Ford Street

Back from Chile

The last couple of days there were fantastic, in the truest sense of the word. We drove to a place called Banos de Colina, which are natural springs. The real thing, though, is the drive there.  It’s like taking a drive to the Moon – and just as complicated. There is no road, for starters.  There is something that may have started out as a road, but whoever started it got tired and moved on. So the car essentially goes hiking, and that’s how you get there. Fueled by a lot of prayer.  But the landscape, or rather the moonscape, is just jaw-dropping. There are long stretches of time when you’re simply rendered incapable of speech. You just keep going, and you pray the car will be able to keep going. 

There is a new photo album, over there on the left, called Chile 07. Go check it out. 

We left San Alfonso on Saturday and went to Santiago for the day. I was very sad to leave San Alfonso – it really is an escape from everything that I need an escape from in my life. The roosters crossing the road, the horses roaming around untethered, the ever-present Andes, the people in the town, even the little bastard German shepherd who waited for me to pass in my car every day so he could “play” with the car. This didn’t phase Margie in the least, because apparently back home in Butcher Holler or wherever in blazes she’s from in Alabama, it’s common for dogs to chase cars and attempt to take a bite out of the bumper. I just kept waiting to accidentally murder the dog, and have to deal with its owner. Anyway, the dog got a great deal of glee from torturing me, and Margie got a great deal of glee from watching the dog torture me, so almost everybody won here.

We walked around in Santiago; not one of my favorite cities in the world, but nice to see it again. Then, I put my bags on the plane, flew to Miami, connected through to New York, and picked up my bags. Amazing, really, when I think of the experience I had getting to Chile. But this time it worked.  I am still going to write a scorching letter to American Airlines, but I was very happy yesterday morning that the whole process went off without a glitch.

And of course when I got home the ceiling had partially rotted out in the guest room, from a burst pipe, and every problem that I had at work and in my personal life is (damn it!) still there, but I hope that all of that will be easier to deal with for a while. I just think of those mountains, and I’m calm. 

San Alfonso

I love this little town in the Andes.  I thought of it all year, since last February, and I am thrilled to be here again.  I love the easy routine that Margie and I fell into, almost the moment we walked into the house.  It was the same way when I was here last year, with other friends (side note to Rini and Kim: the little inserts for the stove’s glass cover are still flipped up, with bits of broken glass stuck in them!  I laughed and laughed…)   Sleep, breakfast, a day’s wandering, back home for happy hour, then dinner and the hot tub.  Who could ask for anything more? 

They are doing construction on the road here in town, and if you’ve ever been bothered by roadwork in the U.S., well, brothers and sisters, that was nuthin’ at all.  There’s a guy at one end of a very long mess – which is really rocks and mud and gravel – and a guy at the other end, and they walkie-talkie to each other to let one side of traffic go, then the other.  The wait can be ten minutes, and then your turn comes and you barrel into the bumpy mess until you come out on the other end and think, whew.  Then you come to another roadblock a mile away and do the same thing all over again.  Once, we waited very patiently to go and then had to stop again, to let a very important-looking rooster cross the road.  We have rented an SUV (darn good thing) but it’s got a standard transmission, and it’s been a while for me, so Margie has been very generous of spirit, ignoring the few times when I shifted from third back to second (looking for fourth) not to mention the time I shifted from third into reverse.  She has a good heart, that one.  The car does make very interesting noises when you do those sorts of things, I’m warning you. 

We have been to two wineries while we’re here (how could we not?  The Queens of Napa Valley hit Chile!)  Santa Rita, yesterday, was an interesting tour, actually watching bottles get cleaned, filled, corked and marched away like little yummy soldiers.  We had lunch at the winery, which was wonderful, but then discovered that if you have lunch, then you can’t do a tasting.  Huh?  So we didn’t taste any wines, so we didn’t buy any wine.  Phooey on them.  Today we went to Concha y Toro and did actually taste wine, and (of course) bought some too.  Now I am trying to figure out how to fit the bottles into my suitcase.   

I have taken boatloads of pictures, some of which I’ll post when I get back home. 

