tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-32683019847891500982024-03-13T11:15:12.641-07:00BIKER CHICK GONE CRAZYPAM'S ADVENTURES ON AND OFF HER BIKEUnknownnoreply@blogger.comBlogger126125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3268301984789150098.post-8903588530343421432017-07-25T19:43:00.000-07:002017-07-25T19:43:28.116-07:00FAREWELL TO BIKER CHICK GONE CRAZY<span style="font-size: large;">After calling myself <i>Biker Chick</i><i> </i>for the last five years<i>, </i></span><span style="font-size: large;">it seems a bit sad to tell you that I'm retiring my </span><i><span style="font-size: large;">Biker Chick Gone Crazy</span></i><span style="font-size: large;"> blog. And yet, at the same time, I'm very happy to introduce you to a </span><span style="font-size: large;">new site under my real name -- Pam Perkins -- that is live </span><span style="font-size: large;">on the World Wide Web. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><span style="font-size: large;">Like many things in life, <i>Biker Chick Gone Crazy</i> started in an embryonic fashion. A few friends expressed interest in following my 2000 mile bicycle ride up the Mississippi River in May of 2012, so I created the <i>Biker Chick Gone Crazy</i> blog as a way to write about my ride, post pictures and share my experience. However, fate was cruel. After only four days of riding, I aborted the trip in Natchez, Mississippi because of three very painful bulging discs in my neck. I had no other choice but to fly home and seek treatment. I was devastated! A full recovery took almost a year. After what seemed like the longest three months ever, I climbed back on my bicycle and went on short, flat rides. I reconfigured the handlebars on my carbon-fiber bicycle, which enabled me to sit upright so as to reduce the pressure on my neck and shoulders. During my recuperation, writing became effective therapy for me, and over time, <i>Biker Chick Gone Crazy</i> evolved into a blog that now has more than 57,000 page views and hundreds of followers and subscribers. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">My writing muse, and one of my dearest friends, is Helen Cassidy Page, a working writer, who has published many books and articles over the years. She also edits the work of others and consults with authors about the world of self publishing. Helen read and critiqued some of my early work, and while her comments were mostly positive, her constructive criticism turned my writing around. She made me see that if I was to put myself out on the Internet as a writer, I needed to take my craft seriously, polish my skills, and write good stuff. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><span style="font-size: large;">You are reading my last post writing as <i>Biker Chick Gone Crazy</i>. I have gained a better sense of my writing self and have, as I said above, established a new website <a href="http://pamperkins.com/">pamperkins.com</a>. </span><span style="font-size: large;">This was not easy. </span><span style="font-size: large;">After acquiring my domain name from GoDaddy, a website that sells domain names, among other things, I was not quite sure what to do next. I fiddled around with this and played with that, talked to friends who said it was easy, bashed my head against the wall a few times, and finally decided that it would be far easier to learn Greek than build my own website. I knew I needed help, so I enlisted <a href="http://www.sunnydaysites.com/">Joyce Cimbalista</a>, a Virginia-based web designer, who created an impressive site for a poet friend of mine. She and I worked together remotely for a month or so, and now I finally have my own website to showcase the same kinds of stories and photographs I have published in the past. </span><span style="font-size: large;">Now I will write as Pam Perkins and no longer confuse readers who think that biker chick smokes weed and </span><span style="font-size: large;">rides Harley-Davidson motorcycles on the weekends. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><span style="font-size: large;">For the last couple of years I have been writing mostly about travel and personal experiences rather than escapades on my bicycle because travel has been my primary focus. Since 2001 I have been to 73 countries and seven continents, and we are still going strong. In addition to writing about travel, I'm apt to go in other directions when inspiration strikes, and</span><span style="font-size: large;"> write memoir-like stories about what it was like growing up in small-town New Hampshire and living a fish-bowl life in a motel that my immigrant parents owned. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Some times my personal stories are funny, but more often they are insightful and cathartic, since writing has helped me shed guilt, recover from losses, and forgive those who have hurt me in the past. I seldom have the courage to publish painful words, so I often hit the delete key and erase complete sentences until the entire page is blank again. But some day I'll get up my courage and rewrite stories about circumstances long ago, when things were different, tougher, and life was more stressful. These are the times that helped shape the person I am today. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">It took a few years of biking before I felt comfortable calling myself a cyclist, but I eventually did because I was. Now I call myself a writer, even if I'm just publishing stories on my own website, although recently one of my pieces on Antarctica was published on a website with international exposure. My experiences in Antarctica will also be featured in the expedition company's annual catalog. I am close to calling myself a photographer too, so I'm working hard and learning more than just clicking the shutter. </span><span style="font-size: large;">It's not fame that I'm looking for, just constructive or positive feedback from my readers. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><span style="font-size: large;">Yes, writing and photography are new passions of mine, but they don't burn the same calories as riding a bicycle 80 plus miles a week. I hope, however, that these creative endeavors will help carve a new groove in my aging brain, so I can stay mentally sharp until I no longer am. At the same time, </span><span style="font-size: large;">I will continue to ride my bicycle, as fresh air and contact with nature buoy my spirits. Pushing myself physically keeps me strong and energetic. I tell people that riding a bicycle is an anti-oxidant for the heart, mind and the soul. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">In closing I want to thank you -- my family, friends, followers, and subscribers -- for your past support, helpful comments, and encouraging words. It is my hope that you will continue to follow me on my new website, so that you can receive posts via email as you have before. You can see my new design, read my first post and peruse my photo gallery, which I will update regularly. I also hope you will give me honest feedback, which will serve to make me a better writer and photographer. Please go to my new website by clicking on this link. <a href="http://www.pamperkins.com/">www.pamperkins.com</a> .</span><br />
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3268301984789150098.post-37881296242431525362017-06-29T22:22:00.000-07:002017-07-10T13:09:29.170-07:00VIGNETTES FROM ENGLAND <b><br /></b>
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<b>NATURE RULES</b><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>SPRING BECKONS </b></td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>POETIC BEAUTY</b></td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>HOME ALONE</b></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/--BB_1LDC9fU/WVXNpMtDdrI/AAAAAAAAJao/D-TbU-ksYWE897iZR201Mc0HfgzqfqJAQCLcBGAs/s1600/images%2Bfor%2Bslide%2Bshow-56.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="626" data-original-width="1000" height="400" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/--BB_1LDC9fU/WVXNpMtDdrI/AAAAAAAAJao/D-TbU-ksYWE897iZR201Mc0HfgzqfqJAQCLcBGAs/s640/images%2Bfor%2Bslide%2Bshow-56.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>FEELING FULL AND LAZY </b></td></tr>
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<b>ANCIENT STONE, BRICK, AND A THATCHED ROOF</b><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-C1yNOa01Rr4/WVXSPfxx0CI/AAAAAAAAJcA/-GxCQr4vMskqgV10FcDz87cXt06H4FT9QCEwYBhgL/s1600/images%2Bfor%2Bslide%2Bshow-57.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="687" data-original-width="1000" height="438" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-C1yNOa01Rr4/WVXSPfxx0CI/AAAAAAAAJcA/-GxCQr4vMskqgV10FcDz87cXt06H4FT9QCEwYBhgL/s640/images%2Bfor%2Bslide%2Bshow-57.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>THE GATEWAY TO YORK</b></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-s9LFLRCLuvU/WVXSPyc_7wI/AAAAAAAAJcA/W5Q9LtfLVmgtHE0wem_OOAIxm5uXlfEWwCEwYBhgL/s1600/images%2Bfor%2Bslide%2Bshow-60.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1000" data-original-width="660" height="640" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-s9LFLRCLuvU/WVXSPyc_7wI/AAAAAAAAJcA/W5Q9LtfLVmgtHE0wem_OOAIxm5uXlfEWwCEwYBhgL/s640/images%2Bfor%2Bslide%2Bshow-60.jpg" width="422" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>THE PRIDE OF YORK</b></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-mFGqUMqt7sA/WVXSRoTDv6I/AAAAAAAAJcA/Omnf2MmJaDQkqmGVJVwuZ7XVQnOA60lAwCEwYBhgL/s1600/images%2Bfor%2Bslide%2Bshow-67.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="614" data-original-width="1000" height="392" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-mFGqUMqt7sA/WVXSRoTDv6I/AAAAAAAAJcA/Omnf2MmJaDQkqmGVJVwuZ7XVQnOA60lAwCEwYBhgL/s640/images%2Bfor%2Bslide%2Bshow-67.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>MULTIPLE IMAGES OF CASTLE HOWARD </b></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-ymJ7qvjxQyQ/WVXUET14BVI/AAAAAAAAJcc/uj0-6iuVDFkleGTVFy6Y7UvRjIUOKQalQCEwYBhgL/s1600/images%2Bfor%2Bslide%2Bshow-51.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="618" data-original-width="1000" height="394" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-ymJ7qvjxQyQ/WVXUET14BVI/AAAAAAAAJcc/uj0-6iuVDFkleGTVFy6Y7UvRjIUOKQalQCEwYBhgL/s640/images%2Bfor%2Bslide%2Bshow-51.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>FOUNTAINS ABBEY, A UNESCO WORLD HERITAGE SITE</b></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-5wfSmqTEBqI/WVXUEUskn5I/AAAAAAAAJcU/gVk-D7dWOu4ZiH_u7PfpTkWNfaP61UGiQCEwYBhgL/s1600/images%2Bfor%2Bslide%2Bshow-53.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="797" data-original-width="1000" height="510" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-5wfSmqTEBqI/WVXUEUskn5I/AAAAAAAAJcU/gVk-D7dWOu4ZiH_u7PfpTkWNfaP61UGiQCEwYBhgL/s640/images%2Bfor%2Bslide%2Bshow-53.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>THE HISTORY BEGAN IN 1132</b></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-4cyfvXW_mNo/WVXUEWWOg-I/AAAAAAAAJcY/E9RDrpTSto8ElH1LdAjdj4KC0ywW0YyRgCEwYBhgL/s1600/images%2Bfor%2Bslide%2Bshow-54.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1000" data-original-width="617" height="640" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-4cyfvXW_mNo/WVXUEWWOg-I/AAAAAAAAJcY/E9RDrpTSto8ElH1LdAjdj4KC0ywW0YyRgCEwYBhgL/s640/images%2Bfor%2Bslide%2Bshow-54.jpg" width="394" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>WHEN 13 DISAFFECTED MONKS FROM YORK CAME TO THE VALLEY<br />IN SEARCH OF A MORE DEVOUT LIFE</b></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-OW73s0cU6RU/WVXUDj_VRuI/AAAAAAAAJc8/bHNPGzcYC7EKY2ZtgxRhhDERnVPU0j2ugCEwYBhgL/s1600/images%2Bfor%2Bslide%2Bshow-52.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="616" data-original-width="1000" height="394" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-OW73s0cU6RU/WVXUDj_VRuI/AAAAAAAAJc8/bHNPGzcYC7EKY2ZtgxRhhDERnVPU0j2ugCEwYBhgL/s640/images%2Bfor%2Bslide%2Bshow-52.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>400 YEARS OF MONASTIC LIFE ENDED UNDER THE RULE OF HENRY VIII</b></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-5-v7CPL7GgU/WVXUGbz82BI/AAAAAAAAJc8/Vc6eYcwXJdUB_geh_gHcRAoPur-B3yWaACEwYBhgL/s1600/images%2Bfor%2Bslide%2Bshow.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="677" data-original-width="1000" height="432" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-5-v7CPL7GgU/WVXUGbz82BI/AAAAAAAAJc8/Vc6eYcwXJdUB_geh_gHcRAoPur-B3yWaACEwYBhgL/s640/images%2Bfor%2Bslide%2Bshow.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>THE BLUE SIGN READS "GRAHAM GREEN LIVED HERE 1931-1933"</b></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-5ikQOUUfuKU/WVXSSH0SFNI/AAAAAAAAJcA/ZRDHrEG8oJM08llqEC_MbraXEXOFiykYQCEwYBhgL/s1600/images%2Bfor%2Bslide%2Bshow-69.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="748" data-original-width="1000" height="478" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-5ikQOUUfuKU/WVXSSH0SFNI/AAAAAAAAJcA/ZRDHrEG8oJM08llqEC_MbraXEXOFiykYQCEwYBhgL/s640/images%2Bfor%2Bslide%2Bshow-69.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>ROBIN HOOD'S BAY, A MAZE OF TINY STREETS, HAS A HISTORY OF SMUGGLING</b></td></tr>
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<b>THE PEOPLE </b><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-gp4Dphqjlz4/WVXSPSC65wI/AAAAAAAAJcI/s2QHpvga1cspZVCazqDrpSVGGmIo6peVQCEwYBhgL/s1600/images%2Bfor%2Bslide%2Bshow-59.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="644" data-original-width="1000" height="412" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-gp4Dphqjlz4/WVXSPSC65wI/AAAAAAAAJcI/s2QHpvga1cspZVCazqDrpSVGGmIo6peVQCEwYBhgL/s640/images%2Bfor%2Bslide%2Bshow-59.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>HEADING FOR SUNDAY SERVICE AT YORK MINSTER</b></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-DMt5dGA4PGI/WVXSQ4R7RlI/AAAAAAAAJcA/eMriNnoZ9K4ZB2MKYDcggXegqdFAX7-owCEwYBhgL/s1600/images%2Bfor%2Bslide%2Bshow-64.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="650" data-original-width="1000" height="416" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-DMt5dGA4PGI/WVXSQ4R7RlI/AAAAAAAAJcA/eMriNnoZ9K4ZB2MKYDcggXegqdFAX7-owCEwYBhgL/s640/images%2Bfor%2Bslide%2Bshow-64.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>A SHOE MODEL OR SHOE MODA</b></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-PhE2nhRM5As/WVXSRbNa-hI/AAAAAAAAJcA/ToeUroW1in0Q3ExwslXRFC5NKfyEbUs8wCEwYBhgL/s1600/images%2Bfor%2Bslide%2Bshow-65.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="840" data-original-width="1000" height="536" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-PhE2nhRM5As/WVXSRbNa-hI/AAAAAAAAJcA/ToeUroW1in0Q3ExwslXRFC5NKfyEbUs8wCEwYBhgL/s640/images%2Bfor%2Bslide%2Bshow-65.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>ENGLAND'S ICONIC SYMBOL</b></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-5GowtmdQpsI/WVXSQZoxy7I/AAAAAAAAJcA/CC6tLgC4n1o2lESgoJWDLIxCvXYXKWZbgCEwYBhgL/s1600/images%2Bfor%2Bslide%2Bshow-63.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="615" data-original-width="1000" height="392" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-5GowtmdQpsI/WVXSQZoxy7I/AAAAAAAAJcA/CC6tLgC4n1o2lESgoJWDLIxCvXYXKWZbgCEwYBhgL/s640/images%2Bfor%2Bslide%2Bshow-63.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>ARE VINYL RECORDS COMING BACK?</b></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-yhFxBBG_v3I/WVXSQ0TzY_I/AAAAAAAAJcA/gHESnBCV1FoVqjATT0CDpYRjKyLLKScKwCEwYBhgL/s1600/images%2Bfor%2Bslide%2Bshow-48.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="762" data-original-width="1000" height="486" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-yhFxBBG_v3I/WVXSQ0TzY_I/AAAAAAAAJcA/gHESnBCV1FoVqjATT0CDpYRjKyLLKScKwCEwYBhgL/s640/images%2Bfor%2Bslide%2Bshow-48.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>WE WENT FOR A LONG WALK WITH OUR HIKING STICKS</b></td></tr>
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<b><br /></b>
<b>THE DOGS</b><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-FWWGMeI9i3U/WVXSSdws9WI/AAAAAAAAJcA/NknKezZgw08Uo1kDzQO5LMbWWKfIMZy6QCEwYBhgL/s1600/images%2Bfor%2Bslide%2Bshow-70.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="944" data-original-width="1000" height="604" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-FWWGMeI9i3U/WVXSSdws9WI/AAAAAAAAJcA/NknKezZgw08Uo1kDzQO5LMbWWKfIMZy6QCEwYBhgL/s640/images%2Bfor%2Bslide%2Bshow-70.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>THEY CALLED HIM FRANK</b></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-p1-SgMoKOsM/WVXSSnPSOsI/AAAAAAAAJcA/ZjKgu0AguGMxIgIOrTU5y_BsnfEHM4bPwCEwYBhgL/s1600/images%2Bfor%2Bslide%2Bshow-71.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="770" data-original-width="1000" height="492" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-p1-SgMoKOsM/WVXSSnPSOsI/AAAAAAAAJcA/ZjKgu0AguGMxIgIOrTU5y_BsnfEHM4bPwCEwYBhgL/s640/images%2Bfor%2Bslide%2Bshow-71.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>YOUNG AND INNOCENT</b></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-g1kcl7HnCX8/WVXSS0LD8VI/AAAAAAAAJcA/NhgAAdKlqMMCnwwvRYUDeGXDZpogoIjzgCEwYBhgL/s1600/images%2Bfor%2Bslide%2Bshow-72.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="537" data-original-width="1000" height="342" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-g1kcl7HnCX8/WVXSS0LD8VI/AAAAAAAAJcA/NhgAAdKlqMMCnwwvRYUDeGXDZpogoIjzgCEwYBhgL/s640/images%2Bfor%2Bslide%2Bshow-72.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>OLD AND WISE</b></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-WiT1e9ODgW0/WVXSRzTh7AI/AAAAAAAAJcA/UAS-Ojr66sc6QjUu3GWq0gejgDBK97ZaQCEwYBhgL/s1600/images%2Bfor%2Bslide%2Bshow-66.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="582" data-original-width="1000" height="372" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-WiT1e9ODgW0/WVXSRzTh7AI/AAAAAAAAJcA/UAS-Ojr66sc6QjUu3GWq0gejgDBK97ZaQCEwYBhgL/s640/images%2Bfor%2Bslide%2Bshow-66.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>THE FIERCE WATCH DOG</b></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-mTJ4Iz6EETg/WVXST_9VYCI/AAAAAAAAJcA/mwKzqwd3hxoFHsBGT-d88NN57mcK9YDOgCEwYBhgL/s1600/images%2Bfor%2Bslide%2Bshow-73.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="755" data-original-width="1000" height="301" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-mTJ4Iz6EETg/WVXST_9VYCI/AAAAAAAAJcA/mwKzqwd3hxoFHsBGT-d88NN57mcK9YDOgCEwYBhgL/s400/images%2Bfor%2Bslide%2Bshow-73.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>THE TIRED PHOTOGRAPHER</b></td></tr>
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<b><br /></b>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3268301984789150098.post-79800538321778594652017-06-11T23:51:00.000-07:002017-06-12T09:55:57.192-07:00THROUGH MY LENS - THE COTSWOLDS <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="font-size: large;">I've often said that when I walk off a plane, I want to know I'm in a foreign country. In other words I prefer traveling off the beaten path, in a place where English is not the first language, where the culture and aspects of life are different, unique, bordering on the exotic, and sometimes even chaotic. Traveling to England certainly doesn't fit this image, but as someone who enjoys hearing stories from the locals, meeting unusual people, and photographing landscapes and the chance encounters on the street, this destination was perfect for me.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Here's my story told through my lens.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"> <b>SPRING</b> </span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-xlh-RU8K6nI/WT4ODORF2FI/AAAAAAAAJXo/NtWW7h6hdS4TxaSmPGcUeEnhJuXX555SQCEw/s1600/images%2Bfor%2Bslide%2Bshow-12.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="777" data-original-width="1000" height="496" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-xlh-RU8K6nI/WT4ODORF2FI/AAAAAAAAJXo/NtWW7h6hdS4TxaSmPGcUeEnhJuXX555SQCEw/s640/images%2Bfor%2Bslide%2Bshow-12.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;">Spring in the Cotswolds = bluebells</span></td></tr>
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-in4VJ3h4oGs/WT4j5tVY7fI/AAAAAAAAJX4/7Kn3tr8XW6YEL3IgzrWnkXC1Fl-iHd9CQCEw/s1600/images%2Bfor%2Bslide%2Bshow-13.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1000" data-original-width="759" height="640" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-in4VJ3h4oGs/WT4j5tVY7fI/AAAAAAAAJX4/7Kn3tr8XW6YEL3IgzrWnkXC1Fl-iHd9CQCEw/s640/images%2Bfor%2Bslide%2Bshow-13.jpg" width="483" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;">Seven friends walking a well-traveled path</span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-BjcKTgM7Z8Q/WT4ODHDq5OI/AAAAAAAAJXo/50D9hsCXR64sOg6Uus1WLebeOGOPJH4vQCEw/s1600/images%2Bfor%2Bslide%2Bshow-15.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="760" data-original-width="1000" height="484" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-BjcKTgM7Z8Q/WT4ODHDq5OI/AAAAAAAAJXo/50D9hsCXR64sOg6Uus1WLebeOGOPJH4vQCEw/s640/images%2Bfor%2Bslide%2Bshow-15.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;">The benefit of the climb was being able to ...........</span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-NFGJ74ZEOPI/WT4OC1hif3I/AAAAAAAAJXo/UZ9h_nDSaSsYwBg4nmysnfPCtJEXThDDgCEw/s1600/images%2Bfor%2Bslide%2Bshow-17.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="550" data-original-width="1000" height="352" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-NFGJ74ZEOPI/WT4OC1hif3I/AAAAAAAAJXo/UZ9h_nDSaSsYwBg4nmysnfPCtJEXThDDgCEw/s640/images%2Bfor%2Bslide%2Bshow-17.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"> <span style="font-size: large;">Admire the view</span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-lfW71XoxsNo/WT4j6g50C8I/AAAAAAAAJYM/I4XR_ngCw4MfZXjLuPuMkrRbwrHf9LEmACEw/s1600/images%2Bfor%2Bslide%2Bshow-16.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="773" data-original-width="1000" height="492" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-lfW71XoxsNo/WT4j6g50C8I/AAAAAAAAJYM/I4XR_ngCw4MfZXjLuPuMkrRbwrHf9LEmACEw/s640/images%2Bfor%2Bslide%2Bshow-16.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;">See all the new families</span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-7Neq-CMyS3w/WT4tEL89J7I/AAAAAAAAJZc/4e_899Iey5AGJ13qLtw955noFi4CjAFDgCLcB/s1600/images%2Bfor%2Bslide%2Bshow-39.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="597" data-original-width="1000" height="382" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-7Neq-CMyS3w/WT4tEL89J7I/AAAAAAAAJZc/4e_899Iey5AGJ13qLtw955noFi4CjAFDgCLcB/s640/images%2Bfor%2Bslide%2Bshow-39.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;">And watch the changing colors under threatening skies</span></td></tr>
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<span style="font-size: large;"> </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"> <b>THE CHURCHES</b></span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-GlIWV0AD7WQ/WT4vjXeN9qI/AAAAAAAAJZw/DK4KSlaZDmMUdowYceFu1AmetAgZuW8XQCLcB/s1600/images%2Bfor%2Bslide%2Bshow-2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1000" data-original-width="667" height="640" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-GlIWV0AD7WQ/WT4vjXeN9qI/AAAAAAAAJZw/DK4KSlaZDmMUdowYceFu1AmetAgZuW8XQCLcB/s640/images%2Bfor%2Bslide%2Bshow-2.jpg" width="426" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;">Near Moreton-in-Marsh</span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-S8ZlqWJYDFY/WT4vjQdhJpI/AAAAAAAAJZs/gJhD91bdc0A3PWt1WlkB_LmKgkks8hG4gCLcB/s1600/images%2Bfor%2Bslide%2Bshow-3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="787" data-original-width="1000" height="502" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-S8ZlqWJYDFY/WT4vjQdhJpI/AAAAAAAAJZs/gJhD91bdc0A3PWt1WlkB_LmKgkks8hG4gCLcB/s640/images%2Bfor%2Bslide%2Bshow-3.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;">Welcoming, but we went walking instead</span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/--_W-dTOrw14/WT4vjjTI8GI/AAAAAAAAJZ0/jIl3kbDo9TU2QqJeOSVw9gNAAps4aJbhgCLcB/s1600/images%2Bfor%2Bslide%2Bshow-10.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="596" data-original-width="1000" height="380" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/--_W-dTOrw14/WT4vjjTI8GI/AAAAAAAAJZ0/jIl3kbDo9TU2QqJeOSVw9gNAAps4aJbhgCLcB/s640/images%2Bfor%2Bslide%2Bshow-10.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;">Headstones well worn </span></td></tr>
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<span style="font-size: large;"> NATIONAL TRUST PROPERTIES</span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-xYb3V9y4_Kc/WT4j6mb048I/AAAAAAAAJYM/lySlfhIuw8gPjbD8e-5fBXGe2V2Ck8HuQCEw/s1600/images%2Bfor%2Bslide%2Bshow-6.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="976" data-original-width="1000" height="624" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-xYb3V9y4_Kc/WT4j6mb048I/AAAAAAAAJYM/lySlfhIuw8gPjbD8e-5fBXGe2V2Ck8HuQCEw/s640/images%2Bfor%2Bslide%2Bshow-6.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;">The same family lived in Chastleton House from 1607 until 1991</span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-nshKzHZJ7-4/WT4j6elOVMI/AAAAAAAAJYM/Ua1yJQw_XbMXFmlWNLceuIT000yPdtMYwCEw/s1600/images%2Bfor%2Bslide%2Bshow-7.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="604" data-original-width="1000" height="385" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-nshKzHZJ7-4/WT4j6elOVMI/AAAAAAAAJYM/Ua1yJQw_XbMXFmlWNLceuIT000yPdtMYwCEw/s640/images%2Bfor%2Bslide%2Bshow-7.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"> <span style="font-size: large;">A rare peek into a Jacobean Gentry House</span></td></tr>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-SL4rx_TYgZs/WT4uL1p3i2I/AAAAAAAAJZk/QaViP8ULYcY1sMFg1_3Hk4oPsI4uW_7jwCLcB/s1600/images%2Bfor%2Bslide%2Bshow-5.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="788" data-original-width="1000" height="504" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-SL4rx_TYgZs/WT4uL1p3i2I/AAAAAAAAJZk/QaViP8ULYcY1sMFg1_3Hk4oPsI4uW_7jwCLcB/s640/images%2Bfor%2Bslide%2Bshow-5.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"> Reeking of class</span></td></tr>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-FIBptnINq5M/WT41wYbzEAI/AAAAAAAAJaE/9VNWCs6LSYUl_uLMigOKS3zQSrc0q1eAwCLcB/s1600/images%2Bfor%2Bslide%2Bshow-31.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="684" data-original-width="1000" height="436" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-FIBptnINq5M/WT41wYbzEAI/AAAAAAAAJaE/9VNWCs6LSYUl_uLMigOKS3zQSrc0q1eAwCLcB/s640/images%2Bfor%2Bslide%2Bshow-31.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;">Snowshill Manor filled with a lifetime collection of Charles Paget Wade</span></td></tr>
