Geeky Traveler's Wife

I've been away...so far away.

2014-05-28T12:49:00.002-07:00

I have neglected sharing these moments in time. I have been remiss. As I said, I've been away, so so far away. Here is a start to my making reparations to you :)

The Photograph

The Story

Imagine: Istanbul, The Imperial Harem of Topkapi Palace.

Tucked in a gilded bedroom a short stroll from the the Courtyard of the Concubines, this little shelf built into a wall of such, made my imagination skip a beat thinking of all things- the treasures and trinkets, the boring and the everyday- that have been nestled here over the centuries.

I saw them flash by in no particular order, vignettes from the 1400's to the 1900's and back again:

a small bird flying through and stopping for a rest, whether a pet or an intruder, who can say...colorful underclothes...a favorite book of poetry... a stack of letters, flowing Arabic lettering covering the pages, the tiny mosaic covered drawer below holding a calligraphy set readied for reply...a child's stuffed toy... a warm wrap wadded up and waiting to ease the chill of the Bosphorus night... a beeswax candle alongside an ornate candle-snuffer... a purple sprig of bougainvillea laid gently to dry, a fragile memory to keep forever...a stack of silk scarves printed with the name of the Sultan... enameled hair clips and combs... scented makeup and its accoutrements waiting to be skillfully applied... a stash of fruit for a late night snack, perhaps small apples and a pomegranate... wire-rimmed reading glasses... a black and white photograph of a far away place...

and now, empty.

Le Dîner en Blanc

2011-10-16T14:37:00.000-07:00

The Photograph

The Story

Oh what a night it was....

So, last Friday, October 14th, we got to participate in a truly unique event. I'm not sure of the exact origin of the gala, but picture a very fancy picnic... Here's what one source at thekitchn.com says: "Dîner en Blanc's concept is part flash mob, part pop-up restaurant, part elegant picnic. It started in Paris in 1988 by a man named François Pasquier who arranged a reunion of 100 of his friends in the Bois de Boulogne. In order to find each other, everyone was instructed to wear white. The event was very popular and grew each year into the 10,000+ dinner it is today."

The echo of this event came to us in the shape of an elegant outdoor dinner party called "Le Dîner à San Francisco." My wily husband saw this blurbbed online, and RSVP'd almost immediately. When he got his official invitation email, the head-count was capped at 250 guests, our table of four included. By the day of, we guesstimated 2,000 diners would show. In fact, there were 3,500! A total of 10,000 people had applied to get an invitation, so it seems we were among the fortunate few. For weeks leading up to the event, we got tantalizing snippets of information- what they would provide (just tables), the type of dinner expected of us, what is acceptable white-wear- but the most important tid-bit, the all important "where", they kept secret until the last possible moment. At 2:30 pm on the Friday of the Dinner, he received the exciting news: Le Diner a San Francisco 2011 will be held at the historical Music Concourse in Golden Gate Park!!

We arrived around 5pm to long rows of bare tables stretched under the lush trees and iconic beauty of the Music Concourse in front of the De Young Museum in the middle of Golden Gate Park. We got easy parking, being early, and had our pick of location. We chose a spot ripe for people watching, not too close or too far from the music. Leisurely we placed our white tablecloth and chairs, our real silverware alongside white porcelain dinnerware, chilled the champagne, arranged the orchids, and settled in to watch the event unfold.

The tables blew us away. The outfits came in all styles and shapes, some poorly thought out, but most simply glamorous. We saw, as expected, at least 3 requisite wedding dresses, a handful of white wigs, and some random white winged diners. We saw people who thought "pants" and "pantyhose" were interchangeable... Even though the guidelines said white attire was "de rigueur", silver accents and yes, black belts and shoes were perfectly acceptable.

The Table

With the strains of traditional French music flitting through the branches, sunset beginning to color the sky, our table was ready with amouse-bouche and hors d’oeurves as we sat awaiting the 7:30pm white napkin wave to signal the official beginning of dinner. The signal came late, and we were all starving! I wish I had a better picture to share, the napkin wave was a better jolt of energetic excitement than a starter pistol at a horse race! The 3,500+ white flags spinning in the air surrendering to the explosion of gastronomy and bon vivant about to commence was something to see...

