East Coast

When possible, I enjoy getting out of town for my birthday. It’s a distraction from the ageing process, and also saves me from the embarrassing task of deciding how to celebrate my own birth and who to ask to celebrate with me.

This year, it was New York and DC. I love the East coast, and it’s been a while, and the stars aligned to fit in several welcome opportunities:

To see family and friends

To travel on Amtrak

To see the cherry blossom in DC (slight fail on that one)

To hear Pink Martini at the Kennedy Center

To see the Gauguin exhibition at the National Gallery

I took the red-eye to New York, which wasn’t too painful. I would have got even more sleep had the cabin not been refrigerated. I asked the flight attendant for a blanket, and she told me that they are now charging $8 for blankets “so that you can have a clean one.” I told her I’d rather have a free dirty one, but they don’t seem to offer that option. I’m so tired of airlines telling us how they’ve come up with these new rules and charges just to give us joy and fill us with gratitude.

Once there, I got to see my cousin and her bloke and kid, and get the guided tour to Yonkers, where they live. We visited the Union Church, which has stained glass by Matisse and Chagall, because, as I have mentioned elsewhere, if your name is Rockefeller, you can say things like “You know what would really complement my Matisse window? Eight more Chagall windows,” and make it happen.

We also visited the ambitiously-named Philipse Manor, which was very interesting, if a little on the rustic side to qualify itself for our mental image of a manor. But it wasn’t a primary residence, after all, and at the time, it was probably considered quite luxe.

Lydia and I nearly disgraced ourselves by giggling hysterically at some of the cheesy items for sale in the gift shop, which proved that we haven’t matured since our teens, and at least shows that the ageing process hasn’t completely overtaken me. I managed to sober up just enough to buy a postcard with a hologram of a scary-looking sheep on the front, and even politely agreed with the clerk as she commented on how lovely it was and how amazing was the technology that created it.

We also drove through Sleepy Hollow, which I must admit surprised me a bit in that I thought it was an imaginary place prior to our visit.

The next day we went into Manhattan, visited the Whitney, made fun of some of the art, loved some of it, and got into trouble with museum guards for taking pictures (not OF paintings, I should mention, I don’t do that), which reminded my cousin and I of that time we got chased though a castle in Wales by the security guard, and again proved that la plus ca change, la plus c’est le meme chose.

We also window shopped, and I went to the Top of the Rock, and the view was truly phenomenal, even though I didn’t see Tina Fey anywhere, and we sight-saw, and ate, and it was all very New York and fun.

The next day was Amtrak from Penn Station to DC, so I got to fulfill an old goal of taking a train in the US. As we left New York, I was a little concerned that it would not be all that I dreamed of, as the tracks seemed to be routed through the ugliest areas possible--but eventually I got my green landscapes and trees, and cityscapes, and all was well. Except Baltimore. Maybe Baltimore has good points and charming vistas, but I did not see them from my train.

I arrived in DC, at the stunning Union Station, and all was sunshine and tulips. Though a bit thin on the ground as far as cherry blossom. I was staying with my friend Julia and her husband, and we lunched and caught up, and went to the National Portrait Gallery, which I highly recommend.

Friday night and Pink Martini were wonderful. I loved the Kennedy Center, and it’s in a beautiful setting. It was rather lovely to be able to wander outside and look over the Potomac in the early evening before the concert. Pink Martini always rocks the house, though I was a little disappointed at first to find that my beloved China Forbes, the usual lead singer, was under doctor’s orders not to sing, and was replaced by a woman rejoicing in the name of Storm Large. Which apparently is for reals, even though it sounds like the result of one of those Facebook posts that ask you to provide your cat’s name and first street you lived on and tell you that’s your porn star name.

Storm was a bit more Broadway and loud than China, but she did a good job, and you have to give props to the girl for learning all those songs in multiple languages, per PM’s signature multi-cultural style. But the real consolation prize was Ari Shapiro, who sang a few numbers, plus a duet, and was completely charming, delightful, and talented to a jealous-making degree.

Saturday it rained cats and dogs, which was fine, as we spent a good chunk of the day inside the National Gallery admiring Gauguins and tracking down the da Vincis, and sitting in restaurants. And there’s something quite fun about running around in rainstorms when you know you’re guaranteed a warm, dry bed at the end of the day. A rather special and unexpected sight was a formerly LDS, rather grand chapel in the middle of DC, among a group of very fine churches and other buildings. It’s a bit crumbly and not well-kept now, but I liked that the Mormons made our mark with some good architecture there a long time ago.

Sunday was another gorgeous day, and we headed to the National Cathedral for Palm Sunday Service. It was an Episcopalian service, which is close enough to Church of England for me to feel an affinity for it. It’s very different from LDS services, and although I’m quite happy with the way we run things, I also like the ritual and tradition there. There’s something rather solid and comforting about it, and I appreciate the perspective on Easter.

National Cathedral
Bishop's Garden
Cathedral
National Gallery
New York
at the Whitney
Philipse Manor house
Philipse Manor

Chicago, Chicago...

I walked into the hotel, and a well-dressed woman took one look at me, dripping wet, and turned to her husband. “We’re taking a cab.”

Chicago didn’t live up to the horror stories about the weather, on the whole. It was sunny and bright most of the time, and rained instead of snowed the rest. And in other aspects, it more than lived up to its rep.

I got off the plane and went straight to the opera. Taking the L through the city, I was amazed at how beautiful it was. Shiny pretty buildings and bridges, and the river winding through them.

Chicago Lyric Opera is in a big, gorgeous Art Deco building that, I am informed, was built to look like a throne. It’s certainly very palatial, incredibly ornate without feeling overwrought, and the performance (of Puccini's Girl of the Golden West) was outstanding.

