs café with a view and ate cake and ice cream.

It was 5:00 pm when I got back to my hotel room and as I turned the key in my door, I braced myself for the onslaught of blaring disco tracks. There wasn't any. I sat down to relax and wait. Still no sounds other than people talking on the street or an occasional dog barking. I am so happy. I had already been mapping out my hotel-search-trek to the other side of town for tomorrow. Instead I can get back to the business of enjoying Hoi An.

Kate

Hoi An

2011-02-14T04:44:00.000-08:00

I’ve arrived in Nirvana, was my first thought as I rolled into the town of Hoi An a few days ago. After a month of noise, pollution, and 90F/32C degree temperatures, this is such a welcome change.

For one who adores heat, I was finding HCMC a bit too much. I’m not sure why that was; not enough time to acclimate? Horrid air quality? Whatever it was, I am glad to be out of there. Hoi An has been overcast since arriving, with temps around 70F/20C during the day, and dipping a bit at night, It’s cool, but not cold. Yet the locals are wrapped up in bulky jackets and knit caps in the evenings and mornings.

Hoi An sits on a river, just a few kilometers from the beach and a forty minute drive from the city of Da Nang.

Hoi An Ancient Town is an exceptionally well-preserved example of a South-East Asian trading port dating from the 15th to the 19th century. Its buildings and its street plan reflect the influences, both indigenous and foreign, that have combined to produce this unique heritage site. (UNESCO World Heritage Convention) whc.unesco.org

The World Heritage people go on to say that Hoi An is the only such town in Vietnam that has survived intact for several hundred years. It was a major, international trading port 400 years ago. They have also found archeological evidence of trading as far back as the 2nd century BCE.

I’ve spent the past several days meandering through the narrow, winding streets lined with traditionally designed shops and houses. The influence of the Chinese merchants who settled here is obvious. But there is also the Japanese Bridge, dating from the 18th century, and other contributions from Japanese who moved into the town as well.

There were lots of tourists here over the weekend, both foreign and Vietnamese. Either visitors who come here are different than those in HCMC, or it’s the ambiance of the town that seemingly lowers everyone’s metabolic rate to “slow and leisurely”. Since that is the effect it has had on me, I am assuming it does the same to all. Consequently, I was not at all bothered by the folks wondering and enjoying as much as I was. But it was a lovely surprise when I headed out this morning, Monday, to find nearly empty streets. I had forgotten that not only are there more people here on weekends, but also it was the end of the Tet holiday which accounted for many of the Vietnamese tourists.

I like to explore the neighborhoods of wherever I happen to be. In Hoi An, that means taking a left instead of a right, which puts you in the non-tourist areas in just a few short minutes. Yesterday, in the early evening, I walked through the blocks behind my hotel. All of the front entryways to all of the houses I passed were open. Some folks were inside watching TV; others sat on the front stoops with kids and/or dogs. As I passed, I’d see a serious face looking up at me. I’d smile, do the requisite head-bow, and say xin chao, (seen chow), (hello). Immediately, the person I spoke to grinned from ear to ear and returned my greeting. If it were a mother with a child, she’d encourage him to say hello and wave. Sometimes I’d stop to exchange a few words; me in limited Vietnamese and them in limited English. We’d all end up laughing and waving goodbye. It is the most wonderful feeling to stroll along an unknown street and be welcomed by all you pass.

For someone who is not really driven by the need-to-eat phenomenon, Hoi An has changed me. The food here, no matter where you go, is fantastic! I’ve always have a hard time explaining to people that the “wonderful Vietnamese food” has eluded me in Ho Chi Minh City. I know there are good restaurants there, and I have eaten in some of them, but it has not been that often. I mostly found myself eating tasteless meals. And that simply does not happen in Hoi An. Yesterday, I ordered veggies and tofu expecting a boring meal like I’d get in HCMC. Was I ever surprised. This meal was scrumptious! And the price was at least half what I’d pay for that cardboard meal in HCMC. I find myself eagerly awaiting the next restaurant outing, something unheard of for the gal who prefers to munch on nuts and fruit when traveling.

My favorite part of any day in Hoi An is walking along the promenade that lines both sides of the river inlet that cuts through the central tourist area. Magical fishing boats sit in the water waiting for their next outing. Elderly women, in long, thin, low-to-the-water row boats, wait for a tourist to book a short ride with them. People sit in café’s along the street, drinking coffee and eating. People drive by on bicycles and share the roadway with the motor scooters who are much more well-behaved up here. I want a house on the river so that I can wake up every morning to this glorious scene.

Kate

Tet Flower Street 2011

2011-02-06T05:37:00.000-08:00

Tet, the Lunar New Year, just doesn’t get any better than in Ho Chi Minh City. Every house and every shop and every big building is embellished in red and gold, with flowers and plants and decorations out front and on windows and doors.

The absolute best, however, is what they do to Nguyen Hue Street, in the center of town. This is a massive, wide boulevard that runs straight down to the Saigon River. Every year, for about the past ten years, the street is closed to traffic and turned into a park. And we are not just talking a few potted plants; the actually lay bricks and mortar to create winding flower beds, install giant fountains and, this year, a central lotus pond with concrete walls. It takes about two weeks to build, is open to the public for one week, and then it comes down.

I learned that before the annual park, came into existence, Nguyen Hue Street was where they used to have the flower market that I had visited last week. It had taken place every year for as long as anyone could remember. The city fathers, however, were tired of the mess it created and tried to put a stop to it. Finally, someone came up with the ingenious plan to move the flower market to a park, and turn Nguyen Hue into a temporary Tet garden.

Even though half the population has left the city to go visit relations outside of town, that still leaves a goodly number of residents. The traffic is very light in comparison and it is not quite so dangerous to cross the street. Nevertheless, that half of the population descends on central HCMC to walk amongst the gardens of Tet. And this is why one needs to take a stroll down Nguyen Hue at 6:00am.

When I got out of the taxi at 5:55, it was still pitch black. Even so, there were already people doing the walk which was lit by beautiful lanterns in various shapes. I tried to find my friend and thought I should have brought a flashlight. No need; 15 minutes later, there was plenty of light. That’s another interesting thing about life here; the sun comes up in a blast and goes down with almost no warning. Light to dark, dark to light in a quick flash.

All the types of plants I had seen at the flower market lined the sides of the streets, and down the center, arranged like a mini-Versailles. My friend and I stopped every few feet to marvel at the intricate displays and beautiful colors. Cat statues, in various forms and sizes, dotted the entire route.

My favorite was the lotus pond. I couldn’t believe that they were going to tear it down in a week. I asked my friend if maybe they would leave it. She looked at me like I was nuts. I thought about it and realized it was actually situated in a car lane so no, I guess they’d really have to remove it.

About an hour later, we stopped off for a cup of coffee then headed over to Tao Dan Park to see the flower show; yet another horticultural wonder. Upon entering, we were greeted by the most spectacular flower dragon I have ever seen. His body went on for what seemed like a mile.

Among the tall, tall trees and areas of grass, various plants held court. The special Tet trees, in yellow as well as red and pink, stood in pots throughout one section of the park. Bonsai plants filled one area, orchids in another. There were a few things I had never seen, like these gigantic potted gardens that had been made with rocks and bonsai plants, and contained little ceramic figures of people and buildings. I was a bit sad that there were only a few of the dragon figures that are made entirely of plants, vegetables and fruit. It must be a dying art.

As wondrous and beautiful as everything was, I was most touched by the people of HCMC and their love of the holiday. Families were out in all their finery, laughing and smiling and taking photos in front of picturesque backdrops. Young women, dressed to the nines, posed like Vogue models while they took turns taking each other’s picture. Grannies and grandpa’s and the whole extended family stood for group photos. Mom’s and dad’s, their kids dressed in bright silk, traditional costumes, had a bit of trouble getting the little ones to stand still, but eventually got their shot, laughing the whole time.

The sheer joy of the entire population is something I have never experienced in any country for any holiday. It has been a week of everyone smiling and everyone being happy. Wherever I walk, I greet people with Happy New Year, in my somewhat understandable Vietnamese. The reaction I always get is a giant smile and a return greeting.

It seems to me that the Year of the Cat is off to an excellent start.

Kate

Strange Rabbits & A Flower Market

2011-02-01T20:06:00.000-08:00

The Vietnamese and Chinese New Year begins the evening of February 2nd. Before leaving the US, I made sure I knew exactly what year on the animal wheel it would be so that I wouldn’t appear stupid. I found out that it would be the Year of the Rabbit.

The Lunar New Year is the biggest event of the year in Vietnam, and the city has been gearing up since before I arrived. Main streets in the central district are bedecked with ornamental lighting. Huge flower/plant markets are set up in all districts of the city and most likely throughout the country. Red and gold decorations depicting the animal year and traditional tokens of luck, such as pineapples and coins, are sold on street corners, supermarkets, and most shops.

Soon after arriving I started to look for a funky Rabbit Year talisman. I couldn’t seem to find any. I clearly remember buying gold plastic little horses and pigs when it was there year. So where were the rabbits? I looked at all the posters and door decorations on both houses and stores and the only animal I saw was a very strange rabbit with short ears. And I kept seeing variations of these critters. Perhaps Vietnamese rabbits were different from the ones I knew.

Several days ago I wondered by Nguyen Hue Street where they were busy constructing that temporary flower park. At the top of the street, at the main entrance, where they always have a large display of the current animal, I again noticed to the short-eared rabbits. Then I noticed the long tails. OK, so what I had been seeing wasn’t a mutant rabbit but a cat. That would make sense except that I had been certain we were going into a rabbit year. Maybe it was now rabbit and we were transitioning into cat.

While in the lobby of a hotel, waiting for a friend, I asked the receptionist what year it was going to be. Cat, she said. I explained my confusion about thinking it was rabbit and asked if we were just ending rabbit and going into cat? She finally set the record straight; this year in Vietnam will be the Cat, but in China it will be Year of the Rabbit. All of the other lunar animal years correspond exactly to the Chinese ones except for this year. This actually was a fact I had known but forgotten. Now I can go out and get some cat ornaments.

Before doing that, however, I made a trip to one of the flower markets, this one located in downtown HCMC. This particular park runs between Pham Ngu lao and Le Lai Streets. It’s at least a block wide and at least five blocks long. Always a pleasant place to stroll, rather than on its bordering streets of insane traffic and noise, it’s truly exceptional before Tet when growers bring in their flowers and plants to sell for the New Year celebrations.

Pots of chrysanthemums and sunflowers and many others I can’t put a name to, are packed into sections. A salesperson or two sits in their midst. There are sections devoted to the flowering “Tet trees”, just days away from blossoming, and alcoves of stunning orchids in all shapes, sizes and colours.

Many people are there to purchase the plants, but many more are there to inhale the splendor and take pictures of their friends and family amongst the foliage. Kids pose in front of tall sunflowers; others kneel in the middle of a patch of tall, blooming beauties.

Butterflies flit form plant to plant seemingly unaware that they are actually in an urban jungle and not the countryside. Everyone is as happy as can be, including me.

I may not know all the names of the plants, but I had seen them all before except, that is, for one; the plant of the dragon fruit. What a total shock to find out that it was some sort of succulent or cactus. It was like I had discovered a long lost secret of the universe that other people had known about but somehow I had missed. I usually know from whence my fruit comes, but not this time. It was like the first time I saw a banana tree and was totally dumbfounded to find out that the fruit grows up, and not down, as I had always pictured. These little bits of new knowledge make one realize just how remarkable the world can be.

Dragon Fruit

Kate

Changes

2011-01-27T23:02:00.000-08:00

Jan 2011

There are always changes when one returns to a place after several years. Judging from the changes I had seen in just the three years I had lived in Ho Chi Minh City, (2005-2008), I thought I would be ready for the difference between 2008 and 2011. I wasn’t. Or maybe I was but still find it rather shocking.

The traffic was insane when I left and now I find I am without adjectives to describe what it has become. The shuttle bus in from where I live to the center used to take about 20-25 minutes. A few days ago it took nearly 40 minutes. It’s just one big parking lot on all the streets. When last here, it was mostly motorbikes, (Vespa’s), trucks and taxis, and not that many private cars. The motorbikes seem to have multiplied like bunnies and a lot more people are driving cars. If streets were jam-packed three years ago, and are super jam-packed now, what will happen in five years time? I don’t think I will stick around to find out.

