Where in the World...

 A friend checked in the other month:  "where are you, what are you doing?" I've stopped blogging and posting to Facebook and that's how most people keep track of me.  So I thought about it.  Why am I not communicating, why am I not connecting?  I glanced through some of my draft blogs (the whiny/sad/exhausted/introspective ones that I did not want to share), and I thought....hmmm.  But, for the sake of people who are wondering.....

I stopped blogging in spring of 2020, and previously had not done much in 2019.  I'm not sure what made me stop.  I had plenty of time and most people were documenting the hell out of Life in the Time of Covid.  But, I didn't want to think about The Former Guy's daily assault on democracy, and I didn't want to think about how circumscribed my life was.  I told people that my 3 years of being a nomad had prepared me for this, and that is sort of true.  While I traveled, my connections were mainly virtual, and my activities solitary.  But, of course, my activities were not pursued in solitude while I was petsitting.  I visited museums, attended performances, checked out towns and countrysides, shopped for food, chatted with neighbors.  Although most of my time was spent reading and knitting and writing, I did get out.  I had something to write home about.

2020 was something else.  I had no housemate and no pets to keep me company.  I visited M once a week when I picked up my veggie share.   Once I was vaccinated in 2021, I played some duets and trios, masked and sitting under the trees, but for a year my music was totally solitary.  I learned some fiddle tunes and attempted some of the Bach unaccompanied sonatas and partitas.  I practised my mini-piano.  And of course I did other things.  I folded 1000 cranes in solidarity with my nephew who was undergoing chemo.  I tried to write, walk, and draw.  I learned a bit of Norwegian on Duolingo.  I did weekly virtual yoga with my Portland friends.  I re-did The Artist's Way and started doing daily Morning Pages while I sipped my coffee.  I also did Tai Chi Chih while I made the coffee and did the dishes.  I posted a daily pic to Blipfoto. I set up a clay studio in the garage and made a LOT of pots.  (They all got fired in the autumn, when Coyote Clay reopened.)  I knitted and listened to books and podcasts.  Mom called me every day.  I lost 50 pounds.  And these routines sufficed and continue to suffice in 2021.  But they are nothing to write home about.

Eventually, things opened up a bit.  In August, 2020, I drove to TX to bring back my housemate and her pets.  In September, 2020, M died from a recurrence of cancer.  I still can't write about it.  In October, 2020, I went to Portland because my aunt had been calling me several times a week; she was not dealing well with isolation.  She had technical problems with her computer and phone and emotional problems that led to medical problems.  So, I car-camped across the West and ended up at B's house in SE Portland.  She had just lost her husband and welcomed me into her guest room for as long as I needed it.  I kept postponing my departure:  I was helping my aunt, driving her to appointments, keeping her company, clearing up technical issues.  I walked with S several days a week and saw several other friends and family, totally masked. I was reveling in B's company; it had been too long. I celebrated my aunt's birthday, Solstice, Christmas, New Year's.  I made wreaths.  I sewed a coffee cozy.  I made jewelry.  I watched spring return.

In March, I returned to NM, via a road trip with V through CA wine countries and various wild-flower spots.  I arrived home in a freak snow storm.  And here I am now.  I've been pet-sitting for pay (a mere $25/day) at the co-op and in Santa Fe, but that's the only scheduled and gainful employment I have had.  In the fall I went back to Portland to catsit for friends, and then to IL to join a sister for a roadtrip through TN to VA, where I met my nephew's fiancee.  Last month I returned to IL for a trip to Branson MO;  it was the sort-of annual Spider Reunion, but C had to bail.  On these trips I saw some family, including two of my grandnieces.

It's all good, but somehow it's not enough. And the horrible politics that I tried to escape in 2017 are still there.  It's been such a relief to have Biden in office:  no more daily news bulletins about crazy and vicious behaviors.  But, on my recent travels, I became sharply aware that the civil war is still in place:  TRUMP WON  and Fuck Biden signs were scattered throughout the Heartland.  I don't know if we'll ever recover, and it makes me sad and anxious.  And  I miss the regular travel and the distraction it provides, although I hate flying in the time of COVID.  I miss having gainful employment, although I don't want to be under someone's scrutiny and I don't want to be living under someone's schedule.  I miss being productive, although I cannot define what I mean by productivity.  None of what I'm feeling now is new, nor is the supportive feedback I'm getting.  And that's why I'm not writing about it.  It's small and boring.

My friend suggests that I look into reframing my inner monolog, which, again, is not new advice.  But how?  I want to run and hide again, instead.  But that won't happen while the pandemic rages and the borders remain closed.  So for now, I'm here in NM.  I take pix, I read, I craft, I make music.  Surely that's enough.  I'll write again when I have something to say.

Always the trend-setter

The NYT just published an article about women in their 50s giving up their careers to care for parents and grand-kids. Of course, what it means is they are ceasing to work during their most productive years, and when they reach their 80's, they will not have the income to care for themselves. The loss figure is around $325K. For me, it's probably more. I was making $60k a year before I moved to Albuquerque, and $34K after that. Multiply by 10, and you have between $340K and $600K that I am losing, not to mention the loss in retirement income.

While I'm getting paid to do this care-giving, and I am trying to put away some savings, it is interesting to realize that I'm still following the trends. First, I had the problems with my mortgage. Then, I got to experience the reality of Obamacare. Now, I'm facing facts: like many women my age, I've abandoned my work-life trajectory. This has very real repercussions for my retirement and end-of-life.

Actually, this trend is not just affecting women. Many people seem to be just tossing aside their career paths and trying something new. Part of it's the economy and reduction in public service jobs, but I think some of it is lack of job satisfaction. J describes several of her writerly friends who have packed in their secure jobs and moved on. C mentioned a gent who found religion and divorced (not necessarily in that order), and now the Lord is telling him to move to Italy. Several library folk in Portland have jumped ship, not retiring, but finding at-home or contract work. None of them say it, but I'm convinced that they are just tired of the bureaucracy and incompetence. That comes with any job, but is especially noticeable in the public sector, I think.

The article gave me pause. I've already been thinking of my situation, but this is the first that I've really done the math. Up to now, I've mainly been thinking about my psychological well-being, not my financial well-being. When I started this gig, I set a budget for savings, paying off marital and house debts, health, and travel. I was fine with the concept that it'll take 5 years to pay off debts and build up savings, but I hadn't really projected my long-term income. I was in hunker-down emotional-healing mode, and I've been living beyond my means for so long, I was just happy to be saving anything. However, that has changed. In a recent letter to friends, I said, The real issue is that I need to figure out and prepare for my next work. E will be 99 in July, and she is still going strong, but I can't do this for the next 10 years, and I don't think I want to be a caregiver for a corporation. Emotionally, I seem to have come back to myself: the last 9 months have been healing and supportive. And physically I'm doing well, exercising and eating a diabetes-preventive diet. So it's time to buckle down to it, now that I'm no longer PTSD.

Yes, and it's time to recognize that my income and my budget need to be reworked.