The Menu

It was one of the most beautiful evenings I can remember for San Francisco. I repeat, the most beautiful evening! The organizers pointedly asked that "a spirit of conviviality and graciousness prevail" and, for the most part, that's exactly what we enjoyed. The weather literally could not have been better. The same time last week, we'd had rain. This week, San Francisco soaked in a balmy mid-70's day that only cooled to the high '60s long after the sun went down. In fact, I never needed my jacket, and only one of our dinner guests put on her sweater sometime around the dessert course. Our table-mates lamented with us that, as wonderful of an evening as we had, it's not likely to ever be repeated. Don't get me wrong, they will carry on with White Dinners in years to come, but firsts are called firsts for a reason. Nonetheless, we're determined to try again in one form or another, to bring a little more gracious conviviality into our lives!

As quickly as it had come together, it was undone. By 11pm each table had disassembled and packed away all evidence of a stunning fête. As with everything the world pulls together, there are always rebels who undo what good was intended. This time around we saw that most of the garbage cans were piled 6 feet deep with refuse the trashier among us were supposed to pack out with them. What happened to "leave no trace", we'll never know. Blame it on all that joie de vie...

The evening was so enjoyable that it was hard for us to go home, despite the late hour. The winding drive back over the Bay Bridge to Walnut Creek took a detour to Treasure Island so we could take in the view and breath in the still warm eucalyptus trees- a scent that will forever take me back to this very special evening.

Here's a link to our Flickr page where you can see the rest of the photographs: http://tinyurl.com/43rymrr
View in slideshow for more impact.

-fin-

Jack London Park - Glen Ellen

2011-10-03T08:54:00.000-07:00

The Photograph

The Story

I've been wanting for a few years to go back to a place I remembered from childhood. A place that helped spark my love of all things ancient and ruined; a ruin itself, an American castle in disrepair. The place? The burned out husk of Jack London's "Wolf House". Named so for his own moniker, built in 1913, and inexplicably incinerated a mere month before he and his wife were to move in. With the sturdy stone walls still standing, He vowed to rebuild their dream home, only to die himself before he could keep his promise.

On a school field trip with my brother's class, we visited this park when I was 11 ( I think). Somewhere there's a picture of me leaning on the fence of this dead man's dream, wearing a far-away gaze and a beret. The gaze remains, the beret I left in the 80's...

Side note: My husband looked up the park recently when I brought it up as a nearby get away idea. He found that it is slated, along with 2 other State parks in it's county, for closure in July 2012 due to lack of funds. Days later, we received a Living Social email offering tickets to a concert called "Broadway Under the Stars", an event aimed at gathering support and hopefully generating funds to keep the park open long into the future. We came early so I could romp around the grounds, exploring the cottage London did much of his writing in, the Museum housing artifacts London retrieved from the far flung corners of the world, the roofless winery relics, the vineyards themselves, and of course Wolf House.

We picnicked on gourmet food truck fare, listened to a violinist in the background as we chatted with the performers, and some locals; like an elderly woman who's father worked in London's employ at the turn of the century who brought along a small photo album to show us her tale. At 7 pm, they opened the winery walls to let us find our seats in rows of white folding chairs to await a performance under a shining moon which surpassed our expectations. Really, for me, the show at the end of the day was a cherry on top of the wonderful time I'd already had playing in the forest enclosed ruins of my childhood memories... so, thanks again for a great day Matt :)

Snow Day

2011-02-07T18:55:00.001-08:00

The Photograph

The Story

One of the few perks of my husband traveling a fare amount for work is when he travels locally and I can hide out in his hotel til he's done working...

Last week he had to work in Lake Tahoe (shucks) and I re-organized my schedule to force a vacation. I got to meet up with some old friends one day, and take the whole next day all to my lonesome, skiing for the first time in around 12 years. Matt snowboards, so I usually ride with him when we do get a snow day. The weeks weather promised sun and mild temperatures, so although I'd missed the powder, I knew I'd at least get some great groomed runs in. This time I knew I'd be hitting the slopes solo, so I rented demo skis (oooh! fancy!) and hoped that skiing was related to bicycling. As it turns out, it was. Although skis have changed - I went from stick straight 195 K2's to figure 8 shaped 160 Atomic's - skiing has not. I pulled into the parking lot, third row from the slopes, booted up, and remembered how that walking in ski boots is harder than skiing. And that Wednesdays are great for hitting the slopes because it's empty even on a perfect day. I climbed 10 feet from the pavement to the lift, clicked in, and glided the 30 feet to the lift, feeling unexpectedly normal. Half way down my first slope, I felt like I'd never stopped skiing. Which is a little heady. Feeling the mountain under your feet slipping swiftly by, velocity dreading up my hair, wind gradually burning my already ruddy checks... 19 year old me came back in full force, temporarily making me forget that I would no longer recover the same as 19 year old me did.