2006

The quiet neighborhood where I used to live and where I am now in a hotel, still boggles the mind with its massive change. I was having trouble figuring out where all the traffic on the main road was coming from and where it was going to. True, there are numerous, massive, new apartment buildings here, but the people traveling through this area do not live here. I finally found out that this road/highway has been extended in both directions and bridges have been built connecting outer sections of the city. Even though it is always busy, traffic does move along and has enabled people to get from point A to point B much more efficiently.

The problem with the main intersection is that there are about 6 lanes in each direction; some for motorbikes, some for cars, and some for trucks. This means that if you are in the motorbike lane and want to turn left, you must cross in front of the car and truck lanes that are going straight ahead. And if you are a pedestrian trying to cross you have to continuously look left and right and then back over your left shoulder and right shoulder because no one cares that you are crossing the street. Just when you think you might be OK, a motor bike appears, going in the wrong direction, trying to cut in around cars and trucks. It’s a veritable minefield.

2007/2008

I used to love taking weekend and evening walks up by the river; so quiet and peaceful and green. That is no longer possible. At the time, they had just completed this spectacular garden walkway where you could stroll along a landscaped path and listen to the chug-chug of the boats on the river just a little bit away. They have now built giant, ugly apartment blocks on both sides of the garden path. The ground floors are all shops giving it a strip-mall look. I tried walking there last night and none of the positive energy of the garden has survived.

Jan 2011

I suppose progress is inevitable and that entrepreneurs will open new businesses in a new area. But as I walked past new restaurant after new restaurant, with either no one inside or possibly two customers, I wondered just how long any of these will be open.

Having said all that, there are lots and lots of beautiful, quiet streets out here. I love walking along them, saying hi to construction workers on a coffee break, or waving to the ladies sweeping the streets, or stopping to admire a baby sitting with his granny on the front steps of a house. The people remain lovely and friendly. If they can seemingly ignore the clamor and clutter around them, maybe I can too.

Kate

2007/8

A Museum & Artists

2011-01-23T18:55:00.000-08:00

The combination of Colonial French Architecture, cool interiors, and marvelous artwork makes the Ho Chi Minh City Museum of Fine Arts a lovely retreat from the chaos that surrounds it. I had heard that it had originally been a commercial building, but their website says that it was used to board the daughters of the French Colonial rulers. No wonder I always feel like I could take up residence inside the museum.

My friend and I arrived the day they were having some sort of ceremony, possibly an art contest finale as several of the works had prize rankings attached to them. Lots of people and lots of floral arrangements graced the main entrance. However, the rest of the art filled rooms, covering three floors, were quite empty.

We strolled through the wide corridors with open windows on our left and into rooms on the right with examples of art ranging from the 1930’s to the present. There were oils and lacquer works, sculpture and acrylics. Several areas showcased ancient ethnic artwork. We walked up the wide staircases glowing with color from stained-glass windows that looked out onto the courtyard below.

It always amazes me that these old buildings, with no air conditioning, are never hot and usually have a nice breeze running through them. Perfect tropical architecture. In some of the museum rooms there were small fans, but they weren’t on and at the time we were there and were not needed.

The Fine Arts Museum really is the best place in town to cool down, relax, and feel revitalized.

**************************************************

Walking back from the backpackers’ area on Pham Ngu Lau St., I passed a small group of people in a tiny shop that opened onto the street. I could see that an older woman was instructing two young men who were working on an oil painting. Two other men and a young woman sat on small, folding chairs out front, and a few others were inside the small space. I stopped to watch their work and caught the eye of one of the guy’s who was inside. What with the noise of traffic and my limited Vietnamese, I did hand signals to indicate that I was watching the artists work and that I liked what they were doing. A look of surprise came over the young man’s face and he started to use sign language to reply.

Years and years ago, I took several semesters of American Sign Language and since that time, whenever I am overseas, I tend to use signs that are clear to anyone. It has gotten to the point that I assume I am using Universal Gestures, and some of the time I possibly am, but this time I was actually using ASL.

I know from my last trip to Vietnam, when I had a similar experience, that ASL is quite similar to VNSL. I assume that is because ASL is based on French Sign Language and that the French brought Sign Language to Vietnam.

Next thing I knew, I was sitting with the group chatting. This consisted of Sign Language and Vietnamese and English. Some was written down in English, and some was translated by the Vietnamese teacher, who was hearing but spoke limited English, and some by the young deaf man who had spent fifteen years in Australia. We were all so excited that we could communicate together.

They were part of the SHI, (Saigon Hearing Impairment), Fine Arts Club. They gave me a brochure of an exhibition going on just down the road, and pointed out their works pictured in the brochure.

This was really the first time since arriving that I remembered why I go off to other parts of the world; it’s for these truly magical moments that simply don’t happen when one knows one’s surroundings and the people that populate it.

For about thirty minutes we talked about where I was from, what I did, and a little about their lives. I learned that ASL has a far larger vocabulary than VNSL. The young man I first spoke with told me that his friend was studying at the California School for the Deaf in Fremont, CA. Excitement reigned when I told him that it was very close to where I was from in California.

When it was time for me to dash off so that I could catch the little shuttle bus back to my hotel, (rather than pay for a taxi), I promised to go by their exhibition and to come by again. I plan to go the see their work tomorrow and go back to talk sometime next week.

Kate

Back in HCMC

2011-01-15T22:41:00.000-08:00

Yesterday I finally had to use the internet to figure out that it was actually Saturday and not Friday. This is one of the minor hassles of losing a day when you fly half-way around the world. Not only am I now on the right time and the right hour, my body is also starting to recognize the change.

I never can sleep on a plane but since I was flying EVA airlines and had upgraded to Economy Deluxe, I wasn’t overly concerned. When I last flew back from Vietnam, nearly three years ago, the price difference between Economy and Eco Deluxe was only $100 each way. Totally worth it when you get wide seats with plenty of leg room and your own personal movies-on-demand screen. Unfortunately, that price has now doubled. More unfortunately, I flew on one of their more shabby planes.

It wasn’t until I had spoken to a travel agent, (and after I had already bought the ticket), that I found out that EVA uses well-worn 747’s three days a week and brand-spanking-new 777’s on other days. Prior to knowing this I had been mesmerized by the beautiful look of the “New Eco Deluxe” seats that EVA kept emailing to me.

Yes, the seats on the 747 are far wider and more comfortable than in economy, but the movie screens are old school. You do get your own private screen but you are at the mercy of whatever is currently playing; no pause, no rewind, not options other than channel 1, 2, or 3.

On one of my frequent strolls around the plane, a woman asked what was wrong with my knee. (your basic middle-aged joint problem). Then she kneeled down and started working on the knee, massaging and probing and hitting all the right spots. She told me she was a Thai masseuse, going home to visit family. She worked absolute wonders on my knee and then again gave me a treatment shortly before we landed in Taipei.

At least the three hour flight from Taipei to Ho Chi Minh City was on one of those new 777’s; shear luxury. When I fly back, I will make sure I get on a 777 for those 14 hours back to California.

Pure euphoria is how I would describe my emotional state as I walked out of the airport and into a taxi, headed for a hotel in the neighborhood where I used to live. I could not stop grinning and trying to talk to the driver. I was warm, it was chaotic, it was Vietnam. It wasn’t quite the feeling one often gets when returning home after many years, but very close. I was just so happy to be on a new adventure.

I mentioned “trying” to converse to the taxi driver because I had forgotten all my very basic Vietnamese while in California. I had big plans of taking out my language books so that I could at least try to refresh my market/restaurant/taxi vocabulary, but just never got around to it. But the most amazing thing has happened; it is all coming back. I’ll be walking down the street and a phrase will just pop into my head. Or I’ll be at the supermarket and turn to a clerk to ask a question and the words just fly out. We’re not talking anything other than basic survival language, but it is still there. The mind truly is amazing.

The first thing I did when I got to my hotel was to take a shower, unpack a few things, then went out to run errands. Water was the first priority. I drink copious amounts and the cheapest way to get a large, clean water supply is to have a 19 liter/5 gallon bottle delivered to your house. I walked a few short blocks to the little shop that had been my supplier in the past. Right away all the delivery guys recognized me and even remembered my apt/street address, which I had forgotten. I paid and arranged for the water to be delivered in an hour.

Next I went to my old apartment building in hopes of seeing a favorite neighbor. I wasn’t sure if he was even alive as he had been in his mid-80’s and getting a bit frail when I’d last seen him. Much to my great pleasure, not only was he alive and kicking but in better health than 3 years ago. We had a lovely chat before I went back to the hotel to wait for the water.

4pm is the witching hour for me when I have crossed too many time zones and datelines. It’s like someone has shot me with morphine although it doesn’t really feel anywhere near that pleasant. In fact not pleasant at all. I can’t move, can’t keep my eyes open and finally just lie down. The hours are all a big mess to me, but I think I got up at 3am and left the hotel at 6am looking for food.

When I moved to this part of town in 2005, it was quite deserted. A lot of apartment complexes had gone up, and there was construction on every block, but that was about it. One supermarket existed and it was rather dismal. A few tiny eateries, that I would never dine in were scattered here and there, and I don’t think there was one hotel. What I did like is that there was very little traffic, even on the main highway that ran through the middle of this new part of town. Oh my gosh; things have change.

Restaurants and supermarkets and hotels abound. That has its advantages. But the traffic is unbelievable. I have no idea where all these people are coming from or going to. It’s not like downtown Ho Chi Minh City, but one does have to be extremely cautious when crossing a street.

I’ve spent the past few days visiting friends and have been into town twice. Today I am staying in. I do have a mini-fridge in the room which is nice except you have to remember that the electricity cuts off when you leave the room, so what you store has to be limited to non-very-perishables. I was able to find regular light bulbs to replace the florescent bedside lights. (this only took two days and about 5 hours of walking around the entire city to find.)

I’ve managed to get over my initial fear of using my costly, brand new, DSLR camera. I’m still having a bit of trouble figuring out where I have stored the photos on my computer. I’m still questioning if lugging around a high-dollar camera was a smart move. I can’t just whip it out of my bag and throw it back in. I haven’t yet figured out exactly how to walk around town with it. Do I keep it in my shoulder bag which is really not comfortable or do I put it in a back pack which is really not as safe? Did I spend a fortune on an impractical piece of equipment, or is it really the apparatus that I have been dreaming about owning for years? I’m hoping it is the latter.

Kate

Betting on the Ponies

2010-09-27T21:52:00.000-07:00

I’ve only ever been to a race track twice before in my life and that was eons ago. I grew up within spitting distance of Golden Gate Fields but somehow managed to not become a horse racing enthusiast. Sure, I try to watch the Kentucky Derby every year when I am in the US, but never thought much about the track just down the road. One reason is that this tracks location can often be a rather chilly place.
.
But then, just when I think that the non-summer we’ve had will turn into a freezing cold fall, we get hit with record temperatures. And for some reason I became aware of an ad announcing Dollar Sundays at the track; $1 parking, $1 entrance, $1 beer, and $1 hotdogs. Where else was I to go on such a beautiful day but down to the edge of the San Francisco Bay where I knew it would be perfect weather and a new experience.
.
Getting my bearings was the first order of the afternoon upon entering the grounds. Even though there seemed to be a fair amount of people milling about, the place is so huge it felt deserted. I strolled around exploring the venue and the patrons. I had a preconceived notion that it would be filled with scruffy, die-hard gamblers, sipping beer and checking their racing forms. The only part of that that I got right was the racing forms.

I was surprised to see groups of college kids and families with strollers and just a regular crowd one would find anywhere. In fact I only saw a few people who could fill in as Hollywood extra racing-bums.

.
A spectacular, manicured, green oasis covers the area inside the track; little lakes with fountains and ornamental flower beds. At one point I asked one of the women in the gift shop if the area was ever used. Apparently, it isn’t. A friend told me she thinks it is a bird sanctuary which would make sense considering that on the other side is a massive, dirty freeway.
.
Finished with getting the lay of the land, I decided it was time to get down to the task of placing a few bets. Down in the paddock, (one of the many new racing vocabulary terms I picked up that day), horses were being led around while studious folks glanced back and forth between their racing forms and the horses. I wasn’t exactly sure the way this whole thing worked so I asked a man next to me. He also knew nothing about it. That was something I would find throughout the day; lots of newcomers like me who didn’t have a clue.
.
At least I did know that I should pick a horse and place a bet. The last time I went to a track I was with a friend who would look at the parade of critters, point to one, place a bet, and win. And win almost every time. I studied the horses and decided that number two looked awfully cute so I scurried off to place a bet.