It's difficult to give up the travel, though, and I'm doing it on the cheap. For example, this month Mom's birthday present to me was a trip to see her in Florida. It had been 18 months since I last saw her, and she's 85 now, so it's really necessary. And one of the plus features was that my brother L and his wife X drove 900 miles to see us. I haven't seen her in several years.

During the visit, X talked sternly to me about jobs (you are still young, you have plenty of time to walk on the beach and sit around later) and about men (next time you marry, make sure he has a job), and about health (you should try kayaking!) She's basically right, but I do like this lifestyle. It's going to be difficult to go back to a 40 hour work week, and I'm not sure I want to. On the other hand, what I actually have is a 115-hour work week: it makes it difficult to do my extra-curricular stuff. So, going back to a regular hourly job might be an advantage.

I'm still trying to figure out what I want to do with my life, clearly. And now I've added in concerns about end-of-life issues. E and Mom are very lucky in their situations. I will not be so lucky. I don't have a child to take care of me, and my pension is not going to be enough to support an independent lifestyle when I am frail. I need to spend the next 10-20 years preparing for that. It's time to stop lolly-gagging here on my mountain. Or, it will be soon.

I need to set a new trend. Do you think I can publish my iPhone pix and Facebook haiku? It's about all I've produced since I started this gig. Sigh.

Same time next year

Three years ago, D took me on my first (and so far, only) rafting trip.  We were staying in Taos for a few weeks, and rafting companies are available to take you all along the Rio Grande.  We opted for a half-day trip, east of Taos.  There were four of us, plus the guide.  He put D and me in the front where we'd get splashed the most, and the teenager and her father in the middle.  He sat on the back bumper and steered.  It took awhile for me to get used to the idea that I didn't sit IN the raft, but rather on the puffy outer edge.

We acquitted ourselves reasonably well, better than we did during the sea kayaking in Mexico, where we capsized and dropped D's glasses in the drink, and were separated for the remainder of the trip.  I ended up with the handsome Mexican guide, so all was well.

I am thinking about that rafting trip, because I am sitting at the same picnic/take-out area, eating lunch and writing.  It's March, not June, and I wouldn't dream of putting my toes in that tumbling icy green water.  But, I recognized the route as I was driving back to Santa Fe from an overnight in Taos, and I decided that this would be the perfect place to munch on my apple and cheese. I am taking advantage of my independent state to stop where I want, and as long as I want.  Yesterday, I was in "get there" mode, and I didn't stop for much of anything.  I had breakfast at San Marcos Cafe with the co-op and took pictures of the peacocks, and I stopped by Kokoman's to check out the excellent wine selection and buy 7 bottles.  Then I drove north along the scenic high road, through the mountains.

It was lovely, and I kept thinking I should stop and enjoy the view. But the power of inertia - in this case forward motion - kept me going past scenic overlooks, adobe churches, decorated graveyards, Chimayo, Nambe Falls, turn-offs to unknown towns, galleries, wineries....I just kept going until I reached M's Topsy Gallery on the outskirts of Taos.  M wasn't there, so I called him for a room. (We had stayed at his house that time in June, trading our Airbnb room in Portland for his spacious adobe house in Taos.) Fortunately, he was able to offer me a room in his house for $50, cash.  When I got there, it was 5 pm, time for happy hour at the Alley Cantina.  I gather he goes there most evenings, bringing along the schnauzers, and sits in the patio waiting for H to get off work.

The scene at the Cantina was very small town.  Everyone knew each other, and the patio table population grew and shrank as people wandered through. We joined a 40-something shaven-headed ski bum/surveyer (D), and a 64-year-old hippie with long white hair hanging lankly down from his baseball cap.  He had a scruffy beard, wide-open blue eyes and wide white smile.  He had excellent teeth.  People came and went, cigarettes were lit, drinks were drunk. Everyone that came through the archway was greeted by name, and most stopped for a second to say hi and pat the dog.  A few joined us.

Conversation was slow and calm -- these people knew each other and everyone's business was old news.  They were just keeping company while they drank and passed the time until the next thing.  The hippie was on his way home to smoke the "herb" that he'd just scored.  D was on his way to visit a female friend who was home after two weeks in the hospital with a punctured lung from a catastrophic car accident.  He was also in telephonic communication with another female friend who was giving him one of her clowder of Persian cats:  she had just lost her house and moved in with her boyfriend, and the boyfriend's dog had mauled the cat.  The cat was still at the vet, but would soon be released to D's care.   He had a kind competence about him that made it seem natural for him to take on these women's troubles.  He smoked and talked, wrinkling up his eyes in a smile, looking sideways at me with a wink.  

A 40-something woman joined us for a smoke while her boyfriend played pool.  She had long straggly brown-gray hair, and a deep freckled tan.  Her tight shirt and cami held small fat rolls at her waist, without apology.  She looked reliable and kind enough, but worn out and no-nonsense tough.  The conversation turned to a matanza that had been held on a local street.  I've heard of matanzas before:  basically it's a Spanish tradition, a pig-roast, held in the fall.  It sounded medieval to me, as it was described:  lots of blood and meat and alcohol.  Once the butchering is done, there's a huge community party, mainly extended families.  D said he'd been to one, and he was the only gringo there.  She said, "I grew up doing those...it was a matter of survival.  We grew and raised our food, and we used everything.  I remember in the winter, digging in the barrel on the porch for the frozen packets of meat."

Talk, and talk, and silence.  D went inside to sit at the bar, the hippie went home, and we were joined by a 20-something man with shoulder-length brown hair, bloodshot eyes, and a thin-lipped frog-like mouth. He was smoking a cigar, and had just risen from a nap.  I never did figure out what his game was, because I grew chilly as the sun set and went inside to text and play phone games while we waited for H to close and clean up the salon.

When I arrived earlier in the day, I had texted R.  He's an OKCupid acquaintance who lives in Taos, and he had recently suggested that we might have a "physical connection."  But I wanted to meet him before having that discussion.  So, part of the reason for my trip north was to see him in the flesh, instead of via Skype.  The distance and our respective work had made it difficult to connect, other than randomly.  Unfortunately, that morning he had said he had three clients contact him, so there was little free time. That had been the case on his previous jaunts to Santa Fe, too.  Clearly, he's not real invested in pursuing the relationship. The stars would have to be aligned just right.  I almost decided to go somewhere else for my getaway, but I wanted the pretty drive to Taos, and I thought I'd check out the Harwood.  (I didn't, as it turned out.)

Anyway, when I texted "I'm here!" R texted back "cool!" and offered to buy me a beer at the Mesa Brewery at 5.  I suggested he join us at the Cantina.  No, he opted for breakfast instead.  So, I went home with M and H and we had dinner (spud-encrusted cod, and a pinot grigio from my stash.)  Then we watched subtitled Korean soap operas, and I went to bed.

