DOGBLOG (second time around)

Laurie and her baby Brody

Lately I've been dreaming about getting a dog, but I remember the challenges of raising a puppy, so maybe an adult dog would be better than enduring the aggravations of potty training, furniture chewing, and rough housing.   I wonder what breed of dog I might get.  Would I want another loyal Labrador Retriever, or would I like one of the new designer dogs, who resemble a retriever but have hair instead of fur, so don't shed, like a Poodle.   Maybe I should go to the pound, and let my heart lead the way, and then again I could be more strategic, make a short list of breeds and check off the pros and cons.  Do I want a lapdog, like Brody, a King Charles Cavalier, whose only goal in life is to be held constantly, and preferably by my stepdaughter, who has been his mommy surrogate from the day she brought him home?  On the other hand, if all Cavaliers, like Brody, bark at suitcases, backpacks  and people with red hair,  I'll have to consider another breed.   

Sweet Scarlett and Rhett 

I've always loved Poodles, the Standard kind, but after meeting Rhett and Scarlett, who live with Billy and Mike at The Reynolds Mansion in Asheville, maybe an English Bulldog would be fun, but I'd worry about the snoring. 

Riley, a Coton de Tulear

Here's a breed I'd never heard of before-- a Coton de Tulear, the official dog of Madagascar.   I fell in love with a Coton named  Riley.  I bench sat him once while his owner went inside Peet's Coffee and ordered a cappuccino.    Riley reminded me a little of  Stanley, a Bichon Frise puppy I owned briefly a long time ago, and after reading about the idiosyncrasies of this breed online,  I know why I had the deja vu.   

Stanley, the Bichon Frise, waiting for his bath

Coton's are high maintenance dogs, like Stanley.  He required laborious combing and brushing every day and frequent bathings because of his sensitive skin.  Stanley's  allergy to grass and other outdoor living things were some of the reasons why after three weeks, I returned him to the breeder.  Honestly, it probably had more to do with my not having the emotional bandwidth at the time to care for a fussy dog like a Bichon Frise.   In addition to a stressful job and an aging Labrador Retriever, I was freaking out because, out of the blue, my husband confessed he still loved his high school girlfriend and wanted out.




Dogs have always been central to my life, although I didn't grow up with them as a child.  Without checking with my parents first, my uncle gave us two puppies from an unplanned litter his family dog had, but the puppies mysteriously disappeared during my first week at summer camp.  I always suspected that my anti-pet parents had something to do with this, but I gave up asking the questions to which they had no answers, except to say over and over, some day when you have a home of your own, you can have a dog.





That day came in 1969 when my then-husband brought home a

Pam and Bruce, the dog!  1972

yellow Labrador Retriever puppy as a surprise.   We named him Bruce, after the well-known comedian and satirist of the time,  Lenny Bruce, never knowing, of course, that thirty years later I would marry the love of my life, whose name is also Bruce.  Like my now husband Bruce, my then dog Bruce was sweet, but unlike my now husband, my then dog was hyper and poorly behaved.  Years later I realized it was not the dog's fault but ours.  We were unprepared for the challenges that owning a dog presents.  We didn't know the first thing about training, but we showered him with love and took him everywhere we went.   

When our Bruce dog died, it was the only time I ever saw my husband cry.   Losing a pet is traumatic.  Bruce was only nine years old,  which is young for a Labrador Retriever, but he had cancer, and there wasn't anything our vet could do.    Eventually, we were ready to love another, so we began to scan the newspaper  ads.  We also went to dog shows to meet dog owners, and eventually we crossed paths with Stuart, a Labrador breeder from across the Bay.  He told us that his bitch Nellie would be bred to a famous stud dog named Lockerbie Brian Boru, and there would be a yellow puppy, since Nellie was yellow and Brian was black.   We didn't know anything about recessive or dominant genes back then, but we were vulnerable and got sucked into putting a hefty deposit on not just a puppy, but a show quality puppy, since those show dogs were really gorgeous.    So here we were; one month we were ignorant about dogs, and the next month we were buying a show puppy.  