I picked up a cut-rate lift ticket to Homewood (19 year old shakes head in disapproval - such a little tiny mountain!) when I rented my gear. The cashier advised me not to take that last run. I listened when my legs first started to feel a little wobble around 3:30... I only missed 20 minutes of the end of the day, but the 19 year old version of me would have been very disappointed that I didn't wrench every second of mountain time out of the day. My current self is happy my knees only hurt a little the next few days as opposed to needing the knee surgery 3 out of 4 in my family have had.

Even if I would have only gone up for a few runs, the view alone would have made the rentals and the long drive from South Lake to Homewood worth while. From the summit, you look out over most of the Lake. Past the marina on the west shore, Heavenly is clear as day to the south, I could even see the hotel I knew Matt was conferencing in on the far shore. Everything even smelled good. Mountainy... It was a perfect daycation.

Contemplation

2010-10-27T12:43:00.000-07:00

The Photograph

The Story

Once upon a time on the rocky Oregon Coast...

From afar it looks like just another hunk of the continent has floated off to be on it's own. Maybe it's dreaming of what it would be like, were it an iceberg. Or a ship. Or one of the whales that migrate past it each season free to roam as whales will (as free as can be while propelled by instinctual drive, that is). Maybe it's just getting it's feet wet, wanting no more than that. On closer inspection, it looks as though two brave explorers have tamed our bucking monolith and ponder the mechanics of taking it for a spin... Or a meander. I'm not sure how you'd go about steering that sort of granite barge. Perhaps they fail to move it, and simply stand, savoring the brilliant feel of their triumphant rise above the rest. As if a prize that may slip their grasp, they hold our rocky friend, grounded beneath tiny, transitory human feet.

It stands, Rock of Gibraltar-esque, unable to do anything but dream. Moved ever-so fractionally by occasional tectonic shivers, carved below by slow etching tides, and above by bare footed ambition. Anyone else feeling like a strong and everlasting rock trapped by an endless shore? :)

Side-note: What creative soul first saw muscles stuck fast to a salty rock and decided they looked like something fantastic to eat? I'd like to shake that man/woman/dog/child's hand.

The Gates of the Mountains

2010-08-23T14:34:00.000-07:00

The Photograph

The Story

Recently, I took a short road trip to Montana (helping a friend move). I managed to get one nice picture out of the handful I took before my camera battery died. My back up battery turned out to be for my other camera...oops...

I didn't know much about the area before the trip. Here are a few tid-bits I learned. First, huckleberries are awesome. Nothing beats fresh made fruit smoothies for breakfast (except, maybe huckleberry pie). Lightning can happen out of a clear blue sky. Rain can drop buckets when it's 82º outside. Technically, it's considered high desert, so maybe that's normal. For years there was no upper speed limit in Montana. They just expected you to drive reasonably... whatever you decided that was. That had to change with the increasing size and power of most engines. Even so, most of the big roads are still 75 MPH, way higher than most of California. Also, a big chunk of Montana has names calling to mind the travels of Lewis and Clark and the expedition they undertook, led much of the way by Sacajawea. The photo above is a scene they named "The Gates of the Mountains". We took a cruise tour starting from Upper Holter Lake, puttering up Wolf Creek entering a long canyon, and exiting 6 miles up stream. At the far end, the boat spun slowly around so all could get a good view while our tour guide recited a line from the journal of Meriwether Lewis: "from the singular appearance of this place I called it the gates of the rocky mountains". Indeed, we watched as the gates seemed to open, then close before our eyes.

Next time, I will try to see with my own eyes some of the abundant Native American petroglyphs and pictographs there, including the learning center at First Peoples Buffalo Jump. Yes, that is what it sounds like. People herding buffalo towards the edge of a huge cliff, forcing them to jump into the mass meat harvest at ground level below....dun dun duuuunnnn

Never More Than 6 Feet Away From a Spider

2010-07-23T14:06:00.000-07:00

The Photograph

The Story

It's been re-established recently that I like creep crawlies. Not all of them, but most of them. Worms: not a fan. Except the Mopane worms in Botswana. Those gave me colors to aspire to. Tasty bit of protein too... I had an exchange with a friend from Ireland recently regarding her daughter's bravery at the zoo. Python petting. Reminded me of the last time I played with snakes: Belize 2008. Boas curling round my neck. A few days ago Matt discovered I have a "pet" lizard living between the patio pots. I found it immobile and unresponsive with a dead wasp on it's back on my way to take out the recycling. I got really sad, then mad because I thought the neighbors cat's killed it. They tend to bring me...presents. I was too verklempt to move it from the walkway, so Matt went out to remove it, and my lil buddy startled Matt quite a lot by being alive, turning tail & scampering off. Turns out, he was either bee-stunned, or really really enjoying a sun bath.