Somehow as I arrived and left I completely failed to notice the Sears Tower, which you’d think would have been tricky, given that it’s almost the tallest building in the world. But that’s why I hope never to witness a crime,--I am well aware that my powers of observation are not exactly at the Sherlockian level.

From there I met my friend Julie and we headed off to see As You Like it at the Navy Pier--also excellent. First thing next morning was the Art Institute, which practically left me breathless. They have outstanding examples of...everything. El Greco, Rembrandt, Monet, Manet, Cezanne, Pissarro, Seurat, Van Gogh, Turner, Constable, Whistler, Sargent, Kandinsky, you name it...

Due to loitering in the art institute for too long, I missed our appointment at the Robie house. Which ended up being fine by me, as the cultural marathon was impinging upon our eating time, so I took some time to have lunch and go shopping. Chicago has great shopping. It’s amazing what you never knew you wanted until you’re in a place with great shopping.

The food situation kept looking up that evening, as we had pizza at Giordano’s, which absolutely lived up to the reputation. A big, chewy, symphony of crust, sauce, chese, and sausage. We followed that up with jazz at the Green Mill. The doorman’s welcome (with a rich Chicago accent) was along these lines:

“Cover is 12 bucks, no talking, no moving, no flash photography, no cell phones, no texting. The first set just finished, and people are moving, so you might find somewhere to sit. If it isn’t moving, sit on it.”

We actually found great seats in a booth with a local couple, and listened to a fantastic band that converted Julie to the genre. We failed to find Al Capone’s table, or to be involved in a shoot out of organised crime bosses, but I was only a little disappointed.

Sunday was when the rain started, with considerable enthusiasm, it seemed. We got soaked every time we stepped outside the building, but still managed to fit in (besides a nap and tea at the Drake) a visit to the Contemporary Art Museum, which was a fun mix of adult playground, clean and creative artwork, and taking-one’s-art-way-too-seriously pretension, followed by thin crust pizza at Pizano’s (delicious, but we voted thick crust as the winner), followed by take-home cheesecake at the hotel, which we ate with much giggling using coffee stirrers as chopsticks, because the waiter didn’t put in any forks.

Julie was a delightful travelling companion, and put up with my teasing and childish humour admirably:

Me, cocking an ear: Ah, the classic Chicago song.

Julie: Isn’t this “New York, New York”?

I loved the trip, but once again found that travelling never seems to allow me to check a place off the list for good. I want to go back to Chicago. Maybe next time I’ll make it to the Robie House. And look up and see the Sears Tower.

My Nan

We called her Nanny Alice because my brother Anthony was the eldest of her grandchildren and that’s what he could say. So my toddler brother’s lack of articulation created a name we all used.

She helped me learn to appreciate shoes, learn to vacuum, and make the most of life. She was resilient and positive and adventurous and funny and honest and strong. She taught me to whistle, and then told me that whistling wasn’t ladylike. She had my cousins and me to stay over on weekends, made sure we swept and helped to clean before going out, had the excitement of going on buses, took us shopping and to lunch and bought us gifts for being well-behaved and patient. I’m pretty sure she was the patient one. She let us spend hours trying on ridiculous clothes that we thought were fabulous. She made us knickerbockerglories and let us stay up late for midnight feasts, although I’m not sure that we ever made it until midnight. She let us try on her jewellery and dress up in gorgeous fabrics. She prayed by her bed and prayed with us.

She wrote poetry, and worked hard, and believed in being glamourous and in getting her hands dirty. She served others endlessly. She was unshockable.

My nan lived in Bristol during the war, and dealt with air raids and shelters, and rationing, and all that goes along with war. Our favourite story was the one about the bomb crater. Nan was on her way to work one day, and... fell in a bomb crater. Being Nan, she climbed and and carried on to work, scratching and bleeding--but when her supervisor heard, she sent her home for the day.

She loved flowers, and colour--I once painted her kitchen twice in two days because the first colour we tried was less of a primrose and more like the sun had walked into the room and was outstaying its welcome. We went with a pleasant blue after that.

When I was in college and not brushing my hair ever, she sat me down, took a comb to me, gave me a neat parting, and suggested I keep it that way. I was about twice her size by then, but I knew who was in charge.

She loved children, and was happy with them, even at the end when she had difficulty talking to adults. Deafness and dementia are tough barriers to communication. The dementia made her irascible, suspicious, and irrational. It’s a horrible thing to happen to a brain. But there’d be moments when the real Nan would show through.

The last time I went to visit, she was delighted to see me, and made a fuss of me. We chatted, she showed me pictures of my cousin’s baby, and she said she was sorry she didn’t have chocolate to offer me. I always tried to wear something interesting when I saw her because I could guarantee she’d notice and like it. She told me I looked lovely. I remember her once telling me I wasn’t a pretty girl--not in an unkind way, I think her point was that it didn’t really matter and I had other, more important qualities. One of her favourite things to say about me was that “I was always the same.” I’m happy to know that, instead of meaning that I wasn’t growing or developing as a person, she valued consistency and the qualities she loved in me. I always knew I was loved by my Nan, and she was a wonderful person to love and be loved by.

Lena is Extremely Courageous

Walking out of the changing room might have been the bravest thing I’ve ever done.

OK, honestly, it probably wasn’t. But IT FELT LIKE IT.

Cindy invited a few peeps up to Lava Hot Springs for New Year’s Eve. It sounded like a great idea to me--I’m not generally a big New Year’s fan. I’ve gone to parties, gone to bars, stayed home, gone to dances, gone to city centres, gone to bed...and it’s never been as thrilling as it looks in the movies. I always feel like I should be in the middle of a glamourous party, wearing a fabulous gown, kissing the man of my dreams whilst confetti rains down upon us, having the absolute best time of my life. It can’t possibly live up to that image. Plus I seem to have something of a grand tradition of people dying or relationships ending around this time of year, which can also put a dampener on things.

