lorna's family travel blog

Angry NYC Cabbie and how I survived the ride down to SoHo

2011-10-19T06:17:00.000-07:00

The cabbie pulled over to get me at the corner of 78th and broadway. In the predawn darkness, it was hard to discern whether he was Indian or African and I was grateful for his question about which route to take, as it allowed me to confidently place him somewhere between Pakistan and India.

“Ve tek Vest Side Driwe yeh?”

We drove along West Side Highway with my friendly driver cursing loudly at cars who dared to press on their brakes along the way. He narrowly missed several pedestrians, but undeterred continue to lurch the cab toward jay-walkers at every opportunity. Fortunately , I had left the apartment in a rush and had no time for breakfast. We arrived 20 minutes later, my fingernail scratches visible on the pleather banquette beneath my sweaty palms. My stomach gurgled with gastric juices now well agitated by the sea like swells traversed at break neck speed in the car. I thanked my driver, tipped him well, and accepted his heartfelt blessings for my family, and entered the hotel lobby grateful to be alive.

Bilbao bound, Gehry Guggenheim and Welcome to La Rioja

2011-07-13T10:17:00.000-07:00

We left Barcelona after a lengthy baggage check-in at the airport which required the emptying of one suitcase and redistribution of toiletries into the other suitcase so as to respect the strict 23.5kg baggage limit imposed by the Franko-era-esque airline regulations. My stash of pilfered mini hotel shampoos and conditioners safely aboard the aircraft, we flew to Bilbao where our chatty chauffeur did not allow his complete lack of spoken English to interfere at all with his prolific discourse. His accent was deeply Basque and struggle as I might to understand his musings, I could not make sense of it. I resorted to smiling politely and the occasional nod, which seemed to satisfy him. We arrived at the Guggenheim Museum Bilbao and had a tour of this most impressive Frank Gehry masterpiece and its contents. Our guide Javiera is an art student at the University and a punk rock devotee. Her electric blue highlights and EMO make up contrasted with her traditional Basque-inspired museum uniform, resulting in a twisted yet charming effect. Joining us on our tour was a senior couple from the midwest who were straight out of central casting. Javiera did an admirable job tolerating the rotund husband's frequent inquiries into whether the permanent collection was on loan from an American museum.

After the tour we were picked up by our prolific chauffeur who delivered us to the awe inspiring Marques de Riscal Hotel in the La Rioja wine region. The hotel is another work of Frank Gehry and it is spectacularly set against the rollicking vineyards of the lush Spanish countryside. We checked into our suite and I was thrilled to find a plentiful variety of mini Caudalie bath products. You see, my travels will be taking me to France to my cousin's villa in St. Tropez, and chic mini toiletries are something I always bring as a bit of a running joke. I emptied the entire selection into the hotel laundry bag, and after locking it away in the room safe and asking the maids to replenish our toiletries, headed out for a walk of the expansive grounds.

Dinner that evening was outdoors in the tiny medievel hamlet of Laguardia at the restaurant Los Parajes in the central square, where we enjoyed the best burrata cheese on earth and the most divine meal of the trip. We kept ordering pinxos as each was better than the last, and I suppose I was slightly embarrassed when the waiter suggested we might have eaten enough and perhaps should consider dessert.

Back in our hotel suite at 1am, the toiletries had been restocked and after tucking the beautiful bottles and razor kits into the safe, fell into a glorious slumber.

Shoes Before Breakfast, Marc the Revolutionary Guide, Tapas in El Borne

2011-07-11T09:00:00.000-07:00

I awoke at 8:45am and as the electric blinds parted, I was faced with the beautiful sea glistening in the morning sunshine. A 45-minute yoga video opened my heart and hips to the day, and prepared me for breakfast. En route to the dining room, I couldn’t help but notice an adorable shoe boutique called Prima Ballerinas directly opposite the restaurant. I felt compelled to enter and within found the most charming selection of handmade leather sandals, ballet shoes and wedges.

A disdainful looking French couple was busy ordering the salesgirl around with the effortless contempt of deposed royalty. The wife was the color of old leather, a look only achieved through decades of extreme sun exposure and the chain smoking of unfiltered cigarettes. She barked orders out at the young sales clerk while simultaneously talking on her mobile phone and criticizing the service she was receiving to her husband, also on his mobile. Ignoring the French couple, I assessed the merchandise, and felt irresistibly drawn to a pair of silver sandals adorned with Swarovski crystals. The display shoe was in fact my size, a European 38, a clear sign from above. I slipped the supple leather onto my foot and it fit perfectly, tres Cinderella.

With childlike exuberance I approached the sales girl, who was partially hidden from view behind a tall and teetering stack of shoeboxes she was holding at Madam’s behest. I ask her ever so politely and in French, if she might ring this pair of sandals up for me and then continue catering to the needs of Madam. From behind the boxes the sales clerk smiled at me pleadingly with her eyes and then looked longingly at Madam for consent. Madam, never breaking from her mobile phone discussion, and quite obviously disgusted by the interference of “l’Americaine” nodded reluctantly, as if to say, “Go ahead you useless idiot and be quick about it.”

I paid and was delighted to have made my first purchase before breakfast, not something one does every day. After a satisfying breakfast of natural yogurt and walnuts we met our guide Marc, and driver Fernanado, who would be taking us out for an overview of Barcelona. At the Museum of Catalan Culture Marc explained to us how Catalonia is not part of Spain at all. I found this curious as I was reasonably sure I was indeed in Spain, having gone through passport control upon my arrival.

Marc went on to explain that in fact Catalonia is far superior to Spain and that the inhabitants of Barcelona and other Catalonian cities would be better off if they could officially separate from Spain. Unfortunately the Spanish Constitution does not allow for a state to separate no matter how superior they may be. Marc explained as an important point of reference how the Catalonian government recently outlawed bullfighting due to reasons of animal cruelty, and that the rest of Spain was outraged. This outrage outraged Marc.

Having been raised in Montreal and lived through the separatist movement first hand, I felt it best to simply switch the subject to various lunch spots in the Gothic section of town called El Borne. This prompted Marc to share with me how in Catalonia one calls the traditionally served tasty shared dishes found in small restaurants throughout the cities and villages, “tapas”, but that in the Basque country they are called “pinxos”, which Marc pointed out is clearly ridiculous.

Ridiculous or not, I must say I find them delicious. Marc took us to an ancient synagogue in El Borne as well as to the site of a recently discovered Roman villa, and to both the Modern Art and the Picasso Museums. That evening we enjoyed dinner at “Moments” restaurant in the new Mandarin Oriental hotel and were in bed by 2am.

Baggage failure, Spanish lessons, Bright Whites, and The Case of the Grandiose Chocolate Box

2011-07-06T14:00:00.000-07:00

I arrived in Barcelona, now joined by my adorable husband, feeling refreshed and relaxed. I cleared immigration and headed to baggage claim for a one-hour wait at conveyor belt #4, which would end in defeat. Sadly, my suitcase would not be joining me in Barcelona that day. But fear not dear reader, for being the savvy traveler that you know me to be, inside my enormous roller bag carry-on was a two day supply of fresh clothes (including evening attire), toiletries, Atkins Carb-control power bars, and cinnamon chewing gum because fresh breath is always a priority. I filed my missing bag claim with the unsympathetic electric blue eye-shadowed woman at the kiosk, and exited the baggage hall. Frankly after my exquisite journey to this point, I was dumbfounded as to why there is not a special First Class Lost Baggage Claim area cordoned off with royal blue velvet rope, and plan to write to BA forthwith.

I found my smiling driver holding a sign with my misspelled name. He spoke no English, and so with my clever on-the-spot transformation of Italian into Spanish, (simply end every other word in either “os” or “ra”, employ liberal use of “si, si, si”, start sentences with “jo vengo al…”, or “vamos al hotel porfavor”) managed to make pleasant small talk with the driver who informed me it would take approximately 30 minutes to get to the Hotel Arts.

The marvelous hotel is situated on the beach and my check-in was conducted by a lovely young Spaniard who apologized for the General Manager’s inability to welcome me personally to the hotel as she had been called away to Abu Dhabi for the opening of a new hotel there. I assured him that this inconvenience was completely understandable given the circumstances. We were then entrusted to an adorable Dutch hostess with big blue eyes and a constant giggle. She asked if we were here for a special occasion and I told her that it was our 18th anniversary. From that moment on, the young woman would be wishing us a “Heppy Hooneymoon” at every chance. Her uniform consisted of a multilayered midnight blue floor length skirt and matching jacket. The skirt was so ample that I feared she would trip over it at any moment and found myself trying to edge in front of her so as to break her fall when the inevitable spill happened. In response the woman would tactfully quicken her pace in order to retake the lead and show me the way to the elevator. And so it was as we walked along the hallway, politely racing one another and exchanging the leadership position off an on. I finally gave up hope of saving her and allowed her a commanding lead as we approached the elevator.

She escorted us to our suite and showed us how to operate the somewhat confusing espresso machine and much more confusing remote controlled electric blinds. After conquering the in-suite electronics, we showered and headed out to meet our Spanish friend Bernardo who had arranged a private tour of Gaudi’s famed Segrada Famiglia Basilica.

Following the tour, we walked along the Passieg de Gracias where all the high-end shops are located, and passed two other famous and very whimsical Gaudi buildings along the avenue. After much walking, we enjoyed some light bites at Tapac 24, yummmmm, a much loved local Tapas Bar. One word of caution, if ever served a delicious tender off the bone meat dish with truffle undertones, please do not ask what it is until having completed your consumption. Trust me.

We stopped at Massimo Dutti to purchase white trousers for Bernardo and David as we will be attending the Running of the Bulls in Pamplona next week and all-white attire is de rigeur. After then veering onto the bustling Las Ramblas Avenue and stopping to collect some mother-of-pearl selier spoons at a fabulous design shop, we headed to our 10pm dinner at Dos Cielos atop the Me Hotel. This Michelin starred restaurant does not allow gentlemen to dine in shorts and so fortunately David ducked quickly into the Banos and changed into his new bright white pants, and we were seated immediately on the terrace, aided in no small measure by the illumination gained off of David’s gleaming white trousers.

Our 8 course dinner was delicious and somewhat of an athletic undertaking for we were not yet accustomed to the 3 hour-long dinner format. After the pre-dessert, the dessert and the post-dessert courses, the waiter arrived with 3 beautiful jewelry boxes emblazoned with the Dos Cielos logo. The waitress stood by my side as I opened my box, eagerly anticipating a keepsake. Instead I found the cushioned white satin interior to contain nothing but a single chocolate truffle. My disappointment was difficult to contain. The waitress then explained that the truffle was filled with passion fruit and that “deh bosc muss eh’stay at deh restaurant.” Seriously? As if I would have made off with the box. Besides which, who fills a perfectly good jewelry box with chocolate and who fills a perfectly good chocolate with fruit?? Needless to say, I left my chocolate in its casing untouched.

Back at out hotel at 1:30am and feeling very cool, I donned my eye mask and went to sleep. Buenos noches.

Barcelona Bound, First Class Imposter Alert, Edgar the Obsequious

2011-07-04T12:36:00.000-07:00

Dear Reader,

It has been ever such a long time since my last trip, which if you missed it was to the magical land of India in late March of this year. I am happy to report that I am on the global travel road once again.

I dropped the two younger kids off on Thursday morning at the airport for their plane to summer sleep away camp north of Toronto. My eldest I entrusted to my mother who will be taking her to Paris for culture, baguette and excellent practice of her French. As for me you wonder, well I hopped on a flight destined for Barcelona via JFK to meet up with my hubby for an 18th wedding anniversary trip through Spain. Before reaching Barcelona I had the pleasure of being welcomed by the British Airways First Class Check-in Agent. She seemed genuinely concerned with my well being which I always appreciate.

At JFK I cleared the private access First Class security screening line and found myself in the terminal surrounded by gates and shops. But where was the First Class Lounge? An officious looking BA Flight Attendant was walking my way and so I stopped to inquire as to the whereabouts of the elusive lounge.

Lorna: “Excuse me, could you kindly direct me to the First Class Lounge?”

BA Agent (blond pageboy haircut, chubby, blue eyed, pastel pink lipstick smiling): “Do you mean the Business Class Lounge?”

Lorna (trying not to appear offended): “No,” (smiling extra widely), “I mean the First Class Lounge. Do you know where it is by chance?” (sounding more British by the moment in the hopes of being better understood by agent whose clotted cream consumption has detrimentally affected her hearing)

BA Agent: “Is your seat in First Class?”

Lorna: (smiling so widely cheeks are cramping) “Yes, seat 2K in fact, that’s me.”

BA Agent (looking me up and down carefully): “Oh, well please follow me and I’ll show you.” Pausing meaningfully, “It’s actually called the Concorde Room,” she explained, instantly outing me as a JFK BA First Class First Timer. She moved surprisingly swiftly on her stubby legs, “and they will need to look at your boarding pass so you might like to get it ready.”

Lorna: “Thanks ever so much,” keeping up pace while fantasizing about an airport buggy manned by a turban sporting Sikh, careening wildly out of control into the acerbic agent and trampling her.

Sure enough the royal blue velvet ropes to the unmarked Concorde Room appeared before me. I walked through the opening in the ropes with swagger and the electric glass doors opened for me. Inside a sophisticated silver haired blue suited gentleman greeted me and asked if he “might have a look at your boarding pass Miss.” Overjoyed that A) he did not call me “Ma’am”; and B) I had the genuine First Class boarding pass in hand, I held the pass out for inspection with a slight flourish. The gentleman nodded appreciatively and motioned for me to follow him inside the inner sanctum.

Suddenly, a 40-something year old Hispanic gentleman in a blue suit appeared, and I kid you not, bowed ever so slightly to me. “This is Edgar,” the silver fox announced. “Ms. Borenstein, Edgar will attend to your every need. Please enjoy,” and away he walked back to ward the front leaving me with Edgar.

“Welcome, welcome Meez Borenstein. I am Ed-Gahr, and I well be jor bottler juring jor stay here. I am supposed to geev jo a twenteh meenoot espeech regarding deh lounch. Bot if jo prefer, I jost geev jo deh ab-reev-ee-ate-ed esplanacion.” Obvioulsy I opted for the shorter esplanacion.

“Theez lounch iz jor leeve-eng rhoom. Do as jo pleez. Dat iz et.” Edgar smiled obsequiously and yet endearingly. “Now, ‘how can I helpeh jo?”

The lounch was set up like a series of swank modern Upper East Side living rooms, replete with art deco lamps, oversized coffee tables surrounded by crisp leather chairs, and comfy extra deep couches in muted grays and silvers, nesting on plush carpet. Edgar found me a lovely corner spot and began plying me with warm cashews and marinated olives. He informed me that he was present should I desire conversation and was well versed in cinema, literature and the planning of weddings. Edgar told me all about his bridal blog and shared a bit too much on the characteristics of all “Bridezillas”. He was particularly fond of his analogy whereby he likened the planning of a wedding to the purchase of Manhattan real estate. “If jo want a biew oh da park, will cos’ esstra.”

After an enjoyable dinner in the lounge, I headed for the plane and was welcomed by purser Graeham who was positively exuberant at my decision to fly BA. Graeham was showing the other First Class passengers, one at a time, how to use their pod amenties including the newly installed fully reclining seat/beds. When it came to my turn, Graeham said, “I don’t imagine you need much of an explanation Miss Borenstein, you are familiar with the cabin aren’t you?”

God bless Graeham was what came immediately to mind. I didn’t have the heart to correct his touching error, and so simply gave out a mild giggle of knowing laughter which Graeham greatly appreciated. Luckily I had watched his prior demonstrations and had at this point full mastery of the pod.

After take off I enjoyed an appetizer of poached lobster and then informed Graeham that I was ready for sleep, and so he dispatched one of the flight attendants to make my bed with a comfy duvet and pillows whilst I changed into my BA First Class Sleeping Suit in the lavatory. It was a bit large as I had been handed a size Medium but as the woman in 1K pointed out, “Who wants to sleep in something tight.”

I love BA, I love BA, I love BA…………..

