Only Half the Journey...

I recently returned from a vacation to Bavaria, Germany. It was lovely, as one would expect, full of gorgeous mountains, centuries-old churches, small alpine villages, tourist destinations and all the bratwurst and beer your tummy could handle. It was an experience that I will always treasure.

However, the one image that keeps recurring in my memory is not one of the many wonderful sights we saw on land, but one seen from the sky.

Call me crazy (you wouldn't be the first) but - despite the growing inconvenience, cost and total lack of comfort these days - I love to fly. I always try to get a window seat and follow along like a child tracing a map - the winding roads and waterways; the thin, white edges of the sea's coast like a torn sheet of paper; the discernible landmarks; the mountains capped with snow; the pillars of Earth rising out of the desert, and so on. It's like taking a second trip.

Coming home from Germany, we went north - probably to avoid some storms that were pressing through France. Up across Belgium, across the whipping winds of the North Sea, over England's rugged coast. We flew over the Irish Sea, and then across Ireland above the legendary stone walls, so neatly arranged - gleaming the Emerald Isle of our imaginations. Hours over the open Atlantic, and then suddenly - icebergs, anchored so near the coast of Newfoundland and tiny houses and their weathered inhabitants.

Icebergs.

I never saw icebergs before. I didn't even know they could drift so far south (or were we that far north?) From 30,000 feet, it was difficult to tell at first what the white spots were below us. Caps of waves? Bits of clouds that were popping into view? Boats? Then they became larger. There was even one so large I think it must have been a glacier (or not) with the bluest core I have ever seen. To think how cold it must be there, how the hearty the local people must be (I could not imagine winter there), and how blessed they are to have such incredible natural surroundings. To be so connected to the sea.

[I didn't take photos, but look at these from Downhome Magazine.

Icebergs.

They serve as my reminder that the earth-bound destination is only half of the journey - there is so much of the world out there. And even if it is viewed from afar, enjoy. And I hope someday to take my earth-bound destination to Newfoundland and see those icebergs close-up.

There and Back Again

THERE....
So, I just returned earlier this week from my first trip ever to Puerto Rico. I first have to say how fortunate I am to have a job where I get to travel to cool locales like that. The intent of the trip was to oversee an educational meeting in Santurce last Thursday with primary care doctors who treat diabetes. Overall, a good meeting.

I decided to stay in Puerto Rico through Sunday in San Juan, and was happy to have company this time - my lovely sister, Kim. We both were way overdue for a little R&R, and we certainly took advantage of it...while seeing the sights, of course! Friday, we toured Old San Juan, including Castillo San Felipe de Morro, the 16th century fort built at the tip of the city. I'm always amazed to walk around buildings that were built before the first settlements were established in my own country, to breath in the history and imagine my feet touching the same ground that people from centuries ago touched. And it's really amazing to go to places where the culture and history are honored and, in most cases, well-preserved. The United States is a proud melting pot, but very rarely can we find remnants of something from centuries ago. Out with the old, in with the new. Always. But I digress...

While we saw beautiful architecture, drank the rum the island is known for, felt the history around us, I found the most intriguing thing (as with most trips) to be the locals. I loved watching the hundreds of school children fly kites in the field outside of the fort's entrance. I loved the warmth and friendliness of the people, from the taxi drivers to the shop keepers and beyond - there was no pretension. I have to admit, I do not warm up to people easily; I don't trust immediately, I'm skeptical, I try to sense the vibes coming from others. Maybe that's just the Northern New Jersey side of me. So, to say that I had in-depth conversations with the locals would be a lie. But I appreciated their warmth just the same and it really added to the trip.

...and the beaches. My goodness. I forgot what soft sand between my toes and the warm ocean gently lapping the shores felt like. I forgot what sunlight felt like (yes, it's been raining way too much at home!) It was heaven. Even when it rained, it was wonderful. Loved. It. Next time, I'll have to stay longer to check out the rain forests and bio-luminary lagoons, and all the secret treasures of the island.

AND BACK AGAIN...
Now I'm home, still reveling in my relaxation. What would have made things all the better would be if my back didn't go out again. And it's not just that it went out. It left without leaving a note. A few years ago, I had the same problem, but even after therapy, the only resolution was surgery. Followed by more therapy. And a big scar on my lower back. So, to think, I've returned to that state where I might have to go through all that again...it's really a buzz kill to my wonderful trip, where just a week ago, I was walking around like no one's business. For the last few days, I haven't even been able to stand upright. So, a week of highs and lows...but that's Life and it goes on and on...