But I liked the idea of the hot springs. Simple, relaxing, good company. It’s just that, standing in my bathing suit in the changing room, it seemed less of a good idea to go outside practically naked knowing that it was, like, dozens of degrees below freezing out there. And then knowing that, in the unlikely event that I were to survive out there, I’d have to walk back through the cold to the changing room, but this time dripping wet.

But I did it. Several of us did it. We so crazy! And once we were in the pools, it was rather fabulous. I’ve never been so simultaneously hot and cold at the same time. Our hair frosted over, our ears burned, our eyelashes became heavy with frost, I had icicles at the back of my hair, and if I left my shoulders out too long, they’d frost too, and would tingle exquisitely when I submersed them again.

We stayed there a few hours, and then headed to Cindy’s house, where we ate late night fries and other delicious snacks, and we toasted each other at the stroke of midnight, and played speed scrabble, sat around and chatted, and finally fell asleep in random areas of the floor. where Cindy’s extremely hospitable mum had put blankets. Cindy’s dog kissed or wagged us awake the next morning, and Boyd made us crepes, and it was all pretty great. I barely even noticed the lack of George Clooney to snog.

Happy New Year!

The Heat is On

Hey, I have a blog!

It’s been a good summer. And now, as the leaves have turned to flame and are starting to fall, and the warm evenings turn to crisp ones, I would like to discuss a topic near and dear to my heart. That of how I’m going to keep myself warm this winter. Actually, we’re going to discuss an area a little south of my heart because I want to tell you about my heated seats.

So I got a new car. Which is very exciting, and I kind of love it, even though I feel like a tiny bit of a sellout for driving a brand new car instead of a clunker that says, “I don’t care about appearances.” Maybe if I never wash it I can send the same message. I can do that!

I had just a couple of requirements when looking for a new car. It had to be reliable, get good gas mileage, and have heated seats. That’s all I wanted.

The first time I experienced heated seats was in my teens. My parents had just separated, and my aunt had to pick me up one morning for some reason related to that--I honestly can’t remember the details, I don’t think it was anything dramatic. I do remember trying not to cry though, and it was a really cold morning, and my aunt turning on the seats, and it feeling like a warm bath. It was immensely comforting.

So apparently that’s led to some deep-seated psychological issues about seats.

I also hate being cold, and I especially like having a warm back. As a kid, coming in from the cold I’d sit with my back against the radiator to warm up. Again, comfort food for my temperature receptors.

As it turned out, once I test drove a couple of cars, I found that I also wanted responsive steering, decent acceleration, and nice looks (shhh). And then I found that the car I loved didn’t come with heated seats. Not an option.

But I found someone who’d install them after market. And my life is...well, a lot MORE complete. I adore them. I pretty much turn mine on as long as I don’t actually have the air conditioning going. If you see me sucking my thumb and clutching a teddy bear in my car, we’ll start to worry about the psych issues, but hey, maybe it’s therapy.

Mexico Pics

A few minutes before the storm hit.
During the storm.
I feel I should point out here that Jessica is perfectly capable of holding her head up, but for some reason likes sleeping in that very uncomfortable-looking position.



I don't know what these are, but my mum kept trying to get me to pet them. She didn't pet one herself, however.

Anthony deciding what to wear for a night out. Um, my brother doesn't always look this sweaty and homeless, by the way. It was very humid.


Our hotel.

Home again home again, jiggety jig.

Tonight we had dinner at the Mexican restaurant at the resort. Yes, you would think they'd all be Mexican, but remember--MexiDisney? It was delicious, and Jessica stayed wide awake through most of it, which is unusual for her. I think she knew we were leaving. So we went for a walk in the grounds, and down to the beach, and listened to the waves (and the disco down the beach playing Lady Gaga and Neil Diamond), and watched the stars and a lightning storm, and thought deep thoughts.

When we arrived, I thought ten days of this would be too much. Now it’s flown by, and I’d be quite happy to spend a few more days doing nothing. My sis-in-law says that means I’m finally unwinding, but probably need another week or so to really do the trick. She might be right, but my plane ticket says otherwise.

Ocean Dive 3. Certification Day.

Whereupon Lena learns to love diving.

This was the day when diving officially became fabulous. It was a beautifully sunny day, and the sea was relatively calm, despite the red flags still on the beach. I’m starting to suspect they’ve lost all the other colours.

This time it was Ryan, a kid called Brandon, a Spaniard called Oscar, who was also certifying that day, and me. We headed down, and my ears were being a lot more cooperative. We did our “skills” on the ocean floor--fin pivots, regulator removal and replacement, mask flooding and clearing (I hate that one), and there was a decent current, which made it a little challenging.

Then we got to swim and have fun--and see a Moray eel, lots of little blue fish, more Lion fish (“very very poison” said one of the staff later), and a mermaid. Ha! I was just kidding about one of those.

It was just beautiful, and relaxing, and fun, and Ryan very kindly grabbed my foot and pulled it out of the way of more fire coral (where was he when my hand was getting ravaged the other day?). We did “out of air” testing on the way to the surface, and then we were done. I was the last to do my “out of air,” and it involved going down and up again, while the current made us drift, so we had to hang around in the water for a while afterwards for the boat.

It was glorious not to feel at all queasy, but just to float and enjoy the sun. So we got on the boat, and unhooked all our equipment, and Ryan made the announcement that both Oscar and I had certified today, and everyone clapped, and then they threw a bucket of sea water over each of us.

I decided to buy the video of the dive, and Tomas offered to edit in turtles and sharks as we didn’t get to see them today, but I told him I liked the original version. Although it was sort of tempting to see if he could CGI me onto the back of a dolphin or something. I'll see if I can upload it. It's rather soothing to watch.