Weeks after the successful breeding,  we drove 300 miles south to meet the stud dog,  Brian,  who had the record for siring more champion Labrador Retrievers than any dog in history.  When we arrived at the owner's home, we were graciously led into the master bedroom to meet the famous Brian, who was sleeping in the middle of a king size bed and dreaming of another sexual conquest, I'm sure.   To our surprise,  rather than seeing a gallant, athletic dog, we saw an aging, arthritic one, but genes are invisible, and he still had what it took to breed.   We told Stuart we wanted a yellow female,  but as it turned out, there were no yellow females in the litter, so we came home with a black one we named Bristol.  Genes don't always make promises, we found out, no matter how hefty the deposit.   

Ch. Gatwick's Bristol Cream

I won't go into the details about the several years we showed 

Bristol and Pam 1983

Bristol, except to say that, in addition to loving the show ring, she was an exceptional pet.   The politics of the dog show scene grew weary, so after Bristol became a champion and had two beautiful litters, we said goodbye to our crazy dog show friends.  (If you don't know what I'm talking about, see the movie Best in Show.)  



Bristol had two puppies who were very special to me.  Porter, a mellow black male, became my constant companion for 12 years,  and Tommy, a beautiful yellow male, I sold to a man who is still one of my best friends today.  

Tommy, Bristol, and Porter, 1984 

I'm sure that when my friend, Deb, reads this post, she will roll her eyes and remember a time when a dog, a bunch of them actually, almost got us into trouble on a bike ride.   We were doing a metric century in the hills outside of Fresno when I saw a ramshackle house with a pen in the yard full of darling puppies scampering about.  "STOP!" I shouted to Deb, as we rolled past.   "Look at those adorable pups."  Deb and I have a lot in common, but a love of dogs is not one of them.   Because she is such a nice friend,  she put on her brakes and came to an abrupt halt.   In a matter of   seconds,  my bike was on the ground, and I was on my knees oohing and aahing over the furry puppies who looked like Border Collies.  There were a half dozen at least, all enclosed in a pen made of chicken wire, in the middle of a very overgrown yard filled with debris and rusty vehicles that looked similar to the junky properties I saw in North Carolina last week.  

Immediately,  a beefy looking man with a ratty beard and dressed in dirty camouflage clothes emerged from the house, and in a very stern voice asked,  "What's your business here?"   In my usual chatterbox way, I asked questions to show I knew something about dogs, and that I was not going to steal a puppy.   In the meantime,  Deb, who was quietly observing the man and his unusual surroundings, noticed he was wearing a belt with a swastika symbol emblazoned on the metal buckle.   I was totally oblivious.   She also noticed other bizarre stuff  around his house and realized this man should be avoided.  That's when she turned to me and said, "Pam,  it's time to go."   Thankfully, I then realized he was a weirdo too.  We jumped  on our bikes and rode out of there as quickly as possible.  At a rest stop a few miles away, a rider told us that the police were actively monitoring the area we just rode through because there was a crazy guy who lived on the route and was known for hassling cyclists.   Now, whenever Deb and I are riding, and I see a dog I want to check out, she jokingly reminds me of our scary experience near Fresno.




To get my dog fix I take a walk in downtown Los Altos where there seems to be an unofficial dog show every day.   In one of the stores where I shop, I'm greeted by a very friendly dog named Cody, a Barbet.  Cody

Cody at Gitane, a wonderful store in Los Altos

trots up to me as if to say, "Mademoiselle, may I show you a fine pair of jeans?" Then he jumps on the sofa beside me, so I can love him to pieces, which I do.    He's kind of like Riley, the Coton, who is kind of like Stanley, the Bichon, so I'm beginning to think that I might have a penchant for high maintenance dogs with fuzzy faces.  A far cry from a Labrador Retriever.










My good friends have a Briard, another uncommon breed.   LuLu swims in their pool, sleeps in their bed, and makes me smile whenever I visit because she's so beautiful and full of energy.

LuLu Kahn

 I know that what I'm about to say might upset some of my cat friends, so I'll apologize in advance, but I'm a dog person at heart.   Even though I own two beautiful cats, whom I adore, I think that dogs are much more fun.   Generally speaking,  they are more social, more responsive, and more loving on your terms, not theirs, like a cat.   Dogs say please when they want something,  I'm sorry when they are naughty, and thank you when they are appreciative.  You can take your dog out to breakfast, lunch or dinner as long as there is outside dining, unless you happen to live in Germany, where well-behaved dogs are allowed inside restaurants.   You can train a dog to come, sit, stay and heel, but most cats can't be trained, except for that exceptional feline with three million views on YouTube who plays classical music on the piano.  (Click on link to watch video.) 