I walked down to the Plaza the next morning.  El Gamal, our breakfast place, was on Dona Luz, just behind Taos Plaza, in the parking lot by the Guadalupe church.  I had noticed it on previous trips, without really noticing it.  It's a hole in the wall, with a small covered porch that features crowded tables and stools along the street bar.  The building is long and narrow.  The front room has varied tables with a service bar to the left, a stage, concrete floors, and open ceiling with white painted rafters. The single unisex restroom is at the back.  You walk past a pool table and alcove-rooms, the floor slanting at each doorway and threatening to trip you up. At night it's a bar and apparently quite active, but this morning there was one blond gent with scruffy hair and white t-shirt settled at an outside table, a woman and child inside, and a kerchiefed young woman waiting tables.  She brought me weak coffee in a tall glass with a thin cardboard hand protector.

R showed up while I was sitting at the outside bar with my coffee.  I was talking to C about the schedule mess-up back at the co-op.  (My boss had mistaken her departure time and had to leave that afternoon instead of the next day.)  I greeted him, and he went inside while I finished my conversation.  He came back out and squinted at the sun....let's go inside.  Okay!

He's stockier than he appeared in our Skype talks, with large hands, thick neck, and a broad chest showing through the V of his shirt and brown corduroy jacket. The thin blond hair is just as unkempt, however, sticking out on the thinning top and slamped to the sides.  His heavy-lidded blue eyes are just as apt to suddenly open wide, the mouth just as apt to drop open in response to a puzzling comment.  His smile appears as a forced stretch across the teeth before it settles into a surprising charm, but just as abruptly the lips snap shut while his eyes look down and sideways.

The conversation was not uncomfortably forced, but it felt random, like his thoughts were stressed and elsewhere, and he had to make himself respond appropriately to the here and now.  We talked about New Mexico, and I told him that I'd found old information about him online. He said, I doubt it, there are a lot of people with my name.  Yes, I knew about the actor and some of the others, but the info I found was about a computer store in Taos....Good for you, he said, that's me.  And he showed me the card.  But, he's not working there any more.

He had a pita breakfast sandwich, and I had eggs Florentine on challa with a yummy sauce.  We talked about Airbnb and about travel, and he consumed his Turkish coffee and spicy condiments, saying, it's good for respiration.  I asked if he had asthma, and he said, no I live at 14 thousand feet, in an Earthship.  At that point, a 20-something dread-locked man at the next table entered into our conversation.  He owns property up at R's complex, and they immediately began trying to place each other.  "Do you know....?  which lot do you mean....?  you wanna sell...?  Oh yeah, he's selling, but she took the house..."

Yes, Taos is a small town, everyone knows everyone else.

And that was the end of our date.  Forty-five minutes in, and he was up and paying the bill, coming back with a handshake offer which I converted into a push-away hug.  I settled back to finish my coffee and check my iPhone while his silhouette passed the window, staring straight ahead into his day, no backward glance.  My guess was that he would not want to be contacting me again, and I was glad that I had not taken him up on his offer to share a room in Espanola.  However, he did text a somewhat equivocal message later.  He's an odd duck, but not malevolent.  I'd be interested in seeing how the Earthship community works, but my guess is that they are all marginal and quirky in some way.  Like R.

Meanwhile, however, I wrapped up the visit and began the drive back to Santa Fe.  And here I am, sitting by the river, watching rafts and kayaks pull out, listening to trucks rattle past.  A chilly wind snatches at my paper, which I hold down with purse, knitting bag, and my writing hand.  My hair flies about my face, crows soar past with a brief caw.  Whitecaps break, water rustles over and around rocks and boulders.  I'm in no rush to move along.  There's nothing much to do until rehearsal, no need to push it.

I think about independence.  I want to finish the book I took from S's library and mail it back, along with his house key.  And that will be that.  I am still figuring out what to do with my desire for friends and lovers, and still figuring out why the relationships with men get so tangled.  But, each of these flawed humans has brought something good to me.  Today, it's this time by the river, the river which also holds memories of D.  They are good memories, and this was a good trip.  I can follow V's advice:  when I start feeling sorry for myself, think about the benefits of independence.  Yes, I need people, but I can be choosy about whom I let into my life. I don't need to lose myself in the process.

Everything's up to date in Kansas City....

I went to Kansas City for a long weekend, catching the train from Lamy station, outside of Santa Fe.  For reasons that pass understanding, there is no station in the state capitol.  The official reason given is that the terrain is too rough, but considering the jaunt through Apache Canyon and over the Raton pass, that excuse just doesn't jibe.  My guess is there was some gerrymandering back in the 1880s.  Be that as it may, it's a beautiful little station, with old wooden benches inside and lots of brick waiting areas outside.  One of Roosevelt's train carriages is at permanent rest there.  I chatted with a couple bound for Chicago.  They make this trip regularly to be with the elderly Mom.  They say there used to be a nice restaurant (a former Harvey House) across the street, and the town itself was quaint and sweet.  Now the restaurant is closed, and it all seems pretty derelict.  And, it appears that the Lamy station may be closing, as well, with passenger traffic routed from Albuquerque through Texas, instead of up through Colorado and Kansas.  That would be too bad:  it's a beautiful ride.

The Amtrak employee was around my age.   She called everyone "hon," and her name was Cheryl.  I had spoken with her on the phone, trying to get the scoop on the parking lot.  The Amtrak page said "NO LONG TERM PARKING!" and that just didn't make sense.  Yes, there's a shuttle (the details of which are well hidden), but surely I'm not the only person who doesn't want to make friends or family drive for an hour to this back-of-beyond place.  She said, well, we don't officially provide parking, but the townsfolk keep an eye on things, and nothing has ever been vandalized.  That was good enough for me.  However, I was apparently still a little nervous.  Just as the train came in I thought, "Did I remember to lock the car?"  Fortunately, the station is so small, a few steps to the side brought me close enough to the car to point my key and click the lock button.  The headlights flashed reassuringly, and I boarded the train.

The train takes 18 hours to get from Lamy to Kansas City.  It's an enchanting ride through north eastern New Mexico, past Starvation Peak, through S bends where you can see the other end of the train, and across the prairies.  Both times I've taken this train, the moon has been full.  Both times I've curled up on my seat and dozed.  Both times, I've been exhausted when I reached my destination.

Union Station in Kansas City is old and beautiful, with vaulted ceilings, tall decorated windows and echoing marble.  The wood benches are gone from the old waiting room, which is a long hall in the middle of the station.  The current waiting room is small and low-ceilinged, with glaring fluorescent lights and unlovely vending machines.  I don't get it:  why not use the perfectly good and beautiful old space?

I arrived half an hour early, and M overslept, so I had breakfast at the Harvey restaurant (a nod to the old Harvey House, I gather.)  The atmosphere was lovely:  Judy Garland et al on the sound system, a circular covered structure in the middle of the lobby, dark wooden chairs and long tablecloths. I had really bad coffee and mediocre eggs and limp bacon.  I could taste the oleo butter substitute.  Erk.