A whole line of self-service betting booths were available but I needed to talk to someone. I stood in line and was helped by a lovely gentleman who explained that the cheapest bet was $2. I was very proud that by the end of the day I could walk up to a window and, like a real pro, say $2 to win on number 7.
.
The fist horse I bet on came in dead last, and in two other races I also didn’t fare very well. I soon realized that I should quite picking the pretty ponies and look for something a bit more significant, if only I could figure out what that was supposed to be.
.
I paid close attention to whoever was leading the horses around the paddock and how they related to their animal. I loved the guy who whispered sweetly to his charge and the other guy who was massaging his horses tongue. I figured a good connection in the paddock just had to result in a winner. I was very impressed by the women who lead around her hose, simply because she was the only gal down there. I saw that the trainer for this horse was also a woman and then found out the jockey was a woman.
.
Kayla, from what the ladies next to me said, is Australian and had been racing in the US for a few years. Obviously, the sisterhood thing meant I had to bet on her. She didn’t win, but did come in third.
.
Realizing that I had already lost $10, I decided it was time to go up into the grandstands and check out the high dollar betting and dining areas further up. You have to pay $2 to get up there but the door person said she would refund the money since I was just going up for a quick look.
.
The dining area is glassed in and each table has its own little TV so you don’t even have to look at the track. I wandered into another area and this is where the place really started to get bizarre. There are several rooms of varying sizes, filled with large and small screens and a bar. Inside each, where there is no view of the track, people placed their bets and sipped on martinis. I didn’t get it; it was such a glorious day and they wanted to stay inside and look at a TV?

One of the rooms had a view that was not of the track but yet quite sensational. You could see almost from one end of the bay to the other, the Golden Gate Bridge smack dab in the middle. (Which is why they call it Golden Gate Fields, I presume.) Having been out of the sunshine for too long I headed back down stairs, down an escalator, collected my $2, and went back to the track.
.
I did like standing right at the edge next to the track even if it did scare the hootie-patooties out of me. I like horses from a distance and cannot imagine why anyone would want to ride one, let alone be aboard a ton of solid muscle running hell-bent, shoulder to shoulder, around a track. Being that close just confirmed my belief.
.
It was also quite sobering to see that in every race, the riders are followed around the track by a speeding ambulance and pick-up truck. I learned that this is a race track law. Unfortunately, just a few weeks ago those emergency vehicles were needed. A young jockey, Michael Martinez was seriously injured in a spill. I was glad to see that donations were being collected at the track and that the whole racing community is supporting him.
.
I kept discovering other parts to explore. It turned out you could walk right up to where the jockeys sit before their race begins, although there is a security guard to keep people out. I asked the guard if I could ask the jockeys if I could take their picture.
.
One of the jockeys waved me over. He pointed to another rider and said, “Take his picture. He’s the famous one. He’s a model”. I said something about all of them looking good. He replied, “You should see me with my clothes off”. A magnificent day and a flirting jockey; what more could a gal ask for?

I’m already planning my next trip to the track. October 2nd is Secretariat Day with a free cap giveaway. Providing the weather holds, I’ll be there.

Kate

Mare Island Naval Shipyard

2010-09-22T10:30:00.000-07:00

Mare Island sits on the east side of the San Francisco Bay. Growing up, it was the place my father spent occasional weekends as a reservist with the US Navy. Which is probably why no one I was acquainted with ever knew much about it; the general public doesn’t get entry to military bases. Up until recently, If someone had asked me about the Island I might have said that it was a naval base or maybe it had been closed. The Mare Island Naval Shipyard was officially closed in 1996.
.
A few weeks ago when my friend asked if I wanted to take a trip to the island as she had a college class she was attending. Huh? A private college on a closed naval shipyard? I was up for it.
.
Just driving through what had once been a guard station at the entrance to the island was a bit bizarre; but it was nothing compared to the rest of the experience. I’d entered a surreal world of abandoned buildings and roads. Sort of a military base ghost town.

.

It was more than a bit freaky driving down long, palm tree lined, wide streets with barely a soul or car in sight. Brick buildings dating back to late 1800’s, empty deep water docks, scores of sprawling buildings whose past usage I could only guess about. It felt as though I were on a Hollywood back lot. And, it turns out, there have been films shot there.

.

A few places, like the Officers Club, still had their original signs up and some had been converted to student housing for the previously mentioned college. Others only displayed their building numbers. If I hadn’t been by myself, I might have tried to gain entrance to a few; curiosity was at an all time high.

.

One massive block long building, that was nearly as tall, clearly was some sort of assembly plant as the inside was an empty shell. I know this because I got out of the car to peer in the windows. (there may have been a sign or two warning to steer clear because of hazardous PCB’s or something along that line.) Just as I put my camera up to the glass fronted entry doors to get a few interior shots, a giant wind came up rattling what felt like the entire building. I was then sure that it was a ghost town.

.

I drove on and on, no traffic and no people. I would stop in the middle of a street, get out, take a few pictures, and continue on my way. Somewhere along the way I realized what I was doing and took to pulling off the road before getting out. And the more I explored the more I wished my dad was still around so that he could tell me what everything had once been.

I didn’t have a map so relied on the few posted signs. One led up the hill to the golf course; once the exclusive turf of officers and now open to all. I don’t play the game, but the views of the San Francisco Bay may be a reason to take it up.

.

Going back down the hill I noticed an area with massive eucalyptus trees and what seemed to be housing. I headed towards it.

.

St Peter’s Chapel was the first stop. Built in 1901, it is filled with real Tiffany stained glass windows. Worth more than a small fortune, it is only open on certain days for tours. This looked like somewhere I would come back to but what really caught my eye was just around the bend.

I’d stumbled upon Officer’s Row; massive mansions lined a wide boulevard, each sitting on large lawn surrounded by giant trees. I froze. Never had I seen anything so magnificent. I’m a traveler; houses interest me but don’t compel me to move in. This time I was smitten. I wanted one of those babies and from the look of it, they were empty and just waiting for me.

Strolling up to the first one I saw a sign saying “available” and a number to call. I walked up the stairs to the large front porch and then to the glass windows. Inside was even more mouth-watering house; paneled walls, hardwood floors, built in window seats, and a splendid fireplace. I was literally drooling thinking about living here..

Looking down the street were at least another ten of these beauties. I later found out that the biggest one, the Captains House, is furnished and set up for tours. I still haven’t found out if the others are for sale, rent, or just a big tease.
.
I eventually realized that as much as I loved the officer’s mansions, they would be just a taste too big for one person. I started to look for smaller houses. It seemed that many of the big ones had more properly sized out houses, some of which appeared to be occupied. On the street behind these were your basic 1950’s military housing. Not at all tasteful but possibly affordable and I was beginning to get quite attached to Mare Island.

.
Eventually it was time to head back, off island surrealism and back into the here and now. The Mare Island Historic Park Foundation does tours and I plan to get there in the near future. http://www.mareislandhpf.org/
.
Kate

Ghana x USA, San Leandro, CA

2010-06-26T22:06:00.000-07:00

When I saw Robert Reid’s article listing Ricky’s Bar in San Leandro, CA as one of the Top Ten places to watch the World Cup my first reaction was huh? Ricky’s Bar is still around? But since I had yet to find much of anywhere to watch the Cup, and seeing as the US was playing in the second round, I decided to give it a go.
.
When searching for places to get your groove on in the San Francisco Bay Area, the city of San Leandro is not at the top of anyone’s list. Possibly not even on any list at all. True, Ricky’s is not that far from where the Oakland Raiders play ball, and it did have a rep for the place players hung out, but I thought that was all in the past. The last time I had been in there was to apply for a bartending job at a time when very few bars, no matter the extent of your skills, were hiring women to mix cocktails and pull beer. I vaguely remember being laughed at and swearing I would never set foot in there again. I broke that vow today and stepped back in time.
.
Ricky’s is your basic ‘70’s sports bar; dark wood paneling, dark lighting, framed/signed players shirts and pictures, neon signs, and not a window to be found. Since cigs have been outlawed in California bars, it did not have that familiar, homey, stench of tobacco mixed with beer, but otherwise you’d think it was 1975. That is were it not for the TV screens of which there were probably about one hundred, lining the walls, running along the sides of the three big screens, and sitting on the bar. Not to mention the 3D TV area.
.
With thirty minutes before game time, the place was nearly filled to capacity. I found a little niche to sit in where I got a good view of one of the big screens and at least thirty TV’s. I wasn’t quite sure where to look.
.
This was a different crowd than the last time I’d watched the US play and I wasn’t sure what the reaction would be to anything. For a minute there I was scared that they might all stand up when they played the Star Spangled Banner. They didn’t, but they did applaud at the end.
.
With the game under way I began to notice that although everyone seemed to be watching, they didn’t seem to be involved. They kind of acted like people watching a tennis match. When Ghana scored at 5 minutes I was just about to jump out of my seat when I noticed that no one else in the entire place was moving and quickly reigned in my enthusiasm.
.
Yes, I am American and yes, I was rooting for Ghana. I like it when these countries that have precious little prevail in sporting events, especially when their entire country is backing their team.
.
The first half was enough for me at Ricky’s and I was off to another place just down the road, this one an English Pub. It was sheer heaven to get out into the hot, sunny mid-day weather. One does not take sunshine for granted in this part of the world. Just two days before it had been 50F/10C and the sun never did break through the fog.
.
I was just pulling into the parking lot of The Englander Sports Pub when I heard an eruption of screams from patrons sitting in the outdoor areas. Team USA must have scored. When I got inside I saw that the score was still 1x0 Ghana, but that the fans here were hooting and hollering at every touch, pass, kick, and foul.
.
People lined up five deep in front of the bar watching the line of TV screens above all those taps of beers and booze. Two rooms branched off either side with more rows of TV’s. It looked as if one room led into yet another, but about all I could see were bodies. There was no chance of finding a seat but I didn’t care; it was simply so wonderful to be amongst the football enlightened. The place virtually shook when the US scored.
.
Being kind of short and starting to get a bit mashed by bodies, I went back to the entrance and peered into the two outer viewing areas. I turned my head when I thought I heard people chanting for Ghana and quickly made a beeline in the direction of the small group standing outside and at the back of another room with a big screen. I had found the Kenyan contingent who were rooting for the last African team still alive in the Cup. I was home.
.
It has been said, called out one of the self-appointed leaders,
.It has been said, replied the group of about twenty,
It has been said,
.It has been said,
That David beat Goliath,
.That David beat Goliath
...
As soon as one chant finished, another would start; There is a story…..
Or more simply a call and reply of Eh, eh, Ah, ah,……
.
Someone arrived with a vuvuleza and immediately a chant started with
Vuvuleza, ah, Vuvuleza, oh….
.
All this was accompanied by dance steps, shoulder shrugs, and laughter. Everyone was super friendly and was pleased I had joined their small band. When I told one woman I was from the area she asked “but from what country originally?” Said I was American but always pulled for the small countries. Three young women from Venezuela cheered and chanted like they were born in Ghana.
.
Every now and then a USA,USA,USA chant would go up in friendly defiance of all the Ghana noise, and would always end with smiles. I was pleased to see that even the most ardent US fans were truly enjoying the rhythms and singing of the Ghanaian supporters.
.
All of this continued throughout the entire second half, overtime, and after the match had finished. I didn’t really want to leave all the fun of my adopted friends, and told them I’d be back for the next match. They thanked me for supporting Ghana; I thanked them for letting me join in. We shook hands, hugged and the lady I had spoken to at the beginning said, “Thank you for supporting the small countries”.
.
This is definitely the way the World Cup should be watched.
Kate

World Cup 2010, Berkeley, CA USA

2010-06-12T16:00:00.000-07:00

Here’s the deal; if you are American and have never experienced the World Cup outside of the US, you just have no idea what you’re missing. Conversely, if you have watched the World Cup in any other place in the known universe, you simply cannot imagine how low-key it is here.
.
I can’t say that I watch much football at all during a year, or even during three years. But every four years I turn into a football maniac and watch as many of the World Cup games as work schedule and time zone permits.
.
I’ve reveled in World Cup fervor in South America, South East Asia, and in the Middle East. But this year, unfortunately, I’m in California and know darn well that I’m missing out on all the camaraderie and universal joy that is going on in every other corner of the world. So as not to get overly depressed I have made it my mission to seek out like-minded fans and take part in whatever bit of World Cup insanity that I can find.
.

Growing up in the US at a time when the term soccer mom had yet to be invented, I knew very little about the game. It was all baseball and football and girls weren’t even allowed to play. But then I spent two years in Brazil as a Peace Corps Volunteer and I was turned. Never again was I much of an American football fan with its slow pace and constant stop of action.