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<span style="font-size: large;"> <b>THE PEOPLE</b></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Stay tuned for the Lake District, Yorkshire and Derbyshire</span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3268301984789150098.post-4220292406512640702017-04-07T15:22:00.001-07:002017-04-07T15:22:52.495-07:00 A MOMENT OF ZEN - ANTARCTICA FINAL CHAPTER <span style="font-size: large;">Antarctica seems to affect all visitors the same way. You can't get the experience of <i>IT</i> out of your head. You dream about <i>IT</i>. You think about <i>IT</i>. You smell <i>IT</i>. And yet, while you are there, <i>IT</i> is difficult to comprehend, to grasp, and even more impossible to describe. You just have to be there, and once you are there, <i>IT</i> will be imprinted on your brain forever. And <i>IT</i> wasn't just the wildlife, the scenery, or the snow and ice that impressed me. </span><span style="font-size: large;">When I set foot on my seventh continent, I visualized where I was standing on the globe's map, and realized I was walking at the very bottom of our planet in the largest wilderness on earth.</span><span style="font-size: large;"> I was so far away from civilization and so remote, I wondered if I should be scared. I was also somewhere in an immense ocean chock full of ice that came in many sizes and shapes. There was thin ice with raised edges called pancake ice, brash ice pieces that were much larger, and tabular icebergs standing tall like a high rise in Manhattan. All of this natural beauty plus an abundance of exotic wildlife was so breathtaking that I had trouble getting my head around it. Some times it felt like a dream. In some ways it's like gazing at the nighttime sky and seeing billions, maybe trillions of stars, and thinking how small and inconsequential you, as a human being, are in the universe. That's just one of many feelings you get when you are in Antarctica. As a human living on this amazing planet, I am almost nothing, like a speck of dust, a grain of sand, and in this case, a five foot five woman from California wearing a bright yellow waterproof parka and carrying a camera.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><span style="font-size: large;">Here are some basic facts: Antarctica's cold temperature and its dry, windy conditions prevent the formation of mature soils which, not surprisingly, makes it unsuitable for plants or animals. However, animal life abounds in the seas surrounding the continent, like migratory seabirds and marine mammals, which are able to exist for several reasons. Because the sea water is so cold, it contains higher quantities of carbon dioxide and oxygen; storm-tossed seas create upwellings of essential nutrients like phytoplankton; and the long hours of daylight during the summer months promote almost continuous photosynthesis which enables an algae bloom that is the basis for the Antarctic food chain.</span><span style="font-size: large;"> </span><span style="font-size: large;"> </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">We moved through the sea ice in inflatable rubber zodiacs, which accommodated ten passengers plus an experienced driver-guide. The speed of the zodiac was determined by the ocean's swells, but often it was based on whether we were searching for specific sea life or just sitting still and observing spectacular sights like crabeater seals and a pod of whales lunch-feeding on an abundance of krill. Spotting a whale off in the distance gave us reason to rev up the throttle, hoping we'd move fast enough to catch a humpback breach or find a pod of orcas. But most of the time we motored slowly, looking for lazy weddell and leopard seals basking on ice floe, or reveling in the graceful aviation of the terns and albatross that flew overhead. With some envy we watched a few of our fellow adventurers dressed in dry suits and standing on paddle boards, which gave them an entirely different perspective or at least bragging rights. But the people who really had something to brag about were the brave souls who did the polar plunge. Some travelers chose to kayak rather than take a zodiac, but that required an additional effort that wasn't going to necessarily give me better photo opportunities. Occasionally, a family of gentoo penguins would swim next to our zodiac as if asking to hitch a ride, but most of the time we visited their smelly habitat and admired their antics on land. Here in Antarctica the gentoo and chinstrap penguins seemed aloof, a behavior that was far different from the bold and curious king penguins we spent time with in South Georgia.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><span style="font-size: large;">On one of our outings in the zodiac we picked up a piece of sea ice and found it surprisingly unsalty. That's because sea water freezes at about 28.8 degrees (F), depending upon its salinity. The greater the salt concentration, the lower the temperature at which water freezes. Our guide explained that ice, which forms slowly on the sea surface under calm conditions, is generally not salty to the taste. We hauled the big chunk of glistening ice back to the ship, which was then broken up into smaller pieces so we could enjoy our favorite cocktail on the "glacial" rocks.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><span style="font-size: large;">Late one afternoon Mette, our zodiac driver and guide extraordinaire, shut off the motor in the midst of a floating garden of ice chunks and asked if we could take a few minutes to sit quietly in the zodiac and not move. Her instructions were simple. "Please, stay still, do not speak, and don't adjust those noisy velcro straps. I want you to experience Antarctica in a different way." Immediately all eleven of us fell silent, and a few minutes after closing my eyes, I tuned everything and everyone out and went deep inside myself to feel, to absorb and, as Mette said, to experience Antarctica. <i>So, what did you hear</i>? someone might ask. <i>I heard nothing</i>. I would answer. <i>Antarctica is silent. </i>Well, almost nothing, almost silent, because what I did hear was the glacial ice pack breaking and breathing around us, sounds we wouldn't hear with the zodiac running. </span><span style="font-size: large;"> </span><span style="font-size: large;">Meditating in the silence of Antarctica triggered so many emotions within me that I could feel the tears. What is it about nature that evokes out-of-the-blue emotion? This is not the first time this has happened. I experienced the same emotional response in Yosemite Valley last year. Although I am not a religious person, I felt as if God reached down and touched my shoulder. When I finally opened my eyes, I realized this was not God. Instead I was touched by the magic of nature. I was experiencing the last paradise on earth. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Please click on the link below to watch a two minute video entitled </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><a href="http://pamperkins.phanfare.com/slideshow.aspx?s=0&username=pamperkins&a_id=14448301&s_id=15652228&q=http%3A//pamperkins.phanfare.com/14448301">A MOMENT OF ZEN</a></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3268301984789150098.post-64637192730430692002017-03-26T21:45:00.000-07:002017-07-20T12:54:32.629-07:00A PHOTO ESSAY ON SOUTH GEORGIA CHAPTER 3<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">As a major element of our 2017 trip to Antarctica with Quark Expeditions, we spent three full days exploring the amazing island of South Georgia, not exactly on the way to the Antarctic Peninsula from our embarkation point at Ushuaia, but well worth the three-day southeasterly jaunt on the open but calm sea. South Georgia is a 100-mile spit of land in the Antarctic region, made famous by intrepid explorers, like Captain Cook in the 18th century and Ernest Shackleton in the 20th century. But in most recent times the primary reason adventure travelers go there is to see the amazing wildlife, like the king penguins, the gentoos, the fur and elephant seals, and the unique bird life, 87 species having been recorded there in 2012. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Of course, the wandering albatross is the superstar that most birders are anxious to see, since they have the largest wingspan of any bird, with a record measurement of 11 feet 10 inches. The wandering albatross also live their lives to the fullest, some as long as 60 years, but they are slow breeders, so numbers are falling fast. Due to their very sensitive organs that allow them to sense tiny changes in air pressure and wind velocity, wandering albatross fly from South Georgia thousands of miles northward, always over open water--sometimes as far as the seas off Brazil--to obtain food for their nestlings, often carrying 2-5 pounds of ingested food for a period of eight days while covering up to 5000 miles. This would never be possible without extremely energy-efficient flight.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Fur seals get their name because of their very dense coat, which made them ideal targets for commercial exploitation in the 19th century. But fortunately the days of whaling and sealing are behind us, and South Georgia is a pristine wilderness for all wildlife and fortunate travelers, like me, to enjoy. When our zodiacs landed </span><span style="font-size: large;">and ten <i>humans</i> dressed in bright yellow jackets popped out on to land, the frisky fur pups, with globe-like eyes, bluff-charged us, but we were warned to shoo them away because they have a deadly bite<i>. "</i>Fur pups are a bit like Woody Allen," our expedition leader explained. "</span><span style="font-size: large;">They charge with exuberant confidence, but when you clap your hands to shoo them away, they back off in a quivering, self-conscious sort of way." </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">You already know from previous chapters what made South Georgia really special for me. It was not just the incredibly beautiful landscape. It was the hundreds of thousands--maybe even millions--of adult King Penguins and their somewhat ugly but still adorable chicks, who are slowly losing their fur coats in exchange for one made of silky feathers. I've been home from my trip for almost a month, and I still dream about penguins. And I swear I still smell their poo. Since adult penguins have no natural land predators, they are fearless and comically curious. At our first landing, dozens of them waddled down to greet us at the beach, whacking each other with their stumpy wings, as if to say <i>me first,</i> and pecking at our boots. The squawking noise from the immense throng was deafening, but still music to our ears. During our three days exploring different parts of this beautiful place, I felt as though I was able to communicate with the king penguins. As you will see from my photos, there were many times when a penguin came so close to me that I was able to see the gleam of light in his eye. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Because the breeding season was over for elephant seals, we only saw the lazy females sleeping and sunning themselves in the grass. Since I've seen plenty of elephant seals on a few beaches in California, these behemoths were not a novelty to me. Nonetheless, combined with the fur seals, the penguins and the unique birds, this was a jaw-dropping experience.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">We were told that currently1500 square miles of South Georgia are covered in ice and permanent snow, but we saw significant evidence of climate change as glaciers were receding. Because we were in this region during the Antarctic summer months, the temperature was quite tolerable, especially when one is wearing four layers of clothing. However, except for the times we rode in the zodiacs, which brought on a wind chill, I seldom wore gloves when taking my pictures.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">While there are no permanent inhabitants on the island, there are a small number of people operating research stations during the summer months. There are also a few people, mainly volunteers, who operate the museum and a bookstore at the small outpost called Grytviken, which in the early 1900s was the site of a thriving whaling industry, evidenced by the old ships and decaying equipment left behind. Grytviken is also the final resting place for Ernest Shackleton, whose grave we visited on February 15th, which ironically was Shackleton's birthday. How many visitors are able to stand at this famous spot in front of this remarkable man's grave, sip some Irish whiskey, and listen to our expedition historian, Jonathan Shackleton, toast his distant cousin. Grytviken also has a small but iconic church that was pre-fabricated in Norway and erected by workers at this South Georgia site in 1913. Despite efforts to preserve the church, as well as remnants of the historical whaling days, harsh winter storms have made renovation and restoration a difficult and expensive enterprise. Purchases and contributions by visitors to the gift shop and museum help in this effort.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">South Georgia was a spectacular experience, a hard act to follow, I thought, as we sailed away toward the continent of Antarctica. But our visit to the Antarctic Peninsula was no let-down, as I will describe in Chapter 4. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">PLEASE CLICK ON THIS LINK TO WATCH MY FOUR MINUTE PHOTO ESSAY ENTITLED <a href="http://pamperkins.phanfare.com/slideshow.aspx?s=0&username=pamperkins&a_id=14442396&s_id=15644931&q=http%3A//pamperkins.phanfare.com/14442396">THREE DAYS IN SOUTH GEORGIA</a></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><i><br /></i></span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3268301984789150098.post-75929811620722579892017-03-05T14:19:00.000-08:002017-03-05T14:27:25.464-08:00THE SEVENTH CONTINENT CHAPTER 2<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><span style="font-size: large;"><b>The Albatross</b></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">In one day I must have dressed and undressed at least three times, but my wardrobe pretty much stayed the same with long underwear and fleece as the basic theme. Thankfully, penguins, seals and albatross weren't interested in our clothes, although I wondered what they thought when these strange-looking dudes wearing bright yellow jackets walked on their turf. They didn't appear </span><span style="font-size: large;">afraid or nervous, but many looked at us curiously and some even pecked at our boots.</span><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">LANDING ON PRION ISLAND</td></tr>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><i>How cold was it,</i> you ask? Surprisingly, the temperature never got much below 30 degrees</span><span style="font-size: large;"> and maybe warmed up to 40 by mid-day, but no one ever complained since we were dressed in so many warm layers, plus we had relatively little wind on South Georgia. A few times I used boot warmers when walking in the snow, but often I didn't wear gloves when taking photos. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><span style="font-size: large;">When we landed on Prion Island, known as the breeding and nesting home to many wandering albatross, we were greeted by a group of smaller penguins, called gentoo, and a number of lazy seals, who were more interested in bickering with each other than noticing us. Our zodiac group lucked out and had Noah Strycker as our helmsman and birding guide. At age 30 Noah has packed in more birding adventures than most people do in a life time, setting an all time record for being the first person to see more than 6000 species of birds in a single calendar year (2015). I have included below a five minute YouTube video of Noah's around-the-world one-year birding trip which you will definitely enjoy. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Although I'm not a birder, I can definitely see the appeal, but I've been told by birding friends that I should stick to riding my bike. <i>Pam, you don't have the patience for birds and besides you talk too much.</i> My feelings weren't hurt because I know my patience is limited, and my reputation for talking seems to follow me wherever I go, but here on Prion Island it seemed like a different story. Searching for birds did not require patience because they were everywhere, and we were all talking at the same time, asking Noah tons of questions about the mating behaviors of the albatross. "They mate for life," Noah told us. "The courtship ritual begins when the </span><span style="font-size: large;">male spreads his huge wings and dances about trying to get the attention of the female." I looked over at the female who sat placidly on her nest looking ever so bored and totally unimpressed while this male albatross used all his energy on very weak legs to impress her by madly flapping his wings. The wandering albatross returns to the same nesting place each year and the female lays only one egg per year, but the first year of life is tough and 80-90% die. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><span style="font-size: large;">The wandering albatross have the largest wingspan of any living bird, ranging from eight to twelve feet. They can glide up to forty miles per hour and b</span><span style="font-size: large;">ecause of their wingspan, an albatross can remain in the air for several hours without flapping its wings. In fact, these birds spend most of their life in flight, landing only to breed and feed. </span><span style="font-size: large;">Scientists have attached GPS devices to some wandering albatross and have tracked them as far north as the coast of Brazil, before returning to Prion Island to feed their young by regurgitating the food collected during their wanderings.</span><span style="font-size: large;"> </span><span style="font-size: large;"> As members of a sea bird family called tubenoses, the tubes on their bill help remove salt from their system. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Like so much of our planet's wildlife, these seabirds are in serious danger and vulnerable to what is called long-line fishing. This is a commercial technique that is very controversial because, while the long lines are successful in hooking fish (most notably Chilean sea bass), they also hook and drown sea birds that dive for the bait. Approximately 100,000 albatross die this way each year. While there is a conservation effort underway within the seafood industry to alter this form of fishing, some countries are slow to change. Given the vulnerability of these magnificent birds, it was my good fortune to spend time around them, watching them fly, perform their mating rituals, and photographing them at their very best.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><i>At length did cross an albatross</i></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><i>Through the fog it came</i></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><i>As if it had been a Christian Soul</i></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><i>We hailed it in God's name.</i></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><i>It ate the food it never had eat</i></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><i>and round and round it flew</i></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><i>and ice did split with a thunder-fit;</i></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><i>the helmsman steered us through!</i></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><i>And a good south wind sprung up behind;</i></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><i>The Albatross did follow</i></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><i>And every day, for food or play, </i></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><i>Came to the Mariner's hollo!</i></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">From <i>The Rime of the Ancient Mariner,</i></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">Samuel Taylor Coleridge, 1834</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">The adventure continues .................</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">P.S. Watch Noah Strycker's amazing five minute video here. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3268301984789150098.post-35470036492018447082017-02-27T11:28:00.000-08:002017-02-27T11:28:04.314-08:00MY SEVENTH CONTINENT <span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;"><b>Chapter 1</b></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">If I told you I went to Antarctica with the Shackleton party, I think you might doubt me, but it's true. Six travelers, who are distantly related to one of history's most renowned Antarctic explorers, Ernest Shackleton, were on board our ship, along with Bruce and me and 190 other travelers. We were on a two week expedition to South Georgia and Antarctica with a company called Quark, a leader in polar adventures. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><span style="font-size: large;">Although February is summer in Antarctica, you wouldn't know it by the four layers of clothes we wore to protect us from the wind and cold. Our trip began in Ushuaia, Argentina, the southernmost city in the world, where we embarked on our expedition ship called the Ocean Endeavor. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><span style="font-size: large;">For three days we cruised east from Ushuaia on a relatively calm sea, and listened to scientists and experts lecture on the polar environment: the birds, (especially penguins), the whales (Humpback and Orcas), species of seals (fur, leopard, weddell), and the many glaciers we were about to see. Jonathan Shackleton told us inspiring stories about his cousin's famous adventures in the early 1900s, which are classic tales of leadership and heroism. We heard from a biologist what it was like to spend a year at a scientific research station studying the sex lives of elephant seals. In between lectures and outstanding meals prepared by an award-winning chef, we were out on the decks and up on the bridge with binoculars and cameras, scanning the skies hoping to photograph albatross (instead of cormorants), and looking out to sea where one might spot a pod of dolphins or a group of whales lunching on krill.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Finally we arrived in South Georgia, a crescent-shaped mountainous island with no permanent inhabitants, only penguins, birds, and seals. The island measures approximately 100 miles long and 24 miles wide, with half of its surface capped in ice, 12 mountains rising about 6,000 feet, and roughly 160 glaciers, many of which come down to the sea. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Preparing for a zodiac landing took a good bit of time as members of the ship's staff carefully examined our backpacks and each item of outer clothing that we might wear -- hats, head bands, scarves, balaclavas (protective face masks), and multiple layers of gloves. They looked for specks of dirt, tiny seeds, remnants of food or anything foreign that might possibly introduce non-native materials to the pristine environment we were about to visit. And if there was any doubt, our packs and the crevices of our outer clothing where microscopic pieces of lint or strands of hair might be found were thoroughly vacuumed. Then after putting on a heavy yellow waterproof parka and pants, our knee-high rubber boots, and a bulky life jacket, we stepped in and out of a chemically-treated water bath to sanitize our boots and to prepare us to step on to what many have described as another planet.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Sliding my legs over the side of a rocking zodiac in my bulky outfit and clumsily taking a few steps into the clear blue water and on to the rocky shore was not easy, but guides were there to help us and direct us to a place where we could leave our heavy life jackets and backpacks so we weren't so loaded down. I carried only one camera -- my new mirrorless Sony A7R II with a 24-240mm lens. This all-purpose lens worked best for me, giving me a wide-angle perspective and close up shots, which were relatively easy given that most of the penguins and seals were pretty close, some times no more than a few feet away. Also changing lenses in temperatures just a few degrees above freezing didn't seem like a good idea.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">During our lengthy landings on Salisbury Plain and Andrews Bay, I was filled with so much emotion that it's really hard to explain. Many words of awe come to mind. Simply stated -- I was overwhelmed. My eyes filled with tears as these strong but delicate looking penguins greeted me on the beach, flapping their wings and bobbing their heads, each making their own individual call. What struck me most was the privilege I had to step on this incredibly beautiful land in a very unique remote place, devoid of human life (except for an occasional tourist like me), but teeming with animals: fur seals, elephant seals, and the world's largest colonies of king penguins in various stages of preening, egg laying, nesting, and molting. We were told that there were as many as 250,000 pairs, give or take a few thousand or so. And it's true what they say about penguin poo. It's really stinky, but by the end of our trip, I loved that fishy smell. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">"Walk to the right of the red flags," our guide said, pointing up ahead towards the penguin rookery. "Remember to try and keep 15 feet between you and the penguins." <i>Fifteen feet, I questioned?</i> <i>Yes, don't walk closer than fifteen feet, but if they approach you, that's a different story. </i>The penguins were close and all around us.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><span style="font-size: large;">As I walked closer to the rookery, before me was a sea filled with king penguins. An awe-struck adjective: <i>Breathtaking</i>! While individual penguins could be seen in the mass, the overall impression was abstract, like a painting of silver, black and white penguins nestled together, caring for the egg or feeding the chick. Another adjective: <i>Deafening!</i> (The cacophony is best heard, so please watch the YouTube video I posted below). My senses were in overdrive, as was my camera. I struggled to make sure I had the right settings, like aperture and shutter speed, since I'd never taken photographs of wildlife before and things change quickly. Up close and personal the king penguins did their special dance, squawking, rocking, and waddling so close to me that I could have stroked their smooth-looking feathers, touched their bright but sharp beaks, conveyed my emotions silently and expressed my feelings. </span><span style="font-size: large;">I was experiencing the magic of nature -- seeing them, smelling them, and wanting to touch them, communicate with them, call to them, but they paid no attention to me. They had their own thing going, making strange squawking sounds, shaking their heads, slapping each other with their strong wings as if to say <i>hey you, go away. I was here first</i>. The males vied for the female's attention while a stranger like me made my own weird sounds. </span><span style="font-size: large;"> I pressed the camera's continuous shutter -- click, click, click. Then I remembered what our expedition leader told us the night before. <i><b> </b></i></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><i><b> Watch. Listen. Absorb.</b></i> </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">I put down my camera, sat on a small wobbly rock and got goosebumps as I watched, listened and absorbed. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">The adventure continues............ </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"> Cacophony of king penguins </span>