Then M arrived and we drove back through the freeways to the Drury Hotel, out east on I70, across from the two sports arenas.  Kansas City's downtown is encircled by a rounded rectangle of interstates, with state highways paralleling and intersecting.  I couldn't tell if there was a reasonable public transport system, but we needed the GPS the entire time we were there.  The maps didn't make sense, nor did the exits.  D, who did most of the programming, said, "Trust the voice," and eventually we did.  As a passenger, I never did figure out the topography. But it was typical of midwest river towns:  the freeways soared through off-white sandstone bluffs and bottom lands filled with thin scrubby trees.  The U district featured 2-story brick houses with wrap-around stone porches and the occasional porte cochere.  Other districts had wood frame houses with wrought iron railings leading up to the concrete stoop at the screened front door.

It was cold and wintry, and I felt right at home.

When I got to my room, I was ready to crash for a bit.  But, I'd called V from the train the afternoon before and this was the moment she called back:  "What are you doing in Kansas City?"  She was scratching her head a bit:  while KC has apparently been on her list for the last 10 years, since the art museum built its addition, I had never indicated an interest.  I said, I'm here to listen to a reputedly wonderful blue guitarist from Canada, and to visit the art museum.  (And, as it turned out, to eat excellent BBQ.)  She said, if you were going to wander on your days off, why not visit me in Phoenix, it's 70 degrees here.  (It was 20 degrees in KC.)  I promised to do some reconnaissance and come back with her when it was warmer.

We hung up, and the phone rang again.  This time it was my sister E:  "What were you doing in Raton?"  I had posted a sunset picture of Raton station on Facebook:  it was a smoking/fresh-air-break point.  Apparently it is also a destination for gun aficionados, and she had received some excellent pointers when she and D stopped by en route to California.  I explained again, and I could feel her shrug.  Well, as long as you're okay, keep me posted.  And we hung up.

Then I checked FB, and there was a message from JMR:  "What are you doing in Kansas City?"  I wrote back, listening to blues and eating BBQ, and then I went to bed.

D was not feeling well, so we left her to rest while we visited the City Market and the Arabia Steamboat Museum, which was located just off the Market.  The outdoor part of the market is the main draw:  booths and dancing and music and crafts, none of which are in evidence during the winter months.  The market is ringed by permanent shops and vendors, all of which close around 2:30 pm.  So, we focused on the Museum, which was quite enthralling.  Apparently, the Arabia had run into a snag, back in the 1850s and by the next day was sunk into the mud and murk of the Missouri River.  Salvage apparently wasn't possible right then, and the insurance paid around $10,500.  In the 1980's the Hawley family and friends excavated the ship:  the river had been shifted half a mile away and they were digging in a cornfield with pumps going non-stop to keep the ground water out.  The original intent was to sell the salvage, but instead it is in this fascinating museum, providing a unique window into pre-Civil War life.

We spent a couple of hours there, and I could have spent more.  M and our tour guide were both trained at the same institution, so they spent a lot of time chatting about that.  She steered us to Jack Stack for our evening BBQ visit.  I texted N and S, who had advised me to to try Oklahoma Joe's or BB's Lawnside.  N informed me that the tour guide was a poor benighted Kansas City-an who didn't know from Texas BBQ.  I said, what about Zagat's opinion, and she said, they don't know Texas BBQ either.  S, the actual Texan, was kinder about it, but still suggested I go with Oklahoma Joe's.

We went with Jack Stack, and I flirted with the 30-something waiter.  Clearly, I'm feeling better about myself.

The concert was at Knuckleheads Saloon, a ramshackle collection of indoor and outdoor spaces hidden away in an industrial district.  The Voice sent us around a General Mills factory and over the railroad tracks, and we ended up in a gravel lot catty-corner from the bar.  There was a lot of neon (my favorite proclaimed "no pissy attitudes allowed"), and plastic sheeting surrounded the outdoor venues.  Our venue was an intimate (read TINY) space, with some tables in the center, backless stools around the perimeter, and a small area with rows of seats off to the side.  We settled to the left of the entrance.  Ages were mixed, but most of the tables in the "spray zone" were filled with older couples.  A row of rowdy plaid-shirted young men and women sat across the back, nearby.  I would have been annoyed, but they clearly got the excellence of the performer, once he arrived, and it became part of the scene.

Matt Andersen is an ENORMOUS young man, with long scraggly red hair which he tosses back at intervals.  A wispy moustache sits above a cherry bud mouth from which a gravelly voice issues, and he wore the plaid shirt and jeans that are apparently his trademark, as he made mention of it during one of his intro monologues.  He was totally worth the trip:  could play the hell out of the guitar, and could also introduce subtleties.  I can see why M was impressed by him when he won the International Blues Competition a few years back.  I'd see him again.

 

Afterwards, we checked out the cover band in the larger venue, but were unimpressed.

The next day was dedicated to the Nelson-Atkins Museum of Art.  They were featuring French Impressionists and photographers, and I could spend several days here.  The special exhibit was a mere $7, and the rest was free if we so chose.  As usual, I got pulled in several different directions.  The Asian art is pretty amazing, I was enthralled by the Islamic art, and there is a room dedicated to Thomas Hart Benton, whom I studied in college.  (It makes sense that he would be featured: he was a Regionalist and settled in Kansas City at the KC Art Institute.)

We spent 4 hours and then met another of Mike's online friends at BB's Lawnside.  D ordered a BBQ sundae, which was all about the presentation:  pulled pork, beans and cole slaw layered in a glass.  It was tasty enough, but not enough pulled pork:  word to the wise.  I got  burnt ends, which were new to me and quite wonderful:  all the taste and texture of ribs without gnawing on the bones.  However, the whole point of the place is the party atmosphere.  Live music is the name of the game, and there are no tables for two.  The bar is at one end, and the stage at the other, while in between are ranged long narrow picnic tables covered in red and white checked plastic table cloths.  We were lucky enough to find four chairs together, two on each side, in the middle of the table farthest from the door and music.  The noise was deafening.  Our waitress took advantage of a brief lull to get our orders, but there was no conversation for some time.  The music was so-so, but it was neat because it was a jam session.  These folks have been getting together on Saturday afternoons for 28 years.  Ages ranged from 20s to 70s, and the lady playing the spoons was worth the price of admission (okay, it was free, but you get the point.)

We went back to look at the art museum by night:  the new portion is totally lit up from inside and it looks like a floating iceberg on the dark hillside.  A bitter wind kept M in the car, and D and I ran outside to take pix with her phone (mine being out of juice by then.)

Our final day was spent at the Jazz museum and a sports bar (for the AFL playoffs.  Broncos won).  The museum was at 18th and Vine, and included a video of the area history.  There are actually two museums:  the other is the Negro Leagues Baseball Museum, which only M visited.  He said it was great.  However, I was absorbed enough by the jazz museum, and D got her own free concert, courtesy of a janitor who was testing out the Blue Room piano.  I spent a fair amount of time on the interactive displays that let you mix your own recording (shades of the Experience Music Project) and even more time in the area dedicated to old soundies.  The problem there was that the three screens were within a very small space, and you could hear all three simultaneously, which meant you couldn't hear any of them well.  It's an amazing collection, though.