Yesterday I realized that, usually, I have a system for when a fly is in the house. I open the door, say "go out". They fly out the door. Usually. I know...I grew up with a fly swatter, but don't have as much of a problem here now, & it's less mess when they listen. Yesterday, I found myself understanding the guys who thought that fleas spontaneously generated from piles of dirty rags. I had masses of flies to talk into leaving the room and no idea where they erupted from. In hind sight, although the trash was only a few days old and not smelly, somewhere in it's bowels Mrs. Fly must have laid bothersome her brood. Sorry Mrs., but your kids wouldn't listen, and the once clean dish towel made a handy swatter...

Which brings us to spiders. When I was little, I had a spider (I assumed it was always the same one) who seemed to live in the corner of the ceiling in my room. I called him (again, assumption) Wolfy. Original, I know...I thought it was a wolf spider. Really, I have no idea. But I never worried about it falling on my head while I slept because he was always up there in the morning. Sometimes he'd wander off elsewhere, but the presence of fuzzy dime sized Wolfy gave me a reliable constant. I'd worry about him if I didn't see him for a few days. There were others around our country abode. Particularly in the barn, where evidence usually came in the form of delicate wafting webs stretched like sun catchers across the lofty heights above towering bails of alfalfa. Such lovely by products from such creepy crawly, unappreciated little wonders.

The first web pictured is from a few years back camping in the redwoods at Big Basin. It caught the light so perfectly in the foggy forest that I stopped my trek to look around for the fairy tale creatures that must live nearby. The second lacy web is from a perfect frozen moment in the Netherlands. Amstelveen by De Poel, specifically. The whole day limned in ice, everything rendered with the cold crisp echo of a surrealist painting. Look around...are you even 6 feet away from a spider?

Rodos Roof Line

2010-06-04T11:48:00.000-07:00

The Photograph

The Story

Rhodes, Greece. November 2007. Good times.

Matt and I stepped off the ship, found a taxi with a cardboard sign reading "Allen" and buoyant under a beautiful bright sky, we sauntered over. Leaning next to an open taxi door, a balding man with glasses and a cardigan stood smoking and chatting to another driver. They both glanced up briefly as we neared them, gave a distracted greeting and went back to what must have been an engrossing conversation. When we got closer to the passenger side of the car with our name on it, the balding driver looked over a little confused, and a bit bothered at having his debate interrupted again. After some small talk we got across that we in fact were the Allen's shown on his sign. He shared a laugh with the other driver, gestured towards the disembarking cruisers filing past us, showing surprise at us being the fare. They had both assumed we were part of the ship's staff getting a break for the day because we seemed to be 30 years younger than most of the other travelers. Suddenly all smiles and excitement at having "young" people to tote around the island, he settled right in to "tour guide extraordinaire".

We told him the only must see things on our to do list were the Palace of the Grand Masters (once home to the Knights of St John), The Acropolis at Lindos, and a glimpse of the place where the Colossus of Rhodes fell. The rest we left up to him. He showed us all, from modern life to ancient relics, and their combination that makes a Rodos he was proud of. When our time with him was up, he left us in the shopping center nearest our ship, suggesting favorite tavernas & boutiques. The picture above shows the last of a blue sky before it turned to rain above the patchwork bay windows and roof tops lining the alley we took back to our floating hotel.

Dog Sitter

2010-04-14T13:33:00.000-07:00

The Photograph

The Story

One cool late afternoon, Matt & I headed into town, to our customary tourist stop off, Leidseplein- a favorite because of the bazillions of places to choose from for date night fun. We settled on a slim graffiti marked lane leading to a petite 15th century church at the entrance of the historic Begijnhof, or Beguine Court. Once home to the Begijntjes (a Catholic nun-like sisterhood, sans vows) and still occupied by single, quiet-living women, these ancient homes, include the oldest wooden house still standing in Amsterdam, Het Houten Huis, built circa 1420. Crouched around a small green, the inviting courtyard lies just out of reach, closing out non-residents with a diminutive fence with a sign requesting your respect of their wish to be left in peace (that means you, tourists).

On the walk from tourist-land to the protected court, we passed a few cafes, and needing some warmth, walked into what became on of our true favorites, Tomaz. They introduced me to a favorite Dutch novelty, Mustard Soup, served with Tomaz's personal touch, smoked salmon strips on top. We were encouraged to play a board game as we sipped our Mc Chouffe's, or discuss the literature stacked table side as we waited for our meals. Across from the cafe's few outdoor tables, sat the dog sitter, clearly at home in his cafe borrowed chair, steaming cup in hand. His mutt, almost as big as he is small, sniffs and pulls toward each passer by as the old gent struggles not to spill or be spilled out of his seat despite Mutt forcible scooting his chair an inch or two towards each new passing face.