Truthfully speaking, dogs are a lot more work than cats, who are comparatively easy.    Cats don't take up much room, don't require outdoor exercise, are able to groom themselves, and I love to hear them purr with contentment.   I like that my cats greet me when I walk in the door,  but what I hear is feed me not Hi, I'm happy to see you. 

So all this comes down to the reality of my life.  Forget the dreaming.  I can't have a dog, dammit.  Why?  Because we travel all the time, our small townhouse has no yard, and my Tonkinese cats, Sophie and Indie, were here first and would have a fit if I brought home a dog.  So I say to myself,  OK, Pam, you can't have a dog, but you can still dream.  

Dogs on Parade 

Miso

Brindy

Montreal Jack

Miso and Tofu 

SKYWAYS, PARKWAYS, AND BACKROADS OF APPALACHIA

Day One

Grilled Cheese Mania Food Truck, Harrisonburg, VA

Eating a grilled cheese sandwich in our rental car in a parking lot in Harrisonburg, Virginia was not how I expected to spend my first day on our driving trip through the Blue Ridge Mountains, but due to poor visibility because of  nasty fog, we were forced off Skyline Drive in Shenandoah National Park.  Thank heavens for the TripAdviser app on my iPad because they rated Grilled Cheese Mania as the number one eatery in Harrisonburg.   This was not your typical American-cheese-on-white-bread grilled cheese, but a sandwich called Mama Mia made with fresh mozzarella, tomato slices, basic pesto,  sriracha hot chili sauce and grilled on rye bread.  Bruce loved his Triple Lindy --  cheddar,  colby, monterey jack blended with baby spinach and topped with crisp bacon crumbled and grilled golden on sour dough.  We were enjoying Southern comfort food prepared in a dainty little food truck parked permanently at 1321 South High Street, just on the outskirts of town.  Emily and Jordan, our charming chefs,  told us that when owner Kathleen moved to Harrisonburg last year, her daughter came up with the brilliant idea of a grilled cheese food truck, and in just six short months, the reviews have been nothing short of outstanding.   



To give you some idea how foggy it was on Skyline Drive, we

nearly rear-ended a slow-moving pickup truck that we didn't see until we were almost on top of the vehicle.   Believe it or not,  but this was my second attempt at traveling this scenic route that is aptly named one of the most beautiful drives in America,  but both times I  had to get off the parkway because of bad weather and poor visibility.   The words to Oh, Shenandoah, I long to see you,  a popular early American folk song, popped into my head as we drove back down the mountain and got on the Interstate.  


Day Two

Thunder, lightening, and the kind of heavy rain that soaks through to your skin in 20 seconds was in the forecast, but Bruce was optimistic and thought that once we left Roanoke, the fast food capital of Virginia, and headed south on the Blue Ridge Parkway (BRP), the weather would improve.   He was partially right.  The sky was foreboding.  There were dark clouds everywhere.  The fog hovered above us, but at eye level, the scenery was pretty good although not great light for taking pictures.   The forest was alive with spring color.   Newly-leafed oak, beech and maple trees glistened after the early morning rain.   The dogwood and wild cherries were blooming, and it was really beautiful except there were no sweeping views of the mountains or the scenic valleys below that we hoped for.  Sporadically, it rained so hard that we couldn't hear each other talk.   

  

Meadows of Dan, Virginia 

Around noon I was thinking about lunch, so I said to Bruce "Let's pull off the Parkway and see what there is to eat."   The turkey and cheese sandwich for $3.06 at Poor Farmer's Market,  an iconic general store in very small town called Meadows of Dan, was the only healthy item on the menu.   I'm not sure it was real turkey or real cheese, but I ate it anyway.  

The guys from Meadows of Dan

I looked around the store and thought Wow,what great photo ops, so I asked a few of the locals, who were drinking beer and rocking away by the warm wood stove, if I could take their picture to publish on my blog Biker Chick Gone Crazy.  

Posing for photos in Poor Farmer's Country Store

Laughing at me like I was a city slicker dressed in a designer gown and wearing  high heeled shoes, one of the guys said in a thick Southern drawl,  "Sure 'nuff,  honey, you go right ahead.  We are dying to be famous."   Here you go fellas.  Your pictures are now on Biker Chick Gone Crazy, your claim to fame!