Ananda, I am Vata hear me roar, Ganga Aarti

2011-03-30T06:08:00.001-07:00

This morning we bade farewell to Hirsch, Mr. Jith, and Bala in Delhi, and flew to the town of Dehradun situated in the foothills of the Him-al-yas. We were met at the airport by our colorfully turbaned and thick mustachioed driver, who whisked us up the mountains to the idyllic site of the Ananda Spa. The Spa sits in the center of a sprawling mountaintop haven, owned to this day by the Maharaja, and which contains the Maharaja’s palace. Ananda is a serene wellness center where the staff to guest ratio of 5:1 makes for a luxurious and friendly atmosphere. The perpetually genuflecting staff call out “Namashcar” every time they pass you and the al fresco dining room waiters remember how you like your earl grey tea (with lemon thank you) and that you prefer sparkling water. Upon arrival we were greeted with flower necklaces and a traditional welcome whereby a small prayer was offered and a red saffron dot placed between my eyes to ward off evil while musician played the sitar and flute.

I then had my Ayurvedic and Wellness Consultation with the resident Ayurvedic doctor, Dr. Shabyran. The kind doctor explained that he would do a brief intake to assess my Ayurvedic body type (there are 3 types and depending on your type different foods are encouraged and discouraged) so that I could follow a special food and beverage regimen while at Ananda. I informed him that I knew I was not a Vata but unsure as to whether I might be a Pitta or a Kapha. Dr. Shabyran gave me a sideways glance, “let me be the judge of that” he seemed to be saying. A few questions later, the most embarrassing of which required me to classify the nature of my stool as “dry”, “oily”, or “moist”, and the good doctor pronounced that I was very clearly Vata. So there.

He then went on to describe in specific detail the telltale signs of Vata; she prefers to drink water at room temperature, often suffers from indigestion, suffers from knee pain, has skin that is highly sensitive and on and on. Dr. Shabyran gave me a deep knowing look, “nailed it!” his soft brown eyes announced. I was cautioned to never skip meals but eat often, to avoid cold foods, and to ensure that I had sufficient fat in my diet to combat my tendency toward dryness. This will now serve as my favorite excuse for why I must indulge in full fat cheeses and add cream to pretty much everything. I am also to avoid cauliflower and other “windy” vegetables and legumes such as lentils as according to the doctor “tey wheel tend to mek you even gahseeah tan you neture-alee ahr”. I assured him that I am no “gahseeah” than the next person and that even when I am gassy it doesn’t have an odor, in response to which the good doctor simply smiled and said, “Tis the sem for all Vata. Too much ayahr, too much weend.”

I then relaxed into a 4-handed Manipuri Massage, Ananda’s signature Ayurvedic treatment which is a full body scrub followed by a deep tissue massage employing two massage therapists as well as warm poultices filled with detoxifying herbs. After my massage, and feeling the warm post massage glow flowing throughout my every chakra, I changed and headed into the town of Rishikesh to attend the holy ceremony of Ganga Aarti.

Rishikesh is the yoga capital of India and the place where yoga is said to have been created. It is also the home of the annual International Yoga Festival which I imagine is like Lollapalooza for Yogis. The town is situated on the banks of the Ganges and pilgrims flock here all year long to pray by the holy river which itself is an incarnation of the god Shiva, and to cleanse themselves by ablution and dare I say it, the drinking of the Ganges water. Having been taking the precaution of drinking 2 tablespoons of Pepto Bismal daily as a prophylactic stomach protector while in India, I cannot fathom how anyone would dare drink directly from the river.

Our driver parked the van by the riverside, ditched his turban, and led us through the village past women selling flower and food offerings for the gods. We then boarded a small wooden boat and crossed the Ganges along with colorfully dressed pilgrims excitedly chatting away. We then disembarked and walked through the cow strewn streets (there are an enormous number of sacred cows in this country), taking time to visit the local Ashram where young Indian boys from Brahmin families are sent to live and study Hinduism and Yoga from the age of 8-18. The saffron colored robes of the boys are as immaculate as their carefully combed hair. I spotted one young man, so beautiful that he could have been a Bollywood movie star playing the role of a young priest in training at the Ashram. I may have come across as a bit of a camera stalker to the young man, who did look mildly uncomfortable when I trained my lense on him repeatedly.

We found seats on the marble steps beneath an archway leading down to the river and thus seated amongst the pilgrims, the boys and their Swami, enjoyed the hour long chanting and singing of the Ganga Aarti ceremony. Candles were lit, incense burned, offerings tossed into the holy fire and holy river, and the Swami’s muse led the crowd in melodic verses of “Om Shanti, Shanti Om”, as well as several stanzas of an old Beatles song (seriously who knew that “Hari Krishna, Krishna Krishna, Krishna Krishna Hari Hari, Hari Rama, Hari Rama, Rama Rama Hari Hari,” were actually the words to a holy Hindu prayer sung on the banks of the Ganges at dusk). I sang along to that part with gusto, eliciting smiles from several of the younger boys. The boys swayed as they sang, hands above their heads in exultation to mighty Shiva, Krishna and Rama.

The service was magical (video clip attached) and as the sun set and the service came to an end, we made our way back across the river by footbridge, carefully avoiding holy cows and their patties, under the cover of darkness.

The Unfortunate Lamb Incident, Evil Genius Jeweller, and 12 hours in Agra

2011-03-24T05:58:00.000-07:00

Yesterday afternoon Hirsch took us to a wonderful pashmina shop where the owner spent well over an hour helping us find the perfect color and “bery best qwaleerty for you meh-dem” shawls handmade in the Himalayas. Please note that Himalayas should be pronounced Him-al-yaz. Please also note that I have been referring to the famous mountain range as frequently as possible in order to speak the name with the correct pronunciation, which rolls off the tongue with great aplomb. The price negotiations for the Him-al-yan shawls were lengthy but amicable and in the end I paid slightly more than I wanted which was slightly less than the shopkeeper felt he could get. But we had some laughs, so he let it be, although he did let me know that if he hadn’t liked me so much he would have “fwound a whey to teerick meh-dem weert lesser qwaleerty”.

After posing for some photos with our Sikh hotel doormen, we went to dinner at the famous Dumpukht Restaurant in the ITC hotel. We arrived hungry and eager for a 5-star meal. The extensive menu posed a challenge, as there were too many dishes to choose from and none familiar. In the end we chose a variety of specialties recommended by the waiter. This would prove to be a strategic error. The first course arrived, the special Dumpukht lamb kebob.

The kebob bore an unfortunate resemblance to a rather large piece of dog poo (see pic) but I cut into it with gusto excited for the tantalizing taste sensation I was surely about to enjoy. I popped the morsel in my mouth and felt an oddly slimy texture not unlike gelatin, only grittier, slide down my throat. I looked over at Hilary who was uncomfortably trying to swallow the tiny bite she had taken. I sliced another small piece of the lamb jellostick and smothered it in mint sauce, but this tactic only served to accentuate the problem; as the mint brought out the severely unpleasant smoky flavor of the dish. The waiter appeared and inquired if the dish was to “meh-dem’s liking”, it is “berry femousse deesh from Dumpukht”. In a panic and not wanting to be inhospitable, I smiled widely and nodded my head vigorously, hiding the offending meat jelly as best I could in the hollow of my cheek. When the waiter had returned to the kitchen, I did my best to cut the remainder of the gelatinous kebob into as many odd shaped sections as was possible, and moved them about my plate thereby creating the illusion of consumption. Hilary, severely traumatized by the offending lamb jello, refused to touch the kebob in spite of my supplications, and left in lying on her plate in plain sight.

The rest of the meal was uneventful by comparison, although the two couples at the table next to us did insist heatedly on speaking to the chef in order to lecture him on some apparently serious issue with the preparation of the dal (lentil stew). I considered calling the chef over for a small tete-a-tete regarding the meat jello, but decided against it. After dinner, grateful for the case of energy bars we had each packed, we returned to the Imperial, and after a lengthy consultation with Hilary on the right kind of sleeping pill to take given our 5:00am wake up call, turned in for an Ambien assisted night of quiet slumber.

Mr. Dith and Hirsch fetched us at 5:30am and we headed for the train station. We piled into the “AC Chair Car” along with 50 other Caucasian tourists and 2 short hours later arrived in Agra. We met our new driver, hopped in his white van and made for the Taj Mahal. After declining a ride from the parking lot to the Taj Mahal by a camel driven carriage, we walked up the road passing wild baboons along the way. Soon we came upon a large archway through which I caught my first glimpse of the magnificent Taj Mahal. Built by the 5th Moghul King as a final resting place for his beloved queen (1 of 3 wives but clearly his very most beloved), the monument took 22 years to build and is made from impressive gleaming white marble, and adorned with precious stones inlaid as mosaics into the walls. Photography is strictly forbidden inside the main chamber where the Queen and Moghul King’s marble coffins rest, but not strictly forbidden enough for Hirsch who graciously snapped a low light photo of us in front of the tombs.

After an hour at the Taj we came to the realization that our train back to Delhi was not for another 11 hours and so we would need to come up with an aggressive plan for how to spend the remainder of the day. Our first stop was a marble factory where the art of using precious stones as inlay in table tops and small boxes is being lovingly preserved by a merchant whose style with his artisans was akin to a pharoanic overlord. He moved us through the various stations with great flourish explaining the origin of this dying art form with lyric language and enormous personal concern for the slow death of this cultural heritage, which is now “solely up to da gin-ee-roz-itty of ‘merry-can too-wris like meh-dem.” The work stations, which were no more than areas on the floor demarcated by different collections of tools, were occupied by squatting stone grinders, stone polishers, stone pacers, stone finishers, and master designers.

Our host grunted out commands which would spring one or more of the squatting workers into action like organ grinder monkeys, and it became readily apparent that the entire scene was solely manufactured for our benefit. I had little doubt that the moment we left the factory, the group would stand up remove their turbans and languish about on cigarette break watching Bollywood videos until the next van pulled up, sort of like a marble brothel. In spite of the fate of this art form being laid squarely upon our “merry-can” shoulders, we left empty handed.

We then informed Hirsch that it was time to visit a jeweler in search of emeralds, natch. We arrived in front of the steel gates of Kohinoor Jewellers, hidden behind 15 foot high armored walls and guarded by some rather fierce looking, machine gun toting men. This particular jeweler is not the one our tour company “has an arrangement with”, per Hirsch, but he informed us that this was the best jeweler in Agra and that if we would keep it a secret he would take us. We pinky swore, subtly aware that this was likely the jeweler that Hirsch had an “arrangement with”, but excited at our middle aged rebelliousness.

Inside the factory we joined a group of Swedish tourists who were hearing a lecture from a diminutive yet highly distinguished looking Indian gentleman of about 70 years of age. This we would learn was the famous proprietor of the business Mr. Ghanghyam Mathur. Mr. Mathur resembles the slightly egg-headed arch evil Megamind of the animated Disney film. He speaks in a deliberate and clipped manner with a smooth almost slick British English with only the slightest hint of an Indian accent, betraying his English boarding school upbringing. Mr. Mathur made quick conversation with Hirsch, looked Hilary and I up and down, and nodded in approval. He then announced to the Swedish group in a royal page-like fashion or perhaps more akin to the announcer’s voice at the Pyramids of Giza in the 1977 James Bond film, The Spy Who Loved Me, that, “We have the honor (pause) of being joined (pause) by these two (pause) lovely (pause) American ladies (long pause) who will accompany us into the Museum (pause) where we shall enjoy wonders (pause) the likes of which (pause) have (next part said with extra emphasis) never been witnessed (crescendo, pause) outside of our great city of (pause) Agra.”

Mr. Mathur then ushered us into a large, rectangular and very dark carpeted room. I could barely make out the framed built-in display windows in the low light but it was reminiscent of the Museum of Natural History’s animal encasements. Each display window was covered in glass on the exterior and opaque black velvet on the interior so that the contents were completely shielded from view. Mr. Mathur had us gather around the first display window and gave a rousing introduction full of “priceless”, “unique in the werld”, and “nevah before seen outside these walls” references before pressing some buttons on his remote control LCD panel, which he was very very proud of.

Instantly a spot light was illuminated from within the display case and the electric curtain lifted, revealing a 10x8 foot tapestry embroidered with the most beautiful silk depicting a large lifelike rooster and chicken and surrounded by a border covered in embroidery and precious gems. The room gave out a collective gasp, and Mr. Mathur smiled slyly, he knew he had his audience under his control now. One by one, in Dr. No style, Mr. Mathur revealed his precious collection of encased and embroidered bejeweled tapestries until we were left with no choice but to clap gratefully for the privilege of the exhibit tour. Mr. Mathur then invited us upstairs to view the Moghul Queen’s jewelry collection.

I volunteered to model the Moghul Queen’s emerald ring and Mr. Mathur seemed pleased with my performance before the Scandinavian crowd. He posed for a photo with me and even introduced me to his son and daughter who both work in the business. The son, a newlywed, spent some time explaining the virtues of arranged marriages to me and how living with his parents was a genuine pleasure. The daughter, a “famous Indian jewelry designer” according to her Papa, showed me some of her latest jewelry designs. Let’s just hope nepotism does not run too strongly in the family business.

With Hirsch’s help we managed to see every single sight in Agra including the Moghul palaces, the Third Moghul’s tomb, the spice market, the Oberoi Hotel for lunch, as well as the ITC hotel for tea. When at last it was time to board the train back to Delhi, we settled into the overly air conditioned rail car and shivered happily all the way home to the Imperial.

Delhi hi, happy holy, no shorts please, and Hirsch the Indian tour guide

2011-03-22T22:57:00.000-07:00

Hello dear Reader, I am happy to report that I am setting off on another journey. This time, I will be visiting the magical land of India, accompanied by my dear friend Hilary. This is to be our own Julia Roberts-esque pilgrimage to the birthplace of yoga and cheap offshore engineering outsourcing. Leaving my darling husband and children back home, I am thinking of this trip as my own personal Eat, Pray, Shop. I must warn you that being on the 4th week of a 6-week sucrose detox (no rice, no naan, no delicious mango chutney); this adventure poses a particularly difficult challenge for me. I have pre-ordered a diabetic meal on all flights to ensure minimal temptation aboard the 2 long flights to India.

If faced with a warm scone and clotted cream prior to landing, I fear I may buckle. I am undaunted, however, and after settling into my comfy seat on a Lufthansa flight to Munich from where we will connect to our flight to Delhi, I am feeling excited and relaxed.

The purser, one Hehr Renner approached my aisle seat soon after take off and in a soft yet heavily German accented voice discreetly inquired as to whether I was “Mizz Boh-ren-shtein.” I nodded yes. “You heh-free-qvested dee-a-betique meal, jah?” Again I nodded yes. Hehr Renner then gently placed a hand on my cashmere wrap covered arm and looking deep into my eyes said, “Pleez do not hez-et-ate to ree-qvest helf for eny-zing et owl Mizz Boh-ren-shtein, vee are he-ah to helf.” I nodded again and smiled gratefully, realizing with some melancholy that his misunderstanding regarding my actually being a diabetic would likely serve as a full proof deterrent against my indulging in a glass of sucrose filled champagne. I wondered momentarily whether my not carrying an insulin kit might pose a credibility issue but then realized that my frequent trips to the bathroom would prove an excellent smokescreen.

A few moments later a younger male flight attendant wheeled his cart of dinner trays down the aisle and stopped at my side. “Mizz Boh-ren-shtein?” he asked surprised. I nodded. He produced a tray containing a cold, grilled chicken breast a top a small pile of iceberg lettuce and as he placed it down in front of me, smiled and laughing knowingly under his breath added, “no carbs,” before rolling his way down the aisle. A momentary sense of shame washed over me and I said a silent prayer that he would not rat me out to kind Hehr Renner. Needless to say I had no alcohol but a lovely sleeping pill helped ease me into a gentle slumber on the long flight.

After landing in Delhi some 20 hours later, we were greeted by Balla, a 25 year old South Indian fellow with a large scar across his forehead that might have been the result of an unfortunate encounter with a Bengal tiger. Balla wrapped sweet smelling jasmine and rose flower around our necks and ushered us into the waiting van. Our driver Mr. Jith (pronounced jee-th) nodded effusively in welcome.