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3268301984789150098.post-21131773729699720332017-01-10T21:33:00.000-08:002017-01-10T21:33:48.413-08:00GETTING FROM POINT A TO POINT B<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">Taking Uber is definitely the newest and best way to get around when you need to get from point A to point B and don't want to drive your car. We use Uber to take us to and from the airport, which happens often. Before Uber we either relied on the understandably infrequent generosity of friends to drive us, or we reserved a multi-passenger commercial shuttle van that picked us up three to four hours before our flight, which most of the time required that we get up at some god-awful hour in the middle of the night. Then, depending on how many other people were also taking that same van, we either twiddled our thumbs arriving too early at the airport or we became very anxious because a confused driver started going south to San Jose International instead of north to SFO. That awful <i>I-might-miss-my-plane</i> feeling is what makes my blood pressure rise, so until Uber came along, we reserved a luxury Town Car from a limousine service, which ensured a reasonable pick-up time, plus a comfortable drive on cushy leather seats while listening to soothing classical music on the way to the airport. We didn't have to scramble for a good seat in a multi-passenger van, but most of all we didn't have to listen to mindless chatter or whining kids. But even though we were really comfortable and relaxed, that fancy-ass limousine cost us nearly a hundred bucks one way! </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Although I was a bit nervous the first time I clicked the Uber icon on my mobile phone, the service has been very reliable, at least in the San Francisco Bay Area, where I live, and in the DC area where I often need transportation to the airport. I should comment, however, that we have never used Uber when traveling outside of the United States and probably wouldn't try it, unless we were in a country where English is the first language.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Fortunately we've had good drivers with clean cars that seem to run fine. We've never felt unsafe, nor have we had an experience where Uber didn't show up on time. After I click on the Uber icon, the location service on my device notes my pick up location, and very quickly I receive a reply from a driver who is usually close by. I text him or her back to confirm exactly where we are waiting; this is important at the airport, where our location can be confusing. </span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><span style="font-size: large;">Recently a long flight from Washington, DC, which was delayed 4-hours, meant landing at SFO in the pouring rain at 2:30 in the morning. After we got our checked luggage, I clicked on the Uber app and plugged in where we wanted to go. Then we went outside the terminal and stood on the sidewalk waiting with a dozen other fliers who too were staring intently at their brightly lit device screens waiting for confirmations from their </span><span style="font-size: large;">drivers. </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Ding Ding !!!! </span><i style="font-size: x-large;">Henry in a black Toyota Camry will be arriving in 5 minutes, </i><span style="font-size: large;">I read on my small screen. Other people began eyeing license plate numbers as a long line of cars slowly cruised by. Our Henry pulled up promptly in a fairly new car and helped us load our luggage in the trunk. Once we settled comfortably in the back seat, Henry began chatting us up and asking polite questions about our recent trip. "Where you guys coming back from at this hour?" he said in a jolly booming voice. "Was this business or pleasure?" "Pleasure," we struggled to answer in a coherent way, since our internal clocks told us it was really 5:30 in the morning, and we badly need sleep after having been awake for nearly 24 hours. Despite our apparent exhaustion, Henry continued to tell stories and ask more questions, and before long we are pulling into our home driveway and feeling very wide awake.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Talking to strangers is not a problem for me--to the contrary, as most of you know--but even Bruce, who is generally pretty quiet, engaged in a conversation with Henry because he was so nice and had interesting stories to tell. He drives for Uber more for fun than money, although it does help pay his daughter's tuition in private school. He starts driving at 2:00 a.m. at the end of his night shift as a public transit mechanic, and he stays behind the wheel for two or three hours before going home and getting some sleep. "Driving helps relax me from a physically demanding job," he said, "I'm an outgoing person, and this way I get to talk to some pretty interesting people who otherwise I would never meet. And besides the freeways are generally quiet at this hour too, which is another reason why driving helps calm me down." He went on to say, "Some people go home, fix a cocktail and watch TV, but that's not me. I get in my car, turn on my Uber driver app, and start talking." </span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><span style="font-size: large;">Henry was not the first Uber driver we met who was doing this gig as a second job. In fact, we've met only one person who drives for Uber full time. A young fellow who works at my beauty salon and is just getting his hair cutting business underway also drives for Uber. He says it's not a high paying job, but the extra income in his off hours helps meet expenses while he builds up his clientele. We had a female Uber driver just one time, but we've had drivers from Senegal, Sierra Leone, Vietnam, and Texas. We always enjoy talking to drivers who come from countries we have visited, like Morocco and Ethiopia. Strangely enough Henry was our first Native Son of the Golden West! which means born and bred in California.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><span style="font-size: large;">What prompts this post about Uber is because I want to share a funny story written and posted on Facebook by my very</span><span style="font-size: large;"> good friend. </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">He is a 30-something entrepreneur, a PhD, who has founded a couple of successful startup companies here in Silicon Valley and is currently a CEO of a brand new startup that already employs twelve people. </span><span style="font-size: large;"> He hails from the United Kingdom, and is the only individual I know personally who drives for Uber. I found his recent Facebook story so amusing that I asked him if I could share this with you on my Biker Chick Gone Crazy site. He didn't have a problem with my sharing it, but asked if I would keep him anonymous so that none of his friends or employees would find out, even though he did post it on Facebook. So, I will honor his request. Here's a very funny Uber story written by my friend whom I will call Bob. </span></span><span style="font-size: large;"> </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><span style="font-size: large;"><b><i>I've been moonlighting as an Uber driver for about six months now. Whenever I have to drive to San Francisco or to Silicon Valley, I turn on the app and use the destination filter to pick people up along the way. I normally hate driving, but I'm now a little addicted to picking people up on Uber.</i></b></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><b><i>After tax, car maintenance and gas, the money is probably around the minimum wage, so I'm not doing it for the money. But I'm an extrovert and love meeting new people. I am someone who has hitchhiked a lot around the world, and I normally pick up hitchhikers whenever I can. I love the interesting conversations I have with the people I meet.</i></b></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><b><i>Last night, I attended a fancy dinner on UK biotech policy hosted by the British MP Lord Prior, for the JP Morgan Healthcare conference (happening next week in San Francisco). After the dinner ended, I waited a few minutes before I turned on the Uber driver app to make sure I didn't pick up someone I'd just had dinner with.</i></b></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><b><i>Off I went. "Tonight I'm a real chauffeur," I thought as I'm actually wearing a suit and tie! After picking up four party goers and dropping them off at a wedding reception, I picked up another three people. Two of them had British voices, but I could not see them. The people were deep in discussion so I didn't say much. As one of them continued to talk, I thought to myself, "I know that voice!" and I looked again in the mirror and realized it was a Palo Alto venture capitalist that I know. I suddenly didn't know what to do. Did I say hello or shut up? I decided that this was too funny to keep quiet so during a pause in the conversation, I said, "I don't know if I should speak up or keep quiet but we know each other," and she replied, "Hi Bob, you know I thought I recognized your voice when I got in." It turns out she was with two other colleagues going to the same conference. She introduced us and we exchanged cards (I keep a stash in my glovebox and go through a lot). It turns out that one of the other passengers was also having dinner with Lord Prior on Monday, and he promised to pass on my regards (!). As we parted, he commented that I embodied the entrepreneurial spirit of the Bay Area. I said "this isn't normal actually," and he replied "Are you kidding, this is the Bay Area, it's totally normal." </i></b></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">So, if you have considered using Uber to get from point A to point B, I encourage you to try it since it works really well. All you do is download the free Uber app on your mobile device and put in a credit card number so that no money is exchanged at the point of service. And who knows one day if you are riding with Uber somewhere here in the Bay Area you might be in the back seat of a car driven by my good friend Bob, the PhD, CEO, entrepreneur turned Uber driver or Henry the public transit mechanic. Either way you will experience excellent service and be highly entertained. </span><br />
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3268301984789150098.post-13889995736188836922016-12-16T23:11:00.000-08:002016-12-17T13:23:40.624-08:00THE DAY OF THE DEAD <span style="font-size: large;">When I was a little girl, a fish monger working behind the counter at our local A&P handed me a gray blob on a sheet of waxed paper and dared me to eat the slimy thing raw, and I did. It was no big deal and I've enjoyed oysters on the half shell ever since. Last month when I was in Oaxaca, Mexico for a photography workshop around a celebration called the Day of the Dead, my friends goaded me into eating dried grasshoppers and ant larvae, and I did. I must admit that the crunchy bugs didn't slide down my throat quite as easily as the raw oyster, but to creep out my friends I told them that my throat was feeling scratchy because the grasshoppers were trying to crawl back out. </span><span style="font-size: large;">Eating a raw oyster or dead grasshoppers was no big deal. But what is a really big deal is the annual celebration in Oaxaca called Dia de Los Muertos or the Day of the Dead. During this three day celebration (10/31-11/2), Mexican families gather to celebrate the life of dearly departed family members and relatives whom they miss dearly. Maybe these individuals died generations ago or perhaps as recently as within the last year, but to the people left behind, it doesn't really matter when their family members died. What's important is how much they are still revered, always remembered, and forever loved.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">The first time I heard about Dia de Los Muertos was around Halloween time when my stepdaughter Nikki made herself up to look like Frida Kahlo and went to a celebration of life at the Hollywood Forever Cemetery on Santa Monica Boulevard in LA. Back then I assumed that Dia de Los Muertos was the Mexican equivalent of our Halloween, but I had that completely wrong. Dia de Los Muertos is not Halloween at all. The Day of the Dead is an ancient tradition that is genuinely observed, celebrated and preserved. It is a festival of life, an opportunity to remember the dearly departed and loved ones in life. It is also a chance for people to get in touch with deeply rooted traditions that are devoted to the cycle of life. At the heart of this sacred time are beautifully crafted altars and shrines that pay tribute. It is a time to bring faith, family and history together and value this ancient custom. </span><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>NIKKI DRESSED AND MADE UP TO LOOK LIKE FRIDA KAHLO</b></td></tr>
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<span style="font-size: large;">When I visited Oaxaca a few months ago, I was part of a six-person photography workshop organized by <a href="http://www.davidcolemanphotography.com/">Master Photographer David Coleman of Redwood City, California.</a> David, who grew up in Mexico City, is not only fluent in Spanish but is also very comfortable in the Oaxacan culture. In addition to teaching us great street photography skills, he made our experience very special and personal because he knew how to best relate to the Oaxacan people,. This made our taking photographs of the locals extremely comfortable. He also introduced us to some amazing food!</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"> Dia de Los Muertos is not a mournful commemoration, but instead a happy and colorful celebration, where death is not frightening or strange. It is considered part of life. During the day there are parades in the streets with multiple marching bands, and groups of families pushing baby carriages and little tykes riding high on their fathers' shoulders. Many people paint their faces in ghoulish designs and wear brightly colored costumes. At night most of the cemeteries around the city are alive with music and laughter. The graves are surrounded by aromatic marigolds and incense, which is offered in abundance in a candle lit setting, where souls are illuminated from the shadows of death. These handsomely decorated altars are a way to pay tribute to loved ones with photographs, mementos, fruit, cookies, and jugs of mescal, the local alcoholic drink made from the agave plant. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">On the first night we visited the Panteon General San Miguel, which is a traditional-looking cemetery with hundreds of engraved marble tombstones of different sizes spaced closely together in a haphazard way. The cemetery is surrounded by a large wall, which serves as a columbarium with small candles exposing the names and dates of dearly departed. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Because Dia de Los Muertos is heaven (pardon the pun) for photographers, there were many of us at the cemetery on our first night, but fortunately we didn't get in each other's way. I wandered around by myself for a while hoping to find the perfect photo op but truth be told I was also making sure not to get lost. Eventually I teamed up with Ed, a fellow photographer, and David and that's when things began to get interesting. Someone who dressed exotically and identified herself as the Black Widow appeared and seemed anxious to be photographed. Because of her relevant dress and enticing manner, we initially took the Black Widow to be a woman, but over time we began to think that maybe the Black widow was a man. Either way she/he seemed to enjoy the attention and surprisingly she didn't ask for any money. A rather large crowd gathered around her, mostly to gawk as she paraded around and struck a variety of different poses, but only a few of us were actually taking pictures. I was so enthralled by this magnificent opportunity that I failed to check the settings on my camera so despite at least fifty or sixty clicks, all I got was pretty much a bunch of blurs. Of course, I didn't know this until the next day when I downloaded the images on my computer, but by then I was out of luck. The Black Widow image below was taken by Master Photographer and my coach David Coleman. So, readers, I'm curious. What is your take from looking at the picture? Man? Woman? </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">My favorite cemetery for night time photography was Panteon de San Felipe, which we visited around 9 p.m. on our last night and took pictures until midnight. Walking into the cemetery lit almost entirely by thousands of candles took my breath away, and rather than the stark marble tombstones we had seen the night before, the San Felipe graves were pretty simple, and in some cases just a mound of dirt adorned with a small wooden cross. But what set San Felipe apart from Panteon General San Miguel was the imaginative and creative ways the family plots were decorated. Almost all were bordered by tall tapered white candles, and the graves were either covered or outlined with beautiful marigolds with their vibrant color and pungent scent. I read that the Mexicans believe that these special marigolds will help guide the spirits to their alters. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Reader, you may find this hard to believe from the expressions you see on some of these faces in the photographs, but we were, for the most part, welcomed warmly into people's personal space, as if we were members of their family. Women tending the graves of their late husbands or mothers looking at photos of their late children beckoned us to come closer, to pay tribute and take as many pictures as we wanted. Clever David Coleman brought a newly-released Polaroid-like camera, which enabled him to take photographs and share a hard copy on the spot with family members as a memento of this celebration. What a genius idea. As his students we benefited from th</span><span style="font-size: large;">is act of kindness and not only were we permitted to take more photographs, we were also treated to home-made cookies, fruit breads, and other delicious pastries, and in a few cases some people even poured us small tastes of mescal, a home brew that gave us a glow all our own. </span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-OnIjwYi5qNo/WFOYOT3Jh0I/AAAAAAAAJE8/0UYdOITzRQ4YAquOk9qLo-c6gXxWAWkTgCEw/s1600/Oaxaca%2BExhibit%2B2-23.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-OnIjwYi5qNo/WFOYOT3Jh0I/AAAAAAAAJE8/0UYdOITzRQ4YAquOk9qLo-c6gXxWAWkTgCEw/s640/Oaxaca%2BExhibit%2B2-23.jpg" width="508" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>AN ELABORATELY DECORATED GRAVE WITH A 7 FOOT TALL CALACA (MEXICAN </b><br />
<b>SPANISH FOR SKELETON)</b></td></tr>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Oaxaca, Mexico is a special place, not only for Dia de Los Muertos but for other holidays as well. This artistic city is blessed with a flair for the creative: famous for their black pottery, beautifully woven fabrics, and colorful painted wood carvings of animals, all works of art that are valued and collected around the world. And then there is the food, which is not what we consider Mexican here at home. Because of the unique ingredients (in addition to grasshoppers and ant larvae) used to make Oaxacan food, it should be considered gourmet, whereas in the United States what we call Mexican food is really Tex-Mex.</span><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>WITH NO TIME FOR SHOPPING, I ADMIRED THESE BEAUTIFUL CRAFTS FROM A DISTANCE</b><br />
<b>(I KNOW. SO UNLIKE ME)</b></td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>THIS CHEF IS PREPARING A LUNCHEON FEAST THAT COST $23 TO FEED SIX HUNGRY PHOTOGRAPHERS </b></td></tr>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><span style="font-size: large;">Hopefully, next year I will return to Oaxaca to observe and photograph one of the strangest celebrations of all called, the Night of the Radishes. On December 23rd people from all over the valley bring to the zocolo (town center) their largest homegrown radishes which have been lovingly carved into sculptures representing almost anything and a little bit of everything. Oaxaca is also known for its flavorful chocolate and its rich ice cream, two of my favorites foods. I'd even return for another taste of the crunchy grasshoppers. The ant larvae I'm not so sure.</span><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"> <b>IF YOU USE YOUR IMAGINATION AND YOU LOOK CLOSELY, YOU WILL SEE THE ANT LARVAE IN THIS IMAGE</b></td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>THERE WERE ONLY SIX OF US IN THE WORKSHOP BUT THERE ARE EIGHT FIGURES HERE. GO FIGURE.</b></td></tr>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><span style="font-size: large;">The adventure continues ........................</span><br />
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3268301984789150098.post-91988612150331111642016-10-17T22:54:00.001-07:002016-10-17T22:54:45.278-07:00A GHOST TOWN CALLED BODIE<span style="font-size: large;">Abandoned towns exist all over the world, but few of them are considered a bonafide ghost town like Bodie. This deserted, but once booming, gold mining town in the1880's is hidden deep within the hills east of the Sierra Nevada Mountain range, 13 miles off Highway #395 in California. Considering that next week is Halloween, it seems timely to share my photos and tell you a little about our recent visit to a deserted place that entertains approximately 200,000 visitors a year. This was my second visit to Bodie. I don't remember the first one very well because it was at least 40 years ago after a challenging backpacking trip in the Sierras that totally wiped me out, leaving me little patience and no energy or interest in exploring a ghost town. Besides I didn't believe in ghosts. I only recall that we had to drive 13 miles off the highway on a dirt road that felt like it hadn't been attended to since the 1800s. </span><span style="font-size: large;"> My second trip last week was very different, definitely more meaningful and certainly more interesting and exciting. Over the years I've heard a lot about Bodie, and the eeriness of the ghost town totally absorbed the photographer in me, unlike the first time when I was too broke to own a camera.</span><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>YES, 3 MILES ON A VERY BUMPY DIRT ROAD</b></td></tr>
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<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-mLbH__V06vk/WAWayZ2WwZI/AAAAAAAAJB0/vTrIRN4DBxY7PqDeSAm3O3VdsJYGw-_EwCEw/s1600/Miner%2Bfrom%2BColumbia%252C%2BCA-2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="250" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-mLbH__V06vk/WAWayZ2WwZI/AAAAAAAAJB0/vTrIRN4DBxY7PqDeSAm3O3VdsJYGw-_EwCEw/s400/Miner%2Bfrom%2BColumbia%252C%2BCA-2.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">This visit was different because now 10 of the 13 miles of the access road are paved. This meant we only had to drive three miles on a dusty washboard with deep ruts and potholes. The nicely paved road made our drive in much faster and certainly more comfortable. I'm pretty sure that 40 years ago we were the only people visiting Bodie at the time because it was not well known like it is today, now that it is a California State Park and a National Historic site. Last week when we reached the end of the road and the town's entrance, we came upon a gatehouse where a ranger collected a small fee, handed us a map and brochure, and directed us uphill to a paved parking lot where there were also important amenities like flush toilets. He also said we had two and a half hours before the park closed, which seemed like plenty of time for us to explore the abandoned town. There were a few visitors like us exploring the streets, peering into windows, and in some cases going inside some of the houses where remnants of the past were visible in paint-faded furniture, moth-eaten mattresses and broken doors that hung loosely, many unhinged. Almost everyone had a camera.</span><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>MAIN STREET</b></td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>NOT FOR SALE</b></td></tr>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Bodie began as a mining camp, following the discovery of gold in 1859 and was named after Bill Bodey, one of the four prospectors who discovered the gold but never got to see the glorious rise of the town because he perished in a blizzard just a few months after establishing the camp. The mining of gold and the glory of Bodie waxed and waned over the next ten to fifteen years, but in 1876 a profitable deposit of gold-bearing ore was discovered, and Bodie was transformed from an isolated mining camp to a wild west boomtown. By 1879 Bodie had a population of approximately 5,000-7,000 people. As a bustling gold mining center, Bodie offered many services of a larger town, such as a Wells Fargo Bank, a volunteer fire department, a brass band, a railroad and a well-used jail. At its peak, 65 saloons lined main street which was a mile long. Murders, shootouts, bar room brawls and stagecoach holdups were regular occurrences in Bodie. There were hundreds of bearded miners, who came to town to seek their fortunes in the gold mine but spent their nights in the saloons, looking for quick money or simply getting into trouble and landing in jail. Many of them looked like this old timer whose photo I took in the historic gold country town of Columbia just off Highway 49.</span><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>AN OLD TIMER WHO PROBABLY RESEMBLES THE FORTUNE SEEKERS OF BODIE</b></td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>LISTING TO THE LEFT SLIGHTLY</b></td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>THE BEAUTY OF DECAY</b></td></tr>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Living conditions in Bodie were crude and primitive, but the people in town were generous and kind, which helped Bodie thrive during the tough years, when gold became harder to mine and fortune seekers moved to other boom towns, hoping once again to get rich quick. These changes eventually turned Bodie into a family-oriented community, as evidenced by the construction of the Methodist Church, which still stands, and the Roman Catholic Church that later burned down. Despite the decline, Bodie had permanent residents through the early years of the 20th century even after the fire in 1932 that burned down 70% of the town.</span><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>METHODIST CHURCH STILL STANDS</b></td></tr>