Just because I didn't think you believed me.

I called our Tennessee friends Anne and Ben and told them we were only 79 miles from their home in Bristol, where they kindly invited us to spend the night.   "So, we should be seeing you pretty soon then, right?" Anne queried, but once Ben heard we were driving on Route 58, he knew we'd be a while because of all the switchbacks on the steep mountain road.  Our first hint at the slow ride ahead was a sign that said Trucks and Trailers not Advised for the Next 50 miles.



When we reached a town called Mouth of Wilson (I kid you not),  

Snow?

hail started bouncing off the windshield, making so much noise that I pulled out my iPhone to record it.  We stopped the car for a few minutes because the accumulated hail on the road looked like snow, and the idea of needing chains momentarily crossed our minds.   

The purple asparagus turns green after it is steamed

In Bristol we were greeted with hugs  from Anne and Ben.  Their property is lovely, and everything was  green and lush unlike California which is brown and dry this time of year.  Besides riding bicycles (they are about to embark on a self-supported cross country bicycle trip on the Northern Tier in June),  Anne makes prize-winning quilts, tends a hearty garden, and Ben, a retired oncologist, keeps honey bees and makes a variety of beers, including a porter, which I loved.  I met Anne in 2009 when we both rode the Northwest Loop, a 1500 mile bicycle ride through Oregon, Washington and Idaho.  Ever since I saw photos of her garden on Facebook,  I've been dying to taste home-grown asparagus, and after the exciting drive through the mountains and the surprise hail storm,  Bruce was eager to relax and drink some of Ben's home-made beer.  Everything was delicious.    Thanks, Anne and Ben.  We had a great time.






Day 3

The beautiful dining room at The Reynolds Mansion

Billy Sanders was out front picking weeds when we drove up the hill to Reynolds Mansion three miles outside of Asheville, North Carolina.    Billy greeted us as though we'd been friends for years, and showed us through the beautifully restored colonial revival mansion, which is also the home he shares with his partner Mike and two English bulldogs named Rhett and Scarlett.   We immediately felt right at home and loved that, in addition to the historic features of the house, Billy and Mike have added mementoes of their own family history, like painted portraits of their mothers that reside over the fireplaces in two of the mansion's well appointed rooms.    The elegantly furnished house was built in 1847 and is steeped in elaborate history that involves Senator Rice Reynolds and has ties to the Hope Diamond.  Billy, displaying his Southern charm, explained that becoming an innkeeper was a dream he'd had since high school, but he got caught up in the corporate world before

The Linda Room where Bruce and I stayed at The Reynolds Mansion 

making his dream come true in Asheville.   For a couple of years He and Mike worked hard and shed a few tears of frustration in order to bring the mansion to its lovingly restored state.  He now sees his first responsibility as a steward of the mansion's history, and his second is to continue to provide exceptional service to his guests.  There's much more information about Reynolds Mansion if you click on the link and also look on TripAdviser, where it is rated the number one bed and breakfast in Asheville and the second best in the country.   P.S.  I told Bruce that I hoped he wouldn't mind, but I'd adopt Billy in a heartbeat, if he'd have me.

Day 4

The Biltmore House, 175,000 square feet

I was craving exercise,  especially to burn off the gazillion 

calories I'd consumed the previous four days, and six hours of walking through one of the world's grandest estates was a perfect way to do it.  If you have never been to the Biltmore House, located a few miles outside of Asheville, please put this historic landmark on your list of special places to visit.  I could write an entire blog post on our tour of this 175,000 square foot house, but words wouldn't do it justice.  You have to see it to believe it!   Here are some facts:   The 250 room house was built in 1895 by George Vanderbilt, a descendent of one of the oldest and best known American families, and modeled after a 16th Century French chateaux by architect Richard Morris Hunt.  

Pam and Bruce in the Biltmore Gardens

The gardens and immense grounds of the 125,000 acre estate were designed by Frederick Law Olmstead, who is also well known for creating Central Park and other famous historic landscapes,  such as parts of Stanford University and the beautiful Mountain View Cemetery in Oakland, California. 




Day 5

"Love my moonshine"

Asheville is one of those unique towns where there is style, sophistication, and Southern charm, but there is also a culture based on the stereotypes of Appalachia and hillbilly life.  The best way to observe this is to stroll the streets, talk to the locals and listen to their stories.  A man covered with tattoos told me he lived on the streets because his mother kicked him out of the house for making moonshine.  He claimed to be a musician but that may have been a euphemism for panhandler. 