I wish the lighting had been enough to show his grin. Cheap entertainment, watching tourists...

Lace Leaf

2010-03-31T12:08:00.000-07:00

The Photograph

The Story

It's getting to be warm enough weather that my mind keeps wandering to camping and hiking whenever I walk outside. The hills around us sit lush and green, after our latest spring showers, but in a month or so most of that color will fade to become the dry grass we lovingly call the Golden Hills of California. My husband and I have taken a trip to Yosemite backpacking every fall for the last few years. It's never the same. The landmarks remain, but the place is alive. The details change dramatically from season to season. One year, breaking a trail through heavy underbrush in search of an ancient grinding stone called the"Indian Kitchen" supposedly just yards from our campsite, I came across this perfectly fallen leaf. Fall summed up in a single five fingered oak leaf. Dessicated and frail, beautiful still, bug trails show like lace. The once bright green crisped to a warm color embodying nature itself. Almost time to get out our packs....

Laundry Day

2010-03-13T11:13:00.000-08:00

The Photograph

The Story

One day in Malta is not enough. Walking back to the ship, watching the late afternoon sun lowering in the sky, Matt and I wandered through parts of Valletta, the capital city, that we had not yet seen, and had no time left to see. Looking up this perfect ancient alley at steps rather than a slope, seeing the Grand Harbour Hotel sign lean invitingly into the light, I wanted to stay. At least over night and see more of this beautiful and welcoming place. Seeing colorful laundry drying in the fresh sea breeze draped from some industrious resident's balcony I wished that instead of walking away we could sit at that little folding table and enjoy the end of the day with a two-finger tumbler of red wine, chatting, or in perfect silence. We could be residents too. If only for a time.

Alas, the ship awaits, ready to set sail for Tunisia. Another adventure awaits...

Pink Snow

2010-01-14T21:35:00.000-08:00

Now that we're home again, I am going to continue culling my catalog of photographs to share my favorites and tell their tales.

Also, Matt has been helping me start up a "store" if anyone would like to check out some of the things you can make with these pictures. You may have already noticed the link on this blog I added recently. It's a great site that pays the artist (me) a wee commission. My favorites are the shoes & the ties... If you'd like me to upload a particular photo there that I haven't gotten to yet, give me a shout. Thanks for your support!

The Photograph

The Story

For a few years there, we made an annual Labor Day pilgrimage to Yosemite backpacking with friends. This photo is from our first, and still, most memorable trip going 8 miles straight up from Tualame Meadows to Vogelsang High Sierra camp. Wandering above 10,000 feet, on a day trek up Vogelsang Peak we came upon untouched primordial looking pink snow. Quite literally, pink hued snow clinging to the sunbathed rocks in September. We speculated on what freak combination of natural events created this Wonka-esque scene, and ended up agreeing that the safest course of action would be a pink snow ball fight. So, quickly desecrating months of serenity, cupping hands around cold pink globs, we hurled them at each other, into the bright sky, and out across the mountain as far as our arms could manage.

Later, two of our crew talked with some rangers while dinning at the High Sierra restaurant telling them about our unique discovery. Turns out pink is the warning color of a particularly deadly toxic mold that grows on old snow. They hoped we were smart enough to stay clear... I'm not sure if the snow ball fight came up after that, but we didn't have anymore pink snowball fights, and I lived to tell the tale.

Elephants Can't Jump

2010-01-04T08:20:00.000-08:00

Third country on our African adventure: Botswana.

The Photograph

The Story

I rode an elephant once as a kid. I think it might have been at the Cincinnati Zoo. Since then, I've seen elephants from time to time, other zoos, other fairs. And yet, my heart sped and my breath caught when I laid eyes on my first up close free roaming elephant in Botswana's Chobe National Park. Stately, sedate and graceful, elephantine society fascinates. That such enormous creatures can be so gentle makes it easy to forget the power they hold. The resounding sound of two young bulls knocking tusks in playful challenge brings that fact back immediately. As does the way my heart suddenly jumped to my throat at seeing two bulls charge between two small safari trucks loaded with friends. They meant no harm, only wanting a clear path from the river to the trees. But had the wanted more, what recourse would there be? From solitary bulls to playful calves, every movement a testament to the wonder that is African Safari. Of some 70,000 elephants who make Chobe home, we may have seen a hundred. Somehow I don't think I'd ever tire of watching their stately movements, and mischievous interactions.

