Laptop Hell

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

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.
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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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

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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.

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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

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

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

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

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

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

“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

Baltimore

Traveling to Baltimore in the dead of winter is not a trip I would ever willingly choose; but my first cousin was getting married. We had essentially been separated at birth from that side of the family and the notion of meeting my lost cousins sealed the deal.

For me, anything below 70F is cold. My closet is filled with lovely, tropical-heat clothing that I can rarely wear in the San Francisco Bay Area. My usual routine would be to come back here for short visits, hit the Salvation Army for cheap sweaters and coats, and then pack the foul weather gear away for the next trip back to the frigid Bay. And even though I have, regretfully, been rather stuck here for the past year and a half, I have yet to own proper arctic wear. And what I do own is fairly bag-lady attire.

I fretted away hours about how I was ever going to survive the East Coast in mid-January without having to spend hundreds of dollars on proper clothing. I ended up buying a few pairs of leggings and arranging what I did have in somewhat acceptable layers. If push came to shove, I would simply refuse to leave the hotel for fear of hypothermia.

My brother and I arrived in Baltimore at 1am. I braced myself as we stepped out of the airport in search of a taxi. I couldn’t believe it; I wasn’t cold! This was weird. I even took off my gloves and unbuttoned my coat. I commented that it was warmer than California. My brother told me I was wrong and that it was in the low 40’s. And that feeling of complete comfort continued for our entire

week long trip.

Granted, we hit perfect weather with sunny days and clear nights for almost the entire week, but I could never get over that fact that even though it was in the mid 30’s at times, it did not hurt. Cold, damp, 50 degree weather in San Francisco hurts. It seeps into your joints and causes undue discomfort. I just can’t ever get warm in SF.

We booked into the Baltimore Marriott Waterfront. For someone who rarely travels within the US, and who generally stays in budget hotels in developing countries, it was a new experience. I couldn’t get over all the towels and pillows and free shampoo and conditioner. There were enough channels on the big flat screen to keep you awake all night. The hair dryer was actually in a little bag instead of being bolted to the wall. (Not that I have ever been in a hotel overseas that had a hairdryer). They even had an ironing board and iron. But what they didn’t have was free Wi-Fi. I had to pay $13 a day to access the internet. Even in my modest little hotels in Mexico, Vietnam, etc, there was free internet in most rooms.

The Inner Harbor area and environs, which is all we really saw of Baltimore, was wonderful: pedestrian friendly, clean, and historically fascinating. It dates back to the late 1600’s which, for someone from California, is like being in ancient Rome. Everywhere you walk there are historical markers with copious amounts of information making it a most fascinating history class. Within walking distance is the National Aquarium, historical museums, art museums, and the two places I really wanted to go but didn’t have time: The Babe Ruth Museum and Edgar Allen Poe’s gravesite.

January 19th is Poe’s birthday, which I didn’t know until I heard a news broadcast the following day announcing that the “Poe Toaster” had not made his yearly appearance.
http://www.baltimoresun.com/entertainment/poe/bal-poe0119,0,2922653.story
Since 1949, an unknown fan has left a birthday gift of three roses and a bottle of cognac on his original gravesite. (I’m assuming that means his body is no longer there.) This year, nothing was left. Even more odd to me is that no one knows who this person is/was, even though there seem to be people who wait to see “the shadowy figure” every year. Had he been buried in CA, no doubt the paparazzi would have de-cloaked the secretive individual years ago.

We fell into Fells Point Historical area without knowing it; cobblestone streets and cute little restaurants, shops and bars. It has been renovated but has kept all its old-time charm. Someone told us there was a pub on every corner and after an unscientific survey, it seems they were correct. I couldn’t stop taking pictures of all the beautiful brick buildings and basement stair entrances that front all the buildings.

The reason we were there, The Wedding, turned out to be the best part. It was held at PAZO, this way-cool, massive restaurant, just up the street from the Inner Harbor. In its original incarnation, it was a ship repair warehouse. The cavernous building is tall enough to house some very lofty ships. (how they got them inside is something I didn’t find out.) They have kept the openness and height, placing seating areas of tables and couches around the edges, and on a mezzanine.

The ceremony was upstairs overlooking the restaurant, followed by cocktails downstairs in the lounge area, and then on to dinner in an upstairs, private room. Now I am not one to get over-excited about food. It’s one of those things that is least important in the big picture. However, I must say that this was one spectacular dining experience. We were served eight different mini-courses, family-style. Platters of each dish were brought to the tables and then passed around. Sea scallops in butternut squash puree; wood grilled lamb chops in red wine pomegranate molasses; whole wheat bread with rosemary and sea salt, to name a few. Each dish was completely different and delicious. Amazingly, I never felt stuffed which is what usually happens after a big meal. I just felt gastronomically elated.

When we walked outside to go back to the hotel, I again noted that the weather was lovely and that I certainly could live in this kind of cold provided it never snowed or got below freezing. Which, of course, is not the reality. Tomorrow we would head off to Virginia and hope that the good weather and good travel would continue.

Kate

Bird Symphony

It is my last morning in Vallarta and so at 7am I went out for my final walk to the beach. Usually I walk down or up the beach but today I just sat on a bench and watched the birds and the sun come up.

The pelicans, gliding a few inches above the water, are still my favorite sight. Along with them were other, smaller birds dive-bombing for breakfast. A grackle perched on a sign post right in front of me, calling out to his buddies with numerous different songs. Before each melody he would puff himself up and cock his head at a different angle to get a different sound. Pigeons and others flew over my head calling out to each other and alighting in the palms trees.