20 minutes later we arrived at our sumptuous hotel, The Imperial, where a lovely hostess who placed a red bindi on my forehead between my eyes, a typical Indian greeting custom, showed us to our room. After showering and enjoying a cup of tea in the atrium, we headed for lunch at the Spice Road restaurant in the hotel. The hostess politely informed us that the restaurant had a “no shorts” policy and regrettably informed us that we could not gain access. I for one was in a pair of capri length cargo pants, which while not the most fashion forward of trousers, was most certainly not a pair of shorts. I smiled widely at the hostess and leaned in to explain to her that these were not shorts but well below the knee capris (I bent down and drew a line with my hand across my shins for emphasis) and assured her that they were quite acceptable. She gave me a concerned look and asked me to wait a moment while she inquire with her manager. She returned quickly and with a grand hand gesture welcomed us into the cool, ornately appointed and dimly lit restaurant. Lovely. We enjoyed lunch outside by the gazebo and fountains, attended to by a remarkably sprite and assertive waiter who insisted on refilling our plates and glasses himself. It made for an amusing pantomime of sorts with my reaching for the sparkling water or sautéed vegetables, and his sprinting across the courtyard to wrestle bottle or spoon from my tender grasp.

After lunch we met our guide, who introduced himself as “Hirsch.” He was most unlike any Hirsch I had met before; for one he was clearly Indian and for another he sounded Indian. I asked if I had heard him correctly and that indeed his name was Hirsch. He said simply, “You may koll me Hirsch orreh you may koll me Raj, dey are boat good nems.” I agree they both are. I decided to call him Hirsch.

As luck would have it, today is an Indian festival to welcome Summer and everyone we pass raises their hands into prayer position and calls out “Happy Holy,” to which I reply “Happy Holy to you.” It was only much later that Hirsch explained that the festival is actually called “Holi.” On Holi, Indian men, women and children throw brightly colored paint and colored powders on each other, covering their clothes, faces and hair with patches of paint. The effect of it all is that throughout the entire city it looks as though everyone has been involved in a serious game of paintball. Even the cows, which are considered to be sacred and can be found lying just about everywhere you look, are covered in swathes of magenta, fuschia, purple and green paint.

Hirsch took us to visit the Red Fort and we took a bicycle rickshaw tour through Old Delhi where hundreds of rainbow splotched and neon colored men teetered drunkenly in the streets. Happy Holi everyone.

Holiday Beading Success, Employee Abuse, Coke Zero envy, the greedy Astrologer, Tai Chi Master Surprise, Ms. Sanchez

2010-12-03T22:03:00.000-08:00

It is hard to imagine a sense of satisfaction greater than that felt when the answer to "Where did you get that, I love it," is truthfully, "I made it." But indeed ladies and gentlemen, I anticipate many such exchanges to be on the horizon for yours truly, as today was a triumphant beading day for me. Unfortunately this cannot be said of the rest of the crowd in attendance at this morning's holiday beading class, a.k.a. The Bead Goes On or Don't Worry Bead Happy as it is referred to in the Ranch program schedule. The class did not start out on an energetically positive track as one of the guests, let us call her Martha, arrived a full 10 minutes late and swept into the Pavilion in quite an attention seeking huff. Martha, it is worthy to note, is in her mid-70's, and unlike the majority of Ranch guests, neither dyes her gray hair nor differentiates between her and her husbands sweatpants. Martha does however have a most vindictive nature, as you will soon see. Donna, the beading instructor, who incidentally was wearing a silver leather belt she had adorned with Swarovski crystals to a truly bedazzling effect, paused her in depth explanation of the difference between the metallic and ceramics beads to ask Martha if she was all right.

"Well, I guess you could say all right if you ignore the fact that I just spent the last hour in medical."

Without further prompting, Martha began a detailed and bitter recounting of the morning's events. While she was leaving the Clubhouse and walking behind an employee of the Ranch, a new guest appeared on the horizon and called out a greeting to the employee. The employee slowed down and responded to the greeting with an effusive and wide gesturing of her arms in a V-shaped air hello. As her hand flew with apparent jet propulsion up into the air, she caught the side of Martha's weathered face. The force of this contact was apparently sufficient to cause Martha to seek out medical treatment, and although there were no signs of injury on Martha’s face visible to the naked eye, she assured us all that her jaw was now clicking.

Donna quickly told Martha that she was sure the employee must feel terrible about the incident, to which Martha replied, “Well, you’d think so.” Donna tried again with a different approach; “I bet her hand must be hurting something awful.” This produced a visible smile across Martha’s face for apparently her clicking jaw injury had no effect on her jaw’s ability to support an effusive ear-to-ear grin. “I certainly think so,” was Martha’s official response. Unsatisfied with this, I leaned in toward Martha and asked playfully, “Do you mean “think so” or “hope so”?”

Martha winked at me with great pleasure and said in a fiery tone unbefitting her benign, baggy sweatpanted appearance, “Yup, you got it.” A few of the fully make-upped forehead sweatband sporting guests (think Olivia Newton John but 70+ and in tranny makeup with reading glasses) were seen to take a few discreet steps away from Martha. Donna continued with her explanation and I quietly moved my things to a table on the far side of the Pavilion.

I returned to fight my way through what can only be accurately described as a bead frenzy. Age spot covered hands were diving madly in and out of the many containers of beads spread out according to color on the tables. Beads were flying as the ladies’ acrylic nails clawed in the turquoise and red holiday beads. I avoided the frenzy almost completely by sticking to the pearl and earth tone beads, which were surprisingly unattractive to the Olivia impersonators. “Don’t cha wanna a-yedd a liddle culla fah oomph doll?” one Jackie from Cincinnati asked. I decided to sit next to Jackie for in spite of her black sweatband, I liked that she cared about the quality of my output. While Jackie struggled to find the holes in her ruby and turquoise beads through which to thread the wire, I quietly began stringing my bracelet together. Upon my asking Jackie from Cincinnati what part of New York she was from originally, Jackie dropped her bracelet in apparent shock that she still had a discernable accent. I helped Jackie from Cincinnati collect her beads as she explained how she was actually born and raised in Brooklyn but had lived in her adopted home city for the past 54 years.

When I had crimped my last bead, I tried on my bracelet and Jackie declared it to be “ah-eb-sa-loot-ly gohgess.” If you look at the photo attached, you’ll see it is hard to disagree.

After the toil of beading, I decided to sit by the flagstone pool near the Double U Café and read in the sunshine while sipping on one of the Coke Zeros I had smuggled into the Ranch on Day 1. My carcinogenic beverage acted like an open bottle of male pheromones and soon I had women of all ages and sizes approaching me to demand I tell them where I got the beverage and whether I had more. I had mixed emotions about this, for on the one hand I had empathy for these diet soda-deprived women, but on the other hand I felt contempt for these same women who clearly did not love their delectable slimming fizzy drink enough to have planned ahead and smuggled some in for themselves. I explained that they could get their very own by hiring a car to take them to the Circle K and eventually collecting my things and moved on; I knew I was no longer welcome as they sipped jealously on their unsweetened boysenberry iced tea.

I entered the Catalan Room excited for the lecture on Astrology. Katherine, the chief Astrologist at the Ranch was there and greeted me warmly, even offering me a piece of Dove dark chocolate, which I accepted gratefully. Katherine looks exactly like what I would imagine Terri Garr’s older, food obsessed sister would look like. She also speaks in a similar ditsy yet charming manner, employing multiple run on sentences that are colorful if often hard to follow. We were joined by Mona, a Ranch vet who appeared to be separated at birth from the new football coach on Glee, and Kelsey an adorable 20 year old from Atlanta visiting with her Mom.

Rather than teach us the basics of Astrology and how it is used to guide ones life toward enlightenment, Katherine spent much of the first 30 minutes showing us screen shots on the projector of various financial astrologers and talking about the incredible price increases in gold and silver. She then projected the chart of the United States of America and explained how it will be a full 12 months until we begin to emerge from the current financial turmoil due to the squaring of Uranus with various other planets apparently responsible for the movement of money.

At Mona’s behest she also pulled up the birth chart of Barack Obama, and paused in silence once it was on the large screen before us. “Well, you can certainly see how hard he’s working and what a tough time he’s having.” In truth I could not, I could see nothing but a series of numbers and squiggles. Fortunately, Mona had to excuse herself to prepare for some intense athletic feat and I left to join the lecture on Spiritual Anchoring in Turbulent Times next door.

The class was full and so I sat on the carpeted floor at the very back of the room. I noticed Hispanic Tom Selleck and his much older sugar momma sitting in the chairs in front of me listening intently to the speaker’s pointers on the importance of anchoring oneself with spirituality before allowing a situation to turn into a problem. I am still unclear on the distinction between a situation and a problem, although I am clear that a problem is much worse karma and dharma wise. I am also unclear on what dharma really is, but I digress. The fourth step in anchoring is to breathe. According to the speaker we forget to breathe and this is to our detriment. Having never personally forgotten to breathe, I can nonetheless imagine how doing so might prove problematic if not fatal. At this point Mr. Selleck raised his hand and asked the speaker if he might lead the class through a brief breathing demonstration that would underscore the power of breathing as well as its simplicity. Having always found breathing quite simple myself, I was curious as to how to make it even easier. The speaker asked how long Mr. Selleck thought such a demonstration might take, an experienced speaker move, and he said no more than time it takes to take 4 or 5 breaths. Permission was granted and we were handed over to Mr. Selleck.

As it turns out Mr. Selleck is no ordinary boy toy. He informed us that he is the 1998-1999 World Tai Chi Master and that breathing technique has been the key to his success. He spoke slowly in thickly Mexican-accented English.

“Feerst ju tekke a deep clensen bref, en led id ow bery bery slow. Nex’ ju pud jour ton on dee roof a jour mao, en exhale bery bery slow.” We all did as instructed. “Pee-chure in-chaling piss and ex-chaling war, pee-chure in-chaling love and ex-chaling chate, pee-ture in-chaling li’ an ex-chaling death.” After 5 such rounds he gave us a brief explanation of the physiological changes we had just undergone as a result of the “deep clensen bref’ and the room exploded into spontaneous applause. Mr. Selleck was very pleased and his blinding smile shone proudly.

Later at the spa, I was awaiting my 100-minute Ashiatsu treatment when Mr. Selleck’s sugar momma walked in. The door from the spa waiting room to the massage rooms opened and a woman with a clipboard called out for "Mrs. Sanchez, Mrs. Jane Sanchez," and Mr. Selleck’s sugar momma stood up, “Yes, that’s me.” And so, it became clear that Mr. Selleck was far more than the sum of his oversized pearly whites, he was indeed a true master. Kudos senor, kudos.

The Numbers of Your Life, DJ Dance Party, Tyler Perry encounter, Ayurvedic profiling, Tarot Tarot Tarot

2010-12-02T13:37:00.000-08:00

I treated myself to a sleep-in this morning and sauntered over to the dining room for breakfast at 8:45am. The disapproving glares of the sweat stained masses as I was shown to my favorite table did not have their intended effect. Rather than feel "less-than" my compatriots who had no doubt already completed the 8 mile morning walk and an early spin class before their dry egg white omelet repast, I felt "more than". So superior was my mood that I requested a half order of the whole wheat banana pancakes plus a half order of the cranberry pecan gluten free french toast, plus an organic chicken sausage patty and extra warm maple syrup. The sniggers were silenced as I tucked into my feast. "Yes," their eyes said, "we want what you have oh lazy one."

After breakfast I attended a fascinating information session on "The Numbers of Your Life," which was a primer on Numerology. As luck would have it I was sandwiched between two sturdy Midwestern-looking sisters who seemed completely lovely. Of course what became clear was that the big sister (when i say "big" i am referring purely to age although it would be a fair assessment) had hauled the little sister to the session in order to encourage the Numerologist, Diana, to explain why she was unlucky in love so that their late mother could rest in peace knowing that little sister (again purely a reference to age) would be armed with that which she needed to focus on in order to finally settle down and have a family. Diana was somewhat uncomfortable at being thrust between the two pasty faced siblings in this manner, but carried her session out with grace explaining how the numbers are indeed the numbers of your life and you can choose to go with the flow and find the path to happiness or not. As for me, according to Diana, my life's purpose is to self-actualize and create something joyful to change the world. This will apparently become clear to me in the fullness of time but most likely in this lifetime, which is a giant relief as you can well imagine. While changing the world is apparently somewhere in my future, I hope in some small way my blog is currently bringing you a modicum of joy or at least the odd chuckle.

I then made my way to Gym 1 to take DJ Dance Party with a throng of fully make-upped, headband sporting 50 and 60-somethings in various sizes of Lululemon capris and ultra white sneakers. A myriad of chassees, kick-ball-changes, and grapevines carefully choreographed to the latest Rihanna, Katy Perry, and Pink ensued with mixed success. While the V-steps and getting-low moves were less than picturesque, the full upper torso shimmying was quite frankly a deeply disturbing part of the class from which I may require some hypnotherapy. You see dear reader, no matter how fit one tries to be, nor how many elective skin tightening procedures one undergoes, at 67 one's neck and upper arm skin vibrates in a most unflattering manner. Seeing 30 preternaturally tanned wagging wattles while hearing how California Girls are all Daisy Dukes and Bikinis On Top, is not for the feint of heart.

Fortunately, it is only a 45 minute class and soon I was out by the drinks dispenser filling my standard issue plastic Canyon Ranch water bottle with lemon infused water. Suddenly I spied a tall and rather wide African American gentleman, the rarest of guests at the Ranch which tends to the chubby east coast Jewess and the lanky Atlanta-bred Wasp. The occasional make guest is most often the significant other of the former two categories of guest. He looked somewhat familiar yet I could not place him. He might be a retired professional athlete whose erstwhile muscles had turned to fat, or a character actor from a quick cancelled cable sitcom. He approached a 70 year old Jewish looking gentleman with a partial comb-over and shook his hand warmly in greeting. That is when it struck me, this looked like a scene from a Tyler Perry movie where the old Jewish man would be played by one of the Wayan's brothers in heavy prosthetic make-up. And like that, I realized that the gentleman was in fact Tyler Perry, billionaire movie producer and frequent house guest of Oprah and Steadman. He is very friendly and has tiny little teeth that are bright white. He also looks good in royal blue basketball gear but between us is not a great shot.

Soon it was time for lunch and I noticed a number of 70 year old women with 50 year old boy toys. I don't know how I had missed this phenomenon before but it was as though a tour bus full of semi-attractive middle aged male escorts had just been dropped off to entertain the senior women. One couple caught my eye, she was Caucasian, slim, in her early 70's, and likely grew up in a warm climate where she was overexposed to the sun in childhood. He was a bucktoothed, Hispanic version of Tom Selleck from the Magnum P.I. era. His hair was dyed jet black to cover his graying roots and gave him a slightly comical air, as though he were dressed as a caricature of a somewhat upscale cholo boy toy. His prodigious overbite was rendered all the more pronounced by the nearly luminescent white veneers that covered all of his teeth. No doubt a present from his sugar momma. And though I found the scene largely hilarious and tried to imagine how an SNL skit might be constructed using this subject matter, it was remarkably sweet to see Mr. Selleck hold out his date's chair, share his frozen yogurt, and laugh at her jokes with his enormous mouthful of snowy white chompers.

I then enjoyed an Introduction to Ayurveda and found that I am a Pitta Vata Dosha, (same as Meryl Streep natch) which basically means that I should avoid spicy food, use plenty of sun block and avoid overly strenuous sports. Finally it was time for my Tarot Card reading with Laurie, the Ranch Tarot Card reader who happens to be the biggest Chicago Cubs fan in the world. As she sipped from her Cubs tea mug and jotted down notes on her Wrigley Field notepad, I could not help but wonder whether a Tarot Card reader of substance would remain a devoted fan her whole life to the losingess team in the MLB, knowing (as she must) that they would never win. I felt some skepticism as I shuffled the deck of cards set out before me. However, Laurie soon proved herself to be a worthy metaphysician with her excellent observations of my multiple unique talents and abilities. When she went off script to simply read my aura and declared my energy to be positive, strong and remarkably attractive to those seeking truth and higher meaning, I could hardly disagree. Cubs fan or no, Laurie has real Tarot talent.

Tomorrow I am making a Holiday Bead Bracelet, attending a lecture on Astrology as well as one on Spiritual Anchoring in Turbulent Times, and having at least frozen chocolate covered banana.

Alpine Muesli in the Desert, Hiking with the balance challenged, Dusty never forgets, Massage etiquette and Watercolor painting 101

2010-12-01T21:08:00.000-08:00

I awoke at 6:30am and pulled on multiple ski worthy layers in preparation for my morning hike in the unseasonably cold 40 degree weather. For any one who has yet to discover the New Zealand based outerwear company, Iceberg, may I encourage you to hop online and buy yourself as many of these miracle wicking tops as your budget will allow. I donned my gloves and beanie (which in fact is more of a woolen gangsta rappa style beret), and grabbed my hiking sticks (yes i now bring my own and yes it impresses the other guests immeasurably) and made haste for the Double U Cafe. I noticed a new addition to the early morning breakfast menu, Alpine Muesli. Of course we are in the Sonoran Dessert and nowhere near Alpine country, and so I was curious as to what exactly made this particular Muesli offering Alpine-esque. The server who took my order had neither the faintest idea nor interest in the provenance of the name nor in my fashion forward hat.