Victoria Falls, Zimbabwe

2009-12-30T16:52:00.000-08:00

Shear size makes Victoria Falls hard to capture in a single photograph. It influences every aspect of the small town bearing it's name. From virtually anywhere you look there, you can find it's tell-tale plume reaching up into the sky.

The Photographs

The Story

Mosi-oa-Tuny, the smoke that thunders. Not much can prepare you for that sound. The pounding of so much falling water, the chiming of myriad insects, the hum of vegetation blown about by the fall's self made air current. You'd swear rainbows make sound too. One of the natural wonders of the world, Victoria Falls holds court between Zambia and Zimbabwe, ignoring man's need for borders. Monkeys, warthog families, and baboons roam freely among the visitors, heedless of the wonderment the cause. We spent almost two hours walking the rim of the falls, led by well qualified and engaging guide, Sim from Zim. He gave us details, histories and legends. Under the pressure of that sound, I lost it all. I don't recall anything I heard. Anything, but the insistent roar.

Near Death Taxi Incident in Durban

2009-12-24T07:19:00.000-08:00

Matt did a write-up from his point of view, you can read it here at the Geeky Traveler Blog

The Photograph

The Story

I never want to look at these pictures again, honestly. But this is a story that needs telling. A testament to many things: Never let the taxi drive away before you've checked for working seat belts, always wear your badge to dinner after the convention, read the fine print, and have a camera handy for the sake of documentation. I spoke briefly to my dad after we got back stateside, and having lost my voice, I didn't tell any tales. His closing words were "Glad your trip was uneventful". Little did he know....

After our second day of the International Convention our group of 7 made the decision to taxi to uShaka Marine World's Zulu themed restaurant, Moya. Three of our group went on ahead, sending their taxi back to pick up the remaining 4 of us afterward. It shouldn't have been a long wait for them seeing that the round trip between the restaurant lay a mere 1.9 kilometers (just over a mile) south of our hotel at the Garden Court South Beach, which should have taken all of 10 minutes round trip. Should have....

Christi, Judith, and myself slid across the back seat of the taxi while Matt took the left front seat (they drive on the opposite side of the road here), chatting with the taxi driver about his night so far, how many Rand the drive would cost, if his night was just beginning or just ending, how he liked his occupation, and what brought us to his corner of the globe. It had begun to rain again, as it had off and on all day. The air hung muggy around the windows but I had no trouble seeing a silver car off to the right speeding into the intersection ahead of us, racing into the space where we would be seconds later. Our driver was looking to the left. I made a sound that was supposed to be a "watch out!" but came out more like an urgent "uuuhhhhaa!" The driver turned his head back too late to make much difference, but he slowed some as our cars collided front passenger side to front passenger side. In my minds eye I can see us all float a little in the air on impact as gravity did it's thing and we all slammed back into our relative places.

When we were all still again, and a momentary silence passed, Christi and I both started asking if everyone was ok, and we all seemed to be in one piece. Matt was quiet, which scared me immensely, but I walked around to his side of the car, wrenched his door open and assured myself that he too was in one piece. Then I noticed the cracked windshield in front of him. But his head didn't look swollen, and there wasn't a cut to be seen, so I didn't know what to think. Just as the panic began to rise, paramedics appeared out of nowhere. They had heard the crash and came running from a nearby hospital. They assessed us all, and decided Matt and Judith should have x-rays to rule out possible concussion or compression fractures. Matt for his head and neck, and Judith for her shins which had smacked the console between the front seats. Minutes after the paramedics showed up, a couple from a local congregation happened upon us as if directed there, and seeing Christi's badge, came rushing over to our aid. The neighborhood wasn't the kind you could just walk home from without a care. Our vehicle had already been surrounded completely by 50 or so sketchy looking lurkers commenting on how nice my camera was. As if a personal guard, our kindly local friends whisked Christi safely off to the hotel where she could call her family that sat waiting at a table for us to arrive, and to notify the appropriate local brothers. After deciding we had travel insurance enough, we had to choose between going to: a) Government Hospital: cheap cheap cheap, b) semi-private hospital: so-so service, and c) private hospital: closer to the standards we'd be used to. So, private hospital it was. The ambulance arrived and swept us off to St. Augustine's hospital about 15 minutes away. Matt seemed chipper along the way, probably adrenalin induced, and our ambulance guy seemed comfortable enough with our well being to pull out his camera too (since Judith and I both had ours out documenting the process) interviewing us all to show his friends that he had Americans in his bus.