Chi-town Showdown

I'm in Chicago for the second time in a month. Over a course of 5 years, I've been here so many times, I lost count. But, I have to say, Chicago is a beautiful city and I enjoy coming here...minus the traffic from the airport to downtown, and the winters. Otherwise, yes, it's a great place (at least, from my visitor's eyes. I'm sure the locals will have their own opinion.)

I'm here for another conference, of course...working a booth in the exhibit hall for the first time in my life and I have to say, I'm not lovin' it. No, sir. Not one bit. But it's easy work, and my expenses are being paid, so...there it is. Luckily for me, I'll actually have some "down time," albeit, on my own, and for the first time in all the times I have been to Chicago, I'm hoping to steal away a few minutes to actually enjoy the city. See the sights. Relish its charms. Hopefully.

It's a weird thing, enjoying a place on your own. I mean, it has been done. But in my opinion, it's always better to enjoy a place with someone else, so you can have someone to share the experience and memories. I'll always remember being at Half Moon Bay, CA, at the Ritz Carlton (for a meeting, of course), and walking down to the lonely strip of beach washed by the cold waters of the Pacific at sundown. It was gorgeous and romantic and solemn, and I was standing there, alone. It broke my heart to experience it without the love of my life by my side. Chicago - she's a different animal. Soaring architecture and history, there's alot to see. I have no problem going to discover it on my own, but I have to find the courage to enjoy it. It's just me and the city now.

So...if you have any suggestions on some things I must see, please let me know. I'm here a few more days.

Let's start at the very beginning...

A very good place to start...

A little known fact about me (unless you're in the inner circle) is that I'm a huge Sound of Music fan. When I was a kid, the movie's opening aerial shots filled my heart with the desire to travel and see those beautiful places. And I did. When my husband and I went to Austria a few years ago, we went with one main goal - to go on the Sound of Music tour (everything else was just icing on the cake....I'm so happy that he shares my passion for this film.) Years before that, relatives went to the Trapp Family Lodge - a ski resort in Stowe, VT run by descendants of the famous family - and brought me back a book about the family and a CD of the real von Trapp Family Singers, which have both become staples in my collection. I've also read the original book that inspired (but was not mirrored in) the movie. And the movie...I lost count how many times I've watched it. I not only know the songs front and back, but also know the behind-the-scenes dirt (here's one for you: Charmian Carr, who played eldest daughter, Liesel, slipped when dancing during the gazebo scene, fell into the glass window and cut herself. If you look closely, you can see the bandage around her ankle.)

I owe alot of who I am today to this wonderful...no, magical, movie.

So, it's with a goofy grin and a warm desire to have been in Antwerp, Belgium during this wonderful scene that I watched this:

A Letter of Apology

Dear Blog,

Please accept my sincerest apology for not giving you the attention lately that you deserve. You've been a good friend to me and the least that I could do is stop by and let you know I'm thinking about you. I've let you down and will try to do better.

Although there is no excuse for my behavior, my attentions have been focused elsewhere recently. Sure, there was the Frivolous, like being wonderfully Wicked or watching my team lose the big college basketball game right before my eyes. There was the Annoying, such as having the punks drop by again for a visit, staying for 2 weeks straight and wearing out their welcome as soon as they arrived. Snot was the worst, but I finally kicked him out, too. Then there was the Unavoidable, such as the quick, but taxing, business trip to Dallas, which began on Tuesday with a 6:45 am flight and ended last night at midnight with the return home...followed by an early morning staff meeting. Now, there's the Absolutely Necessary time for sleep and recuperation.

So, I just wanted to let you know that I haven't forgotten about you. I'm hoping that we can catch up again next week. Thanks for all your understanding.

Talk to you soon,
C

California Dreaming

I just spent the last few days in one of my all-time favorite cities...ever. San Francisco. Those words alone give my heart an extra beat. Tony Bennett sure knew what he was talking about. Of course, I was in the city to attend a conference, and, as with most business-related travel, I hardly had any time to step outside the hotel let alone go sight-seeing. Still, when I did leave the hotel, it was a pleasure to find myself soaked in warm sunshine and not requiring the typical 5 layers and a parka that I normally wear this time of year.

I traveled West on the day that we here on the East Coast received yet another reminder that it's still winter - Wednesday. It wasn't a terrible storm, just an annoyance. I returned home just in time for another one of Old Man Winter's calling cards; tomorrow, we're supposed to have more snow, then colder temperatures. And I ask myself all the while, why did I leave the 70 degree weather of a beautiful city? That, my friends, is the question of the day.