After a hot cup of tea I joined the hiking group and our lead guide for the morning, Dusty. The Leki hiking sticks in my hand immediately set me apart from the other hikers and if that wasn't enough Dusty said how nice it was to see me again. We collected our packs and alighted the Ranch van but due to my urgent need for a final pit stop before leaving on the journey, i was stuck in the 4th row. This van positioning is problematic for two distinct reasons: first, i am hopelessly car sick; and second, all important ranch conversation is conducted in the first 2 rows. I opened my pack and removed the tupperware full of glorious trail snacks from it, and began unpacking the contents of the tupperware back into the pack while leaving the unnecessary weight of the tupperware in the van. Immediately heads from the front of the van were turning to see what I was up to and I did my best to pretend not to notice their stares. Soon several other guests began to copy my inspired snack ritual while other less daring guests who simply could not bear to part with their plastic containers began consolidating tupperwares with their friends, creating a more heavy tupperware for the "snack mule" which is both inconsiderate and foolish. But alas, I was too busy feeling nauseous from the lurching bus to point out the error of the strategy. So sick was I and so quickly that at the behest of another passenger with an enormous heart, Dusty pulled the van over and I was urged into the front passenger seat next to Dusty.

Within a few short minutes I was once again able to breathe with ease confident that my Alpine Muesli would remain one with my stomach. The trio of women in the second row began discussing the legendary group of Toronto women they had heard about who visit the Ranch each year in a pack and race up the hiking and biking trails with a vengeance. I turned to Dusty and asked non-challantly, "Are they talking about that nice group of ladies we hiked up Soldier with in May?" Dusty nodded. Now I had their attention. Jackie, the tall divorcee from Manhattan spoke first, "You hiked with them Lorna?"

"Yes," I replied cooly. "Dusty took us up Soldier Trail earlier this year." I replayed the hike in my mind and recalled gasping for air as we climbed and my trying desperately to keep up with those insane Canadian she-beasts without showing them my pain.

"Were they seriously intense? I mean we heard they are totally hard core and not exactly friendly," Jackie said.

"Oh, I wouldn't say they were unfriendly," although indeed they were completely unfriendly until they had been satisfied that i was not going to slow their sprinting pace down too significantly.

I continued the defense of the group, "They were just intent on keeping a pretty quick pace and worried about anyone who may not be able to keep up and slow them down," I began delicately tapping a hiking stick against my REI convertible hiking pant/shorts as I turned to Dusty, "Dusty remember that older woman who came on the hike, she was about 70, very tanned, and in great shape too?"

"Yup," Dusty said, "she stayed right up by my side the whole way and that's our toughest Level 5 hike."
"It sure is a pretty hike," I added, emphasizing my love of nature's vistas while the three girlfriends whispered nervously behind me.

"Dusty," Jackie asked, "this hike we're doing is just a Level 3 right?"
I had to stifle the smile that wanted to spread across my lips.
"Yup, just a 3 but a real nice one. Kinda short but you'll get some terrific views," he assured them.

We headed out on the trail and began our climb. Apart from the balance challenged guest who insisted on walking directly behind me so that every so often i was forced to duck for cover as she tottered in the loose gravel before falling forward, the hike was a pleasure. Back at the Ranch, I iced my knee and enjoyed some baked zucchini hot cakes in honor of today being the first day of Hannukah. Ordinarily one would enjoy potato pancakes deep fried in oil, but this is the Ranch. I saw the same elderly couple at lunch from yesterday and the wife (clearly feeling our friendship had attained a higher level of intimacy than i had imagined) told me in her sweet Atlanta accent that she was "gah-yassy, gah-yassy, gha-yassy" and then proceeded to ask me an important spa etiquette question: "What do y'all thenk I shud do eff I pah-yass gah-yass during my-eh meh-sauge darlin'?"

This is a serious question that any spa goer worth her mettle has contemplated on numerous occasions. I gave my honest opinion, "Well," I said, "if you really can't hold it in then you just need to laugh when it happens and move on with the treatment."

This seemed to satisfy her, although in truth i would fight to contain the offending toxins with all my strength to the point of endangering my life with the threat of spontaneous combustion of the colon, rather than simply releasing and trying to pass it off with a coquettish giggle.

After my mango sugar scrub and my rejuvenating facial, I grabbed a quick bite of rice pasta with turkey meatball marinara and a side of mashed cauliflower, and then made my way to the Creative Arts Center for a class in Introduction to Watercolor Painting. I am convinced that my finished masterpiece it is not a fair reflection on Jay's talent as an instructor. Please appreciate that i didn't have to share the painting with you but I am. And no I am not sure why my bird is wearing a blue chinchilla.

Tomorrow I may return to the beading class part 2, aptly entitled "The Bead Goes On" in the Ranch weekly activity brochure.

"

Return to the Ranch, Loyalty Program, Beading Genius, Mind the Sauce

2010-11-30T19:03:00.000-08:00

oh my dear reader, it is with great joy that i share with you the news of my triumphant return to canyon ranch. my how i have missed the myriad of registered massage therapists and the long term staff like ed, the cycling guide, who never laughs at a guest no matter how pathetic the neon pink cycling shorts she sports may be. kath, the friendly ranch driver picked me up from the airport and whisked me to the ranch in no time. i mentioned my need after check-in to arrange for transportation to the circle k minimart to purchase my week's supply of coke zero and kath offered to take me gratis. i love kath and her oddly oversized feet.

kevin checked me in and after warmly welcoming me back to the ranch, informed me that i had been upgraded to a cassita (private 1 bedroom villa). lovely. of course i checked the location of the upgraded room and was slightly concerned at the lack of close proximity to both the clubhouse where fiber rich meals are taken as well as the spa, but no cassitas closer by were available and so i assured kevin that i would make do. kevin was very gracious and after offering me a size small ranch t-shirt, bless him, which i declined in favor of a size medium, informed me that not only was i upgraded but that on account of my milestone visit (i believe it is 5 or more visits within 2 years) i was being given a gift of my choosing from the ranch management. fortunately there were plenty of other guests nearby including a gentleman with a slightly greasy ponytail to overhear the conversation. "how thoughtful," i replied at hearing the news. kevin then produced a somewhat lackluster looking leaflet from which i was to select my gift. there were but 3 meager offerings on the cheap, glossy paper stock he handed to me; a notebook with a mildly offensive southwestern motif, a pair of mini collapsable binoculars (tres skymall), and a ranch logo water bottle holder with a stainless steel water bottle. the choice was clear and i requested the water bottle and holder which i imagined would serve as a proxy for my elevated status at the ranch with those in-the-know. sort of the way that the harvard university sweatshirt with the simple "harvard" inscription serves as a status symbol because only a student on a varsity team can acquire such a sweatshirt and only harvard varsity athletes are aware of this fact thereby entreating wearers of the coveted sweatshirt with the knowing nods of his elite comrades. the thought of this freemason-like clubiness made me smile right up until the point when kevin felt it important to mention that the bottle was not included with the bottle holder. seriously? i thought to myself. just the holder, that is embarassing. i kept a smile pinned to my face as i slowly stepped away from registration and made my way to the dining hall in the clubhouse for a bite of lunch.

after a quick word of caution to the newbie couple seated next to me who were throughly enjoying the vanilla frozen yogurt with "hot fudge sauce" about the fact that the main ingredient in the "hot fudge" was in fact prunes and that it was best practice for those sharing a room to have a rule that consumption by one roommate of the sauce required disclosure of said consumption to the other roommate so that s/he could arm themselves appropriately, i was off to program advising in order to tweak my exercise and spa treatment schedule.

i signed up for the very best hikes and bike rides, careful to mark my correct height and grateful no request for my correct weight was made on the sign up sheet. good old ed was setting up bikes for the next day's ride and we chatted as his nose ran like a disturbing faucet in the unseasonably cold weather. ed was remarkably unphased by the droplets falling from his nose onto the ground and i decided it might be quite frozen solid thereby rendering ed unable to feel the profusion of sinovial fluid emanating from his person. thankfully i had a beading class to attend before my 100 minute hot stone massage and made my way to the craft center tucked away behind the sanctuary.

i entered the craft center at 5 minutes past the appointed start time and the room was atwitter with lanky blonde 60-something plastic surgery afficionados all clad in lounge wear in various shades of pale blue. it was like the golden girls had been cloned and put through a gentrification machine and subsequently spat out as the ghosts of heidi montag's future. the women paused for a split second to greet me and then returned to their busy work of selecting beads for their projects. each woman had a tray in her hands onto which she was carefully placing beads in the grooved semi circular indentations from which she would later string her masterpiece. rather than making an eyeglass holder/necklace to dangle elegantly around my neck like the other women, i decided to make a book mark, which for some reason i cannot fathom was being referred to by the chief craft woman, suzie and her golden girls, as a "book thong". apparently i am the only living being at the ranch who finds this both strange and immensely amusing as i found myself giggling and could not help but picture books wearing victoria secret undergarments each time someone said "book thong". i found a table with an open workstation and after gathering my turquoise southwestern beads and peace sign charms, sat down to work. suzie, who was clearly raised on long island and wore a farcical amount of bronzer she had not quite managed to blend in despite her bifocal contact lenses, gave me careful instructions on how to use the bead spinner. a bead spinner is a wooden bowl with a spindle sticking straight up from its center in which one places beads and then spins the bowl while simultaneously skimming the top of the beads with a very long and slightly hooked threaded needle. this causes the beads to jump onto the needle in order for one to easily thread them into a magnificent handcrafted creation. the charming woman with the joan rivers eyes next to me seemed to be struggling to string her beads and i was almost embarrassed at how quickly i was completing the task. she asked me whether i was a "serious beader", to which i responded, "oh, i bead here and there" in an effort to assuage her feelings of inadequacy. suzie was asked how the spinner worked and she said it was the "centrifugal force" of the spinner that causes the beads to "jump onto the needle". alhough i am no physicist, i am fairly certain that while the centrifugal force is what pushes the beads to the outside of the spinner, it does not in fact cause the beads to magically alight the needle. of course a magic beading force is far more interesting to discuss across the pool during aqua fitness, so i held my tongue. soon suzie began nervously rushing the golden girls and encouraging them to hurry up as the room needed to be free and clean in another 45 minutes for martha's ceramics class. martha is from germany you see and enjoys promptness and tidiness according to suzie. suzie is from long island as i mentioned and enjoys abundant make up and talking. i finished threading, crimped my final bead and tried to leave quietly but suzie grabbed me before i could make my escape. after grasping at her breast in mock cardiac arrest at the speed of my completion (a joke in rather poor taste i think given the audience in the room) suzie insisted i had to do "show and tell" for everyone. she clutched my "book thong" with her acrylic french manicured nails and held it up for all to admire. a mixture of ooohs and aaaahs from the crowd was followed by several discreet head shakes of dismissal, "she may be quick," their gestures said, "but she's no artist."

and so i took my "book thong" and walked over to the spa for my massage knowing that even after my 100 minutes were over the golden girls would still have unfinished works of art.

Upgrade disappointment, no whole wheat bread for you, step aside ma'am, and the joys of Sky Mall

2010-10-07T18:46:00.000-07:00

This morning I embark on a short but sweet journey to visit my eldest daughter in Boston, where she attends prep school. I awoke before my alarm at 3:45am and eagerly dressed, took Coco (our adorable new puppy) out to “go potty”, and climbed into the sedan at 4:15am under the cover of darkness. I have a carry-on roller bag with me and a small Longchamps tote containing TSA flight approved liquids and gels in a medium sized zip lock bag, my Kindle and laptop. I am flight ready with my small messenger style Coach purse slung diagonally across my person containing boarding pass, wallet, lip balm and Cinnamon breath strips. I prefer this small purse to the proletariat look of the blue plastic I.D. and boarding pass holders often seen hanging from the necks of orthopedic soled senior citizens in airports around the country. At the airport I check to see if an upgrade to First Class is possible but alas the superior cabin has checked in full according to the friendly and somewhat apologetic Japanese-American ground agent.

At least I have an aisle seat in Economy Plus, one of the sadly valuable perks of my Premier Executive status with United Airlines. Undeterred from enjoying the anticipation of my reunion with my daughter, I make for the Max’s Greek Deli stand, one of the only food stalls open at 5:15am, and patiently wait my turn in line to order a sandwich to eat on the airplane. The rubinesque Philippina woman in hairnet finally turns to me and humorlessly asks for my order. I request a roasted vegetable sandwich. She grunts her agreement and grabs two slices of deli sized rye bread containing cumin seeds. I ask if I might have the sandwich on the whole wheat bread sitting on the shelf above her netted hairline.

“No mem, we on-elly serve brake-fass now.” She replies gruffly.
I am confused. Is she truly only prepared to make me a roasted veg sandwich on the rye bread. I assure myself this cannot be and so I repeat more slowly and clearly, “I would like the roasted vegetable sandwich but instead of putting it on the bread” (I point for emphasis) “I would like it on that other bread instead (pointing again).”
“No mem, we on-elly serve brake-fass now,” she repeats annoyed at my apparent dullness.
“But the whole wheat bread is right above your head, can you please just make it on that?” I try to remain friendly and avoid condescension.
“No mem, we no hab.”
“Yes, you do have it, it’s right there.”
“No mem. No hab.”
I am stumped, perhaps this poor woman is afraid to bend the breakfast bread rule due to strict management instructions to not make any special requests. I try a different tactic, “Would you have a supervisor who might be able to approve the use of the whole wheat bread?” I admit my tone may have become somewhat Kindergarten teacher-esque at this point but not intentionally.
“I em Supervisor. We no hab.” She states emphatically.
“Oh, well if you are the Supervisor,” I try to emphasize the importance of her status, “then I think you must have the authority to make my sandwich on whatever bread you like.”

“No mem. No hab. On-elly brake-fass menu.”
The gentleman behind me rolls his eyes in credulous at the sandwich making bureaucracy and gives me a supportive smile.
I see bagels on the breakfast menu and quickly fire back, “Well then can you please make me the sandwich on a bagel?”
“No mem, iz say-par-et. Bey-ghelle iz wid cream chiz.”
I see the bagels still uncut in a bin on the counter. “But the bagels are still uncut, can’t you cut it in half and then put the vegetables on it plain?”
“No mem, iz say-par-et. Bey-ghelle iz wid cream chiz, no plain.” She gestures to the menu where indeed it does specify “Bagel with Cream Cheese $3.09”.
“Yes, but I would like the bagel without the cream cheese and the roasted vegetables on it. You can charge me for both but just make it without the cream cheese.”
“No mem, no hab.”

I turn to my kind neighbor in line and his support has morphed into obvious displeasure at the length of this futile exchange.
Although I should be furious, oddly I am not. Rather I feel sorry for this woman, so disempowered that she cannot even contemplate swapping bread. I look at her reassuringly, “I think you have the power to do this Nita,” I say reading her name tag. She shakes her head emphatically and gives me one final “No mem, no hab.”

And so I leave the line at Max’s Greek empty handed and somewhat broken hearted at the death of common sense in America, one deli sandwich at a time. I make my way to the gate and queue up for the pre-boarding. After the all important Global Services, 1K, and First Class passengers are boarding from the red carpeted left lane, the gate agent calls the lesser but still somewhat important Premier Executive and Star Alliance Gold passengers through the right lane. I advance roller bag and tote in hand, and hold out my boarding pass to the gate agent, a 40 something African American woman with a high pile of hair so shellacked and ironed that I wonder how close to a candle she can come without serious peril. She looks down at my boarding pass and without eye contact points to the wall and orders me to wait on the side as she says angrily, “I haven’t called Group 1 yet.”
The sting of the reprimand smarts. I hold my ground. “No, but you called Premier Executive,” and resubmit my boarding pass for inspection.
Our glossy haired agent is unphased and again without eye contact commands me to, “Step aside ma’am. You need to combine your items into no more than 2 before you can board the plane.”