The next few hours went quickly for me, and tortuously for Matt mostly due to the trauma board they insisted he remain on until the x-rays came back. Our paramedics pushed Matt's gurney in to the room announcing with gusto that we came from the USA instead of saying things that I expected to hear like head trauma and car crash. Waiting for the x-ray results was difficult. If there was a fracture, trip over, then and there. If not, we could go on with the help of plenty of rest, and some pain killers. We had a pack of well wishers in the waiting room, one of the local brothers joking that Matt was an Israelite: Hard headed and stiff necked. The hospital staff worked quickly and efficiently despite having only one doctor and two nurses on staff at the time. Our physician's assistant assured us that it was slow right then, and wouldn't get backed up until after one am or so. That's when the local scene would kick up the drunks, the drug lord interactions, the stabbings, gun battles, and such. Our arriving between dinner and midnight was one more thing to be thankful for.

So, after donating one evening to getting to know St. Augustine's hospital and environs, we walked away relatively unscathed. We learned that we were hit by a drunk driver who ran a stop sign, and walked away unhurt. Our taxi man came to the hospital to make sure we were alright, which was very thoughtful of him seeing as how he'd lost his means of making a living, at least for the night. Thankful for so much; for our safety, for the organization that kept us in good care, for the love and dedication of the friends who came to our rescue, and for the good outcome to a bad night, we returned to our hotel and too deep deep, codeine assisted sleep.

Shaka Zululand, South Africa

2009-12-22T10:36:00.000-08:00

The Photograph

The Story

Just north of Durban, in the KwaZulu - Natal Province of South Africa, a girl kneels at a grinding stone. Corn meal in one hand, the other shooing at a chicken looking for scraps, she grinds in service of the chief. This is the first step in making the mash to ferment the Zulu beer she will serve the village guests as a welcome sip from a round wooden dipper passed first to the men, then to the women. Sharp and pungent, unfiltered and thick, most American palates dislike the first taste of her unrefined offering, but I could see how it would grow on me. These are the things that take us outside our comfortable, known lives and step by small step into experiencing someone else's comfortable and known life.

Back in the USA

2009-12-21T09:00:00.000-08:00

What a contrast...

We left Botswana at 9 am 3 days ago on Friday morning, the sun strong enough to make us glad for our sunscreen. We arrived home in Walnut Creek, California around 9:30 pm on Saturday night wishing for another layer against an icy wind. 48 hours of non stop travel.

I left my journal on the plane (sadness) so I'm relying on boarding passes and Matt for the timing of the part between Zambia and Johannesburg. Sorry we couldn't get online between Durban and Botswana...

I'll be uploading pics to flickr and posting our tales soon, so check back :)

Friday Dec 18th, Botswana:
5:30 am - Wake up call
5:45 am - Coffee and biscuits
6:00 am - Zambezi River cruise through Chobe Game Park
8:15 am - Breakfast at the lodge
9:00 am - Board safari vehicles back to the Botswana/Zimbabwe boarder
10:00 am - Bus to Victoria Falls Airport
11:15 am - Flight to JoBurg delayed
1:15 am - Depart Vic Falls
2:15 pm - Stop over in Zambia at Livingstone airport because Vic Falls didn't have enough fuel for our plane to make it to JoBurg...
2:50 pm - Finally take off from Zambia to Johannesburg after sitting with no water or air conditioning like sardines marinating in our own juices....
5:15 pm - Arrive three hours late at Johannesburg airport to catch our flight back to JFK
8:15 pm - Fly out Johannesburg to JFK

Saturday Dec 19th
8:00 am - Arrive JFK just in time to reschedule our canceled 6:30 pm flight to a 3:30 pm flight. The rest of our group went to Newark to catch flights out.
3:30 pm - Fly out JFK to SFO as the snow begins to stick to the tarmac
7:30 pm - Arrive SFO to catch Bart home
8:04 pm - Catch BART home to Walnut creek
9:15 pm - Walk the 10 minutes home

Sunday December 20th
9:00 am - Attend our congregation's Special Assembly Day at Fairfield Assembly Hall
4:00 pm - fall unconscious at home since it's 10 hours ahead in my head still....

Siyabonga!

2009-12-13T23:01:00.000-08:00

Greetings from Johannesburg Airport :)

Here's a time line:

Tuesday: Tala Game drive where we spotted the first on our list of the Big Five: The White Rhino, as seen below.

Wednesday: Shaka Zulu Land where we saw a recreated Zulu village and experienced a day in the life of traditional Zulu people, complete with dancing, singing, and traditional food for lunch.