Ocean Dive 2 (or, More Drama on the High Seas)

Whereupon Lena redeems herself a little on the whole seasickness front and survives to blog about it.

If this is starting to sound a bit Ryan-heavy to you, you are not alone. Today, Chris was my instructor, as it’s Ryan’s day off, and as he introduced himself he said, “oh, you’re the one everyone’s calling “Ryan’s scuba diver.” He was saying how Ryan had done all the work to get me up to speed, but wasn’t going to be able to certify me that day. As it happened, neither did he.

It’s been raining solidly for two days. Warm, tropical rain, but it feels a lot less warm and tropical when you’re heading out to sea in it. It then turns mean and stings you through your wetsuit, as you crash up and down in waves, hitting your tailbone every few minutes. I stared fixedly at the horizon, willing myself not to get sick. We got into the water, and I had to demonstrate a few skills at the surface, like switching from snorkel to regulator underwater. I did it relatively successfully, given how choppy the water was, and only accidentally pulled off the mouthpiece to my snorkel after I had finished. A couple of divers went down, but our line to the bottom had come loose, the water was really crazy, and our instructors decided it was safer to get us back to the boat. It ended up being fairly dramatic, as we had to get to the other side of the boat, with waves throwing us about and ropes dangling free. There was one bit where Chris was yelling “Lena!” and reaching his hand out to grab me as I let go of one rope to swim to the other, and I thought (apart from “he’s pronouncing my name wrong”) how movie-like it all seemed, and wondered vaguely if we were actually in any danger.

(I said to Ryan the next day that it probably was nothing compared to what they’re used to, but it seemed quite bad to me. And he said no, he’d heard it was pretty crazy out there.)

We got pulled back to the boat, and they hauled us in with only minor bruising after I got slammed into the ladder by a wave. Then there was more fixed staring at the horizon, as we hovered around looking for the other divers, got them on board, and then went back to shore, and I am SO very pleased to say I did not throw up.

This scuba thing is reminding me of a notecard a friend once gave me with a picture of a girl with her legs around her neck and the caption, “Yoga. Not as relaxing as I’d been led to believe.”

Drama on the High Seas

Ryan was talking to one of the instructors as we went out to sea.
“That’s the one who took the money out of my wallet.”
“Which one?”
“The one with the flashy new sunglasses.”
He says he can’t prove it, but he can guess from the sunglasses, plus the look in his eyes when he grabbed him by the neck, shoved him up against the wall, and waved his wallet in his face, saying “does this look familiar?”

Did I mention he’s Navy trained?
They said that, as there’s no proof, they can’t drown him. I said, “I guess you can’t accidentally bump into him and knock his glasses into the water, either,” whereupon they brightened up.
“No, we can do that.”

Loud Americans

It’s pretty peaceful here, but there are some loud Americans who drink all day at the swim up bar. Actually, it’s a little odd, the Loud Americans sound decidedly British, but we have decided that it must be a phenomenon of how sound travels over water, because of course they must be Americans. Americans are famous for being Loud.

Ocean Dive 1

Wherein Lena definitively proves that she suffers from seasickness and discovers why Fire Coral is so named.

Sometimes I think I should take up knitting, except I’d probably stab myself with the needles. That, and I’ve never seen a Lion Fish, two stingrays, Chromafish, or any other sea creatures while knitting.

I headed down to the beach bright and early for my first dive in the ocean. Ryan gave me a bunch of detailed info about what to expect, and why I shouldn’t be scared, but if I was scared, just to be honest about it and not pretend there’s a problem with my ear or something instead, because that would just “p!ss him off.” I assured him that I had not intention of faking or even being genuinely brave. He summed our plan up by saying, “Basically, we go down, we go for a swim, we come back up. It’s pretty simple.”

And it was, on the whole, and was pretty fabulous. He had me take my snorkel off, because they don’t wear them in the navy, and he pointed out how crap the other instructor’s entry was, and told me to do it properly, and off we went.

As it happened, I did have a slight problem with my ear--probably a little infection from swimming in warm, child-infested pools. It made it a little difficult to equalise, so I had to go down extra slowly and swallow a lot, which became relevant later.

Being under the sea is just like it looks in all the nature videos, except with surround vision, and sound, and being able to touch things--don’t worry, I only touched things Ryan showed me and touched first. The exception to that was the Fire Coral, which I accidentally brushed with the back of my hand, and was a good lesson in why you keep your hands close to your body while diving, as it immediately left me with burning pain that lasted for a day or two, and a welt that is still there. It’s sort of the undersea version of stinging nettle, as one of the instructors explained it to me, or a jellyfish, which is how a website explained it.

But it was so pretty down there. There are a lot of disturbances in the area (hurricanes), so the coral isn’t the loveliest ever seen, but there’s a lot in the way of fish and Creatures of the Deep.

It’s sort of interesting. I had this image of diving being very effortless and floaty, and it is in a way--the swimming isn’t strenuous at all, and the breathing is easy enough, but there’s definitely a bit of a trick to using your breath to keep you at the right level. I will say, though, that I was quite prepared to feel scared or claustrophobic, and I didn’t. There was even one bit where Ryan gave me the option of swimming through a sort of tunnel (a short one) or going over it, and I was quite happy to go through and see fabulous coral formations and pretty white fish.

Every so often Ryan would beckon or point to something, like a fish blowing down at the sand, which looked like something out of Disney, or a nothingness in the sand that gradually resolved itself into a stingray and swam off. Or some kind of sea anenome that folded shut when he snapped his fingers in front of it. Or big spongy, rubbery...things.