From the Noise into the Quiet

Valparaiso is winding streets and crazy hills and barking dogs.  The weather was glorious; we walked our legs off Sunday and then came back to our hotel and passed out for a bit.  Followed, as always, by a very pleasant happy hour.  We completely forgot that it was Sunday, and that every single restaurant in town would be closed except for small greasy-spoon type places, so we ended up going to a market and getting bread, cheese, etc. and extended our happy hour into the night. 

The cab drivers mostly robbed us blind but they rob us of such small amounts of money that we don’t care – they get us where we want to go.  It’s so very easy to get lost in Valparaiso; it’s a great city to walk around in but you’d best have some time on your hands. 

Yesterday we left Valpo (as the locals call it) and drove to San Alfonso, in the heart of the Andes.  First we went to a monster supermarket, kind of like a Wal-Mart, and got everything we needed for the week.  We got here mid-afternoon and before long were settled comfortably by the pool. 

If Valpo is winding streets and crazy hills and barking dogs, the Maipo Valley (where San Alfonso is located) is mountains that don’t ever seem to stop rising up, a river that screams by all day and night, and quiet little towns full of locals sitting in plastic lawn chairs taking in the day. 

For dinner, I once again engaged in a wrestling match with what the Chileans call “charcoal” – raw, untreated hunks of carbon.  One must cajole, threaten and finally attack in order to start an actual fire with it.  If I ever come back here, I’m bringing a case of Match Light.  This will be my nightly challenge now; but it’s fine.  I’m up to it.  Tonight, I figure, I’ll just toss the whole bag in the pit and set fire to it. 

We spent the whole evening in the hot tub.  Haven’t I read somewhere that you’re not supposed to drink alcohol in a hot tub?  Hmmmm…..

Valparaiso

We left the beach today (Pichidangui) and drove to Valparaiso, which is a wonderful city.  It’s sort of Chile’s answer to San Francisco, with a lot more history thrown in. 

We are staying at an amazing hotel called the Robinson Crusoe Inn, owned by a very talented and energetic fellow named Jorge.  I stayed here last year, so I knew what I was coming back to, but my friend Margie was quite pleasantly surprised by this amazing bit of hand-carved loveliness in the middle of Valparaiso. 

We went to nearby restaurant for lunch, and met these guys: 

…who sang and entertained the lunch crowd.  They did a very long intro, spoken very quickly, so that I really only caught every third word.  It was apparently hugely funny, because the other patrons laughed their heads off quite a bit, and clapped quite a bit.  One of the other diners was kind enough to ask for a translation of the very long and very funny intro, for the benefit of the two gringas in the house (how did they know?  The blonde hair gives me away every time) and the lead singer turned to us, searched his mind for his vast repertoire of English words, and said to Margie and me; “We’re gonna play.”  Which I thought was hilarious. 

Later in the day, while we were walking around another neighborhood, we ran into these guys again, and we all laughed and shared a bilingual moment:

Tomorrow we hack around Valparaiso again.  More later. 

My night at JFK and day in the air

You know, we all hear about massive flight delays, and see footage of people stuck in airports for days, lying on cots like refugees, and think, oh, the poor devils, and don’t think much else. 

Now that I have been one of the poor devils, I will forever live in fear of green airport cots and snow storms. 

I went to JFK airport on Wednesday afternoon, to leave on a much-anticipated holiday to Chile.  Checked in.  No reported flight delays in spite of a nasty storm that had hit NY the night before.  I should have known something was up when it took me more than an hour just to check my luggage.  But I was so much younger then. 

I got on the plane late, because of the check-in crush and the security crush.  Boarded at about five minutes before the scheduled takeoff time.  Should have guessed that something was wrong at this point as well, but oh, remember, I was so much younger then. 

Five hours later, we were still sitting at the gate. 

First, the pilot expressed some mild surprise when they had not loaded any luggage yet at 7:30 or so (6:55 departure).  Then the luggage was loaded, about an hour later, and we were good to go.  As they started to push back the airplane, the ground crew broke a tow bar on the nose wheel.  This required a maintenance check, so we waited.  And waited.  And waited.  Finally, at about 10:00, maintenance showed up and pronounced the plane uninjured by the tow bar mishap, and we were good to go.  Now we needed to be de-iced though, since the entire airplane was covered with about a quarter-inch of ice.  Well.  The de-icing crew had reached the end of their duty day by that time, so no ground crew seemed to be available.  Several passengers began rioting and demanded to be let off the plane.  We rolled back to the gate, opened the door, and let out the crybabies.  (They surely would not have been able to handle what was coming; it was good they left then.)  At 11:30 the now-weary pilot came on the intercom and announced that the flight was cancelled. 