She is good. Too good. Indeed my hands-free small messenger style purse technically could be categorized as an item even though it is obviously not offending to the intent of the TSA regulation and a matter of discretion for the airline. How ironic I think, that Nita would not use any discretion to swap my bread yet Ms. Gloss Head is employing the full force of her discretion in order to show me who is boss. I step aside and quickly tuck my mini-purse into my tote and return for a third time to the humorless gate agent. She scans my ticket and I give her the most sweet, light and airy, “Thank you so much dear.”

She did not flinch, not a millimeter, but I like to think that somewhere deep inside her noxious and befumed head, she hurled an unspoken profanity at me.
I boarded the plane and took my aisle seat in Row 6 immediately behind the last row of First Class. I was relieved to see that the aircraft seats in First did not have foot rests nor did they have individual video monitors for personal media entertainment. Although I must admit that when the flight attendant handed out the pre-flight orange juice I did feel just the smallest pang of envy.

My neighbors on the flight would turn out to be a bizarrely tall senior couple traveling to visit their grandchildren. The husband sported a fabulously bushy grey toupee cut abruptly above his ears and that lifted off a good half an inch from the back of his neck. His wife immediately began fishing in the pocket in front of her in search of the Sky Mall magazine. When she could not find it, her husband relinquished his, albeit reluctantly. The next 30 minutes were filled with the joyful cries of the Mrs. followed by a careful explanation of the many wonders of the Perfect Lasagna Pan with inner walls to distribute heat evenly unlike conventional lasagna pans, as well as shout outs for the Star Wars toaster which emblazons your bread with a toasty image of Darth Vader and the Warming Cat Bed with Detachable Hood. Mr. mumbled with feigned interest in response to each of his wife’s delighted supplications but secretly rolled his eyes and focused his attention on his USA Today.

While air travel may not be what it used to, in my experience it does provide plenty of entertainment.

The Long Road Home, San Juan Surprise, American Airlines Strikes Again

2010-09-02T17:21:00.000-07:00

After a few blissful weeks in the Virgin Islands we bade farewell to our luxurious rental villa and our ever-smiling Spanish speaking staff, and headed to the marina. Captain Bennu arrived promptly at 9:30am to ferry us safely across the Caribbean Sea to the island of Tortola, from which we would be flying home to San Francisco after having been away since June. We checked in at the American Airlines ticket counter and soon discovered there was a slight problem. The decidedly unsmiling woman at the counter informed me that although David was scheduled to fly to San Juan, Puerto Rico and then home via Miami that day, the kids and I were only scheduled as far as San Juan with an overnight stay, and then the flights home the following morning. I felt the blood instantly rush to my head in a panic. “There must be a mistake,” I said calmly, “can you please see how you can get us home all together today?”

The agent looked to her right and spoke wordlessly through some secret island eye contact language with her fellow female agent, who in turned eyed her back in a clear show of solidarity that did not bode well for me. Of course the peacock blue eye shadow abundantly piled atop the neighboring agent’s eyelids made this wordless conversation far more intimidating than it might otherwise have been. The flashes of iridescent blue were downright menacing, like male peacocks in a battle for mating rights, and I wondered whether and how I might respond. The be-shadowed agent sauntered over to address me, she was obviously the heavy, and informed me that, “You will haft-eh cawl Ah-mehr-ee-cahn Ai-er-lines, and see whod dey ken do ‘bout it. Dehr’s nohtin’ she ken do fahr you.”

I blinked confusedly, and double checked that I was indeed standing at the American Airlines counter. “But this is American Airlines, you are American Airlines, can you please help me place the call?” I asked, compelling my voice to sound sweet, somewhere between helpless and hopeful. In my experience gate agents must first be made to feel totally superior to you before they are allowed to engage in even the smallest effort to assist a passenger in distress. I put on my best and most pathetic “distressed traveler” look and waited with pleading eyes, lowering my head slightly in deference to the mighty peacock. Some more secret eye contact conversation occurred and then the peacock lidded woman reached for a telephone, dialed some numbers and handed the received to the original agent. She then spoke some words at remarkably low volume to obscure my ability to understand and sauntered back to her counter.

The agent spoke almost inaudibly into the phone and then looked up to tell me. “Der iz nohtin’ I ken do, you ahf to fly ‘ome tomarrah.” I asked if I might speak to the person on the phone myself, and after she checked with the woman on the phone if it might be acceptable for me to speak with her, I was handed the receiver with only a mild look of disgust.

Soon the American Airlines agent on the phone had my full story, I was in a wheelchair and traveling with my three children and terribly sorry for the inconvenience but could she possibly get some or all of us home today? My submissive tone was found so agreeable that the woman managed to find a flight home almost instantaneously for my eldest daughter, at an albeit exorbitant increased fare. As for myself and my two other children, she could get us home first thing in the morning via Houston but we would have to overnight in San Juan. After thanking her for her assistance and handing the phone back to the agent, I explained the change in flights for us all and she began to input information into her keyboard with the tips of her impossibly long acrylic nails, which had some rather ornate rhinestone inlays.

Peacock lady sauntered back over and asked what had happened and when told of the change in flights, looked directly at me and asked, “Well how much dey gonna charge you fahr de change?” Her partner in crime offered up the figure jubilantly and Peacock lady looked at me with genuine amusement, “Well dats Am-her-eec-an Ai-er-lines farh you, dey don ker nohn fahr dey-er passen-geers sit-too-ehtion. But good you getting’ ohm tomarraw.” She chuckled, closing her phosphorescent eyelids for a long moment, before wandering back to the abandoned passenger at her counter.

I remain non-plussed as I sit here typing into my laptop at the Ritz Carlton Hotel in San Juan. Clearly Peacock lady is employed by American Airlines. She wears the AA uniform and nametag and works behind a counter labeled American Airlines, and yet she has somehow separated herself from this reality and carries on as though she were merely a by-stander to the travel atrocities being committed by said Airline. I cannot explain it, nor understand it, although I suspect it may be a suspended reality survival condition afflicting commercial airline flight crews and ground crews across the world. Clearly this sort of schizophrenia is a coping mechanism so that the airline employees themselves can carry out their duties shoddily (in accordance with union regs) yet bear no remorse or feeling about it whatsoever. I suppose this is the same type of desensitization military interrogators adopt in order to be able to carry out their duties. I do intend to write to American Airlines after my long awaited return to see if perhaps they can address it, although I am as doubtful as ever. Should I receive a reply, I will of course share it with you dear reader.

But for now, I will descend to the pool and join Livvy and Justin who are no doubt ordering virgin daiquiris in their lounge chairs and making the best of our unexpected return to San Juan.

We Begin Another Family Travel Journey, Lorenzo Lamas, Lost Luggage, and Noisy Neighbors

2010-08-03T20:00:00.000-07:00

We are off on another family adventure. After Livvy and Justin returned home from a month at sleep away camp in Canada, and Chloe came back from her month in China tending to pandas, we are now off on a 3 weeks journey to Puerto Rico and the Virgin Islands. Given my recent knee surgery, I am still in an immobilizing leg brace, and using a wheelchair for airport transit. Nonetheless, my spirits were high as I woke the children at the ungodly hour of 4am to ready for our 6am flight to San Juan, Puerto Rico via Miami. After being whisked through security by the unusually attentive TSA staff at SFO, Chloe raced me in my wheelchair toward the general direction of our gate with reckless abandon. Chloe has recently obtained her Learners Permit but has yet to actually get behind the wheel of a car, and this lack of experience did precious little to induce even the slightest bit of caution. Livvy insisted on having a turn pushing me as well, but after clear evidence of issues with depth perception surfaced, I suggested we stop for some chocolate milk which conveniently occupied Livvy’s hands, thereby returning me to Chloe Andretti who pushed me the rest of the way as we pre-boarded the flight.

The sight of me in my wheelchair at the entrance to the plane was met with what can only be fairly described as a scowl by the purser who was doing his best to channel a gay Lorenzo Lamas, and his pockmarked sidekick who had the wiggle of a South Beach Transvestite crossed with the demeanor and unfortunate skin of Tubbs from the original Miami Vice series. “Don’t you have anyone to help you with that?” asked Lorenzo, motioning to the wheelchair that needed to be folded and gate checked. The apparent absence of Sherpas to fold the wheelchair and deliver my carryon bag to my seat was somehow off putting to this colorful and wildly apathetic American Airlines dynamic duo. Chloe dutifully folded the chair and took care of the gate checking before walking down the aisle to find her seat next to her brother and sister. I was seated in Row 1 of First Class where I was hoping to prop my braced leg up with ease on the extended ledge of the garment closet handle that jutted out slightly into the aisle immediately in front of my seat. As I studied the various reclining positions on the dashboard control panel of my leather seat, I anticipated a relaxing 5-hour flight. I would be proven wrong.

After propping my leg up on the closet handle ledge, and pretending not to notice Tubbs eye roll at the inconvenience this would create for him as he walked up and down the aisle proffering miniature plastic wine glasses filled with orange juice and sparkling water, I met my seat neighbor. He was a very tall, quiet, 30-something year old Peruvian with a gentle manner. We exchanged brief pleasantries, mostly monosyllabic due to the language barrier, and then he wished me a comfortable flight. I could have kissed him, as the clear message was that I would not be expected to speak to him anymore until landing, an arrangement which suited me quite well. No sooner had we taken off than I reclined my chair into one of the 14 depicted positions and broke my pillow and quilt out of their thin plastic cocoon to attempt an early morning nap. After finding just the right pillow positioning, I decided my legs needed to be slightly less extended and pressed the button to pull the leg rest in. Nothing happened. I pressed the control button again. Still nothing happened. I looked over at my Peruvian friend and saw that he was aimlessly pressing every button on his control panel to precious little effect. I was overcome with panic, my seat was locked in this suboptimal position and there remained 4.5 hours until we were to land.

I had the presence of mind to summon Lorenzo to my chair side, and as he arrived heaving a sigh of annoyance; I told him flatly that my chair was stuck. He stared at me blankly. I explained that the seat had reclined but that now it would not budge and that I was somewhat uncomfortable. “Oh great,” he said dryly smoothing his blow-dried bangs with his middle and ring finger, “what else can possibly go wrong today?” He continued with an exasperated tone, “Honey,” he said leaning in closer, “I have been working the last 5 days straight and I am reh-deeee for some down time.” He chuckled at his drollness. His teeth were so white, possibly the whitest bleached teeth I had ever seen and I felt compelled to stare at them as he hissed with laughter. Lorenzo did not offer to fix the seat nor to inquire about how to fix it, rather he said to me, with only the slightest soupcon of caring, “Maybe if we leave it for a spell, it’ll start working again. I mean the video system in Coach isn’t working either and it’s not like I broke it.” He guffawed again at his irresistible wit. “I mean honestly, my supervisor is so upset with me because I had 6 complaint letters from passengers in the last month but I can’t control the aircraft. I told her that if the planes don’t work proper then what does she expect, but she’s so clueless. Anyhow honey, I gotta go heat up the nuts,” and with that he pranced back into the galley, leaving me in my tilted state.

I considered flagging down Tubbs, but seeing as he was incapable of even producing a slice of lime for my sparkling water, I decided to wait it out and see. My Peruvian friend was still feverishly pressing every control button to no avail, and so I covered my head with the quilt and tried to refresh myself with sleep. Soon I awoke to the unmistakable and mildly unpleasant aroma of warming airplane food. I emerged from my quilted shelter and saw people all around me with tray tables opened and covered in cheap white linen. Without thought I pressed the seat control panel for the upright seated position, but the chair gods were not kind, and I was forced to enjoy breakfast horizontally. Needless to say I opted for the continental breakfast to minimize spillage as I lay and ate with my napkin spread carefully across my throat, neck and upper abdomen.

It was only prior to landing in Miami that the dynamic duo expressed concern about my seat position. Tubbs in particular was in an absolute state for fear of running afoul of FAA Regulations require all seats to be in the upright position for landing. Tubbs insisted I climb out of the seat and allow him to attempt to manipulate the manual controls beneath the seat to return it to its original position. Climbing out of my seat required a back and forth rolling approach to gain sufficient momentum to propel me upright and onto my uninjured leg, from which I could then hop into the aisle. Neither Tubbs nor Lorenzo offered me so much as a hand for assistance, but the silent Peruvian helped steady me, narrowly escaping a face plant into the adjoining arm rests. Needless to say Tubbs's attempt to manually repair the seat failed miserably and we landed with me in full violation of FAA Regs with my chair in a fully reclined state. Lorenzo thanked me for my patience after landing and assured me that the pilot had been informed of the "seat issue". I smiled back, already dictating my letter to his supervisor in my mind. Chloe helped me back into my wheelchair and as we raced through the airport to the gate of our connecting flight to San Juan with Livvy and Justin scampering behind to keep up, I did my best to dig my fingernails into the wheelchair's padded arm rests in the hopes of remaining in the wheelchair as we flew over thresholds at breakneck speed.

After landing in San Juan and filing a report for my missing suitcase, the kids and I piled into the waiting SUV that took us to our hotel, The Ritz Carlton, San Juan. We checked into our rooms and ate dinner at Il Mulino, the Italian restaurant on the first floor, where our table Captain, Gabriel, scooped large pieces of Parmiggiano Reggiano from an enormous cheese wheel for our enjoyment. After tucking Justin and Livvy into bed, Chloe and I retired to our connecting room where we are sharing a King bed for the night. I read for a while and then switched off my lamp to go to sleep. A few moments later, Chloe switched off her lamp as well. It was at this precise moment that I began to hear thumping from the room next to ours. In fact the thumping was coming from the opposite side of the wall abutting our bed. Within seconds I could hear the unmistakable shrieking and groaning of a couple on their honeymoon in the room next to ours as their headboard slapped rhythmically against the adjoining wall. Sadly, the woman was also an audible full sentence screamer. I considered addressing the awkwardness of the moment directly with my teenage daughter but in the end decided it was best to simply pretend to be deaf to the sounds and thumps, and my brilliant daughter decided to do the same. 20 minutes past with me trying to sing pop songs in my head to drown out the sounds and screams, and finally, mercifully it was over.

In the morning when Livvy came into our room to start the day, she innocently asked how we’d slept, and without a word Chloe and I locked eyes and simultaneously burst into a fit of laughter. “What’s so funny?” Justin inquired walking in to join the fun. “Oh, nothing,” said Chloe. Nothing at all……

Famous athlete sighting, Bedside manners missing, southern charm and chocolate relief

2010-07-13T11:13:00.000-07:00

I am relieved to report that I have had my first brush with professional athlete fame at the Steadman Clinic here in Vail. Yes sports fans, my newest friend is none other than legendary Tennessee Titans linebacker, David Thornton, who at 260 lbs
is rather svelte for such a role. Those of you who know me well will no doubt be asking, "Hey Lorna, you don't even watch NFL so how do you know who Thornton is?" Excellent question, well you see I saw a 6'4" African American man with a very expensive watch hobble into the Clinic, so naturally I asked Paul (he's sort of a junior wannabe therapist who helps swap pillow cases and put the Game Ready ice machine on your injury when required), whether the said gentleman was someone famous. Paul told me that indeed he was none other than Tennessee Titans own David Taylor. I immediately ceased my wall slides and reached for my iPhone to Google him but the only David Taylor I could find was a 60 year old retired white guy.

After much huffing and puffing into my browser, I finally found a photo of a linebacker named David Thornton, and made the match by comparing the photo to the gentleman sweating next to me, and thanks to my keen visual identification abilities was positive I had found my athlete. I would later tell Paul that his name is Thornton not Taylor, and that he does indeed play for the Titans.

My PT for the morning was Lindsay, and although she looked familiar, it wasn't until we were well into our PT session that I remembered meeting her 2 years ago and disliking her rough and to my mind uncaring style. Bedside manner is an important component in a successful PT-Patient relationship and once again Lindsay proved to have none. For example, Lindsay didn't even offer to help remove my shoes, which may seem like a little thing but my friends when you are wedged into a straight leg brace with no ability to bend, and wearing athletic shoes that require manipulation to be taken off, it is an act of aggression to not even offer. Similarly, she showed no empathy when massaging my wound to encourage the flow of blood and the sharp pains that shot up and down my leg were difficult to mask. I made it through the session, my poor knee none the better for it, and asked David to please change my schedule to avoid further Lindsay treatments.

I did manage to mount the rowing machine and complete 30 minutes of one legged rowing with braced foot in a pillow case sliding along the plexi-glass floor mat as I did so. My new friend Mr. Thornton took note although I pretended not to be aware of his impressed glance in this cripple's direction.