The dive was going well, and I had lots of air left (I am proud to say I am an efficient breather), which we established after a moment of confusion after I checked the wrong gauge. And then. I realised I was drifting up, away from Ryan, and I was getting closer to the surface, as I started to feel sunlight. I think there was a little current. And I realised I was also being rocked side to side. And realised I felt quite sick. Ryan came up and asked me if I was ok. I pointed thumbs up, for let’s go up, he wanted to know why, and that’s when sign language failed me, as I don’t know the sign for “I think I’m going to barf and I’d greatly prefer not to do so into my regulator.” So we headed up.

We got to the top, and I explained, and he had me float, and asked if I was “going to belly.” I said I thought I might, and so he swam to safe distance and told me not to fight it. And then...

And then I hauled myself into the boat. As it happens, some of the other guys had already come up, so we didn’t cut things too short. We did miss seeing a shark on the bottom by a few minutes, but apparently that’s not a big deal because they’re “boring.” Ryan said so. He said, “THAT’S more interesting to watch,” poking one of my fins with a deprecatory toe.

So Ryan says I won’t get sick next time, but I’m not sure that my faith in Ryan is as yet quite all-encompassing enough to take that as fact. He thinks it was butterflies, and swallowing a lot of air, and he poured some hydrogen peroxide and alcohol in my ear and told me not to eat breakfast next time.


In case you wanted to know what the effects of fire coral look like.

Fambly

My brother and sister-in-law, but most importantly, their baby, Jessica, have arrived! I freely admit to bias, but I think she really is an exceptional baby. She is very happy and curious, and sleeps a lot, and is pretty, and we are all pleased to see that she has her mother’s nose and didn’t get the D___ nose, which we are hoping to breed out.

She really is adorable, and Anthony and Becky say they’re considering “showing her,” which I had to point out isn’t necessarily a joke in the states. She smiles all the time, and her favourite thing to do (besides “reading” her dots and squiggles book) is to stick her tongue out at people and get a response. She was getting a little frustrated the other night as she was sticking her tongue out at the dog pictured on her pram lining, and he was completely failing to stick his out in response.

Scuba

So, one of my 101 goals for 1001 days is to scuba dive. And the Mayan Riviera has the world’s second largest barrier reef. And I’m here! It’s like a cosmic sign or something. So I tried it out in the pool at first (they offer free intro lessons), and it was kind of fun, although I found I have a pretty strong instinct against inhaling under water. It’s presumably related to the same instinct that makes me unwilling to get close to or step over the edges of cliffs, and which a friend recently pointed out is a pretty functional impulse, despite being a challenge in rock climbing.

There was almost an international incident the very first time I tried it. There was some waiting around for private lessons to be finished, and then another delay, and another, and a few people were getting a bit shirty about having to wait. I’m not especially patient myself, but my as only other plans that morning were to a) lie by the pool and drink a refreshing beverage, and b) read a book, I felt I could safely push those agenda items a little later without my holiday being ruined.

So then, finally, one pair, including Toby (one of the shirty persons mentioned earlier) got to go, and I was next. But then Ryan, the Australian instructor, said he had to take another pair who’d just showed up and were leaving for their plane in 20 mins. Well, Toby didn’t like that, and neither did the couple after me. They were all up in arms and harangued the instructors, who clearly deal with sunburned tourists all day long and weren’t remotely discomposed by this. Ryan just scowled a little and ignored us. Toby flatly refused to hand over the gear to the new couple and gave it to me instead, whereupon I thanked him and the others and agreed that it was indeed very annoying and rude but that I felt confident that my life would resume its happy course eventually, and dropped the flippers and mask in front of the new girl.

So we scuba’d, and it was fun enough that I signed up for certification classes at the water sports office, run by some fellow British ex-pats. I asked the first one how he ended up here. “A job. Well, actually, i meant to go to Glasgow, fell asleep on a plane, and then next thing I knew, I was here.” I may adopt that smart alecky answer for future use.

Signing up, I had to fill out a bunch of health questions, including one about sea sickness. I hesitated and confessed my secret shame (see Oregon Coast, Whale Watching). Paul explained that that was only for extreme cases. He said he sometimes gets people who want to scuba but say they can’t go on boats. At which point he suggests they MIGHT want to think about another hobby.
“Such as hiking.”
“Exactly. Or mountain biking.”
“Perhaps rock climbing.”

The next morning I reported for class, and Paul said a cheery hello and announced that my instructor for the morning would be Ryan the laconic Australian. Hm. I was a little worried that he’d try to drown me after the fracas yesterday, but we actually got on very nicely--we even arranged it so that he’d be my instructor for the whole course. It works out nicely for him as he only he’ll only have one student to worry about, and it is nice for me because he’s an excellent instructor. He spent six years diving for the Australian Navy, so he’s quite good (and isn’t shy about pointing out where other instructors may lack knowledge). He told me a few things that he thinks are pointless that the course teaches, and taught me one or two things that aren’t in the book, like how to kill people using only my thumbs. No, really, he didn’t teach me anything too crazy and different, but there’s something sort of fun about feeling that you’ve got special inside Navy knowledge. It’s a bit like how my friend Christy taught me to slice melons in college, and I will always remember it because she said she was taught by the Amish (she’s from PA). A bit like that.

Lena Takes a Real Vacation

I’ve got some catching up to do. This travel blog has been travelling, and though I couldn’t post while I was away, I had my trusty pen and paper to record all, for my trusty reader. I'm still waiting for some of my pics, so I'll have to update with those later.

Playa del Carmen

It’s all fountains and hibiscus and humidity and virgin piña coladas here. And there are hammocks on the beach. And coconut trees.

Being at the Iberostar in Mexico is, I think, rather like being in Disneyland in California. Disneyland is certainly geographically located in CA. It has CA’s wonderful climate. Many of the people who work there are from California, especially those who work on the cleaning and maintenance, while those with some of the more glam jobs are transplants. And yet, by visiting Disneyland, I do not feel that one gets a real sense of what it’s like to be a local and shop, work, and live in CA.