It was tough when I first returned to the US back in the day before cable, not that football/soccer had much of a following here. One could only watch the World Cup on the Spanish station, with its grainy picture and poor reception, and that was only if you lived in someplace like California. It has been a long hard road, but we have now arrived at the point where ESPN not only has full coverage and analysis but tons of promos for the 2010 Cup.

My viewing preference in the US, however, remains with Univision, the Spanish language network of choice. Their announcers call the play at a million words a minute, as compared to ESPN/US broadcasters who talk about the weather and their fishing trips rather than give play by play commentary. Even if you don’t understand Spanish, just hearing the excitement and enthusiasm of the announcer adds so much to the game. There are those who watch the game in English and then switch to Spanish when a goal is scored. No one can outdo a Latin American yelling Gooooooooooooool!!!!!!!!

Now that the US has sorted the coverage problem, the next obstacle is to find those fans. Sure, I can watch in the comfort of my own home on a nice, big, HD TV, but it just doesn’t satisfy the soul. I watched the first hour of game one before I had to head off for work where I found that no one was even aware that the World Cup had begun. I felt so alone and disconnected.

Today, I headed out to Brennan’s restaurant/bar to catch the 7am match between Argentina and Nigeria. This in itself, places opening early to show the games, would have been unheard of not that long ago. And after seeing the measly crowd of about six people who’d shown up, I’m wondering if they will continue this for the entire month. I knew the 11:30am game would be crowded as it was USA vs. England, but was off to another part of town to see what was on offer.

I’d found out about several restaurant/bars near the University that were going to be World Cup headquarters. The first one I walked into had no seats available, although it was not that crowded. I walked down the street to choice number two that lacked any type of fun atmosphere. I ended up in a place called Raleigh’s on Telegraph Ave., just a few blocks from UC Berkeley.

The place was jumping; tons of mostly university students, two big screens, and lots of TV’s. It took a bit of doing, but I was able to snag a chair and park myself in good viewing distance of one of the TV’s.

I was sitting with people who had grown up playing soccer, understood and loved the game. I had never before been with a group of Americans watching the World Cup and was thrilled at their screams and yells and boos. When team USA scored the place exploded; people jumped up sloping beer and high-fiving each other. An impromptu chant of USA!, USA!, USA!, ensued. It warmed my heart. I would never have believed it possible that a group of Americans could love the beautiful game as much as the rest of the world.

California may not be my dream destination for watching the World Cup 2010, but it just may not be as dismal as I had expected.

Kate

No Free Lunch

2010-05-31T15:46:00.000-07:00

Since arriving, I have been constantly bombarded by men who want me to buy a timeshare in Puerto Vallarta. They sit in little kiosks on the main drag and yell out things like Are you a tourist? Where are you from? I like your earrings. Lady come and talk to me. I smile, ignore them and keep walking. That’s when they get rude. What’s the matter, you can’t even say hello? Do you have something against Mexicans? And the latest; You must be from Arizona.

It seems to be much worse than when I was here in November. Maybe it is just that there are less tourists so I am more available to holler at. It does get on my nerves but, as I said, I just keep on walking. Unfortunately, they are now in the shops.
.

In several of the big stores I’ve gone into on the Malecón, I’ve been offered free merchandise in exchange for going to a sales pitch breakfast. The first place I encountered this was in one of the big Huichol art stores. I was totally hounded by the sales gal who kept upping the amount of free gifts I would get, which included close to $100 worth of merchandise. All I had to do was go to a free breakfast at a resort and then listen to a 60 minute presentation. I kept telling her I wasn’t interested so she took me over to the manager who explained that the sales lady wouldn’t get any “points” if I didn’t agree. I couldn’t get out of there fast enough. I know darn well you don’t get something for nothing, so was not even interested in pursuing the possibility of this seemingly great offer.

Last week I was in a store where I’ve bought things in the past. After I’d finished talking to the manager and discussing what I would buy, another of the smarmy timeshare guys approached me. I came to find out that the shops are working with these guys and that there is commission for all involved. This obnoxious punk, (who happened to be American), would not shut up going on and on about the dinner he would take me to, the $150 dollars of free merchandise, that he would even throw in a free massage; like I’d ever even want to eat a meal with this freak. I had to get out of the store. I could see that my manager buddy was clearly uncomfortable with the young kid’s sales tactics. I took him aside and said I would be back when said jerk was not there.

Yesterday I went back to make my purchases. I was having a nice chat with my friend and asked how could it be possible to get all this stuff for free. Apparently it was possible and he would even get a higher commission on his sales. I thought about it; an hour or two of horrible marketing crap for free goods. Maybe it was worth it. But I also knew that they would want personal details from me and I was not going to do that. My buddy told me that I did not have to give out any info. I only needed to show that I had a credit card, but to cover the name and number when showing it. I asked if they would require an address or email and he said no. What the hell, I signed up for the breakfast/presentation this morning.

At 8:30 I was at the shop. Two young guys from the presentation company soon appeared and I was whisked away in a taxi. They were neat and clean but had a real air of used-car-salesman about them. All the while on the ride to the hotel where the presentation was to be, one guy could not stop talking about all the deals he could get me and all the tours he could arrange and probably some other “deals” but by then I’d shut out his banter. I knew at this point I’d made a mistake and I probably should have taken some valium before going off to the event.

Before we got out of the cab, the guy grabbed a card from the driver and wrote down his phone number so that I could call him tomorrow for another free breakfast, free presentation, and more free money. I looked down at the business card onto which he had written his name. It was for some nightclub whose slogan was “Wanna come?” under which was “visit us and receive a free lap dance”. I glared at him and said, “Free lap dance?” He laughed nervously and said it wasn’t his card.

We got out and were approached by two more sleazy guys. I can’t quite put my finger on exactly what made my skin crawl. Maybe it was the salon styled hair with too much product, or more likely it was their bad auras. I was trying not to hyperventilate and cringe as I was forced to shake hands with another slimy salesman and the marketing manager. Since all of them spoke English quite well, and since they reverted to English every time I said something in Spanish, we spoke in English. But then they’d turn to each other and rattle off in Spanish about where they were taking me and other stuff. I spoke up in Spanish just to keep them on their toes in case they tried to pull a fast one and thought I wouldn’t understand.

I was escorted up to a rented conference area and this is when I really wanted to cut and run. Everything abut it was geared towards intimidation and discomfort. Before we went into the outer office to talk to the receptionist, the marketing manager asked me the same questions that everyone else had asked me; was I over 30, was I single, was I American, did I have a credit card.

.
Walking into the office I felt like a trapped rat. The first thing out of the young woman’s mouth was a request for ID with a printed address. I said no; they were not even getting my last name, let alone my address. For five minutes various people walked in and out and spoke on phones and tried to explain that it wasn’t anything other than to enter the info in their computer and my details would never again be used. Right. Finally the big boss, a snooty 30-something Brit walked in, looked down his nose at me and said that giving my address was a Mexican government regulation since, after all, they were “responsible” for me. Right.

I should have just walked out the minute they asked for an address, or at least told them what I thought of their hard-core tactics, but for some reason I am just too polite. They finally realized that no one was going to make a commission off of me today and someone had lost the taxi fare that had brought me there. I was escorted out by two pouty-faced, pissed off sales men, acting like two year olds who’d had a toy taken away. They left me at the front of the hotel, pointed out the bus stop across the street, and huffed off.

All I wanted to do was get back to the hotel and take a shower. Nothing was really lost on this adventure except that they now know which hotel I am in, but they can’t really do anything with that.
How in the world can a group off people be so offensive, loathsome, and rude, yet get people to but their product? How can they possibly have any friends? What do they do at night; devil worship?

Oh well, another day, another experience and in three days I will be out of Vallarta so they can’t possibly hunt me down to hassle me.

Kate

Tortillas

2010-05-29T19:36:00.000-07:00

I’ve never cared much for bread. Tortillas, however, (and make that corn tortillas), are a different story. Apparently, Mexicans agree with me as there is a tortillería, (tortilla bakery), on every other block throughout the city. Most I have passed are tiny, one room affairs. Others are fairly large factory things. Even the large supermarkets have a tortilla machine just like their American counterparts with an in-house bakery.

Tortillería La Gloria is the largest one I’ve seen in my wanderings around town. I went by at about 7:30 in the morning to get an idea of what the early shift was like and to take some pictures. The gentleman behind the counter told me that they start working at 4am, that they have been in business for 40 years, and that they either use 3000Kg of dough a day or make 3000Kg of tortillas a day. (I wasn’t quite clear on that bit). Wait a minute; that just doesn’t sound possible. I’m not going back to get clarification but all that matters is that they are open from the crack of dawn until the afternoon, cranking out the most wonderful tortillas.

From early in the morning people are lined up buying tortillas for the day, either for the home or for their restaurant/taco stand. Some people come with an ice chest to load up their supplies. I have also seen delivery pick-up trucks dropping off the day’s allotment.

And then there are the Tortillería La Gloria tortilla chips. They are the only deep-fried food product I have ever truly salivated over. Reason number one: made with fresh tortillas. Number two: no salt. I allow myself one bag, (it’s rather large), per trip. Just writing about it I may have to break that rule and get another; I still have about 5 days left in Vallarta.

I’ve tried to find comparable tortillas outside of Mexico but have never been successful. There simply is no comparison to the lightness and flavor of a tortilla fresh of the rack. There is none of that grittiness and chewy consistency that you’ll find in the brands at the local Safeway. Anything American is mass produced and packaged and no matter how Spanish–sounding the name of the manufacturer, it’s a poor imitation. US produced tortillas can sit for a few weeks in the icebox and still perform when needed. Mexican ones are pretty much compost material after a day, maybe two. Something about preservatives, I’d assume.

It would be so easy and cheap to buy a kilo of fresh tortillas to take back with me to California, but what’s the point? They’d be past their shelf date by the time I got home and unpacked.

Guess I'll just have to wait for another trip.

Kate

Fruit Markets

2010-05-29T14:42:00.000-07:00

Every time I think I know this neighborhood, I am proven wrong. I was here for a month at the end of last year and had done the majority of my food shopping at the local, smallish supermarket. There are some huge places not too far away, but that would entail taking buses which is way more labor-intensive them I am ever willing to do for food. And if you really want to stock up, there is a Costco and Wal-Mart; again, too far away.

The produce at said supermarket was rather sad and I had asked the gals at the hotel reception if they knew of a fruit stand. They’d directed me to a few within a block or two from the hotel, but their stuff was also not quite up to what I thought I would find here.

The second week I was here I took a walk up a street I was sure I had walked up last time. Apparently not, as I ran into a real-life market. Granted, it was small, but it was a real Mexican Mercado.

Shops selling kitchenware, trinkets, and beauty supplies line the outer edges. Inside is a central open area around which are butcher shops. There are also some fruit stalls, but most are directly across the street.

The first time I was there I went into the largest one simply because it was easier to negotiate. I was told later that the prices next door in the tiny shop were considerably cheaper, so that’s where I have been going.

I am in heaven being able to buy a fresh papaya everyday. It is one of my favorite fruits. You can sometimes get them in California, but the price is high and they either taste nasty or are mashed. Papayas do not export very well.

And the bananas; what can I say? Unless you have eaten bananas in the country where they are grown, you just have no idea how they should really taste. Bananas for export are picked green and they don’t really ripen, just turn yellow, and most of the flavor is lost. I can buy all sorts of different types of nanners here, my favorite being the tiny, tangy ones. Take my word for it and don’t waste your money if you see these guys in the US; they simply do not travel at all and you’ll pay a fortune for fruit you will need to toss.

Cantaloupes have been my favorite melon since I was a wee child. Over the past several years, probably more like ten or more years, I just haven’t been able to get a tasty cantaloupe. Even when I ask the produce people to pick out a good one, they always suck. I’d actually forgotten why I loved them so much and how delicious they were until I chomped into a Mexican cantaloupe last week. Oh my gosh! Unbelievable! Again, everything is picked green in the US and that just screws with the flavor. Possibly I should be concerned about the water supply used on the farms here, but I am not even letting thoughts of contaminated irrigation systems enter my thoughts. I plan to enjoy the fruits of the earth.

Kate

Casa Kimberly Update

2010-05-28T18:51:00.000-07:00

I need to set the record straight; Elizabeth Taylor’s house in Puerto Vallarta is no longer available for viewing. In fact it is no longer really there. Casa Kimberly, as her house is/was called, is in the midst of being turned into three condominiums.
.
I did the treacherous, 100-step walk up the side of the hill to get a peek of her house last November. People had told me it was now a bed and breakfast and that you could have a cup of coffee in the restaurant. What I found was a gutted out building.
.
I thought it might be done by now and maybe was a new B&B. No and no. It appears that all that will be left of Liz and Dick’s home will be the stories that surround the neighborhood, told by the decreasing number of locals who remember them. And even though her memory is fading as the years go by, I seem to constantly run into little reminders of the impact she had on the city.