Lunch was enjoyed at Up The Creek, a delightful restaurant where we were seated near a table of chubby Texan blondes drinking wine spritzers ("Can ye'all put sum Spr-eye-it in et to sweetin' et up jest a tuch?"). The rubenesque women flirted as best they could with the two gentlemen at the table next to them and did an excellent job of convincing one another to order most of the available items on the appetizer menu, including the "calamaw-ree with that yemmy saw-ess, don't y'all jess lu-uv dippin' et in et?."

As David rolled me back to the hotel for some post-lunch rest, various kind strangers stopped me to share their knee stories. One woman said she had had 20 surgeries and was now wearing titanium replacements which she proudly pranced on for me to see. Another had 4 surgeries and was now happy, while a sour faced woman asked if anyone had bumped into me yet and when I said no, she almost seemed disappointed and warned me that it would happen because "folks are just so clueless sometimes." Finally, an elderly couple approached me, the husband wore an oxygen tank and plastic nostril tubes were affixed to his nose and secured behind his ears as they enjoyed their midday stroll. The wife stopped to pat my hand and ask me if anyone had told me that breaking legs was really only intended to be a winter time injury (ha ha) so I should just hurry up and get better quickly. Oh the comraderie is simply heart warming.

Dinner out at my suggestion took us to Nowzawa Sushi in the Holiday Inn Express on the Frontage Road. We had to wait a while for a table at the bustling and charmless restaurant because per our waitress, the bus boy "called in drunk" and they were backed up. The food was quite good though, surprisingly, and David enjoyed the Sake sampler as I sipped on my diet soda.

A short jaunt after dinner to Rocky Mountain Chocolate was very successful as my pecan and chocolate covered caramel apple was delicious. Pain killers may prohibit the ingestion of alcohol but there is nothing wrong with a bit of chocolate and caramel thank heavens!

One legged cycle mastery, purple toe scare, and the switch to Percoset

2010-07-11T22:37:00.000-07:00

The real trouble with painkillers is that one can only take them every 4 hours. This unfortunate reality has me up from 2:30am-3:30am playing Scramble2 on my iPhone as a distraction technique until I can safely swallow my next dose of Vicodin. My average score has improved nicely as a result, and I am the apparent winner of multiple trophies awaiting me somewhere in cybergame space. I woke David up early with the ringing of my foot pump alarm. I had to free myself from their velcro clutches quickly in order to crutch my way to the bathroom to alleviate myself, but could not bend down to reach the OFF switch, which of course trips the alarm and alerts loved ones who can then hop to attention and help avoid the possible onset of gangrene in the patient by reattaching the booties. I accidentally placed a crutch onto the toes of my good foot while trying to make it to the bathroom, eliciting an expletive I had forgotten I even knew.

After a restorative cup of tea and slice of wheat toast with pb and raspberry j, courtesy of Nurse David/Juan, I watched the end of Stage 7 of the Tour de France and the sprint finish by Mark Cavendish was fabulous. Then it was time for my first PT appointment of the day and so garbed in my work out shorts and top, we headed for the hospital. After Allison, my PT for the next 2 days, finished a hellish quad strenghthening series of exercises on me, I made for the stationary bicycle for a 30 minute workout. In order to bike with my one good leg, I had to prop my injured leg in its brace up onto an enormous resista-ball that was wedged between my bike and the one next to it. This was hardly an elegant manoeuver. In fact, to any bystander it would have resembled the beginning of a solo sumo wrestling match sans diaper, as I settled my left butt cheek onto the saddle and then attempted to lever my braced leg with some body momentum onto the resista-ball in a wide swinging motion. My third attempt proved successful and iPhone music blaring in my ears, I began pedaling with my left leg as best I could in a strained effort to make the pedal work its way entirely around. This is easier said than done and so with some trial and error, I realized the way to make the full circle is to separate the movement into 3 distinct parts: 1) the downswing; 2) the raised calf rotation backward push; and 3) the thigh clenching flexed foot upward pull. Steps 2 and 3 are best when accompanied by a Monica Seles-esque grunt. While this may not be fluid or particularly pretty to watch, it is rather effective with only the occasional misstep, resulting in the need to brace oneself securely to avoid an unintentional face plant. 30 minutes of jerky one legged biking later and I felt refreshed. The thin veil of perspiration I wore was hard earned and I longed for a Gatorade. Yes, I thought triumphantly, even semi-crippled I can train with the best of them.

I enjoyed a celebratory lunch out at the Italian restaurant annexed to our hotel and when we reached the room fell into a deep afternoon nap. As a reward, I removed my compression hose and opted out of wearing the foot pumps for the remainder of the afternoon. This small act of defiance would cost me dearly for shortly after 8pm, I noticed that the toe next to my pinkie toe on my left foot was turning a distinctly purple color. I tried massaging my toe to encourage circulation but the pressure was painful and I feared the worst, gangrene that might result in the amputation of the toe if not taken care of stat. I called for Nurse David who whipped the toe pumps onto my feet in record time. By morning I felt ready to look at my gangrenous toe once again, and though it seemed much less purple than the night before, the tip did look quite a bruised color still. (see poorly lit photo attached)

After catching up on Stage 8 of the Tour and the three crashes that would mark the end of Lance's chances to win the race, we headed for the hospital. Allison asked how I was doing and I told her of my purple toe, as well as my suspicions about the potential amputation. Allison asked to examine the offending digit, and after a brief but painful manipulation of the toe, announced that it was not gangrene but that I had in fact broken my toe. This was both a relief and a complete mystery for how could I have broken my toe when I cannot even walk on it? Allison asked whether I had perhaps stubbed my toe in the dark at night. And then it all came flooding back to me like a bad dream, the need to pee, my desperate removal of the toe pumps, the alarm sounding and yes, yes dear god my crutching over my toe en route to the bathroom. Mystery solved, I would not lose a toe but could add a broken one to my injury list. Although my planned toe nail polish change would need to be delayed another week, the silver lining here is that the cure for a broken toe is simply rest of which I am getting plenty.

I also decided to switch from Vicodin to Percoset in an effort to improve the quality of my sleep. Please stay tuned for more on that important topic in future posts.

Recovery Room bonding, Juan the Greeter and Rehab pain

2010-07-10T21:34:00.000-07:00

As I emerged slowly from my morphine induced haze, full leg brace securely in place, I began to notice that the recovery room I was in was actually quite lovely. I would later learn that I had the only single room on the surgical floor and the only room with a flat screen tv, albeit with a missing remote control which kept David quite busy switching channels and adjusting volume as the medical staff flowed in and out of my room to check on me. Dr. Brad came by for a visit with Dr. Steadman and congratulated me on how well the surgery went. As they suspected, the patellar tendon required a complete repair and with a little luck would be fully functional in 4 months time. Dr. Brad patted my good leg and inquired after my level of discomfort, I was stoic. He instructed me to call should I have any questions or needs whatsoever. My delightful nurse, Audra, encouraged me to eat something as at this point it had been 24 hours since I last tasted food, and I suspect Dr. McDreamy may have whispered his concerns about my apparent skinniness to the nursing staff, although admittedly I have no evidence to support this contention.

Nurse Audra helped me unwrap a packet of graham crackers which I devoured in seconds, oh my what delicious Keebler goodness. David was there with a change of clothes for me and with Audra's aid I changed out of my tent-sized hospital gown and swapped the makeshift gauze boyshort panties for my very own 100% cotton pair. I noticed a two inch long snakelike bruise on my hip from where the nerve block had been inserted that resembled a tattoo, and felt instantly cool. This lasted up until I caught a glimpse of the pasty faced, haggard and ponytailed reflection staring back at me in the harsh fluorescent hospital bathroom lighting.

On the way back to my hospital room with Nurse Audra, I could not help but notice the crowded double rooms along the hallway. Like refugees on Ellis Island the patients' families spilled into the hallway in search of ginger ale and clean towels. Once safely tucked into (or actually onto) my bed, I told Audra how fortunate I was to have scored the only single room. "Oh yes, you have the VIP room indeed," she said with a knowing smile. "Oh, really," I said innocently, "is that just luck of the draw?" Audra paused and shook her head slightly, "No, it isn't luck," she said and continued with a knowing smile, "your doctor made sure you'd be given the VIP room." How delicious! I felt like a guest star on an episode of Grey's Anatomy.

My momentary high vanished though as I began to feel a not insignificant ache in my braced and bandaged knee. Audra administered pain medication, David went to the hotel to sleep and I spent the next 6 hours chatting with Audra, and dozing intermittently, even trying my yoga breathing when the pain spiked. As it turns out, Audra and I share a great deal in common, including a love of the film work of Robert Downey Jr. Before leaving the VIP room in the morning, I decided to take a bold step and offer to lend Audra the DVD of Chaplin I had in my overnight bag for her viewing pleasure. She was hesitant at first, afterall we were at a fairly early stage of our new nurse/patient friendship to be sharing movies, but after I assured her that I would be in town for another 2 full weeks, that I had already seen the film, and that I'd be at the hospital for physical therapy twice daily, she accepted with a warm smile.

A new nurse named Cindy, of Native American descent, with a bright smile and pock marked skin from severe acne in her teenage years appeared, and wheeled me down to the Physical Therapy Clinic for my 7am appointment. I was helped onto one of the 15 empty physio tables and soon met Megan, my adorable, befreckled PT. Megan quickly got down to business, first removing my leg brace and then undressing my dressing to reveal what I know to be my knee but which bore precious little resemblance to the actual body part I have grown to know and yes even love. Multiple sutures covered by surgical tape floated atop the swollen bloody lump and as I gazed around the room at the other patients who began to appear, I was relieved to confirm that mine was by far the most serious case.

Soon Dr. Brad and Dr. Steadman appeared and went over the protocol for my recovery with Megan, who took notes and nodded soberly. Dr. Brad was freshly showered and his hair was still somewhat damp giving him a "I've just returned from the beach" look that was not unpleasant. Of course it was at this point that I realized that I had now gone 26 hours without a shower myself. I raised my hands above my head in a mock stretch while tilting my head to one side in an attempt to whiff my armpits for any lingering remains of deoderant freshness. Fortunately, a feint floral scent was still readily apparent. Note to self, shower asap. Dr. Brad chatted for what seemed like ages about his impending move home next month to Athens, Georgia, before being beckoned over to the next patient by Dr. Steadman.

Megan then got down to business and started massaging my knee to encourage circulation and mobility. The word massage is not employed here to indicate anything pleasant whatsoever, in fact this "massage" was more like something out of a slow torture manual, assuming such manuals exist. With each touch I imagined swan diving onto the Clinic floor as I fainted, and landing in various attractive crash positions that Dr. Brad might find me in. But alas, I am tougher than I look and managed to remain conscious and cooperative throughout the excruciating session.

After an hour of therapy Megan iced me, re-attached my leg brace and dismissed me until my next PT appointment in 6 hours time. David went to fetch the car as a nurse wheeled me to the front of the hospital. I propped myself up on my crutches and shimmied over to the open rear passenger door with my back touching the back seat. This was as far as I had thought things through and it was at this precise moment that I realized I had no idea how to successfully alight the back seat without the assistance of a small team of weightlifters. David stood watching me, perplexed but offering no meaningful assistance.

I handed him my right crutch and placed my right hand on the backrest of the seat behind me. This did nothing and so I handed him my left crutch, and then with both hands behind me tried to haul my limp body up onto the back seat with little success. Suddenly a gentleman in a sharp suit and tie stepped forward, his name tag revealed him to be "Juan" the hospital "Greeter", and his carefully trimmed mustache revealed him to be a latino man of personal pride. Juan suggested I use my crutch for leverage to hoist myself on to the back seat as he carefully steadied me while lifting my injured leg. This produced the intended result and as I thanked Juan, he insisted it was his "pleh-zure."

Back at the hotel I decided it was time for a shower, and so David (who I have now taken to calling "Juan") helped me slip on the one legged rainslicker over my leg brace which I had been given at the hospital and told to use for 2 weeks to keep my wounds dry. Fortunately for me, even after 17 years of marriage, the sight of me standing naked in a yellow one legged rainslicker, did not cause David to burst into a fit of laughter nor demand a divorce. God bless that man!

With David's assistance I showered, dried and dressed, and after a brief nap returned to the hospital for my next PT session with Megan.

Sleep at night would not come easily, due in part to the pain and in part to the foot pumps I am forced to wear at nighttime. The foot pumps are slipperlike attachments that I wear on my feet to avoid blood clots. They are attached to a boom box sized air compressor which alternates compressing each foot in turn by shooting small bursts of air that sound like an erupting whoopie cushion. No matter how much Percoset I take, it is impossible to sleep soundly through the noise and squeezing. On a brighter note, being forced to sleep flat on my back due to the leg brace does have me waking up with absolutely perfect hair.

Good night dear reader...and good luck.

Dr. McDreamy, Oxygen Flattery, Vicodin and more Vicodin

2010-07-08T16:30:00.001-07:00

I arrived for my pre-op appointment at the Steadman Clinic in Vail and waited patiently in the small but bright, window filled waiting room overlooking the mountains. Luckily there was a t.v. with Versus coverage of Stage 3 of the Tour de France, so I was able to catch the exciting finish when the peloton caught up with the breakaway. Of course, I came prepared with my laptop and a subscription to the Tour coverage on Versus.com just in case, and will no doubt make excellent use of it during my 3 week stay.

The waiting room was filled with patients but no one I recognized; although I am pretty sure the 260lb wide necked fellow with the crew cut across from me is a pro football player. Amidst all the fit looking patients I noted one rather incongruous trio enter caravan style; a Beyonce-esque 20-something year old woman on crutches with a serious long weave and violet colored contacts, trailed by her seemingly doting mother sporting LAMB tennis shoes and a Jones Woman suit with an unfortunate leopard print blouse, and finally the sweet yet absentminded husband in his matching royal blue PUMA singlet and basketball shorts. He sported small diamond chip earrings, high tops, and a big warm smile, I liked him immediately. There were only two vacant chairs and the young man let his wife and mother-in-law sit while he scouted the magazine rack. As soon as the patient occupying the adjacent chair stood to take a phone call, the mother beckoned her son-in-law with a commanding head jerk, he approached quickly and she spoke sweetly but firmly with a Texan drawl, "I thought ya'll might lie-eck to sit next ta yo'eh precious wife my dear." Tough to refuse.

When finally my name was called, I was reunited with Chris Watts, Dr. Steadman's jovial long time right hand man, who greeted me with a warm hug. The waiting room took note, wondering who I was no doubt. I re-introduced Chris to David who is my wing man/back and call boy for this surgical trip and followed Chris into an exam room near his office. A few moments later the door opened and in walked a very tall drink of Southern water, Dr. Brad Register, the latest of Dr. Steadman's Fellows providing excellent medical care and eye candy. Dr. Brad examined my knee with his piercing blue eyes and large yet soft hands. I flexed my quads as best I could in cellulite reduction mode as he did so.

Dr. Brad explained the surgery that he would be assisting Dr. Steadman with in the morning and after subtly letting me know he used to play football for University of Georgia, we were joined by Dr. Steadman. Steady (as he is known to the inner circle) examined my knee and explained that we'd tried the two less invasive approaches without success but this time around if I consented, the surgical procedure would be more serious as my injury was similar to that often sustained by professional soccer players (naturally) and required the full reparation of the patella tendon. He had me at "professional". Steady asked me to do a quick MRI and to return in the morning for the surgery. And with that Steady shook my hand, Dr. Brad patted my flexed leg and assured me they'd take great care of me.

The next morning after catching the thrilling sprint at the end of Stage 4 of the Tour, I was admitted to surgical pre-op and met my quick witted nurse Dawn. Dawn and I bonded quickly over the superiority of female architects (they put more stalls in public restrooms for women) and over the ridiculous design of the enormous hospital gown she handed me. Dawn highly recommended I wear the disposable mesh boyshort makeshift gauze panties she offered me under my hospital gown to ensure against any unwanted peekaboo, and I did. After hooking me up to an I.V. and various monitors, Dawn commented, "Wow, 100, can't remember the last time I saw anyone's oxygen that high, impressive." I restrained myself from an overwhelming urge to rip out the I.V. and hug her. Instead I nonchalantly asked, "Oh, is that good?"