Thursday: Shopping at the Workplace outdoor market in the morning, followed by our first afternoon of Convention

Friday: Convention, where it almost rained us out, and an evening near death experience in a local Durban taxi.

Saturday: Convention and dinner at uShaka's Moya restaurant where they sing at your table side and do Zulu dancing

Sunday: Last day of convention (where we got sunburned and nearly drowned by rain all in one day) lots of teary goodbyes followed by a local congregation BBQ (they call a Braai) on a horse farm between the airport and the a refinery. We had to leave this morning at 4:30 am to catch this flight.

Next post will hopefully come to you from Victoria Falls in Zimbabwe or Chobe Mowana in Botswana.

Cheers

2009-12-07T21:50:00.001-08:00

Hello from Durbin, South Africa! We are about to go on a game drive, but we have arrived safe and sound.

I'm planning on uploading pictures sometime this week, but there's already way too many to deal with easily - so I'll mess with it whenever we can spend a chunk of time at an internet cafe.

2009-12-06T04:11:00.000-08:00

About to get on the shuttle to the airport for our 16 hour flight to Johannesburg South Africa.... the adventure begins :)

2009-12-04T10:08:00.001-08:00

Since we are getting ourselves ready to leave for Durban, South Africa tonight, my travel photography juices are flowing. Here is one of my favorites of all so far...

The Photograph

The Story

Wandering around the Forbidden City, overwhelmed, somehow finding the far side, where the Temple of Heaven looms, reaching to join earth to sky. Jostling people from the wide-world over lining up to take the exact same picture everyone else just took....and here's something unexpected: Chinese people in what look like traditional dress, but playing tourist. I don't know why that should be so arresting to me, but they pulled my attention more than anything else that day. A cluster of perhaps 20 women and men all dressed in the same traditional clothing. The women in bright blue tops, black skirts, and pink accents; dainty caps on their heads topping impossibly long dark braids. In the distance, clustered to themselves, their menfolk complement their dress in black pants, dark brown fur jackets and matching round fur hats. I asked our guide, and anyone around who looked like they might know, but no one could tell me much about them except that they were most likely from a tribal part of far western China, and Muslim because of the women's modest head coverings.

I made eye contact with one of the women, smiled. Her face remained neutral, but attentive as I held up my camera, mimicking taking a picture of her while I asked her permission, sure that she wouldn't understand my words. Sudden understanding lit up her face, and with a huge smile, she turned and walked away. I stood a moment longer unsure if I had offended her so that she left, or if I was to follow her. But she only walked a little ways off to take the hands of two other women (I called them sisters) and leading them with her, she returned to smile in the center of my photograph. I smiled back and thanked her. We both said things the other didn't comprehend. But there was understanding between us, and happiness shared in reaching out to know the unknown.

Sonoma

2009-12-03T07:48:00.000-08:00

The Photograph

The Story

Last month, My husband's company invited us to share in enjoying a prize won by Matt's new team-members. Although he's a month old in the ranks, they graciously extended the invite to both of us to come romp through wineries, spa treatments, and upscale meals in Sonoma. The above shot was mid tour at Ravenswood Winery. It's an interesting thing to stand between a native of Champagne, France (one of Matt's co-worker's) and a veteran California Wine Guide in a battle of snobbery. Standing on a slope in a fresh green field, sun warming our faces enough to make us forget that in the shade we could see our breath, looking up to 4 lonely rows planted at higher altitude for a particular vintage, full tasting glasses in hand, feeling erudite and elite, THIS is California.

As a start... A Photo Gallery

2009-11-26T14:45:00.000-08:00

On November 22, I enjoyed the privilege of sharing in a lovely little showing of 90 photographs, 30 of which were mine. It got my creative juices flowing enough to start this blog up. I haven't taken classes or learned many tricks of the trade, but I like to share nonetheless. I recall our travels by looking at snap shots, calling back one moment at a time the experience of walking someplace new to these shoes. I'm linking to Flicr where you can flip through my memories, and keep them if they move you.

Here I offer some highlights of our adventures. Check back every so often to see the world one moment at a time.

The Photograph

black mountain

The Story

Hiking with my husband through Santa Clara, California's Black Mountain open space preserve late last May, my husband and I walked out of the Bay area hustle in search of silence. Having endured an especially dark and frigged European winter, the view along the trail felt like we were seeing the first lazy sprawl of spring's sleepy arms shrugging off the old blanket, revealing the new. Baby green grass just starting to peak through the spent old growth, gray clouds curling over dark hills, all hovering under a bright sky; Black Mountain no longer.