Cancelled. 

Off the plane we went.  I knew my connecting flight to Santiago was a bust at this point, so I had to figure out how to get to Miami somehow, and then on to Santiago.  We all trooped downstairs to baggage claim (which was absolutely freezing – I remember thinking, oh, I have to get my bags quick and get the hell out of this place).  We were greeted with the announcement that it would be at least an hour before our bags came out.  I went back upstairs to re-book a flight and was told, in short order, that it was physically impossible to get out of NYC any time before February 20th. 

February 20^th.  At which point my vacation would be half over. 

Exhausted at this point (ha!) I went downstairs to wait for my bags.  Which were delivered at 5:30 a.m.  Yes, you read that right.  The night that I passed in the baggage claim area was brutal, comedic, tragic and a profound lesson in customer service for me.  I hate American Airlines with a passion now.  The baggage folks were, almost to a one, surly, nasty, mentally challenged individuals who all needed a massage. At several points, there was nearly a riot, as the passengers from flight 2031 tried desperately to get their bags and move on with flight plans.  Many people missed flight opportunities, because they didn’t have their bags!  Several of us asked if our bags could be delivered to our homes, locally, and we were told that no, that wasn’t possible, because we hadn’t traveled anywhere, so American wouldn’t deliver our stuff.  So whose fault was it that we didn’t travel anywhere?

One entertaining bit: at one point, one of my fellow passengers called 911 and informed the police that American Airlines had stolen our luggage. No one came, of course, but still – wildly entertaining, 

At 5:20, just as I was on the phone for the fourth time with American, and had gotten a line on the only available seat out of New York, to a place that could connect with Miami, I saw my luggage on the carousel.  The agent on the phone said, how fast can you make it to Newark airport?  One hour flat, I told her, and she told me to bug out.  An hour later, I checked in for a flight to Dallas, which got me to Miami later in the day, which got me to the fight I am on now, to Santiago.  (All three of these flights, incidentally, were delayed.) 

So: I start my vacation shortly.  I’m exhausted, I feel like I’ve been wearing the same clothes for three weeks and I have bounced around the nation like a ping-pong ball. 

More later on Chile. 

Back to San Francisco

 

Back at the airport again, after a morning in Monterey.  A little wine tasting, bit of a walk, some ice cream…back in the car.  I don’t even know how to guess how many miles we put on this car this weekend, but I loved it. 

My back is giving me grief, still.  Clearly I need to take up Pilates, or whatever the hell that thing is that’s good for your back.  Pretty sure it’s Pilates. 

I really, really don’t like redeyes but have booked myself on one for tonight.  I guess I just wanted to be back in New York when the holiday delays started.  I’m convinced that redeyes take actual time off of one’s life.  A month, a couple of months, whatever it is.  It counts, at the end. 

Every day is a winding road

 

Every day is a winding road, indeed. 

The great thing about driving is, it gives you time to think.  And I’ve needed some time to think, of late.  I feel absolutely exhausted by the past few days, but also energized.  I do love a road trip, and a couple of days’ worth of singing in a car and looking at amazing scenery does do quite a bit for my soul. 

We went to Hearst Castle on Friday, and got there after possibly the most amazing drive of my life.  The scenery, from Monterey down to San Simeon, was just incredible.  How many times can you say “wow” in 2-1/2 hours?  Whatever it is, I’ve got it beat.  We had a grand ride down, and spent some time at the Castle.  I’m not much for opulence, as a general rule, but I do have an appreciation for what Hearst was trying to do, with his home in the middle of nowhere.  The Castle was incredible; I most enjoyed the outdoor areas, the landscaping and statues.  The views just knocked my socks off. 