After pizza, beer and football, they dropped me at Union Station.  Almost everything was closed, so I went to the big screen theatre and watched Frozen (not in HD.)  It was worth the $8 price tag, passed the time nicely, and gave me a chance to see a movie that none of my friends wanted to see.  And now I read that one of the songs is up for an Academy Award, so I'm vaguely in the cultural loop.  This is a good thing.

When I go back with V, I'll want to revisit the art museum and the BBQ joints, take in some music in the Blue Room, and check out the City Market in good weather.  I'll also want to have dinner at the Savoy, and maybe spend a night or two.  And I'm sure we'll find something else to occupy our time.

There isn't a train I wouldn't take...

I just got back from a long weekend in Kansas City.  I took the same train (California Zephyr) that I took a year ago to visit family over Christmas, but this time I left from Lamy station instead of Albuquerque.  And I didn't have T texting me the whole way, watching the train's progress via webcam.  I was alone.

For the most part, that works for me.  I like travelling alone.

I settle in my seat, spread my stuff into surrounding areas and work on solitary pursuits like reading and knitting and crosswords.

If you travel with another person, you have the advantage of leaving your stuff in their custody when you go to the lounge car or the bathroom, but you also have to negotiate the seats:  window or aisle? And, when I flew with D, I always ended up in the middle seat. (I could see the dismay on the other travelers' faces when we came down the aisle:  "Please, don't let those porkers sit next to me!!!")

I did miss T's virtual presence, which didn't require seat negotiations and kept me company, but I was otherwise happy with my lot.  It's a beautiful ride, up north and east through Las Vegas and Raton, into Colorado along the old Santa Fe trail, and across Kansas during the dark hours, where the moon illuminates the prairie and the lights of empty towns and solitary farms flash by to the click of the rails and dopplering of train whistles.

The train parallels
The fabled Santa Fe trail;
A dusty dirt road.

I love train rides, but
They don't stop for photo ops.
Still, I do my best.

My knitting has progressed to the point where I can watch scenery while I work.  Right now I'm knitting baby booties for K:  her baby is due in March.  I actually have 4 projects going:  the booties, 2 belated Christmas presents, and the top I started after my knitting bag was stolen from my car last summer, along with an almost-completed year-long project.

Crafty car burglars

Steal my unfinished knitting.

It will not fit them.

(I'm still pissed about that.)

This is how I used to travel.  When I first moved out west, I took my violin, a trunk, a suitcase, and a daypack.  I spent a lot of time in the lounge car, and I still wonder what happened to Lane Turner, an 18-year-old who was en route to California.  We watched Wyoming go by, and I asked him how many people joked about his name (too many, but it's why I still remember it.)

When I traveled through Sweden with A, I was knitting a green sweater with a horizontal white stripe.  I think S has it?  I learned that a dollar bill is exactly 6 inches long, so I used that to measure my progress. Meanwhile, A read and got a kick out of the 10-year-old boy reading Animorphs:  he was so typical.

I remember my first European train trip, right after I graduated from college.  B and I each had a Eurail pass, and we spent a lot of time sleeping in the 6-person carriages.  I remember traveling through Switzerland, being kissed by a young Iranian with no English.  (He had the wrong idea.)  I remember that B had her tripod strapped across the top of her frame pack, and it stuck out just far enough that she had to wrestle it along the narrow aisles.  My in-frame pack was easier to manage on trains, but harder on the back for the long hauls to the hostels. I remember how great it was to pull out the seats and actually stretch out to sleep.  I remember climbing into an upper berth, the ceiling inches away.  I was shuddering with claustrophobia.  I remember the beautiful trip through Norway, from Oslo ferry to Bergen:  they stopped at the peak for pictures, and then we followed a silver-grey fjord to the coast.  But the seats were wooden and upright and on the way back we ran out of Norwegian Kroner and were starving until we reached the ferry buffet.  I remember taking the train out to Helsingor:  B traveled with Gastarbeiter in the smoking car, the air of which was literally blue.

I don't know about Europe, but in the U.S. you can no longer smoke on board, and that has hugely improved the trip.  I remember passing through the smoking cars to get to the lounge:  the fug clung to my hair and stuffed up my nose in just a few short seconds.  And the lounge car always had smoke on one level, which migrated to the other level.

There are other changes.  20 years after my first European trip, I took a train through England, Wales, and Scotland and discovered, to my dismay, that I could no longer leave my packs in the stations while I explored the cities.  Curse those terrorist bombers!  Because I was moving from mountains to coast to flat-lands to mountains again over the course of a month, I had two huge packs, loaded onto wheels.  They jounced along the cobbles, and I had to constantly monitor the upper pack, which had a tendency to fall off. I wheeled those packs through cathedrals, along narrow climbing streets, into crowded restaurants, and over the gap unto the trains.  I knew I was no longer a 20-something traveler when the lads with ear and nose piercings helped me with my bags and called me ma'am.  They had a vested interest in helping me - I was holding up the line - but I think they were raised right, too.

I'm trying to remember how many train rides I've taken.  While I rented a car through Australia, I also took the train down the Sunshine coast and up into the Blue Mountains.  Same with traveling through England and Ireland, Italy and France. There was always some point where I left companions and cars and made my way alone, on the train.  And, I often took the plane into Chicago, during Christmas, visited friends there, and then took the train down to my family.

Usually I travel coach, but I've discovered the beauty of the sleeper.  You can shower and stretch out, and your ticket includes the dining car meals and morning newspaper.  When I was traveling from Italy to France, I set aside 4000 lira to upgrade to a sleeper, but couldn't find it, so I had to sleep in a very crowded carriage.  I had this tendency to stash money in different bags and pockets so if I was robbed I had a fighting chance of saving some of it.  But then I'd forget where I'd put it.  I found the lira when I was unpacking back in the States and mailed it out to my friend A, who had hosted me in Rome and still had several months left on her Fullbright.  It was approximately $70 at that time, I think.

So, I've only experienced the sleeper once.  Back in early 2000, I took a package deal:  fly out to North Carolina to see my cousin's master's thesis (an art installation) and train back via DC (E and M), Chicago, family in downstate IL (N's high school graduation), and then along the Lewis and Clark trail back to PDX.  I traveled coach the first legs....somewhere between DC and Chicago they had to take a drunk off the train.  How cliche is that?  But it was an anomaly,  too.  Usually the folks on the train are socially acceptable. *

I had a sleeper for the last part of the trip, and if I had the money, that's what I'd do now.   I have discovered that, while my brain is still 22 in terms of planning and executing my trips, my body no longer bounces back as it once did.  My back does better now, but I just get exhausted.   It's time to be an adult:  lose the backpacks and travel in comfort.

In addition to logistical changes, I have also discovered that, without companions, I tend to not interact so much with my fellow travelers.  I don't know how much of that is due to the ever-present virtual communication, though.  As I pass through the carriages, everyone who is not sleeping is nose-deep into the electronics.  Even in the lounge car, people watch the scenery, earbuds insulating them from the conversations around them.