"Yeah," she said, "I mean if you lived here at altitude and were in your 20's and in really great shape then I'd expect to see it around 97."

Must be all that pranayama yoga breathing. David said nothing but I know he was impressed.

Dr. Brad appeared and flashed his pearly whites, letting me know he'd be with me the whole time and not to worry. Dr. Brad said that he'd heard that I used to run Move.com and needed some advice. (Hmmmm, they'd been talking about me:-) He is moving back to Athens, Georgia, where he'll be the orthopedic surgeon for the University of Georgia sports teams, and needed a recommendation on an auto shipping company to ship his X5. Did I know anyone he could call? Clever conversation maker I thought. Of course I helped him best I could, and David graciously assisted in a show of manly gurneyside laptop maneuvering, we narrowed down a provider certified by eBay Motors. Dr. Brad was grateful. He confessed that he'd had arthroscopic surgery on his knees by Steady a few months ago but that my patellar tendon debridement surgery would be "the real deal." I asked how his recovery had gone and he said it went fine but that he was sure my recovery would be much quicker what with me being so "skinny" and all. I do believe I blushed.

David stepped out for a bite of breakfast and I saw Michael Dell walk right past me. Really. I know his brother Adam and thought about saying hello but in my current state of under dress I thought better of it and remained silent. Soon the anaesthesiologist paid me a visit and recommended a nerve block which would last up to 12 hours and completely numb my leg from the thigh down and facilitate a more comfortable awakening post surgery. I kissed David goodbye lest he faint as the doctor injected a lidocaine freeze to my inner thigh where the nerve block would be inserted.

I recall joking with the O.R. doctors in a seriously sedated state about my stellar oxygen numbers and perhaps something about the German dominatrix yoga studio owner in Aspen, and then the next thing I knew I was awake in my room with a brace on my leg, David at my bedside, and a remarkable sense of relief.

Flight Agent Security Measures, Not So Lost in Denver, and Anniversary heaven

2010-07-02T17:43:00.000-07:00

After a week’s stay visiting family in my hometown of Montreal, I dropped Livvy (10) and Justin (13) off at the airport in Montreal for their flight to Toronto, from which they would be collected and bused up to summer camp for the month. It was an emotional farewell, but Livvy resolved that since I am going to be in Vail having knee surgery and recuperating from said surgery for the month, she would do her best to have fun at camp since she can’t be with me anyway. A highly practical approach that I feel bodes well for her future. I recovered my driver’s license from the friendly Air Canada ground agent who insisted I leave it with him, as I suppose a security measure against my bolting, whilst I wait for my “Unaccompanied Minor” children’s flight to take off, and return to him once they were airborne to collect it. In the US of A when dropping off “Unaccompanied Minors” for flights, one need only give the agent one’s word of honor; a fact that when shared with my new Canadian agent friend, left him not the least bit embarrassed.

I then proceeded to check in for my own flight which today would be to Denver to meet up with David, and then a drive up to Vail. It is our 17th anniversary today, and (yes that’s right 17) am looking forward to celebrating together. After a most successful stop at the duty free shop and the purchase of some Issey Miyake body lotion and Acqua di Gio perfume, thanks to the tenacity of Hezman, the lovely Fragrance Department manager who wore a most becoming Hermes scarf over her hair and neck, a far superior alternative to a burkah in my humble opinion, although understandably not for everyone. My shopping would not have been near as enjoyable had it not been for Hezman’s her red lipsticked assistant Padma, who shpritzed and sprayed herself with absolutely every scent I showed a potential interest in, for me to whiff.

When I arrived at baggage claim in Denver, there was David with a rotund and smiling gentleman who had the slightly harried air of a professor. This turned out to be Jonathan, the driver David had hired to drive us to Vail. I must confess that I found Jonathan’s presence a little odd because we were going to rent an American made SUV and drive ourselves, but David said that he thought it would be more relaxing with a driver after my long journey. Thoughtful n’est ce pas? Jonathan loaded up our luggage and we set off for Vail, only it became readily apparent to me that our portly driver was heading in a direction decidedly away from Vail. I glanced over at David, who seemed unworried, and reasoned that this must be some sort of traffic detour. After 10 more minutes had passed, I could see the I-70 disappearing ever further into the distance and could hold my tongue no longer. I turned to David and asked in a pseudo hushed tone hoping Jonathan would not hear my lack of confidence in him, “David, do you think we’re heading the wrong way?” David looked around and then I thought I glimpsed a teeny tiny smile out of the corner of his mouth as he answered, “No, probably a short cut.”

That smile dear reader is David’s tell, it is full proof for it always lets me know when he is hiding something. I decided it was time for a more direct approach, “Dave, we aren’t going to Vail. So where exactly are you taking me?” At the precise moment I saw that the car had arrived at the gates of the Denver FOB, the private airplane airport, and that the gates were opening for us. David smiled widely and said, “Aspen.”

I love Aspen!! The car pulled up in front of our small jet and we were greeted by our pilot Doug, a retired United Airlines pilot who bears a not altogether unattractive resemblance to Captain “Sully” Sullenberger himself. Doug shook my hand warmly and wished me a Happy Anniversary and then handed me two crystal champagne flutes, and David a chilled bottle of vintage Grande Dame Veuve Clicquot champagne. I felt like one of the lucky “dates” on Patty Stenger’s Millionaire Matchmaker show, only without breast implants.

We boarded the jet and 45 minutes later were in Aspen. An oversized American made SUV pulled up alongside the aircraft upon landing and the FOB valets (I prefer to think of them as magic fairies) loaded our luggage into it lickety split. We bade Doug farewell and set off in our rental car for our hotel, the thoroughly fabulous Little Nell.

The last time David and I were here in Aspen was 9 years ago and we loved it so I was sooooo excited. A short 10 minute drive and we were checking into our magnificent suite, filled with flowers and chocolate covered strawberries and more champagne. As I described this to my 15 year old daughter later that night on the phone, Daddy did an awesome job.

We went out for a romantic anniversary dinner before hitting the blissful Egyptian cotton sheets. Tomorrow would begin with a Bikram yoga class, followed by a leisurely lunch al fresco and then 90 minute massages, most acceptable.

I hope you are having fun this July 4th weekend.

Hot Yoga and the Perils of Sweating with Strangers

2010-06-25T14:43:00.000-07:00

In preparation for my upcoming knee surgery, which will leave me in an immobilizer for about 6 weeks, I have committed to 30 days of Bikram Yoga in the hopes that it will cleanse my body and potentially shrink it a bit as well. The following is an accurate account of how this journey began.

Yoga mat, large bath towel, and Klean Kantine bottle of water in hand, I entered the yoga studio in my black Lululemon capri length spandex pants and matching top. I decided against the large Lulu headband for fear it would look like I was trying a little too hard, but immediately regretted this decision as I sized up the crowd.

I approached the desk and Carli (with an "i"), the helpful assistant, talked me into a 30 days for $40 unlimited package. Afterall, I reasoned, it should take me at least 4 weeks to become proficient in this style of yoga, and with the 30 day package you get a yoga studio key fob that I immediately attached to my key chain with a small thrill. Carli then motioned for me to walk to the left into the Bikram studio. I made my way through the first set of glass doors and could abruptly feel the humid heat. I removed my flip flops and placed them in one of the small wooden cubbies lining the walls of this Bikram anti-chamber. I then trepidatiously pushed open the second set of glass doors and stepped into the sticky jungle/rainforest-like atmoshphere of the dimly lit studio. The polished dark hardwood floor was lined with 3 rows of scantily clad people sitting on yoga mats in various stages of stretching; those nearest the front were the bendiest and had mats lined with special thin yoga towels. Those in the second row were decidedly less bendy and would have done well with a more modest clothing approach and the back row, well suffice it to say, I was underwhelmed. I did notice to my slight consternation that the mats in the back row were largely covered in fluffy bath towels similar to the incriminating red one in my arms. Note to self, buy cool thin yoga towel (preferably in earth tone) asap.

I found an empty spot in the middle row and rolled out my mat and towel, adjusting my position so that I could spy a sliver of myself in the front floor-to-ceiling mirror. Just above the mirrors I saw a large cylindrical vent pipe (maybe 18' in diameter) that ran the entire length of the studio ceiling, and seemed to be covered with some kind of hole-punched ballistic nylon fabric. I would soon figure out that this cylinder is the heating vent that ensures the room remains at 105 degrees Fahrenheit through out the class. When I figure this out, I will also realize that newbie yoginis (even the very fit kind) therefore would be well advised to place their mats as far away from said cylinder as possible. But alas, I jump too far ahead.

I did a few deep knee bends and breathed in as deeply as possible, secretly trying to see if a B.O. smell could be detected in the room. Fortunately all I could smell was the patchouli scent emanating from the female Asian yoga master in front of me with the unconventionally long braided pigs tails practicing full back bends. A clear attempt at yoga intimidation, but wasted on someone of my mental mettle. It would take more than a back bend from a 40-something Pipi Longstocking wannabe to rattle this gals cage. The instructor appeared, a woman of about 30 years of age with the kind of lithe toned body I pictured on myself by the end of the month.

Her voice was reminiscent of a female James Lipton, and she pronounced each word with an exaggerated pomp only achieved by years of dedicated practice, often lowering her tone and emphasizing the last syllable of certain words for added drama. "Thank you for giving yourselves the gift of today's practice. I'd like to encourage each and every one of you to focus your intention today on creativity,. I'd like to challenge you to consider how you can use your life force more creatively to add beauty and meaning to everything that you do and with everyone whom you interact. Ask yourself, how might this lifetime be different if you let your creativity flow unedited, unjudged. How might this lifetime be more meaningful? How might you feel more complete? We begin as always with the Pranayama Fire Breathing Posture, so please come to standing in tadassana (mountain pose) in the center of your mats.

"Are there any new students here today?" she asked. I reluctantly raised my hand, outing myself against my better judgment. "Welcome. Your goal today is to simply remain in the room for the full 90 minutes and try to explore the 26 postures to the best of your ability. It would be somewhat of an understatement to say that I was offended. My goal is to just stay in the room, paleeeeeeeeaaase.

Over the course of the next 90 minutes her voice went from mildly annoying to severely grating and I used my creativity to imagine what it would be like if she suddenly lost her voice.

The Fire Breathing is I believe so-named because of the burning sensation one feels in their nostrils and chest when deeply inhaling in the sweltering heat of the room. Things went from hot to hotter and by the third posture I reached for my water bottle in dire need of hydration. "Just 2 more postures before we stop for a water break, so try to hang on if that is available to you." At that point the only thing "available to me" was fainting, and so I gulped down my contraband liquid and quickly resumed my feeble attempt at the Half Moon Pose. Throughout the class I was intermittently overcome with dizziness and gave in to my thirst as well as the occasional need to rest in Child's Pose.

After 15 minutes, I glanced down at my towel and was amazed by the sweat that was dropping like rain off of my body onto it. I had a somewhat macho feeling about this phenomenon and used my creativity to imagine myself in a flashback of Flashdance as I struggled into triggenasana/Triangle Pose.

Pose after burning pose, I willed my way through the class, eyeing the door and my means of escape when I felt I could go on no longer. But Patchouli Pipi was bending and flexing in all her glory, and I would be damned if I was going to give up without a fight. About half way through the class, I heard the instructor walk past me and say aloud, "Nice adjustment in the black." I realized that she was speaking about me, that I was the adjuster in black, the nice adjuster in the black who had just been publicly praised. I very nearly blushed but given that I was already beet red from the heat, I highly doubt this was at all visible. I must be a natural I thought. And this realization gave me the energy to carry on until the very end of the class.

When finally lying in a pool of my own hot sweat in Final Chivassana (Corpse Pose) I relaxed, I had made it. The instructor congratulated me aloud for having remained in the room for the full 90 minutes and the class broke into applause, even Pipi was graciously clapping for me. I was moved. And so along with my fellow yoginis, and at the prompting of our instructore, I gave sincere thanks to the Universe and to myself in gratitude for all that is and in gratitude for all that can be, Namaste.

We interrupt this bliss with an important announcement

2010-05-11T12:38:00.000-07:00

dear reader,

it is with great humility that i interrupt my tales of the ranch for the following true story. for the first time in my 42 years (yes, i know hard to believe it with my dewy complexion) my back has gone out. while descending from a mother's day hike with my beloved husband, i stepped into a small trench and rolled my ankle. at that precise moment, i felt something torque in my lower back. i steadied myself, avoiding a calamitous fall and carried on running down the mountain leaving david in his funny five toe running shoes behind me as i stretched my legs out and accelerated my already gazelle-like pace. while waiting at the bottom for david, i began to feel a somewhat sharp and yes even shooting sensation emanating from my lower back al the way down to my toes. i did some stretches which made it no better at all. within 5 hours the pain had gone from irksome to solidly painful and i realized i may have actually done something to myself.

given that back pain is something i always think of as affecting the old and infirm, this was not easy for me to admit but alas, my virtual paralysis in bed that night coupled with my suddenly strong desire to install a handicapped rail in my bathroom to assist me as i sat to pee were hard evidence to ignore. when i got up from a fitful night of sleep (it was more like i rolled onto one side and then used the momentum from the roll to try and flop my feet on the floor while rising to a sitting position, and after resting there i then stood up shakily), the pain had escalated to the excruciating. i spent most of the morning standing at my computer (sitting was not an option any longer for my aching back) trying to research this new condition. inconclusive evidence but i was leaning toward an L4 and L5 disc compression with muscle spasms as the diagnosis.

i went to see my trainer at our regularly scheduled time, in the hopes that he might help stretch me, but upon seeing me enter the studio hunched over like an Asian rice paddy worker, he immediately sent me to see his chiropractor Dr. Ho. Dr. Ho is in his late 30's and is not a big man. However, his appearance is cruelly deceptive as I am now convinced he was trained by whatever secret military interrogation unit dominates in his native China. Dr. Ho did warn me that he would need to work on my back and that this would be painful. he told me in fact that it was "peh-feck-lee ass-ept-able foh you to curse oh cry. men-ee oh my pay-shen do bode, iz noh-mal." i chose to laugh through the piercing flashes of pain and dizzy spells for that is simply how i deal with tragedy.

dr. ho's mute intern observed the 65 minute ordeal from the side of the room, and i can only hope that my stoicism served to keep him interested in his chosen profession. dr. ho warned me that i would need to see him three times a week for two weeks, avoid all strain (which means no exercise), and that i would be quite bruised from his manipulation of the muscles and tissue surrounding the L4 and L5 but not to worry. oh yes, and i am not to take any anti-inflammatory meds either which was quite a buzz kill after enduring the procedure. this ban on exercise comes at a most inopportune time as i have my son's bar mitzvah in 10 short days and i was hoping to squeeze into a particular dress that is unlikely to fit perfectly without at least another week of excessive calorie burning. a call to the personal shopper may now be required.

and so, here i stand typing this accurate and unembellished account of my back injury for you my dear reader to both enjoy and learn from. the lesson is simple, when running, if you should happen to feel pain somewhere in your body, stop and walk the rest of the way, apply ice immediately and buy a leather strap to chew on before you go visit the chiropractor.

please enjoy the absence of photos of my bruised back. i decided it was best to omit them for humanitarian reasons.

You can't take the brooklyn oudda de boy, DJ Dance Mix, Swinging Massages from the Ceiling

2010-05-10T21:34:00.000-07:00

Today we awoke at 6:30am, a veritable sleep in, and made it to the hiking meeting point at exactly 7am. This morning the hardest hike offered was a Level 3 and as we sussed out our fellow hikers, it was clear that these were no experts. There were two pudgy 60-something women wearing their new Ranch t-shirts, such an amateur move, as well as a mother daughter duo who were, I surmised, at long last attempting to make good on a new year’s resolution to get into shape, and one 75-year old gentleman with his own hiking stick, water bottle belt and some wicked varicose veins. Once aboard the van, the elder man who was sitting next to David, introduced himself and began to tell us his life story without any prompting or for that matter show of interest on our part.

Danny is from Brooklyn originally, and 47 years in LA have done precious little to modify his prodigious Brooklyn accent. “I’m Da-ehn-ny from LA bud I grew ub in Brooklyn, you evah hoid of the late comedian Jack Benny, funny guy very funny in a Jewish kinda way ah-end if you grew ub in Brooklyn when Jackie, that’s my wife, and I did then you eeder are Jewish oh-wer you should be, ha, ha, ha. Anyway, like Jack use to say, Benny I’m tawkin aboud, “You can take da boy oudda Brooklyn but ya cain’t take the Brooklyn oudda da boy.” Ya know whad I mean?” Needless to say with Danny present, one needed to do little other than nod, smile, laugh intermittently and answer the odd question no matter how personal.