Street Musician in Asheville

It's easy to pick up a Southern accent if you stay long enough.  A one syllable word is pronounced like two.  For example, my name is Pa-am, and some two syllable words are pronounced like there is only one.  Ben in Tennessee told us that the word owl, as in bird, which we Yankees would pronounce with two syllables -- Ou-wel, they pronounce with one, like Aul, if you follow me.  

Listening to local stories and Blue Grass music on the street in Asheville

Residents of Asheville exude Southern hospitality in the shops and in restaurants, as they are warm and welcoming people.   The food is excellent, and the executive chef at Curate, where we had a delicious dinner one evening, won a James Beard award and has been nominated again this year.   Asheville's many art galleries and shops were fun to explore, even those selling kitsch,  but what we loved most was talking to street musicians and listening to great blue grass played on a washboard,  harmonica, and banjo.    As I listened to the local music, I thought about our visit to Oman and conversations with the Bedouin people just six weeks before, and I marveled at the amazing differences in our world and my good fortune to be able to experience both.  

Great music

Day 6 and 7

A permanent resident at Cataloochee Ranch

Bruce read about Cataloochee Ranch in National Geographic Traveler magazine and thought we should stay there for a couple of nights.  The ranch is still owned by the descendants of the Alexander family who developed the beautiful property in the late 
1930s with a main guest lodge, dining facilities and several deluxe
cabins scattered about, all with beautiful views overlooking the Smokey Mountains.  

The view from our room at the ranch

As described in the article, the ranch had an authentic wrangler feel, but since we are not horse people, our plan was to hike, enjoy the scenery, and take photos of wildflowers.  But that was not to be because the weather was cold and foggy, and the hiking trails were muddy.  From the map it looked like our best bet was drive into Smokey National Park not far away and check out Cataloochee Valley, where one might be lucky enough to spot elk, and we hoped to find the Boogerman trail which friends had recommended.  The drive through the park was spectacular, and although we never found Boogerman trailhead,  we did hike four 

A beautiful trail

miles alongside a rushing creek with several one-hand rail bridges. One hiker warned us about a coppermouth snake he saw near an old house along the trail, but we never saw any copperheads nor any cottonmouths,  and we never saw elk either.   On the other hand outside the park on some of the back roads we did see blatant signs of extreme poverty and residential decline, and we were genuinely appalled.

Meaner than a junk yard dog

Day 8

With only one day left of our trip through the Blue Ridge Mountains, we didn't want to waste time lingering over breakfast at the ranch,  so we checked out early to drive another route through Smokey National Park that Bruce sketched out when he planned our itinerary.   Richard at the Ranch told us that the Southern section of the Blue Ridge Parkway was, in his mind, the prettiest of the 469 miles through Virginia and North Carolina, and I must say I have to agree.  Maybe it was because the weather was sunny for a change, and the visibility pretty good. 

Now I know why they are called The Blue Ridge Mountains

The early evening light was ideal for taking pictures, so we lost track of time, and suddenly it was 7:30, and we were still on the Parkway when we should have been down the mountain looking for a place to spend the night.  At mile marker 412, we exited the BRP and entered Pisgah National Forest, which led us to the charming town of Brevard, North Carolina, described in a brochure as one of the coolest small towns in America.   And we thought so too.   "Let's try and find a reasonably priced motel where we can park our car out front and not have to drag luggage through a lobby and take an elevator to our room,"  Bruce said, and I happily agreed.   When I did a Google search on the iPad for motels in Brevard,  Sunset Motel popped up.   Cruising through town we saw a drive in restaurant straight out of the movie American Graffiti and the Sunset Motel was out of the 50s with a double room that rented for $79 per night.   The rooms were recently updated, and we had free wi-fi.  A sign at the check-in desk said their rooms would not be available for people living within a 35 mile radius.  Hmmmm?    

The sign at the Sunset Motel

 

Now that we're home, memories of this trip will remain vivid when we listen to the bluegrass CD  we bought and hum along with our favorite tunes like Blues in the Bottle and Turpentine Farm. 