It’s similar here. And it was a little disconcerting for a day or two, and almost a little claustrophobic. Being in this magical Mexican kingdom with perfectly groomed lawns, and signs all in English, and not a single stray, scrawny dog in sight. But as soon as I started using the MexiDisney comparison, I felt a lot better about things. I could just enjoy the show and not think too hard.

Love and Loss and California

Let’s get the bad news out of the way. Our trip to California began with me almost missing the plane, a) because I stayed late at work talking to my brother on the phone and hadn’t packed, and then b) rushed home and packed in a hurry, leaving various semi-important items out like moisturiser and swimsuit (which was ok because it gave me an excuse to buy a trashy bikini in H&M), and c) still left with Mara with just enough time to make our flight, but d) while staring at my boarding pass trying to work out why I didn’t have an “A” or “B” on it, realised that I was at the wrong gate, and it wasn’t “our” flight after all, but that I d) needed to run like mad to catch my own flight in a different concourse, which I e) did.

Mara made a comment later about how she'd always thought I was more together than that.

Then we got the rental car, which smelled like smoke, so we switched it for one that didn’t, in the process leaving one of our bags behind with someone’s laptop in it. And then we got somewhat lost driving to Mara’s sister’s house. But not really lost because we had gps! Just a lot of “hold on...yeah, do a u-turn here.”

I think by this time, Angie had probably started wondering what sort of travelling companions she’d landed herself with.

So there was much calling of airlines and rental companies to try to track down the laptop, which sadly did not happen. And then, unbeknownst to us, we apparently committed a $450 traffic violation (seriously, if I’m going to do something $450 worth of naughty, I would sort of hope that I’d be aware of it. And I thought we were pretty careful about the u-turns!), which we’re still trying to resolve.

So.

But the rest of the trip was so lovely! We were there for Tricia and Stephen’s wedding, and that was truly wonderful. It was great to meet their families, especially as talking to Brits in America always makes me feel a little bit at home. And the wedding went beautifully, and everyone looked very happy ever after.

Then Mara and Angie and I played for the rest of the weekend. Angie left a little earlier, presumably heaving sighs of relief to get out alive. Mara and I went to stay at her brother and sister-in-law’s place, and we went out for Indian food the first night.

I’d told Mara that I sometimes get sick of people asking me the same old questions about where I’m from. Very kindly, she tried to save me from the ordeal by telling her brother while I was out of earshot that he shouldn’t ask me a bunch of questions about where I’m from, which I’m sure he thought was totally normal.

I know she told him this because as soon as she’d left the table, he said, “so Mara says I’m not supposed to ask you a bunch of questions about where you’re from.”
I said, “Yes, I’m very sensitive about it. I like to think people don’t notice I have an accent.”

They’re a fun family, and we had a very amusing evening, partly because we ended up talking about the region where I’m from and Bristolian accents (it’s not that I object to talking about my homeland, it’s just that the same. old. questions. again. and. again. get old. And it’s not always fun to feel like the novelty act).

We had a delicious French breakfast in Berkeley, with citron presse’ and gingerbread pancakes; we scenically drove to Half Moon Bay, and looked for shells; we wandered around San Francisco, and the sun shone, and flowers bloomed, and we went to the Legion of Honour and the De Young, and saw a Giacometti sketch exhibition, and a Masterpieces from the Musee D’Orsay exhibition, and one of Amish quilts, and they were all uplifting and beautiful. And we saw brides everywhere. It was a weekend theme. Brides in white, and purple, and with green umbrellas, and with pretty bridesmaids, and stunning scenery.




You always hear that people in California never get out of their cars, but it's not true!



The reason for the season--Tricia and Stephen were married at the Oakland temple.




Brides everywhere...



View from the Legion of Honour



Angie, me, and Mara. Angie's a bit cut off here, but I looked hideous in the one where she wasn't, and it's my blog!

A Study in Contrasts

I spent last weekend backpacking in Escalante with a group of friends. It was beautiful and tiring and dirty...SO dirty. There was a lot of wind one day, and it whipped the fine, dirty sand into our tents and sleeping bags and fingernails and toothbrushes and food. We hiked out and drove back on Sunday, got home quite late, and I was up first thing the next morning to drive to Midway for a conference at the Zermatt, which is a fairly swish hotel.

In Escalante we bathed in the river, and dried ourselves in the sun. At the zermatt, there were appropriately fluffy towels, a bathroom considerably bigger than my own, and the gym shower made me want to cry I wanted one of my own so badly. It had 13 jets, sides, back, overhead....it was a thing of beauty.

In Escalante, we cooked over propane stoves and tried to avoid getting sand into our meals. We had pasta and Indian food out of packets, and oatmeal and hot chocolate, and semi-melted string cheese, and lots of dried fruit. At the Zermatt, I ordered room service, and ate delicious pastries, and didn’t have to filter my own water once.

In Escalante, I hiked through streams with 37lbs of backpack, did yoga in the morning in the sand, saluting the sun in the outdoors, and I have a scratch on my bottom from using the woods as my bathroom. At the Zermatt, I worked out on the elliptical machine overlooking pools and mountains, while Dancing with the Stars played on the TV, and then melted my muscles in the steam room and sauna.

In Escalante I got to spend several days and evenings with wonderful women, and slept in a (sandy) tent with a good friend. At the Zermatt, I got to network with some great colleagues, and spent most of the evenings relaxing alone until I fell asleep in my king-size pillow-top bed.

And I want to be clear--the moral of this story is NOT that luxury hotels are overrated and I would much rather rough it all my life in the outdoors, in case that’s where you thought I was heading with this.

(Although I have to say, NOTHING tastes better than a meal in the outdoors after a long day hiking, and the Zermatt room service was a bit rubbish, to be honest.)