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<span style="font-size: large;">The title of ghost town was given to Bodie in 1915 when auto travel was on the rise, and people from all over came to visit after reading a story about the abandoned mining town published in the San Francisco Chronicle. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">In the 1940s the threat of vandalism faced Bodie, but the family who owned much of the town's land at that time hired caretakers to protect and maintain the town's structures, but no restoration had ever taken place. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Bodie is now an authentic wild west ghost town, designated a National Historic Landmark in 1961 and a State Historic Park in 1962. Bodie is called a ghost town because it is preserved in a state of arrested decay. This means that structures are maintained but only to the extent that they will not be allowed to fall over or otherwise deteriorate in any major way. In addition new roofs, the rebuilding of foundations and the resealing of glass in window frames does help to preserve the town from natural decay. After the 1932 fire, only a small part of the town survived, with about 110 structures. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><span style="font-size: large;">Bruce and I hurriedly walked the deserted streets of a town that was once bustling with activity, and while initially two and a half hours seemed like sufficient time to enjoy our visit, we left feeling a bit disappointed and frustrated because there was so much to see and so many photographs to take that we could have spent the entire day. It goes without saying that we are hooked on Bodie. Bruce and I will return in the spring, after the snow melts, so we can negotiate the steep mountain passes required to reach the Eastern side of the Sierra Nevada Mountains and have another magical experience of the spooky ghost town called Bodie.</span><br />
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3268301984789150098.post-83483607486004381122016-09-28T21:08:00.000-07:002016-09-28T21:08:09.482-07:00HOW TO EAT A LOBSTER <span style="font-size: large;">Just as I smacked my lips after eating a succulent piece of meat from the claw of my boiled Maine lobster, I heard a shrill shriek in a highly-prized Maine accent come out from my dear friend Billi's mouth. "Who the hell dumped the knuckles in the bucket?" Billi questioned, as she stared directly at me. "Yikes, I guess that was me," I said in a somewhat guilty-sounding voice. "I forgot there was some lobster meat in there." </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Once Billi discovered I was the culprit, she silently branded me a lobster-eating neophyte, a beginner, a rookie who didn't know how to tackle this pre-historic-looking, boiled-to-death monster that sat on my paper plate. I did nothing during our feast to convince her of a time during my growing up years in New England when I attacked and ate a Maine lobster with gusto, like a pro, but I admit it has been some time since I rolled up my sleeves, put on my bib, and dismembered a marine crustacean. Since our lobster feast was the centerpiece of our special one-day reunion among five very good friends from high school, I didn't want to embarrass myself, but I guess I kind of did. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><span style="font-size: large;">With apologies to Billi, whose father was a lobsterman, by the way, I retrieved the pristine knuckles from the bucket where I had tossed them because I didn't think they were worth the effort. But now that I had them back on my plate, I started with the lobster cracker first, but moved on to using the small pick fork which did most of the work, which wasn't easy. T</span><span style="font-size: large;">o be honest I only got a few bits of flaky meat out of the knuckles, so when no one was looking, I dropped the bits in my bowl of melted butter, and figured I could fish them out at the end. I watched with envy as my friends slurped and sucked the juice and small bits of meat from every part of the lobster, including the knuckles, but I didn't know quite how to begin. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Next I attacked the tail, which everyone knows holds the glory and is the tastiest part. I twisted the tail off, carefully removed the three or four fan-like tabs and, just like my mother taught me, I pushed my fattest finger into the now-opened end, and voila, the chunky tail meat slipped out the other end in one nice big piece. Just as I started to dip the lobster meat into my melted butter and take my first bite, Billi grabbed the tail from my hand and spoke to me sternly once again. "Pam, you don't eat that stuff," she said, as she tore away the red fleshy-like substance covering part of the tail. Once she removed the red sheath, she deveined the lobster with her bare hands, like one might devein a shrimp, something I had never seen performed on a lobster before, but I watched and prayed that after she finished the job, there would be something left for me to eat. "Here," she said, as she handed me the macerated tail, "but remember, never eat the red stuff." Up until now my other Maine born and bred girlfriends, sat around the table engrossed in their own lobsters, but as Billi's comments grew louder, they turned to me and almost as if they had practiced in unison proclaimed <i>We never eat the red stuff -- </i>whatever it is<i>. What is it anyway?</i> Eyeballs? digested food? female eggs? the bladder? No one was really sure, but they all agreed that you don't eat the red stuff. By the time Billi finished cleaning my lobster tail, it looked pretty small, but after I dipped it in melted butter, and took my first bite, it didn't matter. I was in bliss. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">After I finished the tail and wiped the melted butter from my chin, I started to pry open the body of the lobster, and that's when I heard Billi's stern voice once again. "No, No, No. That's not the way. This is how you do it." Using both thumbs, Billi broke open the carapace of the lobster and exposed a display of white flaky innards, which can be tasty, but, like the lobster knuckles, it seemed like too much work to separate the meat from the cartilage. Actually, I hoped to find the tasty green stuff, the squishy paste that is called tomalley, and I did. I found lots of the delicious green stuff. I have never wanted to ask anyone what tomalley really was for fear that it could be something horrible, like digested food, but when I looked up the spelling, I learned the awful truth. Tomalley functions as both the liver and the pancreas of the lobster. Now I think eating the liver and pancreas of a lobster sounds terrible, just as terrible as eating digested food, but I have always loved the green stuff. Now that I have read the details on Wikipedia, I'm not sure whether I will eat tomalley ever again because I learned that tomalley often contains toxins and other pollutants, which possibly can give off a number of negative health effects if eaten in large concentrations. Fortunately since I only eat a whole lobster once every couple of years, I doubt I have to worry, but on that special day with my girlfriends in Kennebunkport, I ate two whole Maine lobsters and lots of tomalley.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">After the table was cleared, Billi placed a large home-made blueberry pie and a bowl of vanilla ice cream on the table for us to share. Mainiacs, as people from Maine are called, know that after consuming a lobster (or two), the tastiest dessert is a piece (or two) of fresh blueberry pie topped with vanilla ice cream. Those tiny Maine blueberries are superior to blueberries grown anywhere else on the planet.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">The lobster feast was the edible portion of a very special day-long reunion among five good friends who graduated together in 1961from Gould Academy, a boarding school in Bethel, Maine. The non-edible portions of our day were non-stop talking, considerable introspection, some true confessions, and just a tiny bit of good clean gossip.</span><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>L-R LOUISE, BILLI, SANDY, PAM AND HILDA</b></td></tr>
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<span style="font-size: large;">The Adventure continues...............</span><br />
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3268301984789150098.post-54286311044209511022016-09-04T16:17:00.000-07:002016-09-04T16:17:36.516-07:00A PHOTO FEAST IN NORWAY'S LAND OF THE MIDNIGHT SUN<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: large;">If you ask a traveler to name a favorite place to visit, the Norwegian fjords are often mentioned because of their dramatic and extraordinary beauty. Once Bruce knew that a hip replacement was in his near future, we decided to see the fjords in Norway, and traveling by small cruise ship seemed like the ideal way to do it. </span>After researching the internet and talking to friends, we chose a two-week itinerary on the Seabourn line, embarking and disembarking in Copenhagen, Denmark, and traveling through the Fjords as far north as the North Cape, which is above the Arctic Circle. We stopped at different ports in both directions and had four scenic and reading days at sea, which we enjoyed. Thanks to the ship's small size, we were able to get deep into many fjords, even managing a 360 degree turnaround at the head of the very narrow Trollfjord. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">The following are photographs and commentary from our trip, including a series of images of the Norwegian section of the EuroVelo, a network of popular bicycling routes throughout Europe.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><b>A day in Sognefjorden and the fishing village of Flam</b></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">"Do you live in Flam?" I asked the woman sitting next to me on the train, as we started our ascent to Myrdal. I figured she must be local since she carried a lunch sack, and while the rest of us stared in awe at the amazing scenery around us, she seemed rather bored. She said she<i> lived in Flam but worked on top at Myrdal, where she rented bicycles to tourists, who preferred descending by bike rather than the train. </i> That's when I wished I'd researched more extensively on the train ride before buying our tickets in advance because biking down a mountain road surrounded by gorgeous alpine scenery seemed more appealing to me than returning by train. The Flamsbana Railway, an engineering wonder, is one of the steepest train lines in the world, where almost 80% of the journey is at a gradient of 5.5%, taking you from ocean level at the end of Sognefjord in Flam to the scenic mountain top called Myrdal. The train travels through twenty tunnels, and there are stunning waterfalls and multiple viewpoints. </span><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>FLAMSBANA RAILWAY, A 20KM LONG ENGINEERING WONDER, STOPS IN MYRDAL</b></td></tr>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><b>Bergen</b></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Surrounded by seven hills and seven fjords, Bergen is a charming city, well known as a major northern outpost of the Hanseatic League, a 13th century trading group based in the city states of Germany. At its height the League had over 150 member cities and was northern Europe's most powerful economic entity. Bergen's oldest quarter runs along the eastern shore of the harbor with rows of colorful gabled buildings dating from the Hanseatic era. Most of the day we explored the inner city, visited one of several museums and walked the wharf where we took photos in the fish market and watched performers doing their thing on city streets.</span><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>COLORFUL RESTORED HANSEATIC TRADING BUILDINGS ON BERGEN'S WATERFRONT</b></td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>THIS STREET PERFORMER ATTRACTED MANY TOURISTS</b></td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>COOKING UP SOME VEGETABLES AT ONE OF THE OPEN FISH MARKET RESTAURANTS</b></td></tr>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><b>Alesund</b></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><span style="font-size: large;">In 1904, a massive fire burned the fishing village of Alesund. When the city was rebuilt, the Art Nouveau style of architecture was flourishing in Europe, and today's visitors to Alesund enjoy a city of concentrated Art Nouveau beauty. Spread over seven different islands and connected by bridges and undersea tunnels, Alesund relies on its fishing industry and provides cod and cod liver oil to Europe and the rest of the world. It is also a favorite stop for tourists who either visit by car or by cruise ship, like we did. We spent most of the day on foot exploring the picturesque town,</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">marveling at the elegant designs and geometric forms, but we opted to take the Hop-on Hop-off bus to the Aksla Viewpoint rather than walking the 418 steps.</span><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>BEAUTIFUL ALESUND FROM AKSLA VIEWPOINT (if you look to the left you will see the Seabourn Quest)</b></td></tr>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><b>Lofoten Islands</b></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Draped across the turbulent waters of the Norwegian Sea, an archipelago called the Lofoten Islands sits far above the Arctic Circle, which this time of year means 24/7 sunshine. Arriving at the port of Solver, we rented a car and explored some of the bridge-connected islands, indented by numerous inlets and fjords. With blue skies and a few puffy clouds, we were offered an unobstructed view of a beautiful landscape with majestic mountains, and small fishing villages where you could stay in old fishermen's cabins and eat stockfish, made from spawning cod. </span><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>ONE OF MANY ROCKY INLETS AMONG THE LOFOTEN ISLANDS</b></td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>A REAR VIEW</b></td></tr>
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<span style="font-size: large;">With our ship's onboard credit, Bruce and I decided to sign up for one of the pricey excursions. Although this meant setting our alarm for 4:30 a.m, the opportunity to photograph puffins and other seabirds was too tempting to pass up just so we could sleep in.</span><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>A CLOSE-UP VIEW</b></td></tr>
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<span style="font-size: large;">THE NORTH CAPE (NORDKAPP)</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Barren and rocky with not a tree in sight, the North Cape (or Nordkapp as it is called by Norwegians) is a destination that many travelers brag about so they can say they traveled to the furthest northern point in continental Europe. Although 200,000 visitors come to Nordkapp every summer, very few Norwegians actually live there year round, except for those people involved in a very robust fishing industry about which I will write a separate post. Despite its remote location and small year-round population, the government has constructed the most amazing highway system with not a single pothole or frost heave. From our car we could see miles and miles of empty paved roads that stretched out way beyond us. We often saw more bicycles on those roads than cars.</span><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>DRIVING THE NORTH CAPE LANDSCAPE</b></td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>TOURISTS GATHER AT THIS MONUMENT AT NORTH CAPE, WHERE THE SUN NEVER SETS FROM MID-MAY TO LATE JULY</b></td></tr>
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<span style="font-size: large;">When exploring by car, it seemed we were always buckling and unbuckling our seat belts so we could get out and take photos. Often we talked to the locals who lived in fishing villages, and we enjoyed chatting up self-supported cyclists, when they stopped by the side of the road to take a break. All of the cyclists with whom we spoke were Europeans from cities like Amsterdam, Munich and Vienna. We never met any American cyclists, although I'm sure they were there. These cycling athletes were touring Scandinavia and riding the EuroVelo I circuit for 30 to 60 days, all the way from their home in Europe to the North Cape. In Norway this demanding endeavor is at least a 2500 kilometer bicycle adventure that only the most physically and mentally fit cyclists can undertake. It requires biking long distances daily and carrying heavy gear in panniers and packs attached to their bicycles. This is known as self-contained cycling. One man we talked to said he was carrying 65 pounds. Another cyclist we saw taking a break and puffing on a Lucky Strike admitted she didn't smoke very often. How anyone doing a ride like that could even think of smoking--even infrequently--just amazes me.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><span style="font-size: large;">The following five images are two cyclists we saw riding above the Arctic Circle near Nordkapp. I wish I could tell you that these photos were me biking with a friend, but you would know it wasn't true because I'm not blond nor could I pass for 50. But truth be known, </span><span style="font-size: large;">self-supported bike touring has never been something I've wanted to do, especially at this stage of my life. Instead I would prefer that someone transport my gear, and serve me delicious meals. Taking a hot shower at the end of a long day in the saddle would also be required, and I've never been comfortable on the ground in a sleeping bag unless I had a blow up mattress which would be another heavy item to carry on a bike. No one would call me high maintenance, but the moniker of princess might be appropriate when it comes to self-contained, multi-day bike tours. </span><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>CYCLING THE EUROVELO 1 -- 2500 KILOMETERS IN NORWAY</b></td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>IF THIS WERE ME I WOULDN'T BE SMILING</b></td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>THIS IS WHAT IS MEANT BY SELF-CONTAINED</b></td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>CYCLNG ON TOP OF THE WORLD AT NORDKAPP</b></td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>THE END OF A LONG DAY IN THE SADDLE</b></td></tr>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><span style="font-size: large;">And so I say so long to the beautiful land of the Midnight Sun.</span>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><span style="font-size: large;">The adventure continues..........</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3268301984789150098.post-17094734971423755692016-07-17T11:11:00.001-07:002016-07-17T12:00:56.347-07:00THE CONFESSIONS OF A CHOCOHOLIC<span style="font-size: large;">I confess I'm addicted to certain foods and one of them is chocolate. I've called myself a binge eater for years, but primarily with foods that have </span><span style="font-size: large;">sugar or salt. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><span style="font-size: large;">By binging I mean give me a potato chip, and I'll eat the entire bag. One handful of nuts and one hour later the can is empty. And, of course, there's chocolate. One square becomes two, then turns into three or four until the entire bar or package has been consumed. Bruce hides his Milka bar because he knows I will eat all of it. Chocolate chip cookies? When my friend Jane brings her freshly-baked chocolate chip cookies on a bike ride, I manage to eat more than my share and hope no one else notices. Her cookies are especially addictive because when they are warm, straight out of the oven, she sprinkles them lightly with salt. The best way to manage my binging problem is to keep half-opened food packages, like chocolate bars, chips and cookies, out of sight because for me there is no such thing as <i>just one</i>.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">With this personal factoid in mind, you can imagine how serendipidous it must be to have a good friend who owns a chocolate factory! Yes, really--and not just a Willy Wonka version, but a major worldwide supplier. Last week I finally made it to Germany to visit our good friend, Claus, and his family, and most happily, the amazing chocolate factory. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">The company, Rubezahl Schokoladen, was founded in 1949 by Joseph Cersovsky, the grandfather of Claus, who is now the company's CEO and the <i>King of Chocolate.</i> The company, which has several plants in Germany, is headquartered near Stuttgart, and is still a family business, but a mighty big one, with more than 800 employees. We were excited to be able to don our sanitary coats and hats and tour the factory, from raw material to finished products ready for the retail shelves. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Rubezahl makes several different chocolate products and until recently was best known for making seasonal products, like chocolate Santa Clauses, Easter bunnies and advent calendars. In fact, in 2014 they sold 30 million advent calendars that year. As the company grew, so did their product line, and now they make a variety of products using about 40,000 tons of chocolate each year, and exporting to over 50 countries worldwide. One seasonal product that I think is unique is the chocolate advent calendar, but my sweet tooth ranked their Sun Rice crunchy as number one.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Chocolate consists of the basic ingredients: cacao mass, cacao butter, sugar and milk powder. The milk powder comes in enormous bags weighing 750 kilos (2.2 pounds per kilogram) or 1,650 pounds, as much as the weight of one cow. </span><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>THE KING OF CHOCOLATE POSING WITH BAGS OF MILK POWDER</b></td></tr>
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<span style="font-size: large;">First the ingredients are weighed, and the milk powder is mixed in with the cacao mass, butter and sugar and ground together</span><span style="font-size: large;"> by big rollers and kneaded by a huge food processor. The chocolate is stirred in a vessel that resembles a conch shell and is, therefore, <i>conched</i> for multiple hours at a very high temperature, and then stored in huge tanks. Conching is considered to be a very important step in producing chocolate's complex flavor and smooth texture.</span><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>CHOCOLATE SLURRY DESTINED FOR GREAT THINGS</b></td></tr>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><span style="font-size: large;">It was fascinating to watch the production of Sun Rice squares. This addictive little treat is a chocolate square filled with crunchy little morsels. Cereals, puffed rice and rice crackers are mixed and blended with the cacao creme. The Sun Rice mass goes through big rollers until it is smooth and compressed to the right thickness. </span><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>SUN RICE READY TO BE CUT INTO SQUARES</b></td></tr>
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<span style="font-size: large;">As the Sun Rice filling blend moves along the conveyer belt, grooves are pressed into the bottom of the dough, resulting in long Sun Rice strips, which eventually get cross-cut into squares. When the morsels are almost done, it needs a chocolate coating, which happens when the morsels are pulled apart. The Sun Rice morsel moves onto a grid through a curtain of whole milk chocolate which coats the pieces perfectly. Afterwards the squares go through a cooling tunnel for about five minutes, which makes the chocolate solid. </span><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>WOULDN'T YOU LOVE ONE RIGHT NOW?</b></td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>I WANT ONE, TWO, THREE!</b></td></tr>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Finally, a robotic picker system recognizes each individual morsel and the robotic arms put the pieces into small compartmentalized thin plastic trays.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">(See Youtube Videos at the end to watch the robotic arms at work)</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Now the trays are wrapped with foil and packed into cardboard boxes ready for shipment.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Rubezahl is one of the largest buyers of UTZ certified cacao, the largest program for sustainable farming of coffee and cacoa in the world. They buy different brands of cacoa from West Africa, Ivory Coast, Ecuador, and Madagascar. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">When we left Germany, the King of Chocolate made sure we brought home an ample supply of every product that Rubezahl produces. Our refrigerator, the best place to store chocolate until it is ready to be eaten, is full. Rest assured. I have made a pact with myself to only open the chocolate when I want to share with friends. CHOCOHOLICS BEWARE. </span><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>CHOCOLATE SANTA AND HIS HELPERS</b></td></tr>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://youtu.be/aKO9dhrsxjs">YouTube -- chocolates on a roll</a></span><br />
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<a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3yBlR0WxnqI&feature=youtu.be">YOUTUBE -- WATCH THE ROBOTS WORK</a><br />