And I am guilty too.  I text with friends, post pix and haiku to Facebook, check my e-mail.  In the past, I journaled during the train rides.  I don't know which is better, to share as you go, or to introspect.  Years later, I'm still reading those journals.  Will I still be checking my Facebook entries?  Probably not.

Still, I find that travel is when I do my best thinking.  During that trip to NC, I was dating 2 men, and I didn't know that I wanted to date either of them.  I used the trip to escape them and figure myself out.  It didn't work:  they both phoned me incessantly, and I still remember lying in my berth, watching the moon rise over the snowy Dakota fields while I talked with K and told him I missed him, and then talked with D and told him I missed him too.  And it was true in both cases, but what I really missed was my self-respect and comfortable life.  I still miss those things.

*Addendum:
Shortly after I wrote this blog, one of the friends I visited in DC posted the following to Facebook. I guess my DC drunk was not such an anomaly after all:

E: "I am a Roman numeral carved in plastic," said the poet sitting next to me on the train.

M: I think I'd avoid that car next time.

E: No, he was pleasant and random.

C: Which numeral? V? C?

E: He was fixated on 7-11 and 6th and H. When I could make out what he was saying.

M: Well, at least that was better than sitting in a train on a NM/CO run, and having a fellow come up the aisle announcing to all that there was a bomb on the train. (About 4 years ago, as I recall.) I think we made record time to the next stop, at which the police were waiting for him. There was no bomb.....But he was certainly disconcerting to be around.

Refgoddess: M-, I've taken that route twice....you have all the fun!

M: You may call it fun. It was even worse for the people who had been in the club car...this nut case said he had heard a couple of guys say they had placed the bomb there and then they got off the train at, I think it was Trinidad...those folks were herded back to our cars.....I don't know if he was on something, or if he was schizo but ....well, it was an adventure. We made it to La Junta almost an hour early. No dawdling on that stretch!

Travel kvetch

Traveling is so different now.  I don't really care when I get there, so the lines are not the issue.  What is the issue?  The quality of the wait.  I could swear everyone is a little grubbier, amenities are less amenable.  You pay for every little thing (fortunately not bathrooms. Yet.) My fellow passengers are  more Greyhound, less Orient Express.  The PA features a friendly male voice asking us to help the police officers keep us safe by reporting suspicious things.

What is suspicious?  The plastic bottle under my chair?  The bags?

However, I'm engaging in the usual rosy-tinted nostalgia.  Travel was ever problematic.  I remember on my first flight to Europe, I huddled under a blanket, trying to escape the cigarette smoke.  So, some things have improved in the last 30 years.  And, some things have stayed the same.  For example, on my way to PDX, I sent this message into the ether:  "As per usual, the Denver airport's evil spirits are alive and kicking! Flight delayed, no place to sit, echoing grayness. I have never gotten through this airport without some hitch."

Still, I'm going to look into train travel on my next trip.  Pooh on this airplane stuff.  And I mean it!

A trip through Utah, 1996

A friend of mine is traveling through the Southwest and posting things to FB.  I was feeling nostalgic, and serendipitously found the journal I wrote in 1996, when I was driving R to Austin.  We camped along the way. The big name places were Bryce, Zion, Grand Canyon, and Carlsbad.  Here's what I had to say about Bryce:

Left Hwy 70, following the Sevier River.  It's a sage-green, tumbling, fast-moving river - seems to have cut through the mountains, and the road we're on is squished in.  There are oval and half-moon-shaped holes in the tops of the mountains - most of it looks river-cut.  It's amazing to think of how long it took to make this canyon.

Bedtime
We're at Kodachrome State Park:  Bryce was full by the time we reached it, but we're just as glad.  This is a lovely site, in a bowl of yellow/white/golden/red cliffs, with streams trickling through, scrub pines at every site, spires, etc.  We're very isolated, yet close to the water and the bathrooms (which have HOT SHOWERS!)  Our fellow campers are quiet - we see their lights, hear some low-voiced comments, a quiet laugh here and there, some rattling dishes - all very peaceful and distant-seeming.  Crickety insects are singing.  This being both desert and mountain, the stars are incredible.

R called RB (her husband, whom we were joining in TX), and then she made a white sauce out of pancake mix, dried milk, mozzarella, and oil.  Some turkey ham and zucchini went in it, and we finished up the pasta.  We pulled out the cheap CA wine and it was pretty good.  So, we took our mugs and went for a walk in the gloaming.  There are rocks here like a miniature version of Ayers Rock - red, smooth, rounded, with oval holes in the base.  Behind them, spires climb into the light-blue, darkening sky.  I wanted to climb, but it was too late and R wouldn't let me anyway.  But it was beautiful.

Then we sat at the table and killed the bottle, while eating Chevalier Noir cookies.  Yummm.

We planned tomorrow a bit, and while R went to the bathrooms, I knit by candle lantern light and watched the stars brighten.  Then, a walk to the restroom myself, head tilted upwards identifying constellations and marveling.  R's already asleep.  I'm using her lantern to warm the tent, write, and read.  But, I'm getting tired.

Sunday
At North Campground.  Just watched the stars come out over East Rim of Bryce Canyon and got totally lost coming back.  For a completely packed campground, this is a pretty quiet one.  Lighted tents, campfires, lighted RV's looking like houses - it was like walking around a small town without street lights.  I made a right downhill when I should have made a left up - and then I began to ramble.  Found RV-land, found a bathroom, on trying to find the road I walked into a campsite with a VERY bright light.  I asked if they knew where the road was, and they pointed 2 feet away.  I got back - candle-lantern lit on table but no R - she'd gone to look for me and ended up at the campfire canyon talk, which she says was pretty hideous.  Anyway, she forgave me - said she'd been blaming herself for letting us split up at dusk.  We'd gone for a post-prandial cliff-sunset walk and ended up at the general store where she called RB and depressed him by telling him the stove was turning black.

Some beautiful hikes today - first at Kodachrome Basin Panorama Loop. (We woke up freezing cold, and everything we'd left out on the table was soaking wet, even my bag of knitting.) The panorama hike was a cross between John Day Fossil beds and Ayers Rock.  At the last we climbed a hill and had the whole basin spread out below us.  R left 1st, and I was alone, high above the earth, an intermittant cool breeze making the only sound.  Perfect peace.  I met 3 German lads on the way down and recommended the climb.

Lots of Germans at Bryce, too.  We're flanked by them.  An elderly couple in a van (which R covets:  "They look so cozy") is directly adjacent.

We mainly drove around to various viewpoints, did a few short hikes.   Wind was very cold.  We had sweatshirts but were still wearing shorts.  Lunched at a viewpoint and shivered.  Tomorrow I hike in slacks, I think.

Mmm, wind roaring in the pines, very nice, time for sleep.