There is the plaster statue of Elizabeth and Richard and an iguana at the entrance to a restaurant that sits just down the hill from their house, and right on the Rio Cuale.

And then there is the mystery that surrounds a place I found the other day.

It was in the late afternoon, while walking down a small side street that I noticed an entryway with a worn, tattered mat on which was written Sala Elizabeth Taylor. I stopped, looked up at the building and tried to figure out what it was. A tea house? A theater? I looked to the left and saw an ancient looking ticket window that was open. Inside sat a tired looking woman.

I asked here what exactly Sala Elizabeth Taylor was. “Cine”, she answered. I stepped back and looked for whatever it was that I had missed indicating that this was a movie theater. I glanced up at the signboard next to the ticket window, still confused. “Cine”? I asked her. She then said something about adult films and I looked more closely at the showings for today. I got it. Whatever Sala Elizabeth Taylor was in a past life I’ll never know. Circa 2010, it is a porn movie house.

Kate

Huichol Art

2010-05-27T21:33:00.000-07:00

From what I gather, Puerto Vallarta doesn’t have its own special art form such as the ceramics of Tonalá, the carved wooden creatures of Oaxaca, or the silverwork of Taxco. What they do have here, and what I don’t ever remember seeing, is artwork from the Huichol indigenous people.
.
The Huichol are from the Sierra Madre Mountains in the states of Nayarit and Jalisco. (Puerto Vallarta is located in Jalisco.) I know almost nothing about them so will not try to write anything anthropological or historical.
.

Most of their artwork in the stores is either colorful embroidery or beaded animal sculptures. The designs are symbolic of various animals and plants, each having a specific connection to their beliefs and culture.

I’ve seen their work in just about every tourist shop in town. There are also several high-end, fancy stores that have beautiful examples, set out in lovely displays. They are the places that have Huichol men set up at a little “display” table at the front of the store doing their artwork. I find it disturbing. The prices are not cheap, which I wouldn’t mind if it were going to the people who created these exquisite objects; but you know it isn’t.

I had tried to find some stalls in the market where there might be artisans to whom the proceeds of the sales would go, but I hadn’t been successful. But then last week, on my way to the supermarket, I noticed a little corner shop of Huichol art and in I went.

Galeria de Arte Huichol is owned and operated by a man named Tzikiri. All the artwork is done by either himself or other people from his village. He told me how he used to work at the big stores demonstrating for the tourists. The store would also buy his work, for which he was paid very little. He opened his tiny corner shop a few months ago.

In the past week I have been in several times and have bought a couple of beautiful iguanas. Tzikiri patiently explained the meanings of the designs and how he made them. He starts with either a ceramic or wood base, onto which a thick, sticky wax is applied. Then he carefully pushes each bead onto the wax creating the most amazing pieces.

I would have liked to have taken a picture of him at work but guessed that graven images probably were not acceptable in his culture. I asked him anyway. His hesitancy told me that I was correct in my assumption even though he told me it would be all right. What he minded, he said, were the tourists in the big stores who came in to take his picture while he worked and never bought anything and never left a tip.

I am really hoping his shop makes it. I’m sure it would if only people knew about it. So here are the details for all of you who might be in Puerto Vallarta:

Galeria de Arte Huichol - proprietor: Tzikiri

Constitución #116 (on the corner of 5 de Febrero) Col. Emilian Zapato, Puerto Vallarta

Tel: 322-222-5488 cell: 322-149-2005

It’s just past the Gutierrez Rizo supermarket on Constitición

Kate

Coffee & Restaurants

2010-05-26T05:40:00.000-07:00

Restaurants aren’t really my thing. They are costly and often don’t thrill the taste buds so why bother? But I do like to sit at an outdoor café with a coffee and observe the world as it goes by. In Puerto Vallarta I’ve been rather at a loss to find a place where I can spend a bit of time and do just that.
.
The only place I had found was, (shockingly to me), Starbucks. It’s in a great location at the corner of the main plaza and has comfy outside seating from where you can watch the people, the cars, and even a little bit of the bay. The regular coffee is a decent price and actually tastes better than any other coffee I’d had in town. And this brings up the question of what the heck happened to Mexican coffee? I know they had great coffee 20 years ago but I can’t seem to find it now.
.
A week or so ago I was exploring another part of town when I came across the local witchcraft shop and went in for a look. Not in need of any spells cast or bad juju removed, I nevertheless had a nice chat with the owner. Somehow we got on to the subject of coffee and he told me about a new place just three doors down that made primo coffee. I finally got there yesterday.

Café D’Flores is a lovely small coffee shop that you might find anywhere in California, but would never to expect to find it here. Garlands of hand-painted flowers adorn the walls; the clouds and sun decorate the ceiling. With all the lovely wooden chairs and tables, a sofa and cozy chairs, I wasn’t sure where to sit and actually moved places twice. I was the only one in that morning, but I could see that it would be a welcoming place for people with books to read or with laptop work to do. And the coffee was superb. It’s only been open a few months, and is off the beaten track, so I do hope that the word gets out.

I spent a lot of time talking to the owner who, not surprisingly, had spent many years in California. He told me who when he’d landed in PV a few years ago he had stayed at the Rosita Hotel and how much he had liked it. So after I left the café I headed down to the Rosita.

I knew about the Rosita from when I was researching places to stay in PV. Seeing as it was right at the waters edge, and had been built in 1948, it had originally sounded interesting. But looking at the website pictures and at the prices, I had decided against it. And even now, looking at it from the street it just didn’t seem to draw one to it. But for historical reasons, it was the first big hotel in Vallarta, I had to take a look.

I spoke with the woman at the reception and found out rooms were US$80 a night, even now in

the low season. I then crossed the open courtyard and went into the open-air restaurant. I needed to eat, so asked to look at the menu. I was surprised to find that there were reasonably priced meals. I took a seat and ordered.

The first thing I noticed was that I could not only see that water I could hear it. In every other eating establishment that I have been, the ocean sounds have been obliterated by either traffic noise, blaring music, or a combination of the two. I didn’t have an unobstructed view of the bay, (there is a metal security gate), but it didn’t really matter. It was lovely and the food was darn decent.

.
When I finished I asked if I could see one of the rooms with an ocean view. I was taken up to the second floor and let in. it was your basic, clean, 1948 room; nothing fancy, nothing really renovated since it opened, no ceiling fan, no A/C. (but there was a standing fan.) It had a little balcony from which you looked right out onto the water. The scent of the ocean, carried on a lovely breeze, streamed up into the room. It’s the type of place I would feel totally comfortable in; it’s much like what I am in now. But not at $80 a night. I don’t quite understand the pricing. I won’t ever stay there, but it is another good place to take a break and have a sip of something.

The street that fronts the Malecón is lined with restaurants, night clubs, and tourist stores. It’s against my moral principles to eat at imported chain restaurants while overseas, so Bubba Gump’s and Hard Rock Café are off the list of choices to stop in for coffee. Last time I was on the strip I had a bad cup of coffee in a place that reeked of bathroom disinfectant, so I wasn’t going back there. A few places looked ok except that they have pushy barkers outside hassling you to come in, and then there’s the blaring rock music. So how could I have missed Las Polomas?

It sits on a corner with giant, open windows allowing you to look out at the bay. As their ad says, it is a “Hacienda” style restaurant, which I guess means that you feel like you are out at the ranch; lots of tile, wood ceiling beams, Mexican furniture and dishes.

I grabbed the corner table on the lower floor, which is still far above street level. My first visitor was a pigeon looking for handouts. He came back several times while I sipped my ice coffee and couldn’t quite figure out why I didn’t have any food to offer. There was some music playing but it was so low, and the cars were so loud, that you didn’t notice it. The large plasma screen TV’s, for some reason, were also not distracting. Looking up at one I realized that this would be a great place to watch the World Cup. Bummer; I’ll be back in California.

I took a look at their menu for future reference and I will not be going there for lunch any time soon. Too costly for me, although they do have a decently priced breakfast.

I am pleased that I have found these new-to-me locations. Otherwise I tend to walk and walk until I’m close to heatstroke. I am also amazed that I have not only eaten in a restaurant, but now am on a mission to find other establishments in which to dine.

Kate

Saturday Night

2010-05-24T19:18:00.000-07:00

There is quite the night scene here; or so I’ve heard. I know I should go and see for myself, but just don’t see the point of changing out of my lounge clothes and doing something with my hair at 9:00 pm when I would rather be writing or reading or watching TV. Maybe if I had a friend to check out the action with me it would be different. I don’t need the buddy system during the day, but do at night. Nevertheless last Saturday I promised myself I would do it.

Probably my first error in getting out for the evening was leaving at 6:30 pm; heck, that’s night to me. I walked the few blocks to the beach. It was not a pretty sight. The afternoon stragglers, who looked to have been there for hours, were sitting and standing amongst piles of debris strewn all over the sand. Most seemed to be a bit tipsy and looked a little intimidating; not an area you would want to walk through. I stayed up on the walkway and decided not to stroll down the beach.
I walked a short way in the other direction and saw that it was high tide and that the waves were much more forceful than usual. A line of fishermen were working their rods and reels while the pelicans and other birds were swooping low over the area searching for food. The flying creatures were so low I could see their eyeballs. I sat down in the sand and stared up at the mesmerizing display until I realized I was getting a stiff neck.

Finding a bench to sit on I continued my wildlife viewing, thinking I would sit there until the sun set. To my left, and where the sand meets the promenade, sat the scruffy group of guys who are always there. I think they are beach fishermen of some sort and I think they might even live there. In the morning they seem to be setting up a few logs and rocks, surrounded by worn bags with supplies. In the afternoon, one guy is always shucking oysters and people are eating plates of them. Maybe it’s a fast-food restaurant. At this time of the evening they were drinking beer and still chomping oysters.

Between checking out the dudes, and watching the water, I noticed someone way out who looked to be snorkeling. I was a bit concerned; twilight was on its way, the currents were looking mighty strong, and he was a long ways out. Since no one else seemed to be concerned, I ignored the situation. It was at least thirty minutes after first spotting him that I saw him arriving at the shore. He must have been mid-40’s and wore a knee length wetsuit that had seen better days and smaller bodies. Ragged goggles draped from his neck and a lobster was attached to a home made spear. All his buddies were whooping and congratulating him on his conquest. All I could think about was how incredibly fit he was, even with the gut. He popped open a brew as soon as he was out of his wetsuit.

I really did want to take pictures and I always want to go over and talk to these guys and get their story, but it seems way too invasive. I’ve been know to talk to fishermen on the beach so it’s not an angler phobia or anything. I think it is more that they are in what appears to be a very exclusive club and I feel as if I would be crossing a line where I wasn’t invited. Maybe one morning I’ll get up the nerve to talk to them.

Having been sitting on a concrete bench for far to long, I got up and continued my walk. It was close to 8pm and no sign of a sun setting anytime soon. Forget walking by the nightclub scene; I was going home.

Maybe I will find the fortitude to once again try to get in on the night action here, but somehow I rather doubt it.
Kate

Nails & Books

2010-05-22T15:29:00.000-07:00

Two days before leaving on my trip I got a manicure/pedicure. I had assumed that my fingernails would be chipped and ugly after a week in Puerto Vallarta, but that my toes should last the whole month. I was wrong on both counts. Nothing chipped that badly that a touch-up with some local polish couldn’t fix. The problem was that my nails had grown at such an astonishing rate that in only two weeks I had noticeable, quarter inch, crescent moon, unpolished nail beds; sort of a reverse French Tip. My nails usually do grow rapidly, but this seemed to be way more than normal.

My choice was to go buy nail polish remover and cotton and remove everything myself, (which is something that I loathe), or to find someplace here to do it. Having a well founded phobia of unknown nail salons, I already knew that I wasn’t going to let anyone do anything but take off he old and put on the new.

In my walks around town I’d passed a few places that advertised manicures, but most were in shops with no natural lighting and no air circulation. I imagined that anything at a fancy hotel would be more expensive than in the US. When I passed a place right off the beach, lit by only sunlight and cooled by ocean breezes, I decided to give it a go.