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YUnknownnoreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3268301984789150098.post-18591891419597125522016-06-16T21:56:00.000-07:002016-06-16T21:56:29.912-07:00THE MAN I LOVE<span style="font-size: large;">His paychecks stopped long ago, but he still keeps an office, which I call his man cave. The cramped room is filled with heavy, dark wood furniture he has had for years, back when he got a paycheck. Loose papers cover his desk and legal-size manilla folders are stacked on the credenza behind him where he also keeps his printer, a copier machine, and an ancient IBM Selectric typewriter which he uses to type addresses on envelopes. There are yellow post-it notes stuck to his computer that remind him of deadlines and other tasks to do. The framed certificates on the wall bring back memories of a time when he had billable hours. His office is lit by fluorescent ceiling bulbs and an old floor lamp with a shade that is slightly singed around the edges. They don't make phones like the one he has anymore. It isn't even retro like a Princess. His desk faces the door so that the wires and cables from his computer are visible to people who happen to drop by. These are occasional visitors, like me or sometimes other tenants from the building. He says <i>he's relieved that outside people don't visit</i>; otherwise he would have to dust and use a vacuum cleaner, which he would bring from home.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">He has a collection of empty Amazon boxes he saves for mailing presents to his kids who live in other cities. The sagging bookcases, there are two of them, hold heavy textbooks containing out-of-date information that he used when he practiced tax law and got a paycheck, which he called <i>bringing home the bacon</i>. He doesn't say that anymore -- only that he's semi-retired because a retired person must be boring since they are not doing interesting stuff that most working people want to talk about.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><span style="font-size: large;">Although it takes a while, he eventually opens every piece of mail, including advertisements from carpet cleaners announcing a special deal, even though we have hardwood floors at our house. Occasionally there is a check inside one of those envelopes, which he calls <i>found money</i> because it's not a paycheck. He has no billable hours, but he's semi-retired. </span><span style="font-size: large;">This is the man I married. The man I love and adore. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"> Happy Birthday, Bruce! </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3268301984789150098.post-8639131844550279712016-05-28T21:33:00.001-07:002016-05-28T21:33:48.616-07:00IRELAND: THE PEOPLE, THE LANDSCAPE, AND DRIVING ON THE LEFT<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>OUR FIRST GLIMPSE OF IRELAND</b></td></tr>
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<span style="font-size: large;">In his Ireland guidebook Rick Steves writes, <i>If you really want to know the Irish, just ask for directions</i>. In her Biker Chick Gone Crazy blog Pam Perkins writes, <i>If you really want to know the Irish, hail a taxi. </i> And that's exactly what we did after exiting the Dublin airport to join our friends Lynne and Fred for a two week driving trip around Ireland beginning in Dublin and concluding in Belfast. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">"Take us to the Croke Park Hotel," we asked the cab driver who was first in line to take a fare, and he whisked us away, talking continuously about places we must go and things we should see during our two days in Dublin, like Trinity College to see the Book of Kells. "Drink a pint or two at the Brazen Head Pub," he said, "because this is the oldest pub in Dublin. You'll hear great stories told through music, and maybe you'll meet a faerie folk or two." </span><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">THE LIBRARY AT TRINITY COLLEGE</td></tr>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Even though we used the Hop-On-Hop-Off bus for transportation throughout Dublin, we took cabs as well. Every cabbie, without exception, took great personal interest in us, asking why we were in Ireland, and what we planned to do. The cabbie who drove us to pick up our rental car told us about great places to eat along our driving route, but he endeared himself to us when he sang a song (with multiple verses) about a nostalgic time in 1962, and then gave us each a bear hug when we said goodbye. Knowing the congeniality of the Irish, I bet if we'd stuck around another day, he would have invited us home for supper. We were clutching our sides laughing when another cabbie bragged about his upcoming trip to Vegas while his wife travels to Hungary for a breast reduction procedure. </span><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>ONE OF OUR CABBIES</b></td></tr>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><span style="font-size: large;">In addition to cabs and busses, we walked many miles combing the city streets, seeing the sights and looking for unique places to eat and cozy pubs for drinking and listening to live traditional music. Our favorite pub turned out to be the popular Brazen Head because the music was very authentic, but we also enjoyed lunches at The Bank and the Lion's Head Pub. We also checked out the night life in the Temple Bar area (a bit like Bourbon Street in New Orleans), listening to music, drinking Guinness and Bruce's favorite, Franciscan Rebel Red. I even met a faerie.</span></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>LUNCH AT THE BANK IN DUBLIN</b></td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>THE BRAZEN HEAD, THE OLDEST PUB IN DUBLIN</b></td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>ONE FAERIE FOLK</b></td></tr>
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<b><span style="font-size: large;">How many Californians does it take to drive in Ireland?</span></b></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">The answer is four --Fred and Bruce in the front seat navigating and driving on the wrong side of the road (i.e. the left with the steering wheel on the right), and Lynne and Pam squeezed together in the back seat yelling "Waaaatch out, you are toooooo close to the edge," or "Oh, my God, you almost hit that car." Fred and Bruce got the hang of driving on the left fairly quickly, but we sucked a lot of air when meeting oncoming cars, trucks and buses hugging the center line of a narrow road. Actually, we were hit twice when one crazy guy passed us going downhill on a narrow curvy road, and another time a young woman rear-ended us when we slowed down to follow a cyclist riding in the road. We stopped both times but fortunately for all concerned, there was no damage to any of the cars. It seems our GPS lady found driving in Ireland a challenge too, but that didn't have anything to do with driving on the left. Although we always plugged in the right information, she often had us going in the opposite direction or driving around in circles. Often we'd shut her up, and use road signs, which weren't always helpful either, and our map didn't show the detail of the smaller roads, only the major highways. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><span style="font-size: large;">On Day One out of Dublin, we pulled into the small town of Kilkenny about 5 pm, but we didn't find our hotel (The Pembroke) until way past 6. The</span><span style="font-size: large;"> GPS lady seemed to be in another country or on vacation so she made matters worse, but the sign for the Pembroke was also very small, making it almost impossible to notice. In fact, we passed the hotel several times before we finally saw the sign, and that's only because the guys gave in to Lynne's and my pleading to ask someone for directions. As it turned out that person happened to be an American who was trying to get his car out of a locked parking lot. Fortunately, a local fellow heard us and directed us to the hotel. </span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-f_0z0RliF9w/V0oe3JKijEI/AAAAAAAAIzo/J7QfLL--XOIWFaUir3DVHAvlFl0N4kAEQCKgB/s1600/Best%2Bof%2BIreland-14.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="306" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-f_0z0RliF9w/V0oe3JKijEI/AAAAAAAAIzo/J7QfLL--XOIWFaUir3DVHAvlFl0N4kAEQCKgB/s400/Best%2Bof%2BIreland-14.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>THE COLORFUL BUILDINGS IN KINSALE</b></td></tr>
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<span style="font-size: large;">If you love castles, then Ireland should be on your bucket list because every city, town, and village seems to have a castle or at least a ruin that might qualify as a castle, like the Rock of Cashel. Other famous castles are the Bunratty, Blarney, Dunguaire, Cahir, </span><span style="font-size: large;">Ross, Dunluce, etc. My favorite was the Rock of Cashel, which is not a castle <u>per</u> <u>se</u>, but it is definitely one of Ireland's most historic sights. I especially loved photographing the cemetery there. In fact I took pictures at many cemeteries during our trip. </span><span style="font-size: large;"> What is it about cemeteries that speak to me visually?</span><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>THE ROCK OF CASHEL LOCATED IN THE COUNTY TIPPERARY</b></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-U77HMmi-o60/V0oLVsKTrpI/AAAAAAAAIxw/DUL5p_1UyC4SEILA877JD824lx-UWcqNACKgB/s1600/Best%2Bof%2BIreland-11.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="542" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-U77HMmi-o60/V0oLVsKTrpI/AAAAAAAAIxw/DUL5p_1UyC4SEILA877JD824lx-UWcqNACKgB/s640/Best%2Bof%2BIreland-11.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>CEMETERY AT CASHEL</b></td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>INSIDE ROCK OF CASHEL</b></td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>THE BLARNEY CASTLE BUT WE DID NOT KISS THE STONE</b></td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>OLD CEMETERY AT GLENDALOUGH</b></td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>CAHIR CASTLE, BUILT IN 1142</b></td></tr>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><span style="font-size: large;">Although many kids in my hometown came from Irish descent, I really didn't know much about Ireland until I met my close friend, Helen Cassidy Page, whose mom and dad were born there. In my youth no one seemed interested in their heritage, myself included. After several trips with members from her family, Helen published a beautiful historical novel entitled <a href="https://www.amazon.com/Equal-God-Historical-Ireland-Before-ebook/dp/B00UVXYHY6?ie=UTF8&keywords=equal%20of%20god&qid=1464459178&ref_=sr_1_1&s=digital-text&sr=1-1">The Equal of God</a></span><span style="font-size: large;"> about Irish life in the 1800s before and during the potato famine. (Click on title to find her book on Amazon). Her evocative novel helped me appreciate Ireland's history in the context of my own trip, so when I stopped in Charlestown, the village where her father was born, I felt goosebumps, especially when I learned from a resident on the street that the Cassidy's lived just around the corner.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><span style="font-size: large;"><b>Wow! Everything is so green.</b></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><span style="font-size: large;">In addition to the many kindnesses of the Irish people, what makes Ireland so special are the varied and beautiful landscapes. My courses in landscape photography were not a waste of time. I returned home with 1800 photos on my SD card, which are taking a long time to sort through. I had many favorites viewpoints, but the Gap of Dunloe, where we took a horse and buggy ride with charming Kevin, had to be one of the most beautiful. Walking along the Giant's Causeway in Northern Ireland is also high on the list. I loved the historic monastic settlement of Glendalough, and the scenic Wicklow Mountains, where we photographed a wild mountain goat staring at us from the the peat bog on Military Road just over Sally Gap. </span><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>THE WILD GOAT ON MILITARY ROAD AT SALLY GAP</b></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-04pSs4igGhM/V0oOnc0Z1SI/AAAAAAAAIyM/Eu8X0o5moIg7Jl0BLT_Z-xd8UB5f9WF5gCKgB/s1600/Best%2Bof%2BIreland-19.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="448" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-04pSs4igGhM/V0oOnc0Z1SI/AAAAAAAAIyM/Eu8X0o5moIg7Jl0BLT_Z-xd8UB5f9WF5gCKgB/s640/Best%2Bof%2BIreland-19.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>A HORSE AND BUGGY RIDE UP THE GAP OF DUNLOE</b></td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>GAP OF DUNLOE</b></td></tr>
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<span style="font-size: large;">The prolific yellow bush called furze in Ireland but Scotch broom here at home, bloomed prolifically and the predominance of the bright yellow weed made for a stunning contrast to the green hills, the blue water, and the often white puffy clouds. Yes, white puffy clouds because the weather in general was pretty nice, some cloudy but dry days and even days with sun. While the iconic Ring of Kerry was a lovely drive, we enjoyed the Dingle Peninsula more, most likely because the day was sunny. We saw a gazillion sheep grazing on the verdant hillsides or free range along the road. It is the color of paint on the fleece of the sheep that distinguishes one owner from another. As a dog person, my thrill was watching well-trained border collies herd sheep scattered all over the hillside into a tight pack and drive them quickly into a pen below us. </span><span style="font-size: large;">The farmer told us that sheep respond to the dogs as if they were wolves, a basic instinct in sheep that forces them to pack together for protection. </span><span style="font-size: large;">There is something about watching dogs do what they were bred for that brings tears to my eyes. Visiting a sheep farm was a touristy thing to do, as evidenced by the number of big tour buses parked at the farm we visited. We were packed together with a hundred or more tourists who rode in those behemoths, but it didn't matter. We still enjoyed the event. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><u>Beautiful Irish scenery</u></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><span style="font-size: large;">We were looking forward to exploring an unusual geological area called The Burren, but that's when our rental car, a Renault SUV, broke down. Fortunately, we had arrived early at our B&B and unloaded our luggage before setting out on a drive in the boonies, where no one lives and there's no cell phone coverage either. I'll leave out the details except to say that the car's gearbox died, and the only functioning gear was first and that didn't get us far very fast. When we finally made it back to the B&B, a charming place called Fergus View, the owners, Mary and her husband Declan, helped us deal with the bureaucracies of a rental agency, and after much pleading, we found a new rental car in the driveway of our B&B when we awoke the next morning. Just as they promised, the new car was delivered from Dublin in the middle of the night on a flat bed truck, but honestly, after all the different people we had to talk to, we had our doubts it would happen. </span><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>LABRADOR RETRIEVERS PLAYING AT THE BURREN</b></td></tr>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><span style="font-size: large;">Another favorite place was the lively town of Galway, probably because it was artsy and had youthful energy. The highlight was coming upon the Galway Street Band with its thirteen animated young members playing lively music on a variety of instruments, including a washboard, several guitars, a banjo, saxophone, accordion, trumpet, ukulele, and a box drum, also known as a cajon. Their music wasn't really Irish, but rather a combination of jazz, rock, some blue grass, and maybe a little world music tossed in here and there. Whatever you call it, we loved it--as did the enthusiastic crowd that filled the pedestrian-only intersection. </span><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>THE GALWAY STREET BAND</b></td></tr>
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<span style="font-size: large;">An amazing thing</span><span style="font-size: large;"> happened in downtown Galway when looking for a place to park. Bruce saw a space and quickly paralleled parked into it, but then we all noticed that the curb was painted yellow. Surely this meant something, but we weren't quite sure what. A man in one of the stores said that this was not a parking place, but at that exact moment, a woman, officially-dressed in a pressed white shirt and black pants, marched up to us with paper in hand as though she was planning to write us a ticket. Bruce quickly told her, the traffic warden, we were moving the car, but she surprised us and said it was O.K. to park there. "Do you have one Euro 90?" she asked Bruce, and it just so happened that he had the exact change, which he handed to her. She took the money and disappeared around the corner, while we waited wondering what was going on. When she returned, she handed Bruce a paper receipt and said, "Put this on your dashboard, and stay as long as you want. Just enjoy our town, and have a good time." Yes, amazing! She even let me photograph her with Bruce, but after the photo, she began writing tickets on the other cars parked next to ours. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><span style="font-size: large;">Contrary to what some people told me, Ireland has really delicious food. I couldn't resist the thick slices of home-made soda bread smeared with soft Irish butter, and the warm scones with a touch of berry jam and a dollop of whipped cream went perfectly with my afternoon cup of tea. Since returning home, I've had to change my eating habits. There's no soda bread with Irish butter, and I gave up drinking a pint of Guinness daily. </span><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>THICK SLICES OF SODA BREAD AND IRISH BUTTER</b></td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>TOUGH CHOICES TO MAKE </b></td></tr>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Stay tuned. The adventure continues in Norway next month. </span><br />
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3268301984789150098.post-39492021602655283792016-04-05T23:43:00.000-07:002016-04-05T23:43:05.286-07:00FEAR AND LEARNING IN YOSEMITE VALLEY<span style="font-size: large;">I am recovering from a nightmare that turned into what might be called a transformative experience all within a six hour time frame while I was in Yosemite Valley last weekend participating in a landscape photography workshop.</span><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>YOSEMITE FALLS</b></td></tr>
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<span style="font-size: large;">My five companions were strangers with whom I shared one thing in common: becoming a better photographer. That is why we signed up for a course in a place that many call one of nature's most beautiful creations.</span><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>BRIDALVEIL FALLS</b></td></tr>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><span style="font-size: large;">I went to Yosemite with considerable</span><span style="font-size: large;"> trepidation, concerned that I would not keep up if I didn't understand new concepts. Now that I'm getting older, I often need to hear complex instructions more than once, making me fear I might not measure up. Who wants to look or feel stupid. It's easy to compare myself with other people I envy because they are so skilled and talented as photographers. This is not jealousy. Rather I consider it a type of admiration and a desire for me to grow personally, so that some day I might be able to put my name on the same quality of images they do. The people I'm talking about are not famous photographers like Sally Mann or Ansel Adams. They are people like you and me, but they are very good at what they do. Some friends tell me they like my pictures and encourage me to publish a book, but rather than accepting their comments as compliments, I see them as good friends who just want to be nice.</span><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>REFLECTIONS OF YOSEMITE</b></td></tr>
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<span style="font-size: large;">The instructions for the photography course stressed <i>competence in using one's equipment</i>, which rattled me because I had never used a tripod or a cable release and didn't understand certain terms. For example, what is a mirror lock-up? I spent an hour one day practicing to open and close the new tripod, so that I could do it under two minutes. No one wants to wait around while I fumble, and I didn't want to embarrass myself. Don't laugh, but I even struggle to open and close hiking poles, which function similarly to the legs of a tripod. The first cable release I ordered was overly complicated, so at least I had the sense to exchange it for a simple one, but the second one I ordered never arrived. UPS said it was lost in the mail. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">The workshop weekend was fast approaching -- too fast, in fact, as the course started a few days after I returned from a ten-day trip with the family. Despite all my years of frequent travel, I have never unpacked from one trip while packing for another. Reader, please understand I am not complaining. I want to paint a realistic picture of what was going on in my head as I prepared for this adventure that would use a new part of my brain as I learned new skills. At least that was one of my key objectives.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><span style="font-size: large;">Day One</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">After a five-hour drive we arrived in Yosemite late in the afternoon, and began taking pictures at one of the park's many iconic sights called Valley View. We hoped to catch the last rays of sun shining on the cascading waters of Bridalveil Falls. Although I tend to shoot mainly in the aperture priority setting, the goals for this afternoon were to shoot only in shutter priority setting, to examine the histogram of each photo, and not to worry if the image was overexposed. Our instructor, David, moved easily among us, chatting about how to set up, checking our shutter speeds, and showing us how to evaluate histograms. I took about 45-50 images, but after the sun faded, we packed up our gear and drove 30 minutes back to our motel, which was located outside of the national park. </span><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>BRIDALVEIL FALLS FROM VALLEY VIEW</b></td></tr>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><span style="font-size: large;"> Day Two </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">At 7 a.m. we returned to the valley to capture the early morning light that showcases Yosemite Falls, which was at its peak given this year's excellent snowpack. I had a little pit in my stomach since the peer review session the night before highlighted something I suspected. My five newfound friends were much more experienced photographers than I. Again I compared myself with the others and assumed they knew much more about photography than I did. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><span style="font-size: large;">Today we were instructed to shoot in the manual setting, one which I have avoided because I thought it was too complicated and didn't bother to learn. After David explained the camera setting, the others began shooting away. I didn't understand what he meant as some of this was new language for me. He reviewed the instructions again. <i>What don't you understand? </i> I let him know that numbers scare me. <i>I am a person of words not numbers</i>, I explained to David, but he ignored my excuses and continued to explain. "Pam," he said, "slow down. Follow my directions. Take one step at a time. This is what I want you to do." I took a deep breath and slowed down. I listened more carefully and followed the steps he explained one by one. </span><span style="font-size: large;">A couple of images later I checked my</span><span style="font-size: large;"> histograms and thought to myself, <i>wow,</i> <i> I think I got it. </i> </span><span style="font-size: large;">David </span><span style="font-size: large;">reviewed my histograms and said, "Pam, I think you got it."</span><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>TUNNEL VIEW</b></td></tr>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Day 3 </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><span style="font-size: large;">Today we would have an early start, which meant no time for breakfast. We would leave the motel at 6 a.m. and drive thirty minutes back to the valley and photograph in Cook's Meadow at sunrise. This would be the same spot where Ansel Adams took one of his most treasured images -- the last remaining elm tree in Yosemite Valley, backlit against the dominance of the majestic rock formation called Half Dome.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">The night before I laid out my warmest clothes, so when the alarm went off, I could dress quickly and be on time. There might even be extra time to make a cup of coffee in the small drip pot that was in the room. Some of you know that I am always prompt, if not some times early. </span><span style="font-size: large;"> I set my phone alarm for 5 a.m., shut off the light, and quickly fell asleep, exhausted from a day filled with new facts and information. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">I was in a deep sleep when I barely heard a light knocking at my door. The second knock woke me up, and the third knock had me jumping out of bed. I looked at the clock. It was ten after six! <i> </i>I had overslept<i>, </i>something I have never done before<i>. </i> Half asleep, I fumbled with the security lock and opened the door. "My alarm didn't go off," I shouted to Greg, one of my new friends who came to check on me since I wasn't at the van when we were supposed to leave. I opened the door a crack and groaned, "Oh, dear, I overslept. My alarm never went off." I was stunned. "We're leaving now," Greg said. "We will meet you this afternoon when we return to the motel around 2." What else could I say, but <i>OK, I will see you then</i>, but after closing the door, I stomped around my room like a banshee hen and instead of cluck, cluck, cluck, it was <i>fuck, fuck, fuck</i>." I could hear the rushing water coming from the Merced River right behind my room, but the tears streaming down my face were silent. I sat on the bed and looked at my iPhone. The 5 a.m. alarm was turned on so I don't know why I had a problem.