We were supposed to do two tours of the Castle, but we got there late….silly us, not accounting for the fact that one does generally not approach the speed limit on Highway 1…we crawled a good bit of the time (again, that was just fine) but it did make us quite tardy for our ticketed tour.  If we had stuck around for both tours, we would have had to do the entire drive home in the dark, and that just simply would have resulted in two women at the bottom of a ravine somewhere, so we struck out earlier than planned and spent the evening in Monterey.  Not such a bad thing, really. 

There was a really scary guy, on the drive down, who kept all but nosing the car in front of him.  He clearly was furious; there was a parade of about 6 or 7 cars, with Mr. Furious at 5^th and Margie and me at 6^th.  At the head of the parade was a medium-sized camper, moving at a rather sedate clip.  It’s a tough road for any vehicle; the camper driver must have been a little nervous.  So Mr. Furious kept attempting to take out his frustration on the vehicle in front of him, and we all proceeded south for a while.  True, the camper driver should have used one of the turnouts and let the traffic pass, but it was a pretty hairy chunk of road and we were all just concentrating on the vehicle in front, and not rolling down to the bottom of a ravine somewhere.  Finally, the camper pulled off the road….with Mr. Furious right behind him.  The guy actually got out of his car and headed over the camper, with murder on his mind!  Margie and I just kept going, but I felt bad for Mr. Furious.  We weren’t going that slowly, really, and it was a gorgeous day, and here I’d flown 3,000 miles just to calm down and take a breather, and Mr. Furious just wanted to get where he was going in a quick fast hurry. 

Dude….take another road….choose another path….

Life is a highway

Let me tell you something. 

Driving south on Highway 101 from Monterey to Big Sur, on a gorgeous day, with great music and a great friend – doesn’t suck.

It’s the reason that people fall in love with California. The scenery is dramatic and alive; the highway is every cool car commercial you’ve ever seen, twisting and winding and bending and daring you to take your eyes off the road just for a second (not so much).

If I lived in Northern California, I’d go to Big Sur every stinkin’ weekend. No, wait.  I’d alternate between Big Sur and Napa. 

I have a lot to be thankful for this year.  I hope all of you do too.

No place like home

I am home from eastern parts, and just in the nick of time, from a gadzooks-Kim-Jong-Il-is-really-gonna-do-it point of view.  There’s a new photo album over there on the left. 

I am always happy to see new places, and I am always happy to come home.

I was fascinated by Japan.  There are so many things I want to read up on now. Like this: 

Her name is Masayo.  She is a Maiko, or a geisha in training. She gets two days off a month, during which time she can do whatever she pleases with whomever she pleases. I was surprised that this girl could go see a movie and giggle with her buddies if she wants to. She has, together with the person who sponsors her, about 100 of these marvelous kimonos. It takes her two hours to put on this makeup, and she gets her hair done but once a week, and must sleep on a hard pillow under her chin so that she does not disturb her hair.

See, that alone right there would prevent me from being a geisha. 

She was poised, proud and pretty.  A charming dinner companion.  I was enthralled.

I also went to a massive electronics store called Yodobashi something or other. Picture the largest store you’ve ever been in, double it, add a million lights and signs, and that’s this joint. Heaven, really, if you’re an electronics fan, but v. dizzying indeed. Overwhelming, even.  I bought nothing.  But the next time I go to Japan I’m bringing an extra suitcase.

I ate grease for dinner last night (cheeseburger and fries!) and it was lovely.

I shall miss the toilets in Japan.  They’re called Washlets.  For heaven’s sake, Google them; you don’t need any more on this from me. But I’ll miss them. 

I am always happy to see new places, and I am always happy to come home.

Lost in Translation

I haven’t commented much on the events of the past week, given the fact that I was working 6,500 miles away and nursing a sore back.

They were not lost on me, though. 

I have spent a great deal of time in Lancaster County, Pennsylvania. I know many towns there like the back of my hand. I know the Amish, and I appreciate their dedication to their faith and their lifestyle. I have admired them since the age of 7. 

Charles Carl Roberts IV walked into an Amish schoolhouse and destroyed the lives of 10 little girls, killing some of them and giving the rest, provided they live, a lesson in why their ancestors chose to remove themselves from society. There are no words, in German or English, to explain the events of the past week to these girls or their families. A man went to work, dropped his children off at their bus stop and told them to have a good day, and then he left his children and went to find other children, and five of them are dead now. 