At this time in the morning, it almost felt like I was on a deserted beach. Soon, though, the morning joggers and walkers with dogs began to fill the area around me.

I got up and took a final stroll through the streets that surround where I have lived for the past month. It is a small area, yet I found some streets that I had never been on before. I found myself looking for places I might want to stay the next time I am here.

Kate

Cuban Cigars

All along the malecon and on every block in any part of the city where a tourist might walk, there are stores selling Cuban cigars and/or tequila. In case you don’t happen to notice their shop, fear not; each has the requisite guy out front hawking the wares.

The men are usually late 20’s to mid 30’s. They are clean and neat but in a kind of night club sense; button down shirts opened a little too far, tight jeans, a few tattoos and a lot of product in their hair. Most speak at least enough English to call out to passing tourists, offering free shots and good deals on booze and stogies. They sort of creep me out; like the type of guy you would not accept a drink from where you in that bar, or the type you would cross the street to avoid passing.

However, I was rather curious about Cuban cigars, coming from a country where one sees nothing with Made in Cuba stamped on it. And being well versed in the laws of my country, I know that it is illegal to buy Cuban products and transport them across country lines. And although I would never, ever do such a thing, I thought I owed it to the people of Cuba to at least look at the product that has made them famous worldwide.

Upon entering any of the cigar shops, you will notice an interior, glass-walled room where the cigars are kept at the perfect temperature and humidity. A salesman escorts you in and gives you all the information you want. I didn’t pay that close attention since I hate cigars. More specifically, I hate the smell, which is right up there with skunk on my olfactory meter.

The prices range from about US$11 to $22. Some are thinner and some are fatter. The guy told me that the larger ones are made with the biggest leaves of the tobacco plant which have a better flavor. They also vary in terms of mild to strong.

Seeing as these chaps set of self-preservation/warning signals, you are never quite sure if anything they tell you is on the up and up. And how are you supposed to know if one shop is better/more legit than the next? At least I got that sorted. My cigar aficionado merchant told me that the entire Cuban cigar franchise in Vallarta is owned by one company and that prices are set. Or at least that is what he said.

I was in there at 9am and they offered me a shot of tequila, which I declined. But if you go by later in the day, there are plenty of tourists imbibing and, I assume, purchasing both cigars and tequila.

I guess that I was in such a hurry to get out of there and maybe take a shower, that I forgot to get a picture to go with this story. So I will use the sand sculpture shot.

Since I first arrived, I have seen this one sand sculpture on the beach, right along the malecon. You can tell it took talent to erect, but looked as though it was only in the beginning stages. The artist sleeps right next to his work and there is a donation box set up.

As the weeks went by, the sculpture didn’t change, other than minor repairs. I began to wonder if the artist might have a bit of a drink problem and that was as far as he was ever going to get.

Yesterday morning, I was amazed to see this brand new, incredible sculpture of a woman. It also looked like he was setting up to do something even grander. I dropped some money in his box and saw him stir in his beach bed.

Walking a little further, I realized that what I had just seen was an entirely new artist. The original guy was still there.

This afternoon I was anxious to see what was going on with the forms that had been set out the day before; I was thinking big sand castle. Whatever it will be, it is still in the setting-up stage. But the one I had seen yesterday now had a man sculpted into it, and I noticed that it seemed to be the work of two men. I’ll go by tomorrow and hope that some more has been done with the new work. I’m worried that it will not be finished by the time I leave on Thursday afternoon.

Kate

12 December

The final, and most important night of the 12 day festival for Guadalupe, was Saturday night. And this time I finally got it right and was out on the streets when the rest of the city all seemed to be there. Granted, I came back home at 8pm and the revelers stayed until at least 2am, but I definitely was in the midst of it all.

This time the streets were jammed with families and groups of friends walking or seated on the curb of Calle Juarez. I especially adored all the kids who were dressed in traditional Mexican clothing. (think: Frida Kahlo). I didn’t have the proper shirt, but at least I had the white pants.

When asking about the nights festivities, I’d learned that a torch was being run from Mexico City to Puerto Vallarta and would arrive on the parade route at 7:30pm. I wanted to make sure I was there to witness it. The runners were preceded by several police cars and motorcycles, sirens blaring. When they passed by where I was standing, one guy handed the torch off to another. They were followed by a large group of joggers aged kid-adult, all decked out in green and white. We all applauded as they cruised by.

I sort of got a picture of a Guadalupe on a flat bed truck, but I realized I had missed all the best photo opts the first night I had been out.

The food stalls were doing a brisk business and I was in the mood for a roasted ear of corn, but could only find cups of corn. I got one and declined the mayo and hot sauce topping, asking only for a lime to be squeezed over it. It was tasty and close in flavor to a roasted ear.

I walked a block down from the processional street to the malecon which was also packed. I stopped at the edge to watch the huge waves crashing with such force that the water reached all the way up the seawall and onto the pedestrian walkway. (I took pictures, but my camera is just not good enough with the nighttime stuff so I can’t share them with you). It was fantastic!

Again this morning I went down there and the waves were up to their same display. I could have sat there for hours, so entranced was I by the sight and the sounds of the forces of nature. I so love this shoreline in the early morning when few people are out and it seems it is just me and the birds. I try not to count the days until I will have to leave it, but have not at all been successful in doing so.

Kate