</span><span style="font-size: large;"> I brushed my teeth and quickly dressed. I couldn't worry about the alarm's malfunction. I needed to figure out my alternatives. No way would I sit in this drab motel room and wait until my friends returned from Cook's Meadow after they had fun shooting at sunrise. My head cleared. I had a plan. </span><span style="font-size: large;"><i> </i>I would hitchhike to the valley, and if I was unable to find </span><span style="font-size: large;">Cook's Meadow, I would find another place to photograph and meet the group at Yosemite Lodge for lunch<i>. </i></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Adrenaline surged through my body as I grabbed my jacket, my camera and a hat. My tripod was still in the van from the day before. </span><span style="font-size: large;">I slammed the room's door behind me and rushed out into the large but silent parking lot, which was filled with cars belonging to guests who were sleeping peacefully in their rooms. I looked up and down, over and behind, but there was nothing but silence. </span><span style="font-size: large;"><i>There had to be people wanting to get to the valley at dawn</i>, </span><span style="font-size: large;">I thought, and suddenly I heard a car's engine start somewhere in the vicinity, but I couldn't see where the noise was coming from. I had to hurry and find the car so I could talk to the people about getting a ride. Suddenly I saw headlights coming from a chartreuse-colored van, </span><span style="font-size: large;">and I could see the driver begin to pull away. I ran as fast as I could toward the slowly moving car, yelling for him to stop and thankfully, he did. Rolling down his window, a man looked at me curiously, but he gave me a big smile. I'm sure he heard some panic in my voice. "Are you going to the valley by any chance?" I asked. "Yes, we are," the man said. "Can I hitch a ride with you? I'm here taking pictures with a group, and I screwed up. I overslept."</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">"We'll make room for you," he said as he rolled up two sleeping bags spread out in the back of the van. "We are Bill and Arlene, a couple of Aussies, doing a quick American drive by," he told me. "We came for a conference and thought we would rent a well-equipped camper van and see some of your country's beautiful sights." I climbed into the back of the van and sat on a still-warm mattress, which had been their bed for the night. My legs were outstretched, and I was so rattled, I didn't bother to try and find the seat belt. Adrenaline continued to pump through my body. My anxiety level was very high, but I never asked myself this question. <i>Should I be getting in a car with strangers?</i> I didn't ask myself because hitchhiking to Yosemite Valley was the only solution to my dilemma. It was my plan. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">"Do you know where Cook's Meadow is? " I asked Bill.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">"No, we arrived late last night," he responded, "so we haven't been to the valley yet." "If we can't find the meadow," I told them, "you can drop me off at the lodge, and I'll figure out the rest." I knew there was a good chance I would miss the group, as well as the early morning light. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">The drive seemed to take forever, but once we reached the one-way road I knew we were headed in the right direction. The Aussies asked me a lot of questions about how to get out of Yosemite and drive to Death Valley, but I was so hyper and too focused to give them an answer that I was sure was right. "Take a left turn here," I said when I saw the sign for Sentinel Bridge. David, our instructor, pointed out Sentinel Bridge the day before and pointed out its proximity to Cook's Meadow.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">"There it is. That's the meadow," I shouted when I saw the big black Suburban van we were using parked in a lot across the street. I also thought I saw a blue down jacket that another photographer had been wearing, but she seemed a long way away. "I think I see my friends with their tripods. This is where I want to be dropped off," I said. I got out of the van, pulled a twenty dollar bill from my pocket and shoved it into Bill's hand as a way to say thank you. "No, no," he said. "No way could we take money from you because then we wouldn't see it as our helping out some lady." I gave him a quick hug and he and Arlene drove away. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">My five friends were a good distance from the van, so I ran fast toward them shouting, "Hey guys, it's me. I'm here. Don't leave. Please wait." I was breathless by the time I reached them, and they were shocked and amazed to see me. David handed me the van keys so I could run back and retrieve my tripod. "We only have ten more minutes of decent light," David said, "so please hurry, but avoid running on the boardwalk because you might cause some vibration for others taking photos. I ran as fast as I could back to the car and grabbed my tripod from the trunk. Then I ran back again, opening up my tripod as I moved. How amazing. Just a week before I was in my living room learning to open and close the tripod legs under two minutes, and now I was running as fast as I could back to the group and opening the tripod legs at the same time. Luckily I didn't trip and fall. I found a spot, set up my tripod and turned the knob to secure my camera on the tripod's head. I saw the reflection of Yosemite Falls in a small pool of water surrounded by the meadow grass, and the beauty overwhelmed me. I fought back tears as I turned on my camera. David's advice from the previous day repeated itself in my head. <i>Slow down, take one step at a time, focus, and press the shutter release. </i>Six or seven images later, the other photographers were closing up their tripods. The light was changing fast. We had to move on. I tried to speak to everyone in a calm voice. I didn't want anyone to guess that my emotions were in overdrive. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><span style="font-size: large;">Like photographers do, we followed the light and eventually found another area in which to shoot. I still couldn't believe that my hitchhiking plan worked, and I was here now with the others taking images of Yosemite Falls reflected in the water, as well as images of the slowly dying lone elm tree backlit against the granite face of Half Dome.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">After a late breakfast at the lodge, we had time to browse in the Ansel Adams Gallery next door. I wanted to ask about a signed Ansel Adams photograph I bought in this same gallery for $10 in 1967 because over the years I have wondered whether the signature meant the photograph was an original. I talked with a young man who asked me questions about my photograph. His questions morphed into a nice conversation about the beauty and solitude of Ansel's images, and that's when I started to cry. It wasn't an out and out bawl. Tears simply welled up in my eyes and slid down my cheeks. I'm not sure what the clerk thought when I quickly wiped the tears away, but I know he saw them. He probably could also hear some emotion in my voice as I spoke. He might have thought I was some crazy lady reliving her life in the sixties. Then I saw a series of small books on a table nearby and picked up one called <i>The Four Agreements</i>. As I leafed through the self-help book, one of the four agreements jumped out at me. It said <i>Do not make assumptions</i>. Continuing further, I read that <i>making assumptions is believing they are true.</i> In other words we often don't perceive things the way they really are. We imagine what other people think, and we make up stories about ourselves and quickly jump to conclusions. David's words echoed in my head. <i>Pam, slow down and focus. You will get this. </i>We assume that others think the way we think, feel the way we feel, and judge the way we judge. This is why we sometimes fear that others will judge us and blame us as we often do to ourselves. I bought <i>The Four Agreements </i>book, as a gift, knowing I will order another copy for myself because each of the Four Agreements were pertinent to how I want to live my life.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">After the drive back to the motel following lunch, I went to my room and called Bruce. I told him about what had happened that morning, how horrible I felt, how devastated I was to possibly miss out, and how I blamed myself for being so stupid not to set a second alarm, although that is something I actually never do. I always rely on my phone. Then I started to cry. These were not simply a few tears. I really began to bawl. There was silence on the other end. I blabbered something about how stunned I was at my perseverance to get to Cook's Meadow on my own. Through the tears, I tried to explain the anxiety I was feeling but at the same time I asked Bruce what was it about this experience that made me so emotional. I just didn't understand. Honestly, it took at least several minutes for the bawling to stop. All this time Bruce remained silent on the phone "Do you know why I'm crying so hard?" I asked. "What's going on?" Why am I so emotional? </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">"Yes, I know, Bruce said softly. "I know because I understand you.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">What you were feeling this morning was panic and humiliation. Panic that you would miss out on something really really special, and humiliation because you thought others would judge you. But you overcame the panic and focused on how you were going to resolve the problem. You used resources you didn't know you had, and even though you were taking somewhat of a chance by getting into a vehicle with strangers, your resolve to get to Yosemite any way you could pushed you into another zone. In the beginning it was fear but in the end it was determination, and I have seen you do this before. This is one of the reasons I love you." "Oh, my God, you do understand me," I sobbed. You truly do. There was enormous power in Bruce's words. He truly did understand me. But why do I do this? Why do I compare myself with others? Are these fears based on faulty assumptions I make about myself. There is no need to judge myself based on the abilities of others. Can I possibly transform my mind and understand that in reality I am fundamentally equal to others? Although I pose this as a question, I must accept this as the truth.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">It took a combination of fear, determination, and a plan, plus a few sentences from a self-help book to bring me to this realization. But the real essence of this growing experience was the insights of my incredible husband who truly does understand me, and his ability to synthesize and summarize my babbling words, which set me on a course of continuing to try and understand myself. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">In the meantime, I can exult in my beautiful images of Yosemite Valley, no doubt enhanced by my newly-gained facility of shooting in manual. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><b>NB: If you are interested in learning more about David's workshops and the programs he offers, please write me at bikerchickgonecrazy@gmail.com. The two workshops I attended were excellent, and I highly recommend him.</b><br />
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<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3268301984789150098.post-36387458815030814482016-02-08T20:07:00.000-08:002016-02-08T20:07:49.625-08:00SALLY (1934-2016)<span style="font-size: large;">I just received word that an important person in my life and someone I called my friend passed away last month. </span><span style="font-size: large;">Sally died when she was 81. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">I remember where we were when she told me she had been diagnosed with Parkinson's. We were riding the Stevens Creek loop on our bicycles, which meant a long climb and a steep descent into the village of Saratoga, where we always took a break at a cafe where people hung out with their dogs. Besides loving to bike, Sally adored her animals, so this particular cafe had more appeal than just loading up on caffeine and enjoying conversation. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><span style="font-size: large;">When she told me, we had passed the reservoir and were riding single file on a narrow bumpy road, and as usual, I was behind her, bringing up the rear. People who ride in the back intentionally are called the sweep, but I didn't deserve that esteemed title. I rode back there because I was slow. Sally turned her head and yelled something back at me, but the wind made it difficult to hear, so I didn't catch it all. I heard her say <i>I haven't told many people yet</i>, but then her words were garbled until I heard her say <i>Parkinson's. </i>Hearing that word stunned me. I didn't know whether I should ask her to tell me again or ask her to get off her bike so I could hug her. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">"Let's stop," I said, but she didn't hear me so we kept on riding until we came to the bathrooms at the bottom of the first steep climb. We leaned our bikes against the fence, and that's when she said "I've talked with Bob, and told him I want to go to Oregon when it's time to die. I don't want to be hooked up to a machine<i>."</i> Just a few years before, the State of Oregon had passed the Death with Dignity legislation that allowed terminally ill patients to end their life voluntarily. When I heard these words, I looked at her more closely than I had looked at her before. She didn't seem any different, she didn't shake, nor did she look sick. The symptoms of Parkinson's were not obvious. <i>How could she be sick? She rides strong, </i>I thought<i>.</i> I don't remember what else I said, if anything. I'd like to think it was something comforting like <i>I hope you don't go to Oregon for a long time. </i>She swung her right leg over the bike seat, clipped the cleats of her shoes into the pedals, and started to climb the hill before us. We never talked about her Parkinson's again. I wasn't ready to face her mortality and talking about it might have made me face mine. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><span style="font-size: large;">I met Sally on a club ride around 1994, shortly after I bought a bike. She and her biking girlfriends were older than I, but they didn't take themselves too seriously, and as a new rider I felt more relaxed riding with them than with an established bike club where testosterone could be called an infectious disease. When riders talk about bike clubs, they often assess whether it's easy or difficult to fit in, but for me it wasn't so much about fitting in. I suffered from lack of confidence. I had anxieties about keeping up. And most of the time I didn't, and no one likes being dropped on a club ride.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">After riding with Sally off and on for about year, I thought I might do a bike tour in New Zealand. Sally pushed me to give the tour company my credit card and sign on the dotted line. She urged me to rent a lighter bike so that when I came home, I'd be ready to trade in my heavy hybrid for a lighter road bike. The best advice she gave was to take my own pedals and my own bike seat. As it turned out, the shop in Christchurch only had mountain bikes for rent, and although the rental bike was even heavier than the one I had at home, it didn't matter because Sally made sure I understood that bicycle touring was also about having fun. </span><span style="font-size: large;"> </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><span style="font-size: large;">As a role model, Sally energized me, and helped me to believe that some day I would ride as fast as she did. She inspired other people too. Many of us, especially women, who rode bikes looked up to her as someone we wanted to be when we grew up -- even though we were all grown ups at the time. Until I met Sally, I never knew a woman who had ridden her bike across the country. <i>Across the entire United States,</i> I would tell people. And I'm not sure, but I think she did that ride self-supported, meaning she carried all of her clothes and other gear in panniers that were attached to her bicycle. She often clocked 10,000 miles a year on her bike. <i>You could do it too</i>, she would say to me, <i>but you need to buy a lighter bike and spend more hours in the saddle.</i> She loved to challenge us physically. When I met her in the early 90s and didn't know what more hours in the saddle really meant, she was the strongest woman cyclist I knew. She even passed my then-husband going up a steep hill, and for days after, he talked about how Sally passed him. Her legs moved like pistons. Although she was a good climber, her nemesis was Quinn Hill, but she made it to the top. Not too many people can do that. She stood in her saddle and her weight shifted side to side as she cranked up that hill with fast riders, but she never complained when she rode with me as I climbed slowly in my granny gear, promising her that some day I would buy a lighter bike. And although I eventually bought a carbon-fiber bike, I never came close to riding like Sally.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">After Sally mentioned her illness, we biked off and on for a couple of years, but as her disease took hold, she didn't ride as much, and because she wasn't biking with her girlfriends, neither was I. At the same time I met a couple of other women who loved to bike and were about my speed. Over time I heard from people who knew Sally well that she still rode her bike, but to be safe she and her husband rode the Baylands trail or around the neighborhood to avoid the hazards of traffic. We didn't see each other after that, but I would hear about her decline from friends who were close to her. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Now that she's gone I am sorry I didn't stay in touch, that I didn't make an effort to visit her. Someone told me that she'd had some type of procedure that enabled her to type and use email, so I emailed her once, but she never wrote back. When I saw her friends, I would ask how she was doing, but their news was never encouraging.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Sally leaves a legacy within the biking community. Her many friends will always remember her encouraging words and what an inspiration she was. Sally, we miss you. Wherever you are, may the wind always be at your back and your sweet dog, Ginny, close by your side.</span><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>1999 (L-R ) SALLY, PAM, JOSIE, MARY AND LISA<br />(Taken at a party for my biking friends to meet Lisa who was our guide on the New Zealand trip)</b></td></tr>
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<span style="font-size: large;"> </span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3268301984789150098.post-68725219933552533832016-01-13T22:53:00.001-08:002016-01-13T23:32:35.920-08:00TIMELESS SUDAN: The Last Chapter <br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">In a previous chapter about Sudan, I wrote about finding the nomads in the desert, but there wasn't just one nomadic encampment, there were two, and the second family greeted us just like the other -- first with suspicion and then eventually with smiles, probably because they were told in pigeon Arabic by our guide, Laura, that we had come with gifts. Then there were the nomads on camels who had traveled with their herds from afar to reach the communal well and stock up on water to quench their animals and themselves. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Picture this. We are driving in the desert without anything significant to look at except blowing sand when we come upon what looks like a scene straight out of The Bible. There were men wearing turbans and long white robes, stained ruddy from the red wet clay, working hard to fetch water from the well. We also saw women and young girls working too, typical of gender assignments in Africa. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">This is how they got their water.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">A large bag made of animal skin and attached to a rope was lowered hundreds of feet down into the well until it reached the water table. The other end of the rope was stretched over a pulley at the top of the well and attached to a team of two donkeys. When the bag was full of water, the handlers steered the donkeys quite a distance away from the well, pulling the heavy bag to the surface for the men to grab and distribute the water in various vessels for both animals and humans. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Although our visit was relatively short, the nomads must have been there all day. They looked tired. While some men worked, others rested, a few smoked cigarettes and most seemed to enjoy our visit. Some even posed for pictures. Young girls driving the donkeys yelled in high-pitched voices and used a switch on their behinds to get the beasts of burden moving. There were camels, goats, sheep and, of course the donkeys. </span><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>TAKING A SHORT BREAK</b></td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>THIS YOUNG GIRL WAS A DONKEY DRIVER</b></td></tr>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Fortunately we came upon two wells in one day, a good distance apart. The setting was much the same at each, but photography at one was hampered by the fact that in almost every scene someone from our group stood in the way, trying to capture an image of the same thing.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">The last few days in Sudan flew by. Before we knew it we were shaking the fine sand out of our smelly shoes and getting ready to head back home. Most people in our group</span><span style="font-size: large;"> had god-awful connections that had us waiting for hours in remote places to change planes in the middle of the night. I will never forget the vivid</span><span style="font-size: large;"> sights we saw in those last days in Sudan because they were unique and exotic in today's modern world. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">If you would like to see my five minute slide show (with music), click on this link. <a href="http://pamperkins.phanfare.com/slideshow.aspx?s=0&username=pamperkins&a_id=7107536&s_id=8240431&q=http%3A//pamperkins.phanfare.com/7107536">TIMELESS SUDAN</a></span><br />
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3268301984789150098.post-76764865808418992032015-12-10T22:06:00.001-08:002015-12-10T22:06:22.234-08:00WHY AFRICA? WHY SUDAN? Chapter 2<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;"><b>It's About The People</b></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Within days of arriving in Sudan we knew we were among some of the world's most gracious people. It started with the immigration officer who welcomed us, helped speed up the arduous process of obtaining a visa, and exchanged currency for us discreetly at a black market rate. The warmth continued when we were enthusiastically greeted by Ibrahim, who represented our tour operator, Italian Tourism Company, and then at our hotel, where everyone made sure we were happy and content. </span><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>ONE OF THE MANY BEAUTIFUL WOMEN AT THE GUEST HOUS</b>E </td></tr>
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<span style="font-size: large;">While touring the city, I don't remember an instance when someone didn't smile at me first or smile at me after I smiled at him or her. People riding buses waved at us. Some gave us a thumbs up sign. Kids on the street turned to look, waving and shouting something to us that sounded friendly, even though we had no idea what they said. At the same time, our guide, Laura, cautioned us never to take photos of the police, military or government buildings, or even bridges, which could lead to trouble. But, to our surprise, a man wearing a police uniform asked if we would take his picture with him standing next to one of us. We were in a courtyard of a restaurant where we had just finished lunch, so the man may have taken liberties with us in that location where he wouldn't be seen. Given Laura's warning, he never would have been so friendly to us on the street. White faces like ours were a novelty and attracted attention. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">On the university campus where we visited, many students, mainly young women, approached us and asked in English <i>What brings you to Khartoum? </i>They were as eager to take photos of us with their mobile phones as we were of them. One student, in particular, stood out. Khalid finished graduate school where he majored in human rights. While his dream was to work in the United States, he was happy to have a job as a teaching assistant at the law school. We saw more female students than male, and were surprised to learn that women have a better chance of landing a job than a man. Our positive reactions were quickly diminished when we learned that the reason was because beauty ranks higher than brains. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">In Khartoum's busy market one man vigorously shook my hand and welcomed me to his country. "Sudan loves America, and we are very close," he said with conviction. I thanked him for his kind words, and then as we walked away, I said to Bruce, "That man has no idea what he's talking about. Obviously he doesn't know</span><span style="font-size: large;"> the U.S. has sanctions against his country, and our State Department discourages citizens from traveling to Sudan."</span><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>HANGING OUT WITH FRIENDS ON THE STREET </b></td></tr>
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<span style="font-size: large;">The Nubian people in the northern deserts were friendly too, more reserved perhaps, but still smiling and happy to share a little of themselves with us, even though only a few of them spoke English. The staff at the guesthouse worked hard to please us, but this high level of hospitality was not just about doing their job. This is who these people are. </span><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>THIS WAS OUR SUV DRIVER POSING WITH A BABY GOAT</b></td></tr>
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<span style="font-size: large;">When we returned home, some of our friends asked two simple questions: <i>Were you scared traveling in Sudan? How did you get those people to pose for your photos?</i> Some of our friends have called us crazy, but then they are the same ones who have called us crazy before.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><i><br /></i></span><span style="font-size: large;">I must repeat what I wrote in previous posts. We always felt safe in the areas of Sudan where we traveled. We did not go to South Sudan, Darfur or the Blue Nile States. Had we included those uncertain areas on our itinerary, then the moniker of crazy would definitely be justified.</span><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>BEAUTIFUL WOMEN I PHOTOGRAPHED AT THE SUFI RITUAL</b></td></tr>