Especially since our little furry friend, Punxsutawney Phil, decided to see his shadow today and claim 6 more weeks of winter. Not very scientific, I know. Quite a stupid tradition, if you ask me. But nonetheless, there it is. I'm certainly California dreaming on this winter's day.

Vegas, Baby...Yeah!

As you read yesterday, I just returned from my first venture to Las Vegas: Sin City, the Entertainment Capital, City of Lights, Glitter Gulch, the ADD Capital of the World. What were my impression, you may ask? Well...first, I think a long weekend was more than enough for me. I'm not a gambler, I'm more of a rocker than a clubber, I could care less about the Donny and Marie show or tigers. But I do think it's one of those places you have to experience at least once in your life.

Years ago, I wrote the poem Desert Floor, which I posted on here a while back. It was written based on the stereotype I held about the city, before seeing its "charms" first hand. Re-reading the poem now, it pretty much sums up the place. The city itself is so artificial. First, yeah, it's on the desert floor, surrounded by gorgeous mountains. It's become an oasis of sorts, but I don't think necessarily the good kind. Themed hotels that are supposed to look like other places like Venice, Paris or New York are kind of cool in their kitsch, but it's still kitsch. Even beautiful places like the Mandalay Bay, where we stayed, are lovely, but there's something really weird and kind of wrong to see a mother pushing a baby carriage through the rows of slot machine and smoky air, or an obviously-destitute person shoving dollars into a machine that could probably be better spent on food or rent. Then there are those who look like they came straight from the plastic surgeons, tanning salons or steroid-suppliers.

It's not all bad. Again - the desert was beautiful. I drove out to Red Rock Canyon with two of my oldest friends to watch the sunrise, which in itself was beautiful, but what was most astounding was that, for a brief moment, there was pure silence. Coming from noisy Northern New Jersey with the aural congestion of planes, trains, and especially automobiles, to hear nothing - not even insects or birds - was wild. Back into Sin City, the awe continued in seeing celebrities (yes, it's true, Paris Hilton and friends were at LAX with us), visual stimulation around every corner and the freedom to do anything you wanted at anytime. I suppose, too, the company helped.

Would I go again? Maybe. Is it my scene? Definitely not. I found myself trying to have the "Vegas experience" which contradicted my everday life. But, I suppose, that's the point, and no one has to be the wiser.

Life is Beauty

When we were in Montréal last week, I noticed green and white postcards stacked as we walked through passages to the Métro and the underground shopping malls. A sucker for "free" postcards with cool art, I stopped and picked one up. It had the face of an attractive - yet bald - woman applying makeup. I was intrigued.

The card was advertising Photosensitive: Cancer Connections, a photography exhibition promoted by The Canadian Cancer Society that displays cancer patients and those affected by the disease in artistic format. It's a traveling exhibition, with the current stop in Montréal. I would love to see something like this in the U.S.

As someone whose mother died of breast cancer at a very young age, the thought of the exhibition chokes me up with happiness and I think why hasn't someone done this before? Maybe they have...not to a national extent in the US, though - at least, none that I can recall. When my mother had a mastectomy, I remember that she felt like less of a woman, she felt unattractive, she felt the intense loss of something that, in our culture, nearly defines a woman. To me and all who knew her - she was beautiful, always. No matter what. I think she would have appreciated this exhibit.

I wish we had stayed long enough to see this wonderful art. It's provocative, it's beautiful, it's real, it doesn't pander or make a silly joke out of the disease for art-sake; it shows life at its most delicate and its most strong. It stirs emotion. It stirs memory. It stirs life, and reminds us how human we are. This is what art is supposed to do.

Nelligan

What a wonderful way to ease the summer into September - a leisurely trip to Montréal. From New York City, we took the slow-paced Adirondack train line via Amtrak, winding up through the Catskills , bending through the Adirondack Mountains, sliding along the shores of Lake George and Lake Champlain. It would have been more of a romantic trip had it not taken almost 11 hours and had the trees started to dress in their autumn best.

Still, for all the beautiful areas "envahi par les touristes" that we delved into, it was wonderful to retreat to a place where poetry was the rule of the day. We called the Hotel Nelligan - named after Montréal 's native son and one of its most important poets, Émile Nelligan - our home for a few days. In the lobby, a portrait of the poet and a copy of his "Le Vaisseau d’or" or "The Ship of Gold" (his most quoted, as I've read) hung nobly, and an excerpt of the poem blended softly in a frame on the wall in our room above the fireplace. With even the levels of the hotel reflecting names such as "Poésie" and "Sonnet," a person could not forget the hotel's inspiration.