The experiences were both wonderful, and there are things I can take or leave about both. I prefer waking up in a soft bed to waking up on a sleeping pad, even if the pad is on sand. I definitely prefer waking up without sand in my bed. However, I prefer waking up to the sound of birdsong and the sun coming into the tent to the sound of air conditioning, an alarm buzzer, and a stuffy head. And being alone is wonderful, but the company of good friends can’t be beat.

I just love the life of variety. That pillow-top felt all the more soft and...pillowy after a few nights on the desert floor. And we all know how good it feels to take a shower when you’re really, really dirty. I like some chiaroscuro in my life. I guess it’s that whole principle of being able to appreciate good things after going through hardships to get there. I hope to learn more life lessons in the lap of luxury very soon.

100 Random Thoughts..

...typed as they come.


1. So I’m going to do the 100 thoughts thing again.
2. It was pretty popular last time, and Jessica did it again and reminded me.
3. She’s really witty.
4. I’m worried that I only HAVE 100 thoughts total, so won’t have much to write.
5. And it might be like trying to remake...hm.
6. Can’t think of famous movie with bad remake.
7. See, have lost mojo already.
8. Oceans 11!
9. No, what am I thinking, I really liked that film. Hello, George Clooney. And good day to you, Matthew Damon.
10. The Italian Job. Not a patch on the Michael Caine version.
11. There you go.
12. People were saying Obama had lost his mojo too, and now look.
13. Health reform=Change, suckas!
14. That wasn’t very gracious of me now, was it?
15. But I do think that a few years from now most people will wonder what all the fuss was about.
16. So now health reform has passed, what would be next on the list of my personal priorities for change in the US?
17. Besides, you know, ending poverty.
18. And war.
19. And...actually, I think it would be plug sockets.
20. Mind did a little spark just now when I plugged in my laptop.
21. I hate it when it does that. Scares me to death. I want switches, like on the British ones.
22. And then America would be perfect.
23. Well, I could probably think of a few more things--ending strip malls, etc.
24. But I’d be digging.
25. Enough with politics!
26. Hmm.
27. “Give a man...ten thousand...”
28. That’s a song we’re learning in Citrine.
29. “Give a man...ten thousand...words.”
30. It ain’t easy.
31. And the general opinion seems to be that it sounds like cats being tortured.
32. But I rather like it.
33. Though I’m not sure that I believe the thesis, which is that if you give a man the said ten thousand words, he will write you a love song. You could give some of the men I know the Oxford English Dictionary, Encyclopaedia Britannica, and the collected words of Shakespeare, and you wouldn’t get a Valentine’s Day card out of them.
34. I actually like all the songs we’re singing. Fun rhythms and melodies.
35. Rhythms is a hard word to spell.
36. And I’m an excellent speller.
37. Which is kind of a useless gift in the era of spell check.
38. I find quite a few of my gifts are wasted on my current era.
39. Like having really white skin.
40. It would have been highly valued back in the 19th Century.
41. Now it’s just a risk factor for skin cancer.
42. And being able to embroider.
43. And...well, maybe that’s it. Oh, I like to read aloud. Not that I have a gift for it, but they didn’t have TV back then, so I bet people got sick of reading aloud.
44. Course, I don’t have a TV now.
45. Not yet. Maybe soon. It's my current dilemma. Everything I want to watch is online anyway.
46. It’s just if I want to watch something with someone else.
47. Which happens, what, once a year.
48. And my current, pretty much inoperable, TV doesn’t look pretty.
49. Which, let’s be honest, is probably a more pertinent factor in my desire for a new one.
50. Ooh, halfway there.
51. I brimmeth o’er with thought, apparently.
52. “oooooooh,,,,ah.” (More “Love Song”)
53. I’m up late again. Bad habit.
54. I heard that Margaret Thatcher only needed about 4 hours of sleep per night or something insane.
55. I wish I could get away with that little sleep. Except I LIKE to sleep and relax.
56. But things have been so busy lately, that I could use the extra time. And it wouldn’t kill me to make it into work on time once this month.
57. And then the silly people messing up my order at [business name redacted] means I’ll be running errands tomorrow in any spare seconds I have.
58. I posted something on Facebook to do with that, about wanting to write a scathing letter, and I think people overestimated my rage level.
59. Wasn’t planning on going postal, just a little indignant.
60. I think Facebook, although a time suck, is actually a positive thing socially.
61. Apart from people feeling left out if they know they’re not invited to parties and all that.
62. And the occasional person writing indiscreet or passive aggressive things on their walls.
63. But I actually have been in meaningful contact with some people I really like and probably wouldn’t have had meaningful contact with otherwise.
64. And really, even if it’s just a frivolous time suck, it’s a fun one.
65. Sleeeeeeepy.
66. Maybe I don’t have as many thoughts as I thought.
67. I can’t wait for vacation.
68. And hanging out with my peeps.
69. And ordering myself new shoes for my birthday.
70. This selfish buying-stuff-for-one’s-own-birthday thing probably contributes to the decline of Western civilization.
71. But at least I’ll be well shod when picking through the rubble!
72. So it’s been over a week since I spent most of my Saturday in purchasing and installing a new light fitting, and I still don’t like it.
73. So I think I’m going to forget searching online for something special and get something simple and cheap from Ikea.
74. And count this one as a $70 Learning Experience.
75. I must say I’m pretty proud of myself for installing the dratted thing.
76. Because it baint be easy, and don’t you be fergitting it.
77. (Not sure why the random lapse into country dialect. Lateness.)
78. Actually, installing the dratted thing twice, because I did it wrong the first time.
79. And so I do actually feel pretty confident about doing it again, which is good.
80. Except if I get overconfident and forget to turn the breaker off, which would be bad.
81. Very bad. Mustn’t forget.
82. “No I mustn’t forget. To say a great big thank you, I mustn’t forget.”
83. Random song flashback from Junior School assemblies.
84. They used to make us sing hokey Christian folk/pop. (It was a Church of England school).
85. I don’t think it made anyone any more religious, but some were quite fun.
86. I remember being alone in the house with my brother when he was doing some electrical stuff for my aunt, and he shocked himself. Scariest moment ever when I heard him yell.
87. (He was totally fine. Luckily.)
88. “Autumn days when the grass is jewelled, and the silk inside a chestnut shell!”
89. THAT’S how that song began. It was one of my faves.
90. Ah, Autumn. Actually, Ah, Spring.
91. It has been fantastic to have some sun and longer evenings, despite some minor complaining I might have done about getting up an hour early.
92. And I went on a bike ride today after work.
93. With my helmet.
94. You’d think I’d be mature enough not to be embarrassed about wearing a helmet on a bike, but I’m afraid I’m not. I think they look dumb, and I don’t like wearing one.
95. But am safety conscious so I do anyway!
96. I’m really glad Spring is here. The new year ought really to begin in the spring, it would be a lot easier to get into the mindset of new beginnings.
97. I wonder what this year will bring. Hopefully less crap than last year.
98. No, last year had a lot of good stuff too. Be positive, Lena.
99. Bring on 2010! I’m belatedly excited about it.
100. And now I have to sleep on that.