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<span style="font-size: large;">As some of you know, taking portraits of people appeals to me more than shooting landscapes, although in the northern desert there was ample opportunity to do both. I always tried to ask permission as gracefully as possible, using sign and body language, if I didn't think they understood me. I often showed people the pictures I had taken the day before. Some times when I received a positive nod, the person felt the need to pose, and when they did, they often took on a serious face. Others didn't have the time or the interest to pose, and that's when I either took a lousy photo or I was just plain lucky. Other photographers in our group pointed out how best to capture the light and stressed the importance of the subject's background. As I have learned from experienced photographers on past trips, every photo we take should be considered a practice. </span><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>SHE WAS TOO BUSY AND I WAS JUST LUCKY</b></td></tr>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Our guide Laura had a bag of tricks up her sleeve and knew the way to take us to places that were off limits to visitors, like excavated tombs. She also got us invited to local people's homes for lunch or chai tea, and although some of her magic came from sweet talk and cigarettes, most of it came from the strong and caring relationships she built with the Sudanese people over time. Clearly Laura was adored, but as she wrote me after reading my blog post Chapter One, She<i> was never a queen in her past life. A princess maybe, or a nomad</i>.</span><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>GIVING GIFTS</b></td></tr>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><span style="font-size: large;"><i>"</i>When we travel in the desert today," Laura would say, "we cannot be certain to find where the nomads are, but if we are lucky, I want you to do what I say. Stay in your cars until I say it's okay, and then come out one or two at a time and do not start taking pictures right away. Give the people time to check you out." We nodded in agreement, taking her warning to heart because we knew that our brief time with the nomads would be precious encounters that we would long remember, and the last thing we wanted to do was scare them away. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">After a couple of hours of traveling off road in sand and stopping only long enough to find a small dune or a bush behind which to pee, we came upon our first glimpse of a nomadic family out there in the middle of nowhere. All four of our vehicles stopped a few hundred feet from the two or three huts built of sticks. Laura got out first and approached a man who walked towards her to see who we were and what we wanted. This was the time for Laura to use her sweet talk and magic. We saw the man light up the cigarette that Laura offered and soon they began to talk. None of us could hear the conversation, nor would we have been able to understand Arabic, but this is what we thought she was saying. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><i style="font-size: x-large;">Hello</i><span style="font-size: medium;">, </span><i style="font-size: x-large;">I am traveling here in your beautiful desert with some people who live a long ways away. They would like to meet you and shake your hand. They have gifts for you and your family. And, by the</i><i style="font-size: x-large;"> way, they have cameras and would like to take your picture.</i></span><span style="font-size: medium;"> </span><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>WAITING FOR THE GREEN LIGHT</b></td></tr>
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<span style="font-size: large;">A minutes later Laura signaled for a few of us to come and the rest of us to follow slowly. Behind the man but staying close to their huts, the women and a few children watched what was going on with curiosity, but soon they walked forward to see us too. We spoke to them <i>sotta voce</i>, using the few Arabic greetings we knew. "Salamalikium," we said. Laura spoke a few more Arabic words to the man and they both laughed, and then he said something to the women. And they laughed too. We were all smiling and laughing. This was good. </span><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>RUNNING TO SEE WHAT'S GOING ON</b></td></tr>
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<span style="font-size: large;">What happened next was heartwarming. An older women took the hand of a younger woman in our group and lead her over to her stick hut to show her where she lived. We all followed like little sheep. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">That's when Laura gave us the word that taking photographs would be o.k. They seemed to enjoy having us visit. No one minded the camera, and a few even posed. When they saw themselves on the camera screen, it wasn't clear whether they had ever seen their faces before. One woman pointed to the little girl and said something which we took to mean, <i>That's you, </i>because the little girl smiled. That's when I realized that small hand mirrors would have made great gifts. I also wished I had a Polaroid camera. People in our group pulled out the gifts they'd brought from home: tee shirts, blouses, and scarves, which we hoped the women would like, but we felt bad when we realized we didn't bring a gift for the man, who honestly didn't seem to mind. I also had a handful of perfume samples that a Nordstrom's saleswoman gave to me before I left. </span><span style="font-size: large;">These perfumes had a short life as they were just smears on a card hidden under a tab, which, when pulled, would expose the sweet smelling perfume. In an effort to explain to the women what this was and how to access the perfume smear, I held the card in my left hand, and pretended to tug on the tab with my right, as I said the words, <i>Pull the tab</i>, <i>pull the tab. </i>I also demonstrated with my hands. <i>Pull the tab, touch the card, dab the sweet-smelling perfume behind your ears.</i> The only sounds they could hear were my words <i>pull the tab. </i>Of course they had no idea what I was trying to say or explain, but they had fun laughing and mimicking my words saying <i>pooldatub, pooldatub. </i>Fortunately, I had previously explained to our driver how the perfume card worked and the need to pull the tab, so I asked him to explain what the women had to do to access the perfume. He said some words in Arabic and then he showed them, as I did, to pull the tab. They giggled, saying <i>pooldatub </i>and then laughed harder<i>.</i> This, of course, had me laughing too, but I was so grateful that they finally got what I meant when I said <i>pooldatub</i>. </span><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>PULLDATUB (She's holding the white perfume card in her hand)</b></td></tr>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><i><br /></i></span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3268301984789150098.post-75852197456974011402015-12-05T16:19:00.001-08:002015-12-05T16:19:53.018-08:00WHY AFRICA? WHY SUDAN? Chapter 1<span style="font-size: large;">Why Africa? Why Sudan? When someone asks me these questions, I often respond with the same answer. <i>I want to rub shoulders with people who live in a land and a culture that is 360 degrees different from the land and the culture I live in. I want some adventure. I want to learn about life.<b> </b></i> And when you travel in Africa, that is what happens. This was definitely the case in Sudan -- one of the most ethnically, geographically and culturally diverse countries in Africa and yet, so misunderstood.</span><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>SUDANESE CAMEL TRADERS</b></td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>CAMEL MARKET IN THE DESERT</b></td></tr>
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<span style="font-size: large;">If you Google the State Department's web posting for "Travel in Sudan" a warning pops up on your screen advising you against visiting there. It reads: "It's difficult and expensive to get a visa, and it's extremely dangerous and highly discouraged." </span><span style="font-size: large;">The website continues to explain the decades of civil war, and how in 2011 the country was divided into two countries, Sudan and South Sudan. However, the description ends with this statement: "If you do manage to get in and you stick to the safe areas, you will probably have a memorable experience. The Sudanese people are very hospitable, and you can visit some awesome places without ever seeing another tourist." Yes, the State Department actually used the word <i>awesome</i>. </span><span style="font-size: large;">While we knew all the negatives in advance, we felt safe because we would be traveling in North Sudan and not in regions like Darfur and the Blue Nile States. We were also going with a reputable tour operator, who came highly recommended. Knowing that we would be sharing the experience with nine other adventurous friends, we decided to go, applied for and received the visa, and in November, 2015, we embarked on another one of those <i>trips of a life</i></span><span style="font-size: large;"><i>time</i>, of which there have been many, especially in Africa.</span><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>WE TRAVELED IN THE AREA ALONG THE NILE ABOVE KHARTOUM</b></td></tr>
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<span style="font-size: large;">The first three days we explored the busy capital of Khartoum, where we watched a <a href="http://pamsmississippiride.blogspot.com/2015/11/experiencing-sufi-ritual-in-sudan.html">Sufi Dervish ritual</a>, and then drove a long distance north in four 4-wheel drive vehicles into the Nubian and Bayuda Deserts. This remote area is sparsely populated with small villages, nomadic encampments sprinkled throughout, and stunning archeology sites of the ancient Nubian and Meroe civilizations. In the north along the Nile, the economy is driven by agriculture, not tourism, but traveling with an Italian tour company that has established itself as the main operator for Sudan, we were very comfortable in accommodations they built, especially for their clients, near archeology sites that go back thousands of years. And for frosting on our cake, we had beautiful Laura, a very experienced guide, who many of our fellow travelers knew because she guided them before in West Africa. In fact, Laura suggested Sudan to our friends as an opportunity to experience another unique African country with tribal influences that blended with antiquities from ancient civilizations. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Khartoum is like many African cities. Big, dirty, crowded, smoggy, and with traffic gridlock equal to what we had seen in Cairo. Horse and donkey-pulled carts heavily loaded with merchandise from China, noisy tuk-tuks, small beat-up sedans, and big trucks compete for the privilege of traveling from one side of the city to the other. People plan their day by how long it takes to get to their destination, a symptom of overcrowding, which is quite common even here in Silicon Valley. The difference, of course, is that I'm not sharing roads filled with potholes, slow-moving donkeys or smelly tuk-tuks spewing exhaust. I'm on a fast-moving freeway and changing lanes with Teslas and Mercedes. </span><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>ON THE STREET IN KHARTOUM (TAKEN FROM THE VAN WINDOW) </b></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-TJvagyfhchI/VmMnxYFKRII/AAAAAAAAIfk/XiWW4oBPtmw/s1600/Screen%2BShot%2B2015-12-05%2Bat%2B10.05.35%2BAM.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="332" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-TJvagyfhchI/VmMnxYFKRII/AAAAAAAAIfk/XiWW4oBPtmw/s400/Screen%2BShot%2B2015-12-05%2Bat%2B10.05.35%2BAM.png" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>THE UBIQUITOUS SMELLY TUK-TUK</b></td></tr>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Once we left Khartoum and drove north on a smooth paved road, we felt like we were in another world -- a world of camels, donkeys, spiky acacia trees, basalt rock formations, and sand. Lots of sand. Fine sand that you can sift through your fingers. Course sand that takes the polish off salon-style painted toenails. And blowing sand that makes everything you eat taste gritty. But it's the color of sand -- the reds, the yellows, the oranges and various shades of brown -- that really affects your senses. And then add tufts of light green tumbleweed and dark green acacia, and you have dramatic scenery that is candy to the eye. On long drives, I would set my camera on sports mode and, through the window of our moving SUV, take image after image of stunning desert landscapes. Of course, many of these photos ended up in my computer's trash basket, but here are some I thought worth saving.</span><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>WE HAD FOUR 4-WHEEL DRIVE VEHICLES TO TRAVEL TO THE DESERT</b></td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>DESERT SCENERY</b></td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>THE WIND CREATES BEAUTIFUL PATTERNS IN THE SAND</b></td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>VOLCANOES EXISTED HERE MILLIONS OF YEARS AGO</b></td></tr>
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<span style="font-size: large;">We spent four nights in attractive accommodations, called a guest house, that the Italian tour company built, and while the rooms were not fancy, they were efficiently designed, spacious and very comfortable. We appreciated the luxury of air conditioning in this harsh environment. While nights in the desert were pretty chilly, a bright blue cloudless sky with a blazing sun caused daytime temperatures to quickly soar into the high 90s. By ten o'clock we were sweating. And with the scarcity of trees, the shade, for the most part, came from the brims of our hats and the sun glasses protecting our eyes. The hot air was dry, so it felt like a true 90, and not a humid false temperature of 110. Despite the heat, we wore long pants and either long sleeves or at least sleeves of a length that covered our shoulders. As foreign visitors to a conservative land, we wanted to respect their customs regarding dress. </span><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>THE GUESTHOUSE NEAR KARIMA</b></td></tr>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><span style="font-size: large;">From the guesthouse (near the town of Karima) we were just steps away from Jebel Barkal, the huge red sandstone mountain, considered very holy since ancient times. An impressive archeology site sits just below it. We watched the dig conducted by an Italian archeology professor from the University of Venice. He and his expert team of researchers, with the assistance of local workers, delicately scraped away sand and rock to expose more of what was the royal necropolis of the ancient city of Napata, the Nubian capital from 800 to 400 B.C. While the professor generously shared information about this dig, funded partly by Qatar, we watched the local laborers haul bucket after bucket of fine red sand, a back-breaking chore which seemed endless and also low paying ($5/day). </span><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>THE ITALIAN DIG WITH JEBEL BARKAL IN THE BACKGROUND</b></td></tr>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><span style="font-size: large;">In a previous life, our guide Laura must have lived like a desert queen, studying hieroglyphics and traveling with pharaohs and kings up and down the Nile. At least this is what we thought after spending ten days under her tutelage. She was a wealth of knowledge, in fact, a walking encyclopedia, especially about the 25th Dynasty (760-656 BC) of Ancient Egypt (now northern Sudan). Only someone who had lived during these ancient times would know and reveal such stories in vivid detail. She talked with passion about the Nubians, one of Africa's earliest civilizations going back 3000 years BC. She directed her fluorescent light on the dark walls, so we could see the beautifully restored images deep inside two unlighted tombs, as she related legends about each of the ancient paintings. Every day we visited another site, and we marveled, not only about the facts, but about how one person could know all that information and only occasionally refer to her written notes. </span><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>QUEEN LAURA</b></td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>ANCIENT CITY OF NAPATA JUST BELOW JEBEL BARKAL</b></td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>NOTICE THE VIVID COLORS INSIDE THIS ANCIENT TOMB</b></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/--CS84W5ht2A/VmKBVZPLUoI/AAAAAAAAIec/HGy7a4rh8tA/s1600/IMG_5042.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/--CS84W5ht2A/VmKBVZPLUoI/AAAAAAAAIec/HGy7a4rh8tA/s400/IMG_5042.jpg" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>THE WALLS WERE COVERED</b></td></tr>
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<span style="font-size: large;">"At sunset we will climb Jebel Barkal," Laura announced boldly one afternoon. "And after we reach the top and admire the view, we will descend by running down the large sand dune, the one you can see on the south wall." With raised eyebrows, we looked at each other to see who would be the first to ask, <i>a</i></span><span style="font-size: large;"><i>re you serious?</i> But no one did. We figured if Laura could do it, then we could do it too. That was before we learned that Laura had been climbing the holy rock for years. </span><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>JEBEL BARKAL HERE WE COME</b></td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>STILL SMILING</b></td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>NOT BAD AT FIRST</b></td></tr>
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<span style="font-size: large;">As we started to climb, Bruce and I took up the rear. This gave us the opportunity to take photos of others up ahead, and a good excuse to move slowly. We also didn't want to hold anyone back. Climbing seemed easy at first since we were on a switchback path, but as we moved higher, the path disappeared, and all of a sudden we were slipping in loose sand and grabbing on to any rock we could find that would hold us, as the rocks were now further apart and sand filled the space in the middle. Fortunately, Laura, who was close by, gave us a couple of one-hand tugs, and when we finally made it to the top and walked over to the edge, we were speechless. <i>Wow, what a view! </i></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Standing on the rocky edge and looking straight down scared us, since Bruce and I are a little timid about heights. "Time to move," Laura announced, noting the setting sun, and reminding us we still had to make the steep sand dune descent. She urged us to protect our cameras when coming down. Already stored in a plastic bag, I tucked my camera snugly in my waist pack, removed my red gym shoes, tied them together by their lacings, and slung them around my neck. I walked to the edge of the sand dune and looked all the way down. I saw Laura already at the bottom motioning for me to come. It looked scary. One step and my feet quickly sunk in the soft, deep sand, but I was able to walk. It looked so steep I was sure I might topple over. With her hands on her hips, Laura stood at the bottom of the dune and yelled, "Run, run, run." "I'm afraid I will fall," I yelled back at her. "Just run, you won't fall, it's fun," she continued to holler. Just before starting to run, I turned around and looked up at my traveling buddy Phil. He aimed his long camera lens at me and that's when he took this picture.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><span style="font-size: large;">The adventure continues............</span></div>
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3268301984789150098.post-56367495379140979682015-11-19T12:26:00.000-08:002015-12-16T13:32:28.785-08:00EXPERIENCING A SUFI RITUAL IN SUDAN<span style="font-size: large;">I felt teary when we left our hotel in Khartoum and drove to the airport to begin our long journey home. Two weeks ago I had no idea what to expect from our trip to Sudan, and here I was leaving the country and feeling sad. I have felt this way on past trips before, and interestingly enough, most of them have been after visiting countries in Africa. There is something about this continent that resonates with me. Perhaps, it's because of the struggle I see in people's lives, and yet, along with the struggle, I see a sense of contentment, as well as honor in their knowing we want to learn the truth about their country, who they are as a people, and not what we read about their government in the paper. For me it was not only an honor, but a privilege to meet people who let us in on just a tiny slice of their struggle, as well as their contentment. It is this aspect of travel that moves me. My step-daughter, Amy, who works with African immigrants, asked me if I discussed the issue of human rights in Sudan with the people I met, but I told her that this trip was for us to learn about the ancient history and the culture, not the politics, and this is what we did.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><b><u>Our Arrival in Sudan</u></b></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Our entry into the capital city of Khartoum was hassle free. A young man from immigration met us as we stepped off the plane and kindly shepherded us through the complicated visa process. This has never happened before. "You are Americans?" he asked, even though we were coming off a plane from Cairo, Egypt. "I will help you," he said, and while we were a little skeptical about his immediate attention, we saw on his badge that he was from Sudanese immigration and most likely legitimate. Even with his facilitation, it took more than hour to complete the visa process. In the meantime, the young man helped Bruce exchange American dollars into Sudanese pounds through the black market at a substantially better rate than we could get at a bank, since no ATMs exist, nor are credit cards accepted. This all took place in the airport men's room, which seemed only slightly seedier than exchanging money with a man wearing an oversized coat on the street in Argentina when we were there last year.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">There is a lot of background information that I could provide about how we arranged this trip, and how we were able to get such an exceptional guide named Laura. But there is so much more to tell, so I will save this for another time. Right now I'm exploding with emotion and enthusiasm that I don't want to lose.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">For some of you who know me and are also interested in adventure travel, you understand my motives and what drives my fascination with tribal cultures. What I didn't fully appreciate about Sudan was how much tribal exposure we would have. I thought the trip would be mostly to learn about ancient Nubian and Merowe civilizations and to visit archeology sites; and yes, while we did learn about this fascinating history, I did not know how much time we would spend in rural villages and nomadic encampments in the isolated northern desert learning about current culture and life in this harsh land.</span><br />