Monday, early pm
Today I'm unable to breathe in the scent of sun-warmed juniper and bristle-cone pine to which I've been growing fondly accustomed.  I woke up to R rushing me from the tent to see the sunrise before the sun got buried in the rain clouds.  There was just a thin line of clear blue before the gray cumulonimbus stuff started.  We reached the rim, too late it seemed.  So, back to the site to take down tents and make breakfast.  As the coffee was brewing, the little weasel of a sun popped up.  The camp host in his little golf cart was driving by picking up expired registration tags and he asked us what we were looking at.  I said, "the sun" and he said "what sun?" like he'd never heard of such a thing.

After breakfast, while Rhonda was changing in her tent, I saw a little puff-chested bird, white and black, with a black mask, dive onto the table inches away from me, peck for the non-existent food, and dart back up to a low branch of the overhanging pine. He did this several times.  No fear of me.

We stopped by the store for a rain poncho for me, and set off down the Queen's Garden Loop.  It was terrific to be down amongst the hoodoos, winding in and out along the valley floor.  We came back via Navajo Loop, a lung-bursting ascent.  The monsoon held off until the very end, when a little fear of heights and slippery trails added to my breathlessness.

Back at the store porch for lunch.  The clerk who sold us ponchos was there with coffee and cigarette.   I said, "Look at this piece of junk you sold me," and pointed out the split hood.  He offered to give me a replacement, and seemed very serious.  The thing only cost $2.99;  one doesn't expect great things from an essentially garbage bag mit hood and snaps.

It's amazing to me that I went through this area close to 20 years ago, and now I'm living here.  It's all still there:  stars, rocks, skies, peace.  Clearly this is what I've wanted for years.

manic depression

I think the weather is bi-polar. V was visiting from 1/10-1/22, and during that time we had snow, freezing winds, gorgeous sun, mellow afternoons, temps ranging from 7 to 60 degrees. I was looking up the definition for manic-depression in Mosby, and it describes the last month to a T:

Bipolar disorder, formerly known as manic depression, is a mood disorder that causes radical emotional changes and mood swings, from manic, restless highs to depressive, listless lows. Most bipolar individuals experience alternating episodes of mania and depression.

Of course, it also describes me, which is why I was looking it up. Is it possible to develop such a disorder in one's fifties, or was it always latent in me? Maybe. After all, during my pre-menopausal days, that basically described my cycle. I used to say that the only time I saw life truly and saw it clear was when I was having a period. The rest of the time I was a happy idiot: anything could bring me joy. I enjoyed small triumphs and beauties and I ignored the horrors and banalities of every day life.

And I've been a happy idiot for much of the past month and a half. Visiting the family, enjoying scenery from the train, playing music with my sisters and Mom, sledding, hiking in the woods, sharing New Mexico with V, taking pix, writing haiku, burning CDs, baking, knitting, spending time with T, watching Deadwood, discovering new books, catching up with friends....all good. I could spend hours listing and describing what's good about my life.

That's the manic phase.  And then.....

I walked into my therapist's office this morning, smiling, getting out my knitting, ready to talk. She said, "It's been awhile, did you have a good time with your friend? You're smiling..." And I starting crying and didn't stop for the next hour. 

I guess you'd say I'm in the depressive phase now.

In fact, I'm an exhausted basket case. I made it to rehearsal, but started sobbing on the drive home. I thought, this cannot be good for me, despite what my therapist tells me. I'm wiped out. And I shouldn't be driving.  So, I looked up "chemical effect of tears" in Google. I found what I was looking for: 

Emotional tears are composed of more protein-based hormones, such as prolactin, andrenocorticotropic, and leucine enkephalin (a natural pain killer), which is suggested to be the mechanism behind the experience of crying from emotion making an individual feel better.

But I also discovered a recent study that women's tears reduce testosterone in men.  So, not only am I exhausting myself, but I'm preventing myself from getting laid.

Now, that's something to be depressed about.

The business of vacations

I have had the travel bug for as long as I can remember.  The habit of escaping to other places and discovering new ways of being began with my fiction addiction, of course.   And it was a matter of course that our humble family vacations involved packing up the station wagon and driving north for a day, to spend the next two weeks with the family in Minnesota.  Early on I learned that the world was wide and the daily routine escapable, regardless of finances.

After my MorMor retired, she embarked on a series of travels to Hawaii, Israel, Italy, England, and Norway (of course.  Everyone returns to the homeland, right?)  I remember reading her Christmas letters.  Rather than the usual newsy one-pagers, hers were a pastiche of travelog, historical and cultural tidbits, and idiosyncratic escapades.   Hand-written in a spidery cursive, they filled over a dozen pages.  Mom was invariably exhausted and busy with Christmas preparations, and had neither time nor inclination to plow through them, but I enjoyed them immensely.  There was always a leitmotif.   Her friend Hope had a sweater crisis in Hawaii.  During the Italian trip, customs inspectors at every border viewed her new, unworn shoes with suspicion.  Etc, etc.

I came to understand that travel was about navigating comfort zones, as well as time zones.  Little things like purchasing aspirin acquired adventurous proportions when done in a strange place.

When I graduated from college and moved west, my goal was to prove I could take care of the business of living.  Once I established that, I began budgeting for a life of travel.   I did not want to wait until I retired to have adventures.  Every other year I planned a big 3-week trip outside the country.  The in-between years were spent on local trips, camping and staying in bed and breakfasts. I usually traveled with friends, most of whom knew the ropes of researching places, transportation, and lodging.    I also usually covered a lot of ground, thinking, "I'll come back some day and stay here longer, become part of the local scene."  There are trade-offs to both approaches of course.

It took 20 years, though, before I experienced vacationing as a business.  That's when I went to my first time-share presentation, at the Worldmark offices in Vancouver, WA.

Mind you, I have never been interested in resorts:  they are the fast-food of the travel industry in my opinion.  Regardless of the location, you always have the same type of room and set-up.  It's usually luxurious of course:  pools, hot tubs, spas, boutiques, well-appointed kitchens, restaurants.  But you are totally divorced from the place:  you shuttle or drive from the airport to the resort, and the only locals you meet are those paid to cater to your needs.  You are, in fact, an object, a product of the business.  You know what you are getting, and what you are getting is pleasant, but it's not interesting. Hamburger and fries to go, please.

The presentation interested me solely for one reason:  I became convinced that lodging expenses would continue to rise until they were beyond my means.  This was a chance to maintain a traveling lifestyle while I could afford it.  Also, my niece was going to be spending a year at York University, so it would be a nice way to visit her and travel around England.

So, I swallowed the bait, bought the timeshare, and embarked on a new traveling life.

All in all, it was worth the money for a while.  Resort traveling is made for couples.  We went to Cabo, Santa Fe (for our honeymoon), Hawaii (D's first trip there), and numerous local beaches, alone and with family.  It was always comfortable, lodging was affordable, and we were mainly interested in being together.