Woolworth's Luncheonette, Asheville

Roadside Attraction

Another Roadside Attraction

God provided parking at a reasonable price in Tennessee

Next time I will bring my bike

THE SYRIANS

I watched TV in horror as a sobbing Syrian villager dragged several dead bodies onto the back of his truck.   Seven members of his immediate family, who had left the city for what they thought was safer ground in a rural village, were innocent victims of bombs from military jets overhead.   I closed my eyes and turned my head away when I saw legs blown off and blood everywhere, and as the program continued, I wondered when this insanity in Syria is going to stop.   

The incredibly brave PBS journalist followed a rebel fighter on the front lines, knowing that within minutes they could both be dead.  What struck me was that this 23-year-old Syrian rebel had been a member of Assad's regime,  but after witnessing the brutality of Assad against his own people,  he defected and joined the Free Syria Army.    The powerful and horrific scenes were similar to what I saw in pictures from the Vietnam war --  bloody and barely-alive bodies being pulled from the rubble of collapsed houses,  a wailing mother holding her dead child in her arms.  Families, frantic to leave the village, grabbed everything they could and ran for cover as bombs dropped from all directions.   Everyone screamed.  No one seemed to know where to go or what to do in the chaos.  

As I watched this riveting program, I asked myself where was I when this was going on?   Riding my bike with my girlfriends?  Talking and laughing on the phone?   Thinking about what to cook for dinner?    These questions pop into my mind often when I hear or read about real life events that are far removed from my life. What was I doing when the earthquake hit Japan last year or the tsunami in the Indian Ocean several years back?    When I watch documentaries like Frontline or hear first-hand reports on the evening news,  I sometimes feel like I'm watching a movie or a re-enactment.   My mind wanders.  What would happen if the Bay Area was struck by an 8 point earthquake, and my husband and I were injured with no one to help?   I certainly thought this when I watched the recent movie entitled The Impossible,  a true story about an English-speaking family vacationing in Thailand when the tsunami wiped out the resort where they were staying.  Thankfully, I don't dwell on scary thoughts like this very often, but I do live near the volatile San Andreas fault,  and a major quake in my lifetime is a real possibility.   We think tragedy happens only to people we don't know who are living in other places.   That's what the families in Newtown, Connecticut  thought too.    Some of us are naive,  but let's face it, most of us do not think about preparing ourselves emotionally for something so tragic.

After watching the program about the continued violence in Syria,  I thanked God we got the Azan family out of the dangerous Damascus suburbs eight months ago.   I think about them often and wonder what it must be like starting over.    Yes, the Arab culture and language are similar,  but it's not the country they were born in.    More questions:  How would I cope,  and what would I do if I were in their shoes?  Unfortunately,  I have no answers.  

For my family and friends who contributed generously to the Syrian family project last fall,  I want to give you an update.  I also want to inform the hundreds of people, who learned of this family's ordeal through my blog post Putting a Human Face on the Tragedy in Syria (click on link to go to the story).

This is what I know:   

No surprise.  Life has been a struggle for the twelve members of the Syrian family who, by their sheer tenacity and with financial help from concerned Americans,  escaped from their crumbling homeland of Syria to Egypt last fall.   I wish I could tell you that their life is good, but they continue to face many obstacles.

To help support the family, one of the sons works outside of Cairo for a Syrian opposition television station.   The sister and husband, with their two small kids, traveled to Turkey and hope to find work there,  since jobs in Egypt are scarce.  The adolescent boys living with the family in Cairo are unable to go to school because of their immigration status.  The father is in very poor health because his pre-existing heart condition was exacerbated from the stress.   Since he didn't have enough money to buy the equipment he needed, his plan to open a kebab shop in Cairo didn't work out.  Their two friends, who were living in the Damascus home after the family left,  died when the home was bombed.  And adding to their problems, their son, Amy's friend who lives in Rome, is also in a bind.  His Syrian passport expired a while ago, but because there is no longer a Syrian Embassy in Rome,  he is unable to renew it, and applying for refugee status threatens his current work visa.   A Catch 22.    When his Italian work visa expires,  he effectively becomes a stateless person.  What a nightmare he faces, along with thousands of other Syrian emigrants who face similar issues.    