My first clue that I may not have made the best decision was when they told me to sit on a raggedy bench and brought over a dirty TV stand table to work from. My next clue was the basket of cheap, old, nail polish in ugly colors. Let me say here that I am just not good at standing up and walking out of any place even when I know I should. But I also reasoned that since they were not going to use any sharp, probably bacteria-laden implements on my nails, it would be ok.

I think the person doing my nails was actually a masseuse since she really didn’t seem to have a clue about how to even remove nail polish. She tried using some soaked cotton balls but the color remained, although it had now turned to semi-muck. Since I couldn’t smell any acetone, I asked her if she was sure she was using the right stuff. She then had another woman come out to try and help, to no avail. They both kept at it until I picked up the bottle of polish remover and pointed out that it contained lanoline and glycerin, (and I have a good idea that it had been diluted), and that they needed to use straight acetone. At first they weren’t sure if they even had any. It was another opportunity to walk out except that my nails were a sticky mess.

Once they used the proper stuff to clean my nails, I expected them to at least rinse them off; I was wrong. The manicurist picked up the bottle of bright red that I had chosen and started to open it. I asked about a clear base coat but she had no idea what I meant, not that they even had a bottle of clear polish.

Not having my reading glasses on, it looked as if all was going well. I told her only to do one coat; I just wanted to get out and would throw on a clear coat when I got back to the hotel. And then I started paying closer attention. The polish she was using was way past its shelf life; all gooey and thick. I mentioned that it looked a little old and that I was worried it wouldn’t dry. She sprayed some drying stuff on my toes, tested it and pronounced that all was well.

I paid and tipped and it really wasn’t that much less than a full US manicure. But it was done, so I didn’t dwell on it. It wasn’t until I got home, put on those glasses, and looked at my nails that I realized just how horrible a job she had done. It looked as though I had let some seven-year-old play beauty parlor with my nails. There was polish on my fingers and not on all parts of the nails; it was lumpy and bumpy and it would never thoroughly dry. I took a deep breath, an hour break, then headed to Farmácia Guadalajara for acetone and cotton.

********************************************

Knowing that one needs books for the beach, I’d brought down a bunch of paperbacks that I’d gotten from the library sale shelf. I also knew that there was a bookshelf in the lobby of the hotel filled with dusty, musty books, in which I’d found enough to interest me on my last stay. I figured there must be a whole new batch after the high season folks had left. After all, I had left my book, (as in the one I wrote), innocently amongst the others.

I was pleased to find that someone had liked my book so much that they had taken it home. I was not pleased to see that what was left on the hotel bookshelf were only the books that were so covered in mold and dust that you’d risk serious contamination if you were to pick one up. I was further bummed to discover that a good number of those books I’d brought sucked. So a few days ago I gathered al the books I had read, all the ones I couldn’t handle, plus another copy of mine, and headed for the nearby coffee shop/book exchange store.

I got enough in credit to pick up several books and started perusing the shelves. A lot of NY Times bestsellers and a lot of stuff I would never read. I am not at all a “literature” snob; just read my book if you need proof. It’s just that nine times out of ten, I do not care for anything on the NY Times list. And then there was the problem of the lighting inside the shop that made it necessary to move at maximum speed and get out.

Out of the corner of my eye I spotted my book on a shelf. Wow, the counter lady was fast to already get it out and slip it in while my back was turned. I reached down to pick it up and then realized it was the one I had left at the hotel five months ago. What that means is that someone cleaned out the good books from the hotel, walked over four blocks and sold them. Rather tacky. I peeked inside to see what they were charging for my book and it was way higher than the average paperback. Guess the pristine condition and awesome cover was the reason. However, it also means that it has less of a chance of being bought and read, which was the whole idea of leaving a copy. I did notice that my book was not shelved with mysteries but on a floor shelf with trade paperbacks, or something like that. I quietly shelved it where it belonged.

I didn’t have a lot of patience that afternoon, so only picked up one book, which turned out to be awful. I returned today to stock up and noticed that they had moved my book back to the location on the floor where it is not easily found. And now there are two copies, side by side. But at least I had the energy to find some authors I did know and like.

Kate

The Navy

2010-05-20T10:45:00.000-07:00

I do believe that on the first day I was here I wrote something about needing a long-sleeved shirt at night for the chill I was experiencing. That is no longer true. Right now it is 9:30 pm and I am sweating like a piggy. I just opened the door to get some circulation. It’s not really bad now, but I certainly felt the body-sapping weather today when I was out both in the morning and in early evening.

I wake up early here; like at 5am or 6, mostly because that is my norm but also because I think that maybe if I keep it up with it the sun will follow my example. And even though I am up well before the crack of dawn, I can’t seem to get out until I’ve already missed the sunrise.

A few days ago I did manage to leave the hotel and head for the shore at 7:30 am. The beachfront restaurants were busy setting up for breakfast both at the open-air, semi-indoor seating, as well as down on the beach. We’re talking white table cloths, cups and saucers, more flatware than one would need for a five course meal, and a whole lot of other stuff. While this was going on, other folks were wetting down the sand, putting out lounge chairs, putting up umbrellas. I wondered about all the effort for so many, many tables, when this is the low season.

It was pretty quiet as I walked along the shore; a few joggers and dog-walkers, and of course the pelicans cruising low over the water. I passed fisherman on the pier and some at the waters edge with nets or diving gear. It’s lovely at this time of day. (I happened to go by in the early afternoon and it was a nightmare of bodies crammed together in the sweltering heat).

Leaving the sand for the paved walkway of the Malecón, I decided it was a good day to finally visit the Naval Historical Museum, which I have passed countless times on this very same walk but have never gone in. When I got there I found out that they wouldn’t be open for another hour so stepped across to relax in the main plaza.

It was then that I noticed a flat-bed military truck loaded with guys in full combat gear. The men standing right behind the cab had big, possibly automatic, rifles at the ready and pointed out at the street. (No pictures as I knew better than to even ask if I could take photos). On closer inspection, I saw that they were from the Navy. Then I saw that a display of large posters had been assembled around the government building that fronts one side of the plaza.

The exhibition was in honor of the Bicentennial of National Independence, and the Centennial of the Mexican Revolution. It was put on by the Secretary of the Navy’s History and Culture sector, highlighting the role they have played in defending Mexico.

There were about fifty, 7 foot tall exhibition posters with pictures and text chronicling the struggle to reach Independence. It was beautifully done; each poster depicting an important person and/or significant event. I didn’t read every last word on each poster, but did skim through most of it and learned a lot. Now I feel I really need to go to Hidalgo and to Vera Cruz. (I also need a serious refresher course on what the US was doing in Vera Cruz in 1914.)

This very impressive display will be up for another week or so, then move on to other cities, eventually ending in Mexico City in November.

The Naval Museum was now opened so I popped back across the street and went in. Seeing as I was in a bit of history overloaded at that point, I did a quick run through and will return later to read things in more detail.

While walking around I saw that people were going upstairs and not returning. I followed them up to discover a restaurant, run by the Navy. It is a small affair, but its prime location on the Malecón means that one has an excellent view of the water. I checked out the prices and they were more than reasonable. And you get the bonus of young men and women in uniform serving you. Definitely a place on my list of things to experience.

Kate

Botanical Gardens pt 2

2010-05-19T11:59:00.000-07:00

The first thing I did upon my return to the Jardínes Botínicos de Vallarta was to ask at the entrance if Domino the Dog was still there. She had been my hiking partner on my last visit and I was looking forward to getting reacquainted. Hearing that she most certainly was, I took off down the road that lead into the gardens.

Along the way I stopped to talk to the gardener tending the thriving rose bed. When I had last spoken to him in November, he had just started planting them and here they were, bushy and blooming.

Walking towards the main building, (restaurant, gift shop, lounge area), I kept a sharp eye out for Domino. Before I knew it, she was at my side wagging her tail and leaning into me. I know she greets all dog-friendly visitors in the same manner, but I was sure she had remembered me. We were just set to take off together when a car pulled into a parking space and Domino went over to say hello. I thought she would probably come back over to me, but when another dog jumped out of the car I knew I had lost out for the day.

The first trail I took drops at a fairly steep incline through lush vegetation, crosses a little stream, then winds its way back up the mountain. It’s not what you call major jungle trekking but it could be dangerous for people like me were it not for the handrails along the entire route. All I needed was for my knee to go wonky on me and end up at the bottom of a gorge. And since I seemed to be the only one in this part of the Gardens, it seemed prudent to be cautious.

I was immediately struck by the number of birds talking as I headed into the thick vegetation. I swear they weren’t this many and at this volume the last time I was here. I would certainly have remembered the feeling of being in a jungle movie. I didn’t spot any of the birds but was content to just let their voices carry me along.

Near the top of the trail I came upon a gardener watering the plants. We talked about the names of the trees and other flora in the area. I knew coffee, orchids, bromeliads, (basically the same names as in English), but was clueless about some other tree with a name that didn’t sound like anything I knew and a shape which I can only describe as “tree like”.

.
A little further up, the narrow trail began its descent back to the bottom. I continued on down, (with a two-handed death-grip on that rail), until I reached the bottom and found myself surrounded by beautiful flowering bananas and tropical plants.

It was then that I noticed that my knee was no longer cooperating. Damn! Stuck at the bottom of the jungle never to be seen again. At least the bananas would soon be ripe. Eventually the knee decided to work and I climbed a short path which took me back to where I had started.

.
The path leading to the River Walk has no railing. However, there are proper, wide stairs so if one goes down one step at a time, there is no fear of careening head over heels to the bottom. (I was pleased on the return to be able to stride uphill, normally and at a regular pace).

Down at the river’s edge I thought how I’d like to camp there for a good long while. As it was, I just sat down on sand or rocks and let the positive ions flush through my body, mesmerized by the water lilies and the reflections on the clear water.

Back up at the orchid conservatory, I paid special attention to soil and planting, trying to pick up some pointers on cultivation. In this climate, there probably isn’t much you need to do to get them to bloom, but I did notice that the soil mixture had several ingredients more than I have in mine at home.

The upstairs restaurant was totally deserted. I sat on the veranda, looking out over the valley and river below, slowly sipping a cold drink.

When I walked downstairs, Domino was taking a nap on the cool tile floor. I bent down to say good bye and told her I would be back again for a walk with her.

Kate

Laptop Hell

2010-05-18T16:45:00.000-07:00

I take a month off my low-paying job to go to Mexico to write; possibly not the most financially sound move, but necessary for the soul. So when my laptop conked out on me day 4, I was a bit more than slightly upset. I am well aware that we have all become so dependent on the internet and cell phones and all this other technology that it might be a good idea to disconnect from it all now and then. But not when it screws up all my plans for writing.

My plan was to do what I always do; explore during the day and write about it at night. I had also planned on getting back to that book that has been stuck on page 92 for months. I tried to fill the days as I waited for a recovery disc from the US, but it just didn’t work. I’d go out walking for several hours, come home, start to read a book, fall asleep, then go out for another walk. I was bored to tears.

I did make some small journeys and wrote down what I could on paper. But without being able to see my pictures to guide me through my day, it was tough going. (ie, I couldn’t download the pics onto anything.)

I contemplated blogging at an internet café, but there just isn’t enough privacy and I couldn’t see spending 3 or 4 hours a day under glaring lights and trying to block out the sounds of video games.

Just when I thought all was lost and I might as well leave PV, I found out about The Computer Store, a place run by Tom and Ron. Yesterday, Monday, I dropped the laptop off and the guys figured they might be able to work some magic and get me up and running for a reasonable price. Tom called me later that evening to give me the bad news that my hard drive was a goner. They could do something, but the price wasn’t worth it considering I’d probably need to buy a new one in two weeks. Needless to say, I was even more seriously down in the dumps.

But I woke up today with a plan. I would go out and pick up the dead laptop and see if maybe they had one to rent. I don’t think Ron quite understood why I would spend the money to rent a laptop for 14 days. I was literally jumping up and down with happiness as I left the shop.

So now I will have to back track through the past eleven or twelve days, pull out those stories I did in long hand, and hopefully come up with some interesting tales.

Kate

(That's Leo the Cat. I've been looking rather like him for the past week.)

Bucerías

2010-05-18T15:29:00.000-07:00

On my last trip here I’d accidentally disembarked from the bus on an unattractive stretch of highway in Bucerías, thinking it was Sayulita. I soon realized my error, I waited for twenty minutes in the dust and dirt, peering across the freeway at ugly roadside buildings. I later heard that people actually retired to Bucerías and could not, for the life of me, understand why. Turns out there is good reason if one actually crosses those massive freeway lanes and walks three blocks into the city.
.