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<b><u><span style="font-size: large;">The Sufi Dervish Experience</span></u></b><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">I wrote on Facebook that in Khartoum we would be entertained by the Whirling Dervishes, similar to what we experienced at a caravansary in Turkey, except this time we could take photographs, although we were warned to do so discreetly. What a misperception. This is what happened. Eleven of us, all friends traveling together as we often do, were taken by a small bus out of the hectic city and dropped off in an area that looked like several football fields with different size stones scattered randomly about. In the center of the field was a smallish mosque and there were quite a few people just standing around. Once we focused on the field, we realized that we were standing on the edge of a large cemetery, where the stones represented the deceased in above-ground dirt graves. There were no elaborate headstones like at home, and certainly no flowers to memorialize the dead, but there was no doubt in our minds that we were standing in a very holy place. With my camera hidden deep inside my waist pack, I, along with Bruce and the others, followed a path leading us to a small circle where we found a place to stand close in. Except for the women in our group, the crowd consisted of men wearing their white jillabia, a long dress, which Muslim men often wear, especially on Fridays, which in Islam is the holy day. Also, many wore white turbans and others wrapped their heads in colorful scarves twisted in a very exotic way. The Sudanese women sat together near and up on the</span><span style="font-size: large;"> ledge of the mosque's wall, separated from the men, but respectfully watching the festivities from afar. Other women, mostly younger mothers, were on the periphery attempting to manage their children in the same way that a Christian mother might do during a service at church. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><span style="font-size: large;"><b><u>The Sufi Ritual</u></b></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">I found a good spot on the inner edge of the circle to watch two men chanting, skipping and dancing as they banged on tambourine-like drums, as if playing a game with the audience. They too wore white jillabias and turbans, not black dresses with white underskirts like the Whirling Dervish who perform for tourists in Turkey. These people and the growing crowd around them, ostensibly all Sufi's, were the real deal, engaging in a kind of mystical religious experience. Until they saw us, they weren't expecting any tourists, since this wasn't a show <i>per</i> <i>se</i>, and we were the only non-locals in the crowd, as far as I could tell. These men didn't spin around as if in a trance and attempt to connect with a higher power, at least not in the beginning. Instead they smiled as they sang and made eye contact with anyone who would meet their glance, surprisingly, even me. It was easy to get caught up in the rhythm of the music, the energy of the dance, and the power of being in a holy place among people who smiled at me and laughed with me. I put my right hand over my heart and repeated after them, "Salaam," as I bowed my head in reverence to their devotion. This definitely was the right thing to do because I found myself standing in a key spot right on the inside of the circle. It never occurred to me to feel self conscious. Instead, I was enthralled.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">At the same time, my camera, hidden deep within my waist pack, screamed <i>let me out</i>, especially since the Sudanese I saw in the crowd were also taking photos with their smart phones. I took a leap of faith, pulled out my camera and began taking pictures. No one seemed to mind, even the musician/chanters in the circle. Other locals in the crowd entered the circle and pranced around, raising their arms to the sky and chanting something in Arabic that I didn't understand, although I knew the performance was about praising Allah. A disfigured and disabled young man was wheeled to the edge of the circle by his family, and the dancers showed signs of love and affection for the boy as his twisted arms and fingers pointed at them, and he too tried to raise his crippled limbs up to the sky. When an elderly man shuffled into the circle supporting himself with a bamboo cane, several people reached out to help him, and using some sort of inner strength, he managed to move his feet, in sync with the music.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">As the dancing continued, the performers signaled for the group to make the circle bigger, and suddenly I felt swallowed up by a surging crowd. I wasn't afraid. I was fascinated. I caught sight of Bruce using his video camera, and saw others in our group with their eyes big and wide, like mine, glued to what was happening in the circle. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Knowing that everyone was all right, I felt more freedom to explore what was going on outside the circle because the deeper the circle, the more difficult it was to see, as people cut in front for a good view. Suddenly the circle broke apart, and almost on cue, a parade of what I would describe as holy men carrying large decorative flags with a large crowd behind them marched in. The chanting increased three-fold in volume, as several more singers stood at microphones placed at the edge of the former circle. I was envious of Bruce's ability to take video because I knew that this was the best way to document the scene. (As he did so well in the YouTube link below.) </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><b><u>The Women</u></b></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Given that Bruce was strategically placed, I left the crowd and moved closer to the mosque where the women were sitting on the ledge of the wall. They were beautifully dressed in flowing, colorful fabrics of orange, pink and blue, and again I was sticking out like a sore thumb in my khaki pants with a camera hanging from my neck. As I moved closer, they looked me up and down, but then motioned me to join them. That's when I asked a woman if I could take her photo. Smiling, all the time and saying <i>Salaam</i> to make myself approachable seemed to be working. The woman's face lit up by my request, and others seemed more curious about me than what was going on in the circle. </span><span style="font-size: large;">Taking photographs of faces, especially faces different from mine, is what I enjoy best. Unlike Morocco, where we had just traveled from, the Sudanese seemed pleased when I asked if I could take their photo. They were proud of their beauty when they saw themselves on my camera's LCD screen. In the background I could hear Sufi music playing, but I was in my own world on the periphery taking pictures of the women. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">When I heard someone call my name and saw Laura, our guide, motioning for me to come, I said good-bye to the women around me. They waved their hands, and one woman even hugged me, an unusual gesture for this culture. Expressing myself in the only few Arabic words I know, and with my right hand over my heart, a custom in Sudan, I said <i>Shukraan</i> (thank you) and <i>Ma'a Assalaamah</i> (goodbye). I wished I knew the Arabic words to say how grateful I was to be accepted so openly by them and with such trust.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Please click on this YouTube link entitled <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Fk0L924-Kyc">Friday Sufi Dervish Ritual, Khartoum, Sudan</a> to see Bruce's two minute video of our experience. You will love it! </span><br />
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3268301984789150098.post-56722482043042377342015-11-04T04:52:00.001-08:002015-11-04T06:02:07.559-08:00THE UNFAMILIARAS WE LOADED OUR BAGS ON THE SECURITY SCREENING BELT VERY EARLY THIS MORNING, BRUCE, WITH A GRIN ON HIS FACE, LOOKED AT ME AND SAID "CAN YOU BELIEVE WE ARE BOARDING A PLANE FOR SUDAN?" I JUST SMILED AND REPLIED, "WELL, IF YOU JUST LOOK AT THE PEOPLE JOINING US ON THIS FLIGHT, IT'S PRETTY OBVIOUS WE ARE GOING SOME PLACE EXOTIC. <br />
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AND HAVING SAID THAT, READER, YOU SHOULD KNOW WE JUST LEFT ANOTHER COUNTRY ONE WOULD ALSO CALL EXOTIC -- MOROCCO -- WHERE WE SPENT TEN DAYS EXPLORING </div>
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THE MEDINAS OF MARRAKECH AND FEZ, WINDING OUR WAY <span style="font-family: "helvetica neue light" , , "helvetica" , "arial" , sans-serif;">THROUGH NARROW SOUKS WHERE WE INHALED INTENSE SCENTS OF CUMIN, SAFFRON, CINNAMON, AND MINT. WE ALSO SLEPT IN </span><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue light" , , "helvetica" , "arial" , sans-serif;">A TENT IN THE SAHARA DESERT AND WATCHED THE SUN SET IN THE WEST AND RISE IN THE EAST, SURROUNDED BY SAND DUNES THAT STRETCHED TO THE HORIZON. AND WITH LOCAL BERBERS AS OUR GUIDES, WE HIKED THROUGH THE LUSH OASES OF THE DADES AND ZIZ VALLEYS, FILLED WITH DATE PALMS BRIMMING WITH FRUIT AS THIS IS THE HARVEST SEASON.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue Light, HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;">WITH MANY MOROCCAN STORIES STORED IN MY HEAD FOR FUTURE POSTS, I AM PREPARING MYSELF FOR ANOTHER ASTONISHING ADVENTURE ON WHICH WE ARE ABOUT TO EMBARK. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue Light, HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;">STAY TUNED. THE ADVENTURE CONTINUES FROM KHARTOUM AND THE SITES OF ANCIENT CIVILIZATIONS IN WHAT IS NOW CALLED THE SUDAN. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue Light, HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;">THE JEWISH CEMETERY IN FEZ</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue Light, HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;">A SMALL VIEW OF THE BEAUTIFUL ZIZ VALLEY </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue Light, HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;">ENJOYING FRESH MINT TEA IN A BERBER HOME </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue Light, HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;">OUR MOROCCAN CHEF SHOWING OFF HER BEAUTIFUL TAGINES </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue Light, HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;">A DELICIOUS TAGINE MADE WITH CHICKEN AND QUINCE </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue Light, HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;">A HANDSOME MAN TO FLIRT WITH IN MOROCCO</span><br />
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3268301984789150098.post-27439998399675835332015-10-09T07:37:00.000-07:002015-10-09T07:37:27.171-07:00WHERE IN THE WORLD IS MALTA?<span style="font-size: large;">For more years than I would like to admit, I thought Malta was just a big rock in the middle of the ocean, somewhere near Europe. Sort of like the Rock of Gibraltar without the monkeys. I wish someone had told me the truth, so I didn't sound like a geographic idiot when I found out </span><span style="font-size: large;">Malta is a country located in the Mediterranean between Sicily and North Africa. The country is actually a group of islands, although the main island is often called Valetta, which is the country's capital, so as to distinguish the more populated island from the rest of the country.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">After our trip to Romania last month, we</span><span style="font-size: large;"> added three extra days in Malta because Amy, Bruce's daughter, works for the United Nations High Commission on Refugees in their Malta office. If the acronym UNHCR sounds familiar, it's because this agency is responsible for dealing with the enormous migrant crisis that affects so much of our world right now. Since we focused our trip planning primarily around Romania, we assumed that our three day visit to Malta would be to check out Amy's apartment and meet some of her friends. So when we arrived, we were pleasantly surprised to discover that Malta is a major tourist destination, offering an array of things to do and see, like antiquities representing ancient civilizations, cultural curiosities, and interesting beach scenery to keep visitors entertained for a couple of weeks. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Malta's history dates back to 5200 B.C. assuring that every tourist gets some sort of history lesson, since its </span><span style="font-size: large;">strategic importance involves the Phoenicians, Greeks, Carthaginians, Romans, the Knights of St. John, French, Turks, and the British, all of whom occupied Malta at one time or another and left their visual mark.</span><span style="font-size: large;"> </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">In fact, Malta is such a feast for the eyes that I'd rather not bore you with descriptive text, but rather I'd like to share a video that my talented husband, Bruce, produced to document our short time there and to show you what a stunning country Malta truly is. As someone once said <i>A picture is worth a thousand words.</i> </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"> <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FVe7lrU1MxE">Marvelous Malta 2015 by Bruce Berger </a></span><br />
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3268301984789150098.post-20859188168719145202015-09-27T17:21:00.000-07:002015-10-19T09:51:14.965-07:00TOUCHED BY ROMANIA<span style="font-size: large;">I don't cry often, but I cried twice while traveling in Romania. My first cry was connected to memories about my family and the other had to do with a personal frustration. The first cry happened while in a crowd with strangers, and that is the only story worth writing about, but first I want to share some details about Romania. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><b>What is there to see and learn in Romania?</b> </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">In so many ways Romania surprised us. We had no idea we would see such gorgeous scenery, like the northern region of Maramures, which felt like we had stepped back in time. Until I read the Romania guidebook, I didn't know I would see four exquisitely painted monasteries dating back to the 15th Century, and intricately carved wooden gates that served as entryways to both modest farmhouses and more comfortable homes. Who would have ever thought one could spend hours wandering through a cemetery, but this cemetery wasn't just an ordinary place. It was incredibly different. Located in the small village of Sapanta, the Merry Cemetery is filled with hundreds of painted blue crosses, on which one artist, a wood sculptor named Ioan Stan Patras, ornately illustrated with a colorful drawing some aspect of the deceased's past life, including a very witty epitaph translated by our guide. We also saw cottages with fairytale turrets and villages with cobbled-stone streets, a stunning summer palace for the longest-serving Romanian King, and the Bran Castle near Brasov, a popular attraction for Dracula aficionados.</span><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>A BEAUTIFUL PASTORAL SETTING IN MARAMURES</b></td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>THE MERRY CEMETERY</b></td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>16th CENTURY SUCAVITA MONASTERY, BUCOVINA</b></td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>THE CITY OF SIGHISOARA, A UNESCO WORLD HERITAGE SITE </b></td></tr>
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<span style="font-size: large;">While touring the famous region called Transylvania, we heard stories about Vlad the Impaler, a 15th century prince, who inspired author Bram Stoker to create a blood-sucking character named Dracula. And yet, at the same time we were reminded about the struggles Romania experienced during the Ottoman empire, the relinquishing and annexing of various parts of Romania during WW I, the Nazi alliance during WW II, when pograms were instituted and hundreds of thousands of Jews were condemned to death. Almost like yesterday, I remember the 25-year communist dictatorship of Nicolae Ceausecu and his wife Elena, who committed unspeakable atrocities and denied political freedom and free speech. And then finally the 1989 Revolution, when the world watched the collapse of communism, where one regime after another fell apart before our eyes on national TV. And finally Romania's attempts at Democracy, when they joined NATO and became a member of the European Union.</span><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>MEMORIAL TO THE VICTIMS OF COMMUNISM AND TO THE RESISTANCE</b></td></tr>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><span style="font-size: large;"> My experiences in Romania will be stored in a very special place we call memories. </span><span style="font-size: large;">Memories are what we all hold on to and savor, hoping the good outweigh the bad. Some travelers keep their memories vivid through photographs and written journals. I keep my memories alive by telling stories.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><b>Background to my story about Romania</b></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Religion was not a factor in my growing up years. My family never talked about God or Jesus, except to take their names in vain when appropriate. Unlike most of my Greek cousins, I was never baptized in the Greek Orthodox church. I was never baptized at all. Even though my mother sent me to Catholic school, that was purely for practical reasons, and not surprisingly, she yanked </span><span style="font-size: large;">me out after second grade when she discovered I envied my classmates' spiritual awakenings.</span><span style="font-size: large;"> </span><span style="font-size: large;"> (I wrote more about this in an earlier post entitled <a href="http://pamsmississippiride.blogspot.com/2015/02/hail-mary-full-of-grace.html">Hail Mary, Full of Grace</a>)</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">When I was in junior high, my mother had second thoughts and urged me to join a church group for teens called pilgrim fellowship. Again, I don't think her reasons had anything to do with religion. I'm pretty sure she hoped pilgrim fellowship would help keep me out of the backseat of some boy's souped-up Chevy, but it never did. I stopped going after a few times because I thought the talk bordered on the ridiculous. I vaguely remember my mother going to church services, but only a few times. And yet, I have vivid memories of being with her when she stopped at Catholic and Christian Orthodox churches when we were visiting friends and relatives in other parts of our state. I'm not sure the reasons why, but she often had me, as a little kid, in tow. I remember asking her why we were there, and she would answer something like, <i>i</i></span><i><span style="font-size: large;">t's a way to seek some kind of blessing.</span> </i><span style="font-size: large;"> What that meant to her at the time, I wish I knew. But for me, a pretty young kid with no religious background, it meant nothing at all. I recall her whispering a short prayer, lighting a few candles, and crossing herself like the Orthodox do. "Why do you light candles," I would ask, but she never elaborated. All she would say is, <i>f</i></span><i><span style="font-size: large;">or my family. </span> </i><span style="font-size: large;">Unfortunately I was too young to ask any more questions except, </span><i><span style="font-size: large;">can we go home now? </span> </i><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><span style="font-size: large;">Since I figured my mother was not religious, I always wondered why she wore a gold cross on a gold chain around her neck. If I asked her, I don't remember any more details except I think she bought it on a trip to Greece. In the 90s, before dementia set in, she took the cross from around her neck and handed it to me, saying she hoped I would wear it. I never did.</span><span style="font-size: large;"> Upon my return from Romania last week, I searched for her cross among my array of jewelry, and finally found it tucked in a tiny silk bag in the back of my top drawer. The chain slipped easily around my neck, and when I looked at myself in the mirror, the person staring back at me was my mother. I am wearing the cross now as I write this, hoping it will inspire me to construct a story that will give deeper meaning and a better understanding about why the tears in Romania.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><span style="font-size: large;"><b>My Story about September 8th</b></span><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>L-R PAM, NIKKI, BRUCE, AMY</b></td></tr>
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<span style="font-size: large;">There were four of us traveling together in Romania: my husband Bruce, myself, and two of his three adult daughters, Nikki and Amy (ages 34 & 32). Each of us experienced the event I'm about to tell you in different ways, but a personal experience is what brought on my tears, and why I am wearing my mother's cross today. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">It was early in the morning on September 8th, our fourth day in Romania. We were leaving Maramures and driving to Bucovina, another northern region. That's when we saw people hitchhiking and biking along the road. Some were men. Some were women with children, but they all had their thumbs out, wanting to go somewhere, but as we saw the numbers grow, we assumed they were heading for the same place. "Hey Cristian," I said to our guide and driver, "let's stop and offer them a ride." I should have known he would scowl because picking up hitchhikers was not on our very tight itinerary, but neither was the sight we were about to see. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">As more and more people lined the sides of the road, I noticed most were in their traditional dress: men in heavy dark jackets and white shirts. The women wore colorful skirts of various patterns, but all had the ubiquitous cotton black kerchief tied beneath their chins. I also noticed that the younger girls also covered their heads with kerchiefs, but theirs were trimmed with bright colors like red and blue, and most of the younger boys wore traditional straw hats, unlike the adult men who wore no hats at all. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">"Whoa! Stop the car," the four of us yelled almost simultaneously. "We want to take pictures." That's because we saw two men riding horses decorated like old-fashioned Christmas trees. Covered, in fact, with so much tinsel and sparkles, we questioned whether the horses could even see. The horses pranced around as if they were in a parade. The riders were more oblivious as they chatted and puffed on their cigarettes. After taking photos of the horses and the riders, we returned to the van and moved on slowly until we came to the village of Rozavela. That's when the three of us -- Nikki, Amy, and I -- screamed at Cristian to pull the van over and let us out. While we were screaming, <i>let us out</i>, Bruce was quietly preparing his camera, so he would be ready to video what was to come. These are the times I envy my husband and his skill with the video camera. Still images are great, but when you come upon a crowd of people singing, horses prancing, and then a parade, that's when you wish you had a video camera so you could record it. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">"Today is September 8th," Cristian said, as if we were supposed to know what that meant. "Today is when the Orthodox celebrate the birth of the Virgin Mary at churches around the world." I listened to the singing, which was more like chanting, or as Nikki described it, a call and response, I watched and I watched. That's when the memories of my mother lighting candles in church slowly emerged. I could feel myself choking up inside, but I swallowed hard and held back the tears which were welling up. Most of the people were dressed in black, so I knew I stood out like a sore thumb with my white pants and a camera hanging around my neck. But I wanted to take photos, so I kept a stiff upper lip struggling to hold my emotions at bay until I could capture the event. Everything moved fast, and there were so many people standing in the way, there was no time to check ISO, shutter speed or F-stop. I just snapped pictures as fast as I could, stopping only long enough to wipe the tears from my cheeks and make the sign of the Orthodox cross, just like I remembered how my mother did. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><span style="font-size: large;">That's when I broke down and cried. I stopped taking pictures because I knew they would be awful anyway. I just wanted to feel what was going on deep down inside -- in my heart, in my gut, in my legs that were shaking. I was trying to relate. The emotions I felt were coming deep from within a place I don't often explore in my conscious mind. This level of emotion, the one that relates to my parents, is in my subconscious and in my dreams, times when I have no control. I walked slowly among the crowd smiling all the time at the old ladies, who were looking at me, studying me, seeing the tears, and noticing I was crossing myself over and over. I don't think I've ever crossed myself like this before, but I found myself doing it, just like my mother used to do and it felt natural. One old lady looked deep into my eyes and I stared back at her. I'm pretty sure she knew why I was crying, and I think she could see what I saw. There, in my mind's eye, was my mother, Lucia Perkins, plain as day, crossing herself and praying as she entered the inside of a church, lighting candles, and as she said, <i>doing it for my family</i>. How could something so simple and so spontaneous bring up memories charged with so much emotion?<i> </i><i>What will Bruce and his girls think when they see me crying and my nose all stuffed up?</i> These were questions racing through my mind. Fortunately, the three of them were in their own worlds too, engaged in what they were seeing, taking pictures, and definitely not looking at me. "The Archbishop is coming," Cristian said. "I need to move the van, otherwise we'll be stuck here for hours."</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"> That's when I saw the Archbishop. He wore a long black frock and a kalimavkion, a typical stiff cylindrical hat resembling a stovepipe. He was surrounded by children dressed traditionally and holding banners displaying Christian symbols and pictures of the Virgin Mary. Besides us there were a few paparazzi, but no Americans or other tourists in sight. As he walked along, the Archbishop chatted to the priest walking beside him, and he stopped long enough to listen to the villagers sing their call and response. As he got closer to the church, the crowd grew thicker, and as an outsider, I felt funny pushing my way through the crowd just to get a picture. I tried to blend in, but that was ridiculously impossible. </span><i> </i><span style="font-size: large;">Since I didn't want to lose the complicated emotion I was feeling and because the procession was coming closer and closer, I just settled for a place in the crowd from which to take photos. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">If you would like to feel the excitement and emotion that took place that morning in Rozavela, please click on this 2 minute video that Bruce created with remarkable footage from the event. <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rqKd0pskvQE">September 8th, the celebration of the birth of the Virgin Mary.</a></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">After the religious procession moved into the church, we returned to the van, and all Bruce and the girls could say was <i>WOW</i>! Feeling like I'd been struck by lightening, I said <i>WOW</i> too, but knew that it would take some time for me to process the emotion I felt, then write about my experience, and share it with you. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">After laying my soul bare, I realize that this emotion was about missing my mother. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"> </span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3268301984789150098.post-84181320297290761542015-09-01T13:49:00.002-07:002015-09-01T13:49:42.247-07:00THE REALM OF THE VLACHS<span style="font-size: large;">For many years in my life I didn't know exactly what I was. I don't mean to imply that I was necessarily searching for meaning or purpose. That came much later and is worthy of a separate post. Instead, I wanted to know about my background. What was I? My parents were born in rural villages that are now in Northwestern Greece, speaking a language they called Romanian. I always wondered why my mother's maiden named ended in the letter <i>U</i>, like many Romanian names, while my father's ended in <i>OS</i>, like most Greeks. The spelling of these names added to my confusion. My father drank thick black coffee that came from Turkey, and to complicate matters further, my favorite uncle called me <i>Pamela, the Great</i> and said we were Macedonians, the land of Alexander. As I've written in a blog post entitled <i><a href="http://pamsmississippiride.blogspot.com/2014/05/self-acceptance.html">Self Acceptance</a></i>, I know that while my parents identified themselves as coming from Greece, our family really belongs to an ethnic minority group called Vlachs, who migrated as shepherds to Albania, Macedonia, Bulgaria, Romania and Greece, and while there are very few of us left, I'm hoping to find some in Romania. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Yes, in a few days we will set off for Romania, where we will spend ten days exploring a country that in some ways is part of my multi-ethnic heritage. There might be some sad moments if I let myself dwell on the stories my mother told about her sister and husband who were executed in Bucharest during war times, and the fact that my father's brother was a prisoner of war in a camp there as well.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Romania is a country that is just beginning to reveal its history, beauty and charm to travelers who are interested in exploring the Balkans. And for me, wouldn't it be great to connect with some present-day Vlachs! </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Stay tuned. The adventure will soon begin.</span></div>
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0