Since the beginning of the war two years ago, 70,000 people, mostly unarmed civilians,  have died in the civil war.  "This massive loss of life could have been avoided if the Syrian government had chosen to take a different path than one of ruthless suppression of what were initially peaceful and legitimate protests by unarmed civilians," said Ms. Navi Pillay, a spokesperson for the United Nations High Commission on Human Rights, who condemned Bashar Al-Assad for the scale of human carnage and criticized the United Nations for their failure to act.

Neighboring countries struggle to house, feed and clothe the million-plus Syrians who fled to safe havens like Turkey, Lebanon and Jordan.   Videos taken in the camps show thousands of families cooped up in dilapidated quarters, places you could not imagine living in yourself.  They have very little food to sustain them, and no place for personal hygiene or privacy.  Unthinkable!   How do they maintain a sense of dignity, essential to the human condition?    

We don't get to choose our mother or father, nor do we get to choose the country we are born in, but as a child of immigrant parents, who also fled the ravages of war, I am forever grateful to live in a free country.  I complain about our impossible Congress who can't reach a compromise to legislate gun control or can't agree on how to bring down our national debt.    I worry that our Supreme Court will vote against same sex marriage.  I write letters to my city council about the out-of-control development in my neighborhood.   Yes, these are important issues, but when I think about the destitute Syrians who live in camps and our struggling family in Cairo, these problems seem less compelling.   I wonder how they will continue to make ends meet, but I thank God they are out of harm's way.   The rocky politics and intermittent violence in Egypt are unsettling, but the government is not slaughtering its own people, and our Syrian family's lives are not in danger.   For the moment, they are safe.  

NEW FINDS

What a surprise to find an espresso cafe in a running store,   especially one with the unusual name of ZombieRunner.  The shop occupies the former space of The Fine Arts movie theater, where I saw  Ghostbusters in the 1980s, and Joan Baez sat in front of me.   Someone said ZombieRunner makes delicious coffee, so I was curious, but somewhat dubious that a running store would offer good coffee.   A bookstore, yes, but a running store?   It seemed like an odd combination to me.

429 South California Avenue, Palo Alto, CA 

I began drinking coffee in the l960s and was a regular consumer of Peets, long before it became a national brand.  Their second retail store opened in our town, and it was a regular hangout for me and my friends on Saturday mornings.  Making coffee at home was a daily ritual that I loved.  I ground Major Dickason coffee beans for exactly fifteen seconds, boiled water in an electric teakettle, and let the water cool to a perfect temperature,  which took about a minute.  Using a Bodum French press, I put the ground coffee in the glass cylinder, slowly poured in the hot water while I lovingly stirred with a wooden chopstick used only for this purpose.  All of these steps were essential for the coffee to burst with intense flavor.  I did this every morning for many years, and I shunned the ease of a multi-cup drip pot because the coffee tasted burnt and bitter.

Despite the devotion to my morning ritual and love for flavorful coffee, my husband and I gave up caffeine and then eventually quit drinking coffee altogether,  mainly for health reasons.  I was getting weird heart palpitations.  My husband was waking up often during the night and not able to go back to sleep.  His complaints seemed significant enough to warrant a sleep study, but the doctor said the tests were normal.  

Although no one mentioned coffee as a possible culprit,  I told Bruce we should kick the habit and switch to decaf.  He said, "I can never give up my caffeine.  It's what gets me through the day."  He was so adamant that I dropped my case, but I had another idea up my sleeve.  Without his knowing it, I started to add a few decaf beans to the caffeinated beans in the grinder every day, and because it was done gradually over a month or so, he didn't notice the difference.  Neither did I.  Some time later when friends mentioned wanting to get off caffeine, Bruce boasted, "Yes, Pam wanted me to give up caffeine too, but I told her No way, Jose."

Now is the time to tell him the truth, I thought.  "Bruce,"  I said, "you've been drinking decaf for at least two months now.  Then I went on to say how I made this happen.  Everyone broke up laughing, including Bruce, thankfully, and while I'm sorry I tricked him,  he was successfully weaned off caffeine and happy to be sleeping through the night.  And my heart palpitations stopped too.

So, for several years I made decaffeinated coffee every morning, but over time our desire for even decaf lessened.  Before long we stopped drinking coffee entirely,  and we weren't missing it a bit.  Our addiction was gone.