The cobblestoned main road leading down to the beach was fairly quiet in the morning. I got down to the small street that runs along the beach, noticed that nothing really took my breath away, and thought, Ok, I’ve seen it, time to go back. It has been my experience that this is often my first thought when I’ve done day trips and have to remind myself that not only haven’t I done enough exploring to make a such a statement, but it is a one hour, two-bus trip back. Neither my psyche nor stiff knee could handle that. So I started to walk.

The beachfront street I walked down was lined with restaurants both with indoor and waterfront, sand seating. I went into one to get a cold drink, have a seat, and to look out at the water.

.
I was surprised to realize that I was still on Bahía de Banderas, (the bay), even after an hour bus trip. From where I sat I could see miles down the coast to Puerto Vallarta, and miles up the coast to Punta de Mita, where the really high-dollar estates lie. At 9:30 in the morning, things were fairly deserted and it was just me and the birds who were diving in for a fish breakfast.

Continuing my walk past other restaurants, I ran into an older gentleman painting a Mayan inspired mural on the front of one of them. I said something and he started talking to me in perfect English. It turned out that Sr. Jesus was from Los Angeles where he had spent his life as a hairdresser to the stars. He mentioned Ava Gabor, (though he’d never met Zsa Zsa), Hedy Lamarr, and a few others. But he had always wanted to be an artist so that was what he was doing at this stage of his life. He’d moved down here ten years ago and had kept busy painting murals and pictures for homes in the area. He pulled out photos and showed me some of his work.

Walking back towards the center of town I reflected on how it looked sort of dingy and congested with too many eateries in too small a space. I carried on down a small dirt street lined with tourist kiosks. This lead to small streets with more little tourist shops and then into a little ally that had wonderful murals on both walls.

From there I crossed over a bridge and into another part of town.

.
I soon noticed why people chose to retire here. The street I was on was wide, meticulously maintained, with this wonderful, small-town tropical feel to it. Not many people were out but I don’t know if that was due to the time of day or the time of year.

I passed many shops that were owned by ex-pats and heard a lot of English coming from small cafés or by people greeting each other as they walked by. I noticed a sign inviting the public to walk up the small driveway and into a courtyard of artists’ studios/galleries.

The first one I walked into had some interesting mosaic work. A woman sat at a computer and ignored me. I asked if it was her work. She said "yes", and continued doing whatever she was doing. Hoping to start a conversation about her work, which really was rather lovely, I asked how long she had been in Bucerías. Without even looking up she rattled off some number and then just kept on internet-ing.

The same lack of customer-concern happened at the upstairs gallery; lady at computer, back to me, non-verbal.

I went into one more gallery and the sales woman did speak to me but kept being interrupted by her boss who kept calling. This is the gallery that had the most freaky, frightening piece of art that I have ever encountered in my life. On the wall hung a torso of a young woman that was so life-like you could have sworn she’d been gacked, hacked, preserved, and hung up to dry. The sales lady excitedly pointed out that no matter where you stood, those forlorn eyes would follow you. I had to avert my own eyes, I was so disturbed by the ghastly presence. I couldn’t even look at it long enough to get a good picture. I wondered who on earth would want that in their living room.

I strolled about a bit more and appreciated the pretty streets and slower pace of things. I went back down to the restaurant where I’d met the muralist and had lunch at a table set up in the sand, enjoying the wonderful view and the soft ocean breezes.

Bucerías is a lovely place and I asked myself if I could live there. No, I couldn’t. Something felt wrong about it to me. Possibly it is that if I am living in a foreign country, I want to be surrounded by the locals, not fellow countrymen, which would seem to be what one would get in Bucerías. Perhaps I am spoiled by having lived in similar places where I am one of the few foreigners. Having said that, a weeks vacation there would be ever so relaxing.

Kate

Internet Cafe Blog

2010-05-07T10:33:00.000-07:00

My laptop decided to not work yesterday. I freaked out a bit thinking that if I can´t get it to work, i would have to return to CA. I am here to write and that is a little hard without the computer.

Anyway, my cousin Bill, THE computer guy, is sending me a disk that should sort out the problem. I should be up and running by Monday.

Can´t write in public places like this internet cafe, so travel news will be a little delayed.
Cheers
Kate

5 de Mayo

2010-05-05T20:48:00.000-07:00

No Mariachi’s, no dancing girls, and no 5 de Mayo in Puerto Vallarta; it was just another day in May.

It was during my morning beach walk that I really noticed the difference between December and May in this town. There are tourists, but nothing compared to the throngs that crowd the beach areas during the winter months. There seemed to be considerably fewer street hawkers selling jewelry out of suitcases and the ones I did run into were far less aggressive. I am never bothered by the constant sales pitches one gets while walking along the beach or on the Malecón, (the beach boardwalk). People need to survive and I thank my lucky stars I am not in their shoes.

In the shops and the crafts markets it was the same; very few tourists and laid-back sales personnel. Great for me, not so great for the stores.

Random thoughts and observations occupied the rest of my day. Like why are the hills I look out upon from my little balcony not that brilliant green they were in December? I do know that the rainy season is at the end of the summer and that winter is dry here, but it just seems so odd to see patches of dull green and brown in the spring. Especially since I just flew down form an emerald green California.

My mind was taken off that subject when I walked by the local newsstand, which is often just a row of newspapers laid out on the sidewalk. Graphic front page photos of dead bodies and car wrecks greet the passersby. This has been going on at least as long I as have been traveling south of the boarder. In the US, television news broadcasts have been airing corpses for some time now, and print media does their fair share, but they will never rival Mexican papers.

A stroll to the main plaza in the late afternoon is always a good idea and today was no exception. The pigeons had taken up residence in the trees and were having the best time talking to each other, scrounging for crumbs and keeping all of us entertained.

I almost forgot one rather small, but stellar experience I had earlier in the day; I saw two parrots up in a tree. (I hadn’t seen any on my last trip here which had been a disappointment). These guys were making so much noise I figured they must be rather large. However, it took quite some time for me to spot them because they were so small. I tried to get a picture but I don’t have the zoom capabilities necessary so all I got was tree.

Time to go to bed and actually sleep; yet another difference from the winter months. Although I am in the old section of town, with small cobblestone streets and low buildings, the noise at night used to be unbearable. Definitely it was unsleepable. I had thought it was only because of the way noise from cars and buses echoed off the buildings. I now realize that a lot of that din was a result of cars filled with tipsy merry-makers, their stereos blasting, cruising at speeds way too fast for this neighborhood.

Kate (there are 2 parrots in this picture)

Back in Puerto Vallarta

2010-05-04T21:09:00.000-07:00

I’ve been in Puerto Vallarta for a little over a day now and am just starting to get in that mellow- tropical frame of mind. I should be fully there by tomorrow.

I’m back in my giant apt/room at the hotel but this time there aren’t a bunch of other folks in all the adjoining rooms. PV at this time of year doesn’t have all the winter retirees flying down from Canada and the US to avoid the snow and ice. It’s not like anyone was having mad parties when I was here in December, but it is nice feeling like I am the only one on the top floor apartments. I was excited to once again see all the lovely ladies who took care of me and the hotel on my last visit. I soon realized, however, that my Spanish was getting stuck in my mouth, where as it was flowing out when I left five months ago. That too should be in full swing in a few days.

Please understand that when I speak of speaking Spanish that does not mean I will ever be as good as I am in Portuguese, which is still a far cry from my ability in English, in which I am rather proficient. But as always, the people here don’t seem to mind if my words come out in some other language, (I may have said something in Vietnamese today), or with lousy pronunciation, (as mentioned above my mouth muscles need to re-adjust); they are just pleased that I am trying. Or at least that is my impression. Possibly they are telling their friends stories about the looney gringa who speaks in tongues.

Anyone who knows me will not be surprised to hear that even after about a month of planning what to bring, and about a week on barely controlled packing-insanity, I again didn’t quite bring all the clothes I need. For some reason I thought Mexico in May equals hot-hot. The days are fine for what I brought, but the nights are still a little cool and I should have packed at least one long-sleeved t-shirt for the evenings when I sit at the computer typing. I also forgot my Swiss Army knife, and can’t find that mega bottle of ibuprofen I know I packed. (I can buy it here but the cost is much higher.)

What I did remember to do was to book an appointment with my chiropractor today. Dr Lenny Sugerman is the man. I was pleased to hear his reassurance that I do not need a knee replacement as the Kaiser docs had told me, (not that I have any intention of ever doing that.) And it was heaven to get all those vertebrae back into place and moving freely. And again, creaky joints are just another little annoyance that should be righting itself, if not in the next 24 hours, at least in a week or two.

On the taxi ride in from the airport, I asked the driver what type of celebrations the city would be having for 5 de Mayo, which is tomorrow. Imagine my shock when he said that the only festivities would be in Mexico City. Huh? Can it really be that the State of California celebrates 5 de Mayo in a bigger way than the Mexicans? I’m rather bummed. Then again, I can do without the monster firecrackers that were booming most of last night. They don’t make them that big in the US. These sounded like grenades. I haven’t heard any tonight so maybe it was for some other event. Or maybe they were blasting open a new mine in the hills behind where I am staying.

There is only one disappointment that has occurred and that has to do with the sunrise. I knew that when I was here in December it would not be light early in the morning, but thought for sure that would not be the case now. I am 100% positive that I have been in places in Mexico where there is daylight at 5:30 am. Not here. It was pitch black at 7am. Sure, it is now 8:40 pm and its just getting on to dusk, but that isn’t important to me; sunrise at 5am is. In my opinion, if PV were on the proper time zone, which would be an hour behind of what we are now, the problem would be resolved. As it stands, PV is two hours ahead of California which just doesn’t make sense. It’s not like I was seriously contemplating buying a shack down here, but the lack of morning sun means that it will never be an option.

Tomorrow I will again get up early and go for a walk on the beach, but I will have to wait until close to 8:00 rather than 6:30 or 7:00. And I intend to search the city for a 5 de Mayo fiesta.

Kate

Mad-Crazy Waves

2010-02-15T09:28:00.000-08:00

It’s been over a year since I’ve been down to the Monterey Bay Peninsula. As always, I wondered what made me think that the two-hour drive to get here was too labor intensive.

I had been forewarned that it would be a busy weekend what with the AT&T Pro-Am golf tournament at Pebble Beach, the holiday weekend, and Valentine’s Day. But I have a free place to hunker down in solitude, and miles of shoreline to traipse upon, and with sunny skies in the forecast nothing was going to deter me once I committed to the journey.

Right before I left home I heard on the news that the Mavericks Big-Wave surfing competition, held in Half Moon Bay, (about halfway between San Francisco and Monterey), was a go for 13 Feb.

Each winter, during a waiting period typically set for sometime between November and March – if and when conditions are perfect, and giant swells roll in from far across the Pacific – The Mavericks Surf Contest® is held. On just 24 hours notice, two dozen of the surfing community’s bravest and most skillful souls assemble to confront the thundering mountain of salt water many consider to be the most dangerous wave Mother Nature has ever concocted. http://www.maverickssurf.com/

I was thinking that it would be fun to drive down to witness the 50 ft waves and the 24 lunatic surfers but knew that although the waves would not be as massive along the Monterey Coast, they certainly would be impressive. And impressive they were.

One can walk along beautiful coastline trails from Pacific Grove right into Monterey Bay, or ride a bike or tool along in a car on the small winding drive; it is stunning. I tend to drive for a bit, pull over, then start walking. Yesterday, I was pleased to find that the air was a little nippy, but the sun was out and I knew I would soon warm up. The problem was that I stayed cold for longer than usual because I kept stopping to stare out in amazement at the spectacular nature show.

I don’t ever remember seeing something quite so dramatic as those huge, 15 ft waves, rolling in one after another and crashing down on those incredible rocky shores, foam bubbling up nearly to the trails, all of it beneath a brilliant blue sky. I kept screaming in delight at every giant wave curling and breaking. I walked and watched and shared my excitement with others along the path. Back in the car I drove towards Monterey and then strolled along another section of the Pacific coast until I decided I needed a meal on Fisherman’s Wharf.

Back in the day, maybe 20 years ago, it seems you couldn’t miss with any of the restaurants on the wharf. Unfortunately, that doesn’t seem to be the case anymore. I had been craving Fish & Chips; probably because I had recently seen Gordon Ramsey working his magic at a F & C tavern on TV. I was hungry, it was starting to get crowded, so I stopped at the first place that had outdoor dining. Disappointed does not quite convey the quality of the food. It was dreadful. I would have been better off getting something from the frozen food aisle in the supermarket. More disheartening was that I rarely eat out and when I do I have memories of what my food should taste like. When I get rotten cat-food, for which I have paid good money, it sucks.