Then, the business began to be less user friendly.  We couldn't get reservations at places and times that we wanted, and the quarterly cleaning fees were raised.  It became annoying that we couldn't bring Carbon.  Rising air fares put the more exotic locales out of our reach.  The over-selling of shares and changing of rules made the weekend getaways a thing of the past.  Worldmark's customer service became non-existent, and they sold to Wyndham, which was not much better.

I jettisoned the whole thing during a trip to J-H's more luxurious time-share in Cancun.  We traded to Grupo-Mayan which only charged cleaning fees when you booked a stay, and which promised that we could easily rent out our unit when we did not stay.

Fast forward past days of unemployment and declining finances.  We still managed to travel:  yurts, campgrounds, airbnb trades, the occasional beach trip.  However, it galled D beyond measure that the time-share was just sitting there.  And then came the phone call....

THREE NIGHTS IN LAS VEGAS!  FREE AIR FARE!  FREE DINNER AT PLANET HOLLYWOOD!  and all we have to do is sit through a 90-minute presentation (and lie about our financial situation.)

D really gets depressed with winter weather, so I reluctantly agree that, yes, this might be nice.  We drive over during a Friday rush hour on an absolutely gorgeous day, to be imprisoned in a glass-windowed office building in a strip-mall.  The windows are covered with blinds, the staff are all wearing tropical shirts, and the front office features a TV with a very strange show:  the actors are all clothed monkeys, mouthing words that are captioned below while a voice over narrates the surreal plot.  I'm still trying to figure out what it has to do with selling time shares.  Usually they have videos of luscious couples on tropical beaches.

D fills out the form (because I refuse to commit to the lies) and Jerry, a short elderly man with thick white hair, tanned skin and a professionally smile-wrinkled face, walks us back to the presentation room.  Tropical-beat music is blaring, and we are presented with a tray of Costco cookies, coffee, and soft drinks.  The room is filled with small round tables:  two chairs facing front, one facing the back.  We take the front-facing chairs, and Jerry starts to work us.

He is also the manager, so he has to leave us for a bit.  He gives us a travel survey to fill out, and I start knitting.  That's when Jerry the Autocrat makes his appearance.   My knitting is ordered away.  We are expected to work for our "gifts."   Attention on the process, eyes front during the presentation, and you'd better laugh at the jokes and raise your hands when appropriate.

Really?

It's a pretty lame presentation.  Shannon, an extremely obese man in his 30s, paces back and forth, trying to generate enthusiasm and a sense of camaraderie.  His fellow salesmen chuckle and nod their heads and say "that's right!"  The rest of us sit, eyes front and center, nodding occasionally.  Jerry leaves us for a bit and D mutters comments to me that I am positive will get us thrown out WITHOUT OUR GIFTS.  Then Jerry returns for the followup presentation.  Waiving cruise ship brochures, he talks about steak houses:  they're all great, but some are better than others.  Apparently he's trying to appeal to the snob factor, but what about the vegetarians in the audience?

Whew, now it's time for the individual sell job.  This is where Jerry the Car Salesmen surfaces.   "What will it take to put you in the driver's seat TODAY!?"  He does the routine where he leaves and comes back with a better offer, which actually is not better.  He compliments our financial acumen.  He disparages other time shares.  He smiles and smiles and smiles.  And, when D finally makes it clear that We.... Are.... Not... Buying, he pouts.

It's ugly.  And I'm not even sure I'm going to like Las Vegas.

He marches us into another room where we wait for our gift.  That's when the closer appears.  We go through the checklist:  did Jerry treat us well?  what could he have done to sell us?  etc etc.  I mention that one way to improve the presentation is to turn down the music.  Apparently that cannot be...no it's not about building energy in the room, it's about protecting privacy.  Some time in the past, a landlord was seated at a table next to a tenant who was planning to skimp on his rent payment to accommodate the time share payment.  The landlord lost it, fists flew, and they had to be separated by the salesmen.  And since then, they've blared the music.

We think we are done, but I make the mistake of asking about selling our other timeshare....flip goes the paper, out comes the pen, and a new offer appears.   D almost loses it.  We hear about changes in real estate laws in Washington and how they affect time share selling.  We are warned that we cannot be asked to another presentation, we cannot receive another gift, in fact we must sign a waiver declining the VIP offer.

Gladly.

remembering warmer days

Having totally emptied the shed and scattered the contents about the house, I am back to the bete noir of decluttering:  the office.

The knitting and craft supplies are re-settled elsewhere, but the desk and file cabinets remained piled high with papers and tchotchkes and other jetsam of the past year.  Boxes line the wall, some empty, some sorted.  Some plastic, but most are varying sizes of cardboard.  Two upright vacuum cleaners block access to closet and desk, their attachments leaking out of nearby boxes.  Another box holds files I organized 6 months ago but never consolidated into the cabinets or upstairs desk.  Yet another box holds the papers and books I swept from the desk top a month ago.  In front of the wardrobe/entertainment center are more boxes and the sliding plastic storage unit I dragged out from the back of the closet.  (The other is still inside.)  On the floor behind the storage unit, the wireless hookup lies on its side, blinking blue lights assuring me it's fine.  It is tethered to outlets on opposite sides of the room and soon I need to do something about those trip-hazard wires.

And that's just my side of the room.

I decide to NOT tackle the papers this time.  This time I'm going to do something that has visible results.  I start with the boxes, emptying them into recycling or goodwill bags, breaking them down, stacking them into a larger box, getting them OUT of there.  At the bottom of the storage unit, I find maps.  Ah yes, the trip to Taos.  The wine-tasting trip to Walla Wall.  The Foundry Art Gallery.  Walking maps of Portland (those should go into the studio.)

I give myself a shake and resolutely send most of them to the recycle bag.  (But, I could turn them into wrapping paper!  Make cranes out them!  Make boxes!.....)  I take the few trip memorabilia and open the big green box, ready to add them to it.  Oh, there's the neat journal with the magnetic flap that M gave me.  It would be good for the studio, too, but I probably have written in it.

Yes, I have:  one page, apparently from a trip to Kauai.

Wednesday
Finally resting and not sniping.  At the pool, lazing and watching the waves.  Our move from 319 was pretty painless.   D was out shopping for T's and trunks (the excuse was that he spilled red wine on his Ranch Chimayo T)  I had packed lunch and organized the food and was just getting ready to go to the pool when the phone rang and Natalie @ the office gave me the word that rm 123 was ready for us - 2 hours before we had to move out.  I carried a small load down to the office and was just @ the door when D called to me from the parking lot.  We got the room open (walking a maze of construction) & decided to load everything else through the lanai door.


Ah yes, that's pre-knee surgery, when D couldn't handle stairs.  He could handle waves though, and we had a lovely week.  We snorkeled, I showed him Salt Ponds beach, we saw teen girls practice the hula for a competition, we took a trip past the NaPali Coast, G and L took us out to dinner....

I look out the window at the empty branches waving in the chill east wind, at the slushy snow, at the grey-white sky.  I don't want to clear out the office,  I want to go someplace warm and uncluttered, with blue skies, fluffy clouds, and sparkling waves.

This is why I never get anything done.