Then about six months ago,  I decided I wanted to drink coffee again, mainly decaf but with some caffeine now and then.   I missed having a cup to sip while reading the morning paper.  Bruce had no interest at all in resuming, so I would frequently walk up the street to Peets and have a delicious cappuccino while reading the daily news.  But Peets was expensive and also fattening,  since I often added a blackberry scone to my order.  The coffee making ritual I used to love was no longer appealing.  My coffee bean grinder became a spice grinder, and my French press was stored somewhere out in the garage.  Then I heard about the Keurig coffee maker and decided this machine might solve my one cup need.  So, for the last four months I've been using the Keurig machine,  and it works for me,  although the coffee is not as robust and full bodied as what I made in the French press or bought at Peets.  

When I arrived at ZombieRunner, the line was out the door.  Most of the people looked like computer geeks who worked nearby.  No one was dressed in running clothes or did anyone in the line look particularly athletic.  I sidestepped the coffee line, walked into the retail store and was blown away. 

   

There on the wall was a huge selection of colorful running shoes of high-end brands I recognized.  Over on the shelf was a plethora of energy foods like Heed,  Perpetuem, and Recoverite, products I also use for cycling.  

On the racks was a wonderful array of running clothes -- shorts, moisture absorbing tees, halter tops, tights, and rain jackets.    I saw a section with aids for injuries,  like knee straps, elasticized ankle wraps and special socks for sufferers of plantar fasciitis.  I even found some wool socks I can wear for cycling, and they also had a good supply of hydration systems, like Camelbaks, which bicyclists also use.  As I wandered around the store touching and feeling, I could smell the wonderful aroma of freshly brewed coffee wafting in the air.    This was my kind of place.

Gillian and Don, the owners of ZombieRunner, said the store has

Gillian and Don

been open about four and a half years,  but earlier they sold products on line for five.  They are both ultra runners who have participated in the Western States event many times -- a 100 mile run over the Sierra Nevada Mountains-- which is maybe why they call their store ZombieRunner.  But,  in addition to their love of running long distances, they are also passionate about coffee.  "We buy our beans from a small local business who roasts for us four or five times a week," Gillian said.    




Zach and Christina, the well-trained baristas working behind the bar, listened carefully to my coffee history, about how I ordered a long pull cappuccino from Peets, and how I enjoy a robust flavor,  but don't want the buzz from caffeine.  They smiled at me and said, "We can do better."  And they did.  Within a few minutes I was looking down at a cup of cappuccino with a beautiful creamy design.   "Hmm, this tastes a little bitter," I said, after taking my first sip.  "That will happen," Zach replied.  "Just take another sip.  The bitterness will disappear, and you will be tasting sweet, then intensity, and then you will fall in love.  And you won't get hyper because your coffee was made with decaffeinated beans from Ethiopia."  I followed his sipping directions, and he was absolutely right.  The bitterness disappeared after the first taste, and the intense coffee flavor came through like gangbusters, not ghostbusters.

Zach knew his stuff, telling me how ZombieRunners is a purveyor of Third Wave Coffee.   I'd never heard of such a term before, so when I got home I checked Wikipedia and this is what it said:  "Third Wave coffee refers to a current movement to produce high-quality coffee and consider coffee as an artisanal foodstuff, like wine, rather than a commodity.  This involves improvements at all stages of production, from improving coffee bean growing, harvesting, and processing, to stronger relationships between coffee growers and coffee traders and roasters, to higher quality and fresh roasting, at times called microroasting (by analogy with microbrewing beer).  Third Wave Coffee aspires to the highest form of culinary appreciation of coffee."     After reading this  description, I was reminded of the Slow Food Movement that started in Italy many years ago and has now spread successfully around the world.

I swooned.  While I've always loved the flavor of strong, intense coffee, this taste was different, something new, and really, really smooth.   Along with a great cup of coffee, I loved that Zach,  the barista,  gave me the background on why ZombieRunner's handcrafted coffee is unique and how it is made    "I can't wait to email my coffee-loving girlfriends," I told him,  as I scribbled down the word Third Wave.

"Hey, if you love our coffee, try the amazing chocolate at The Chocolate Garage," Christina called out to me as I floated towards the door.  I looked back at her in disbelief.  Chocolate?  Did you say Chocolate?    "You will find it on Gilman Street.  It's awesome chocolate just like our awesome coffee, " she said.    Music to my ears.

I'll write about The Chocolate Garage, I promise.  For someone who has lived in the Bay Area for more than forty years, I love hearing about new finds.