As your average (no, not ugly) American, I had not heard of Nelligan before our trip, and we did not select our hotel based on this theme. So, who was Nelligan? I'm still doing research (and if anyone familiar with his work or history can add anything here, please do)...but from what I know, I admire how such a young man suffered the duality of his circumstances but chose to be a leader in the movement to renew French-Canadian literature. He was institutionalized when he was only 20 years old, but had left a legacy that continues almost 70 years after his death.

I both appreciate and am perplexed by Québec's struggle to define its culture and heritage and desire to earn independence from "British association." But, when I read words from poets like Nelligan, the desire is clear and the beauty is profound.

A-traveling we will go

Since as far back as I can remember, I have loved all-things travel related. I used to study maps and, in my little Encyclopedia set, would read about different cultures, flags, languages, topography. Today, the question of travel is never far from my mind. Usually, the conversation is related to work - I travel quite a bit for my job and seem to always be hopping around from place to place all in the name of education. Then, there is unquenchable thirst to live vicariously through friends and family who have traveled to exotic places - or just places I've never been, sometimes never heard of, but suddenly sound fascinating because it's not here. My in-laws are crazy like that. Trips to Egypt, Russia, China, Cape Horn and many more...their next trip is to South Africa including a safari. Not that I'm a slouch when it comes to international travel...just, well...not that extensive. Yet. We're currently in the process of planning a trip now, albeit to Canada.

This probably explains my almost-obsessive relationship with the Travel Channel. By the way, Anthony Bourdain, when you're back in Jersey, give me a "ring." But seriously, it was interesting to see on the Travel Channel's blog site "World Hum" on Wednesday this week, outlining the "Six Ways U.S. Poet Laureate Kay Ryan Could Spend Her $5,000 Travel Allowance." Of course, they're all locations in the US, but I had to smile that the very first location was Amherst and visiting the birthplace/home of Emily Dickinson, to whom Ryan has often been compared. Been there, done that. Great place.

So, on this Friday, as the soft days of summer wind down into more mellow calmness, and official vacation season - mostly a bust this year with most taking "Staycations" - comes to a close, I again refer to The Bishop. Enjoy.

Questions Of Travel (Elizabeth Bishop)

There are too many waterfalls here; the crowded streams
hurry too rapidly down to the sea,
and the pressure of so many clouds on the mountaintops
makes them spill over the sides in soft slow-motion,
turning to waterfalls under our very eyes.
For if those streaks, those mile-long, shiny, tearstains,
aren't waterfalls yet,
in a quick age or so, as ages go here,
they probably will be.
But if the streams and clouds keep travelling, travelling,
the mountains look like the hulls of capsized ships,
slime-hung and barnacled.
Think of the long trip home.
Should we have stayed at home and thought of here?
Where should we be today?
Is it right to be watching strangers in a play
in this strangest of theatres?
What childishness is it that while there's a breath of life
in our bodies, we are determined to rush
to see the sun the other way around?
The tiniest green hummingbird in the world?
To stare at some inexplicable old stonework,
inexplicable and impenetrable,
at any view,
instantly seen and always, always delightful?
Oh, must we dream our dreams
and have them, too?
And have we room
for one more folded sunset, still quite warm?
But surely it would have been a pity
not to have seen the trees along this road,
really exaggerated in their beauty,
not to have seen them gesturing
like noble pantomimists, robed in pink.
--Not to have had to stop for gas and heard
the sad, two-noted, wooden tune
of disparate wooden clogs
carelessly clacking over
a grease-stained filling-station floor.
(In another country the clogs would all be tested.
Each pair there would have identical pitch.)
--A pity not to have heard
the other, less primitive music of the fat brown bird
who sings above the broken gasoline pump
in a bamboo church of Jesuit baroque:
three towers, five silver crosses.
--Yes, a pity not to have pondered,
blurr'dly and inconclusively,
on what connection can exist for centuries
between the crudest wooden footwear
and, careful and finicky,
the whittled fantasies of wooden footwear
and, careful and finicky,
the whittled fantasies of wooden cages.
--Never to have studied history in
the weak calligraphy of songbirds' cages.
--And never to have had to listen to rain
so much like politicians' speeches:
two hours of unrelenting oratory
and then a sudden golden silence
in which the traveller takes a notebook, writes:
"Is it lack of imagination that makes us come
to imagined places, not just stay at home?
Or could Pascal have been not entirely right
about just sitting quietly in one's room?
Continent, city, country, society:
the choice is never wide and never free.
And here, or there . . . No. Should we have stayed at home,
wherever that may be?"