I learned a lot this week in Japan, because I paid attention. It would have been very easy for me not to pay attention; in fact I lost a couple of days because I was feeling sorry for myself, so far from home with a hurt back. It seems to me now that I was in Japan for weeks and weeks, instead of just six days, because of the time I missed. Fortunately I was able to center myself and pay attention for the rest of the week, because if I hadn’t, an awful lot would have been lost in translation.

After the business of the trip was concluded, we had a day of sheer tourism. We went to visit two shrines, and at one of them, we met with a monk by the name of Thomas. Now, before we got there, I was quite wrapped up in myself and nervous about the day because I knew that we were scheduled to have a “sitting meditation” with this monk, and I’ve learned from experience that sitting is not a preferred activity for me right now. I listened to this man, though, and one thing he said resonated with me, and will resonate with me for a long time. He was instructing our group on the basics of Zen Buddhist meditation, and he said, focus on the out breaths. Don’t worry about the in breaths, because they will flow back on their own.

I tried it, and couldn’t not worry about the in breaths. I had to count them too.

He kept talking, and he said, if you can’t not worry about the in breaths, you certainly aren’t in a place where you’re trusting other people, or yourself, or the universe, or God.

Which knocked my socks clean off.  ‘Cause he’s right.  I used to be the kind of person that trusted the universe, and as with all people who trust the universe, I was constantly rewarded. For the past couple of years, however, I have not trusted the universe, and it’s been apparent. Shit.  I couldn’t sit in a beautiful shrine, on a beautiful day, listening to a monk, and trust that my own breath would come back. 

After Thomas the monk talked to us for awhile, we moved to anther room to meditate.  I was, by golly, not going to leave that room until I got it.  I would have bid my travel companions farewell and stayed if I had to.  But, luck – and the universe – was with me, and I got it.  I got it. It took about ten minutes of sheer concentration and a little bit of prayer to the meditation gods, but I got it.  I left the past and the future outside the door and focused on the present, and my out-breaths. 

We bid farewell to the monk, and moved on to another shrine (I’ll post pictures of all of this when I get back to NY) that happens to be a popular tourist destination in Kyoto.  The shrine was lovely, but the part that stuck with me was the tour guide’s description of the history of the tea ceremony in Japan.  It isn’t about the surroundings, or the tea, or the ceremony.  It’s about the moment.  The object of the game is to enjoy the moment, and realize that there will never be another moment like it again.  You can sit down and have tea with the same people at a different time, but so many variables will be different – the weather, your state of mind, etc. – the important thing is, this moment will never happen again.  Kings sit down with commoners and commoners sit down with kings – all are equal at a tea ceremony.  It’s kind of like trusting the universe.  The reward will always follow. 

I was nervous about this trip, because I’ve been so stressed for the past couple of months.  There was a lot of prep work for the trip, and six months ago it seemed so far away.  I was worried about the people that were going, I was worried about the schedule, I was worried about my body, and adapting to the food (prior to this trip, I hadn’t really eaten sushi in about 23 years, and the last time I did, I spent 36 hours in the ER at NYU Medical Center.) 

But I had to trust the universe.  I didn’t have a choice.  So I went. 

And I met some wonderful people, truly wonderful people.  I got to know some people that I've known for nearly 20 years.  I was quite vulnerable, never having had to deal with a sore back, let alone a sore back in a foreign country.  I put myself out there, though, and saw doctors and hoped that I could hold my own as far as work was concerned.  I did, thanks to the people I was with, and thanks to the universe.  There was a lot about Japan that seemed surreal, but I followed my out breath, and I was (nearly) always able to breathe.  I stayed in the moment; and what a reward… 

I write this on an airplane that is 34,000 feet above the Earth – normally, one of my favorite places in the world. But it is night, and the world always seems fraught with danger at night, especially if you’re alone.  I wish it was light out.  But I trust that the light will come. 

I trust that the light will come.

The Amish went to the funeral of Charles Carl Roberts. They gathered to see him off, even though he took so much from them. There is a lesson to be learned here, for all of us, and I wonder how many of us will stop and learn it, before the Amish, and Thomas the monk, fade back into obscurity and everything gets lost in translation.