Be Careful Out There

So, I’m in the temple, and a guy I don’t really know brings a young man up to me, and says, “this young man is going on a mission to London--you’ll have to give him some tips!’

My first thought is “Oh my poor child, they will eat you alive,” just because I think London would be a TOUGH mission. But I couldn’t say that, and unfortunately my actual response wasn’t more helpful: “Tips? Well, I don’t suppose giving you a list of the best nightclubs is such a good idea, ha ha.” (must...not...make...flippant remarks...to baby missionaries...in the temple).

So then the guy sort of gave me prompts, like “I hear the Indian food in London is amazing,” and I’d say “yes, definitely, eat Indian food. Yummy.” But the trouble is, I'm a) in the temple and not really in tourist information centre mode, and b) I’m a bit vague on what missionaries are allowed and are not allowed to do, other than be alone with women (I remember in Italy one of the missionaries teaching Sunday school walked out of the room for a minute and the other one got all panicky--I thought for a second he must be really shy, and then realised...).

So of course all the things that come to mind involve pubs (can they go in pubs? Americans sometimes get confused about what pubs are. I remember later they CAN go in pubs), or musical theatre (can they go to the theatre?), or visiting other spots in Britain (can they travel?) and wanting to warn him about going out late at night in Soho, or the East End, or...(or actually anywhere, as he looks about my niece’s age), or remind him not to read the Sun. It is only afterwards that I remember nice safe, touristy and interesting things like the Tower of London and the British Museum, and the National Gallery (except they have nudes--can they look upon nudes? Actually, if they can’t they’re out of luck because they're bound to run into a starkers statue at some point).

I am so full of admiration for these young men and women who have the guts to give up their time and youthful frivolities to go wherever they’re sent to share their faith, believing that faith is something pretty exciting and important that other people might want to hear about. Especially when you know they are highly likely to be mocked or disrespected or door-slammed in the process.

I hope my people are nice to him. I hope someone out there is looking for what he has to share. I hope he finds his own way to the British Museum.

Banff

My friend Liz and I have gone for the last several years to the Banff film festival together. We decided tonight that the theme of Banff is “Watch more television.” For the last three years, the main features have been about:
A woman who got paralysed.
A couple who failed to cross the north pole and nearly died.
A man who kayaked across the Tasmanian sea and died.

So on the face of it, it doesn’t exactly seem to be about the joys of the outdoors. And yet we still left talking about our plans for adventure. Just not kayaking.

The kayaking story was fascinating. You start out not knowing the outcome, but it becomes gradually clear that this story is not going to end happily. The friends and family members of Andy, the kayaker, talk a lot about how some people need more stimulation to get that natural rush that some of us feel when we look at our credit card bill. It’s hard for me to understand taking such huge risks with your life, for something that seems (quite honestly) relatively unimportant, especially when you have a wife and child, as he did (not that I don't value the single and childless, but, you know). However, as one of his team said, the world has been led by explorers and adventurers. And we all take risks every day--how we calculate, perceive, and need those risks is very personal and varies hugely.

Another, lighter, film featured noboarding, which looked very cool. Like snowboarding without the bindings. As the idea of my feet being locked into position by the bindings is what’s always put me off snowboarding, this sounded like an excellent idea for about two minutes. Then I remembered the last time I tried skateboarding.

It was at an ad shoot, and my friend and colleague, Brian, had just got a longboard and brought it to the shoot. While the crew was setting up between shots, he let me play on it. I think I rolled about four feet, hanging on to him, and I still fell off. Mark came out and shook his head, “If you get her hurt, Brian...” (This was back when I was the client and they cared about my well-being). So no, noboarding probably not the sport for me.

Rockclimbing is much more appealing to me, because you can do it in nice weather, and (the way I like to do it) you have a rope attached to you, which gives me great psychological comfort as well as genuinely increased safety. One of my favourite films showed Paul, a man recovering from an accident that had left him unable to walk for a while, climbing “The Rainbow” in Tasmania (I think) with his friend. He had the use of one arm, and imperfect use of his legs, and as his friend pointed out, things that would be quite easy for many people were a bit epic for him. He made it to the top, and they sat there in the sun, looking out over the spectacular view. His friend asked him if he longed for his old body back, and he said no, this was who he was now.

“Some people say they’d rather be dead than in a wheelchair,” he said, matter-of-factly. “It’s...it’s not true.”