As I left the Wharf planning to get back to the seaside, the fog snuck in. Time to go back home and tune in the Olympics. Seeing as they are being held in the same time zone as California, one would think that we’d have the best coverage. Not quite. As usual, NBC has decided to broadcast live to New York and let us view their limited coverage after the fact, and at hours when children and a good many adults are in bed.

But I had plans for Sunday, which included heading out to the AT&T Golf thingy. I looked it up and found out I could park for free in downtown Pacific Grove then catch a shuttle into Pebble Beach and back for a mere $15. (This is actually the only way I think you can get into Pebble Beach during Golf Days). I didn’t want to pay to watch the folks hit the balls, but thought I could get some good photos and maybe a fun story out of the trip. But then I read the fine print that said cell phones, cameras, and food were not allowed in and would be confiscated. If you can’t carry a camera, how can you take pictures of Pros and Celebs? It would be another day on the shoreline.

Sunday maybe was even better than Saturday, but this time the beach trails in PG were off limits. It seems that someone in Carmel, just down the road, thought hanging near those bone-crushing breaking waves was a good idea. Not. Still haven’t found his body. However, there was also a 10K charity run underway so that cars were not allowed on the road making it a fine, quiet place to walk. I did a repeat of the day before and headed back towards Monterey, which turned out to be a mistake.

As beautiful and warm and sunny as the day was, there were just way too many people for it to be enjoyable. Then I remembered where I was and it had been years since I had walked around the Monterey State Historic Park, which is right downtown. In fact I had only ever been in a few of the well preserved, clearly marked, old Spanish and Mexican buildings.

Apparently, no one else had thought of doing the history thing on Valentine’s Day; I had the streets mostly to myself. I dropped by one museum to get a map and found out that almost all the historical buildings in Monterey and, in fact, the state, have been closed due to budget cuts. The few places that are open in Monterey are so because they are run with city funding.

Colton Hall is the building where “the signing of California’s First State Constitution occurred on Oct 13, 1849 and on Sept 9, 1850 California became the thirty-first state.” (Colton Hall Museum, 11/07) I actually got goose-bumps when Donna, the docent, told me I was standing on the exact spot where this took place.

From there I followed the Path of History, designated by little yellow circular plaques embedded in the sidewalk, over to the Royal Presidio Chapel which was erected in 1770 and has been in continual service ever since. In 2009 a major renovation project was completed. Seeing at it was Sunday and mass was just finishing and a baptism was about to start, I found lots of helpful people to give me information.

I was especially excited to learn about the stone relief of Our Lady of Guadalupe that adorns the niche above the church entry. I recently returned from Puerto Vallarta where Our Lady is the city’s patron saint, and was fortunate enough to observe the 12 day celebration they have in her honor. I sort of felt like I knew the gal. This particular rendition of her has been on the front of the chapel since 1794. In 2007 it was removed for conservation purposes. After a long process, it was restored to its original incarnation and replaced in its home.

Walking inside the chapel, looking at the colours, designs, the alter and the pews, I felt like I was back in Mexico. They have truly done an incredible job. A really interesting aspect is the small, plexiglas covered sections in the wall that let you see some of the original painted frescoes.

Back outside in that magnificent spring weather I continued to meander around cute, downtown Monterey. I promised myself to get up to speed on my history before my next, more extensive visit to this part of town.

And I am already making plans for the next Maverick’s event.
Kate

A Bit of DC

2010-01-25T16:14:00.000-08:00

The drive from Charlottesville VA, to Arlington was a breeze; that is until we took exit 71 off of I-66 on the way to the Best Western Pentagon. After such a delightful experience at their Springfield branch, I figured stick with what you know. Big mistake.

The AAA book had directions to the hotel from a different highway so I called the hotel and asked if it were possible to get there from I-66. No problem, just take exit 71 onto Glebe Road and you will see the hotel. Long story short; after 40 minutes of driving back and forth on Glebe, along with four phone calls to the less than accurate front desk, we arrived.

Just looking at the antiquated, old-style, two-story, exterior entrance hotel made me want to keep looking for another place. But it was dark, we were tired and this would have to do. The room was icky and stunk and my brother got huge welts all over his back when he lay down on the blanket. (which disappeared shortly after he extracted himself from said blanket.) It seemed all the other guests were young military types so I assumed this hotel had a deal with the government and didn’t really care about the quality of the rooms.

Our plan had been to get up early, take the Metro into DC for a few hours before returning and driving back to Baltimore. We both thought it might not be all that safe to leave our things at the hotel, but after checking the possibility of parking in DC we stuck with the original plan.

The next morning turned out to be another gorgeous, sunny day as we got on the shuttle that dropped us at the Metro station. Fortunately, we only had three stops to go, neither of us caring much for underground trains.

Originally, we had planned to go to a few Smithsonian Museums but time wasn’t going to permit that this trip. All I really needed to see was that iconic view from the Lincoln Memorial looking up over the pool and onto the Washington Monument. After seeing images of our nation’s capitol my entire life, it was hard to believe I was actually going to see it live.

We got to Mr. Lincoln’s dwelling at around 10am and it seemed no one else was there. We climbed the massive stairs and stopped at the landing to look out over the expanse in front of us. It was Jan 19th, the day after Martin Luther King Jr. Day. On the engraved stone that marked where he had given his speech, someone had laid a bouquet of flowers. We continued up the stairs and did a quick walk around Abe in his chair before going back out and sitting in the sun on the right side of the monument.

I would have been quite happy to walk all the way to the end of the mall, but we only had time to get as far as the WWII Memorial. It was a bit gaudy for my taste, but in deference to my father, a WWII vet, I walked around it and took pictures.

Looking back towards Lincoln, I realized we must have passed the Vietnam Memorial and couldn’t figure out how we had missed it. That whole area is much wider than I had envisioned, and if one walks straight up along the water pool, it’s not visible.

The Vietnam Memorial was much more meaningful to us; it was our generation. The war had started when I was very young and was in full swing during my adolescence and into college. I had grown up participating in stop-the-war rallies. I had seen what it had done to those who had gone there either willingly or otherwise. It was the reason that it was so important for me to go to Vietnam, nearly 30 years later, as a teacher.

As we walked along the wall my brother and I remembered the day that his third grade teacher received the news that her son had died in Vietnam. We reminisced about the time his junior high school was tear-gassed because it was a few blocks from UC Berkeley where protests were taking place. We talked about when I was in 10th grade at a peace rally with my school buddies. Someone took a picture of me singing and holding up the peace sign which made it into several newspapers and later a book or two. I wondered what type of memorial would eventually be erected for those who have been lost in our current wars.

We hadn’t seen what we had hoped to, but enough to make me want to come back. It wasn’t until we were back at the hotel, looking at a map, that we realized we could have walked by the White House on our way to the Metro station. Maybe next time.

Kate

...and on to Monticello

2010-01-24T17:19:00.000-08:00

“We have to go to Monticello”, was the first thing my brother said after we’d decided to make the trip to Baltimore for our cousin’s wedding. I know I studied Thomas Jefferson and the family estate way back in elementary school, but I didn’t remember that much about him. Until a friend mentioned it, I had even forgotten that Monticello was on the nickel. I was up for a road trip especially since the bro would be driving.

First though, we had to make our way from Baltimore to Virginia. With maps in hand, we set out in the rain in what we thought would be an easy cruise down to Springfield, VA. My brother is very good at all that map stuff and north/east/south/west. I, on the other hand, have difficulty differentiating between left and right. Nevertheless, I was the designated navigator. And since it looked fairly straight forward, I wasn’t concerned.

We’d been traveling quite a while through steadily increasing foul weather when we realized we still had quite a ways to go. It turns out we had looped around the right side of DC instead of going to the left, neither of us too sure how we managed that, but there was no going back.

Trying to read the road signs and then find things on the map, I became aware of how different everything was laid out and/or marked back in this part of the US. In California, it is pretty straight forward when it comes to numbering freeways and interstates; that didn’t seem to be the case in MD and VA. Sure, there was the well marked 95, and 495, but then there were all these other thoroughfares on the map that had either a small oval or a large oval around them. And then there were the ones with the federal shield. I figure it’s because back here roads are old, older, and prehistoric, and they’ve just kept adding bigger and better highways and adding more numbers to keep up.

Just when we thought we’d made it to Springfield, (we had actually exited the freeway), and could glimpse the Best Western through the fog on the other side, we got skunked yet again. We tried to drive under the freeway but were rudely forced back onto it, going in some other direction. No problem, I told my brother, we’ll get off at the next exit and circle back.

Can’t do that here. It was miles before we could even find an exit and even when we thought we were going into a town so that we could maybe take the city streets back, we’d get pushed onto yet another freeway. It was like a bad nightmare from which you can’t wake up.

Eventually we got there, not at all impressed with the surrounding neighborhood. But it was time to get off the road and get some food and rest. It turned out that the Best Western in Springfield was more than we could ever have hoped for. They had round-the-clock free food down in the non-functioning restaurant. Granted, it was yogurt and cereal and juice and coffee, but what more does one need? The following morning our free continental breakfast, (which I had assumed meant coffee and toast), included eggs and potatoes and waffles and all the other stuff from the night before. And unlike the high-dollar Marriott in Baltimore, they had free Wi-Fi.

That morning, the sun was shining and we were well equipped to handle the insane roadways on our way to Charlottesville and Monticello. I’d carefully plotted it out on the internet while my brother stuck to the AAA maps. We were to take VA-617 S, to VA-644 E, to I-95 S, to VA-3 W via Exit 130B, to VA-20/Constitution Hwy, to US-15 S, to VA-231, to VA-22, to US-250 W, to I-64, to VA-20 exit 121, to VA-20 S, to VA-52, to Thomas Jefferson Parkway. We made it with not one missed exit or merge.

We parked in the visitor’s lot and kept looking around for Monticello which was not in sight. Were we in the right place? Once in the sprawling visitor’s center to buy tickets we found out that you must take the shuttle up the hill to the house, but that you could walk back. Tickets were carefully timed and I was surprised to note that there were quite a few tourists even though it was mid-January. During the summer it must be packed.

Several people who had been to Monticello mentioned that they were surprised at how small it was. It’s not exactly small, but certainly not the grand, sprawling estate that somehow has been inscribed in the collective minds of forth graders studying the presidents.

The docent gave us a wonderful tour which, as always on these things, was too rushed. I’m sure everyone else would also like to spend hours inside asking questions and taking pictures. Questions were answered, but no pictures allowed. That is something I have never understood; why can’t you take pictures in museums? I understand it when you are in a place where camera flashes can cause damage to an ancient cave painting, but not in any other situation.

As intriguing as the house was, my brother’s main reason for being there was the gardens, in particular the fruit and vegetables. He knew that Jefferson was an accomplished agronomist who had developed a strategy to grow plants by creating a micro-climate on the side of the hill below the house. My brother was there to study it first-hand so that he might be able to apply the methodology to his own land.

I walked around the property in utter amazement as I read the placards and leaflets telling how in Jefferson’s “garden laboratory” he grew over 150 varieties of fruit; 250 varieties of vegetables; and an immense number of flowers and ornamental plants from around the world. Everything was planted in a certain spot for a specific reason.

For Jefferson, the vegetable garden was a kind of laboratory where he could experiment with imported squashes and broccoli from Italy, beans and salsify collected by the Lewis and Clark expedition, figs from France, and peppers from Mexico. Although he would grow as many as twenty varieties of bean and fifteen types of English pea, his use of the scientific method selectively eliminated inferior types: "I am curious to select one or two of the best species or variety of every garden vegetable, and to reject all others from the garden to avoid the dangers of mixing or degeneracy." http://www.monticello.org/

I keep going back to the Monticello website. It has to be one of the best sites I have ever seen and the information, which goes on and on is utterly fascinating. I am now totally intrigued by the man and all that he accomplished.

I’m sure my brother would have been happy to walk the entire 5000 acres, were that permitted, but we had a long drive ahead of us. A quick tour through the gift shop, a book and several seed packets later, and we were on our way to Arlington.

We again passed through one Civil war battlefield after the next with my brother, the history man, filling me in on the details. I have never been very interested in such matters; possibly because it was so long ago and California is a world away. But now I found myself hanging onto his every word and feeling a part of what had transpired on all those years ago.

I could definitely see returning to Monticello and also visiting the University of Virginia, (another of Jefferson’s endeavors), and driving through the lanes of our nation’s history.

Kate