Our guides on this hike were Warren, a 50-something year old smiling man with a grey mullet worn in a ponytail that accentuated his fluffy sideburns, and Donna, a no-nonsense woman in her late 50’s with the kind of leathery skin only acquired by years of hiking in the hot desert sun. Two hiking poles in hand, we set out into Sabino National Park for our 1,100 foot ascent.

Out on the trail, Danny immediately motioned toward the mother daughter duo behind us and told me just how often newbies overestimate their fitness level on hikes and slow the entire group down. “Whadda shame. Jackie, she nevah comes hiking wid me cause she knows I like to hike fa-est and she, god bless hah is like a tortess wid no race.” Over the course of the next few hours I learned plenty about Jackie, Danny’s two sons and daughters-in-law “da best, knock wood, bedda than any real daugh-ders could be, serious I tell you like angels.”

After our hike, I enjoyed a facial with my fav facialist here Yvgenia, who remains determined to one day sell me her luxurious potions which I consistently refuse. As a former physician in her native Russia, Yvgenia employs very convincing terminology to try and tempt me into buying her spa goodies but I am not easily persuaded, no matter how authoritative the accent. I was starving by 1pm when I sat down to a fiber filled lunch with David in the dining room. Having partially digested my lettuce, I decided to try DJ Dance Mix class, which is an aerobics class with a live DJ spinning the music. The woman with the slightly-too-tight facelift to my left looked positively euphoric as she kick, ball, changed her scrawny heart out. Then it was off to my 100-minute Ashiatsu treatment, a deep tissue massage performed by a therapist who essentially steps on you while holding onto ceiling bars for support. Another romantic dinner for two replete with psylium husk sprinkles and the keen sense that my colon has never been so happy. After dinner we decided upon a DVD in our room; not surprisingly after last night’s embarrassing defeat David was not quite in the mood for Scrabble before bed.

Rubbery egg whites, Level 5 machismo, Glide n Burn, and Warm Chocolate Cakette

2010-05-02T14:46:00.000-07:00

The wakeup call rang at 6am, and within 30 minutes I had donned my hiking gear, had a cup of tea and some egg whites that were devoid of any flavor, and was meeting the guides and guests who would soon be climbing into the Ranch van with David and I to head out on our 4 hour, Level 4 hike. Now for those of you new to the Ranch, the Level of a hike is not a matter to be taken lightly. And a Level 4 is not something to be entered into without serious advance consideration. The lowest Level is 1 (people who walk in white Reeboks with fanny packs and Tilly hats) while the highest is Level 5 (people who wear only Lululemon, have an assortment of hiking boots, and enjoy sprinting 2,000 feet uphill while discussing the 53 miles bike ride they are taking after lunch). Level 4 is for the fit and fast, and therefore anyone who cannot keep up with the pace of the group is appropriately shunned.

As we gathered in the spa lobby to meet our guides Donna and Michael, I could feel the other hikers eyeing me and David. They looked us up and down. Would we slow them down? Yes, we had hiking boots and yes, Dave wore a Lululemon thermal top, but I had an Icebreaker fleece on and this confused the onlookers. As it turned out they were a group of 10 women from Toronto who travel to the Ranch together annually and take their fitness very, very seriously. They made sure to let us know that they were only taking this hike because no Level 5’s were offered this particular morning. David clung to our guide Michael, the only other male, for safety and I adopted a somewhat friendly yet slightly aloof posture in an effort to stand my ground. I didn’t need them to be my friend; I just needed them to recognize me as their cardiovascular peer. Once in the van, the women isolated David and descended upon him like locusts; where were we from, how often do we visit the Ranch, do we hike at home, do we have children etc. David, slightly giddy from the female attention managed to hold his own and when we emerged from the van and began our 1,800 foot climb, in a show of strength he took the lead position right behind Michael.

After the first 20 minutes of vertical climbing, David was still in the lead and a group of four of the Toronto gaggle were between him and me with the rest straggling a few minutes behind. The women relaxed, realizing that we would not be slowing them down today. They quickly become remarkably friendly and engaging. I learned of their life stories, Jessica the 50-year old blond directly in front of me with the killer legs shared how she is handling her recent discovery that her 15-year old son is smoking pot and hanging out with a bunch of skate boarders. She is using humor. For example when she removed a hash pipe from his jacket the other day, she called him to the laundry room to hand it to him and inform him that they don’t wash well and he should really just rinse it out in the sink. Bold move.

Jennifer the 51-year old slightly chubby one of the group explained that her husband of 27 years has been dying to come to the Ranch with her for years but that she feels she deserves a getaway once a year to a place of her very own, and didn’t I agree. I told her that I most certainly did agree but really it was just to make her like me more. And Molly the 48-year old with the husband who never remembers to take the kids to the dentist (“tell me about it” I added although in truth David has never forgotten to take the kids to the dentist) without being reminded, told me all about her case of the Shingles and the time she almost died of altitude sickness in Breckenridge. Before we summitted, Jill the 45-year old redheaded ringleader of the gang asked how long David and I had been married. When I responded that it will be 17 years in July, she smacked me affectionately on the arm (fortunately not sending me head first over the edge of the cliff), and confessed that the group thought we were newlyweds as we hardly looked old enough to even be at the Ranch. They were just lovely.

After our hike, we returned to the Ranch in time for my noon Mango Sugar Body Scrub, which was followed by lunch, then a Glide ‘n Burn (killer muscle toning) class, an hour lounging by the pool and my 5pm Acutonics session. What is Acutonics you ask, well it is a variation on the theme of Acupuncture where needles are replaced with tuning forks that are placed on the key pressure points and reverberate the sound throughout your body. This encourages the free flow of chi as well as the release of the emotions guided by the zodiac which are all represented in the various sounds which emanate. Tres New Age.

My therapist, Marta, explained that different times of the year were better for this kind of work depending on your position in the universe. I confided to Marta that I was born in retrograde and so now is an especially good time for me to retune. Marta was delighted because Marta of course knew that Mercury went into retrograde on April 21st and would remain there until May 21st and that the only way I would know that is if I were an enlightened being. Marta gave my arm a brief but meaningful squeeze, “I was born in retrograde too,” she told me, and we shared a deep knowing smile.

Rebalanced after the session which concluded with a magnificent Neptune inspired Ohm on the enormous gong, I met up with David and we went for dinner. Thanks to the 2,000 calories I had burned hiking and burning, I was able to order the 140 calorie warm chocolate cake, which it turned out was sadly the circumference of a small yogurt container and only a quarter inch think.
I cheered myself up by beating David handily at Scrabble.

San Jose Not-So-International Airport, Frida Pinto bashing, Contraband Cola, and Loma Loma Loma

2010-05-01T16:27:00.000-07:00

I awoke at 4:30am and stealthily dressed in the dark to ensure I did not wake my sleeping hubby. I tiptoed down the stairs and into the awaiting sedan, whereupon I was whisked off to the airport to catch my 6am flight to Phoenix. San Jose International Airport (SJC) at 5am does not hold quite the allure of Heathrow or Charles de Gaules or frankly even O’Hare.

The word International is quite misleading as the only border crossing flights to arrive at SJC are from Mexico. Understandably there are no Duty Free shops, no exotic Malaysian flight attendants scurrying about, no fabulously sophisticated European men in Lacoste polos and dark wash denim with handmade Italian leather shoes and no socks. In effect the only thing that is truly international about SJC are the janitors and food service workers. So after ordering my Venti Earl Grey tea and buying the latest edition of W magazine (sadly thin due to the slow return of the advertising business) I boarded my flight somewhat somberly.

I had paid US Airways an additional $10 for the privilege of occupying seat 5F and was praying to have a mute or at least seriously anti-social neighbor. Alas, a young Indian man, who to my surprise turned out not to be an IAT graduated engineer, sat next to me and after a brief hello had the good sense to occupy himself with his iPhone. As I would later learn on the flight, Frida Pinto is not even a top 100 heroine (what they call female movie stars) to the knowledgeable Bollywood loyalist. She’s essentially the Sandra Bullock of India, mediocre looks, mediocre talent, but somehow a bankable sensation. I took an immediate liking to my new friend; his cynicism was delicious so early in the morning.

By the time we landed we had exchanged fav iPhone apps, I shared Dragon Dictation and he shared Google Voice Search (I felt it best to withold the fact that I was already a fan of the product), and we parted without ever shaking hands or exchanging names. So refreshing to meet a stranger and then bid one another farewell without any pretense of wanting to keep in touch or meet again.

My driver met me straight away and whisked me off after handing me a bottle of water dripping with melted ice water from his cooler. It was a two and a half hour drive to Tucson and what I imagined would no doubt be my triumphant return to Canyon Ranch. I loaded up my laptop with the classic film “So I Married An Axe Murdered”, and sat back to enjoy the ride. When we were 30 minutes from our destination, I asked the driver if he wouldn’t mind stopping at a Circle K quick stop so that I could pick up some essentials before reaching the Ranch. I hopped out and made fast for the large refrigerators at the back of the shop in search of two things that are strictly contraband at the Ranch but without which any stay would be far too painful to bear; Coke Zero and Chardonnay.

I found the Coke Zero immediately and loaded up a dozen small bottles with twist tops, they may cost more but it tastes so much better than out of the can. Then I explored the wine selection and this is where dear reader I learned a very important and surprising lesson; namely that there are California Chardonnays which retail for less than $5. It was shocking to see that the Tropicana was more expensive than the Glen Ellen or the Beringer, see pic. Needless to say, it took me a while to locate the most expensive bottle in the shop, a lovely $13.99 Beringer that I am optimistically thinking may contain the very same wine that sells for $45 at my local Safeway.

I also had the good sense to remember to buy a corkscrew to avoid the need for shoving the cork into the bottle with a knife, which is what I have had to resort to on prior visits. I checked in, moving through the process with a graciousness and command that the newbie in the abutting check in lounge chair would no doubt have found enviable. “Oh, I love the new photos, so charming,” to which Cynthia nodded in agreement as she handed me my new Ranch t-shirt. "Great new design," I smiled. In my room, strategically placed midway between the Spa and the Dining Room, I caught up on my This Week at the Ranch reading and headed off for my 6pm 100 minute Thai Massage.

I smiled as I walked straight past the Spa reception desk and confidently strode into the Women’s Locker Room, where I politely announced to the ponytailed attendant that I would like my locker for the week please. To this she replied, “If you’d like to check in at Spa Reception, they can assign you a locker and then I’ll be happy to open it for you and show you how it works.” Classic Rookie mistake, I was devastated, ashamed and defeated. I skulked back out and asked Maria at Reception if I might have a locker. She assigned me Locker 124, to which I said, "Thank you." Then adding for clarification, "Is it a top or a bottom?" She looked at me apologetically, “I’m afraid we have no more tops, but if you’d like to check back tomorrow, it looks like 187 may be available after 10am.” Was it a bad dream? Was it some kind of cosmic joke? I couldn’t be sure but decided to soldier on.

Jenny greeted me in the relaxation room, calling out for “Loma Borenstein”. I didn’t have the heart to correct her and tried to imagine what my life would be like were I in fact named Loma. Once in the treatment room she inquired whether I had enjoyed Thai massage before, to which I simply replied, “yes.” Jenny probed further, as to whether I had enjoyed it here at the Ranch before, to which I once again replied, “yes.” Jenny then asked how many times I had been to the Ranch, to which I replied simply, “four.” Jenny then said the kindest thing to me I’d heard all day, “Oh, Loma you are a real regular.” Yes Jenny, blessed sinewy, spritely Jenny, Loma is a regular here at the Ranch.

Hotel Alarms at Dawn, Donut Debates, Private Pool for Three, and Shells, Shells, and More Shells

2010-04-07T19:26:00.000-07:00

At exactly 7:44am the hotel siren began to sound at full blast. The whooping of the siren was followed by high decibel bleats and then the humorless voice of a woman announcing that “An alarm has been detected in your area, please stay tuned for further instructions.” This siren/announcement played on a loop for a full 15 minutes before it stopped. As if that were not sufficient punishment, after finally falling back asleep the telephone began ringing at 8:30am, and why you ask was the woman on the phone calling at this early hour, “Good Mahrning Mrs. Bahrenst-eye-in, this is Charlotte cawlin’ to ah-pollo-chize for dee ah-larm dis mahrnin’. I wuz makin’ waffles in the Club kitchen fahr brek-fahst and burned dem which set ahff dee ah-larm. Everyting is figh-en and der is not’in’ to worry bout. I’ll luke fahrward to seein’ you and de children up here at de Club lah-yet-er dis mahrnin fahr brek-fahst.” Brilliant.

After this second wake up, I figured it was probably best to get up rather than fall back asleep and surely be awoken again, probably to be informed that there would be pancakes for breakfast. The kids enjoyed taste testing the mini donuts at breakfast, comparing the vanilla and chocolate was a serious business for these two aficionados. The vanilla were deemed the superior flavor after much vigorous debate. Justin also shared with us his "cool look" which you can appreciate in the breakfast pic above, it is a look only to be used to display natural coolness in front of the camera and not to be attempted by amateurs or imposters.

We decided to spend the day at the pool reserved for Cove guests only, which is on a much quieter part of the beach and as we discovered quite a bit swankier. Me likey! Carefully selected pool attendants and servers are plentiful here, and the billowy soft lounge chair cushions are divine as are the bright canary yellow towels which play magically off the turquoise color of the Caribbean.

We spent hours hunting for shells on the beach. The beach is littered with thousand of perfect miniature conch, nautilus and every other type of shell imaginable, and the kids marveled at how many beautiful shells they gathered. At lunchtime I queued up in the line that was forming at the poolside grill to order our food but a kind server named Estella, lead me to an empty table where we sat comfortably in the shade as she took our food order. Justin, Livvy and I spent hours on the lazy river and revisited our favorite slides as well, but mostly we enjoyed our serene, cordoned off slice of the resort.

Feeling adventurous, we had dinner off the resort at a delicious restaurant called Café Matisse, and closed out the day with an impromptu photo shoot in the romantically lit foyer of the hotel.

Trainer For A Day, Tolerating Bobby Jo, Fish Breath Kiss, Dolphin Transportation Assistance

2010-04-06T06:56:00.000-07:00

We awoke to another sunny day on Paradise Island and headed over to the Dolphin Cay at 10am to check in for our “Trainer For A Day” program. Our trainer introduced herself as “T” which is short for Tazia, and she had a gentle manner with the kids as well as a snappy sense of humor, which came in handy throughout the day. We were grouped with 4 other guests, a 10-year old boy named Juan, two 13-year old best friends from Virginia Beach named Zoe and Lexi, and a pure caricature of a woman from Mississippi named Bobby Jo with a deep drawl and an infinite desire to speak incessantly and at inappropriately high volume. In short, Bobby Jo is the reason Jamie Oliver has begun a revolution.

We learned more about Bobby Jo during our 6 hour trainer program than anyone could reasonably want to imagine. For example the story of how she acquired her name, which incidentally was offered without anyone actually asking about it, “Da-yew-Dee’s nay-em is Raw-Bert, Momma’s JoDene, and Da-yew-Dee always wahn-ned a boyee, so they done called me Bob-eh Jo). I got the low down on the various buffets offered aboard Bobby Jo’s Disney Cruise as well which dessert items she feels are truly world class, or as Bobby Jo puts it, “speck-tack-alar like, gawed’s honest truth I tell ya’”.

While Bobby Jo’s incessant questions, piercing loud voice, excruciating donkey like laughter, nauseating soliloquies, persistent threats of fainting when in the fish prep room and sea lion encounter, as well as her spine chilling squeals of terror, had been more than enough to turn the kids viciously against her, it was only while she was receiving a complimentary dolphin foot push across the pool courtesy of Elijah (the incredibly strong dolphin who managed to propel Bobby Jo’s oversized body mass some 75 feet before falling away, exhausted into the water), that I began resenting the duty I had endured all day, namely zipping and unzipping her enormous wet suit over her back folds. I momentarily fantasized about the dolphins attacking her, a la Sea World Orlando but quickly reminded myself after some cleansing breaths that anyone who speaks that loudly and that much, must lead a life wherein she feels she is not listened to, and the least I could do was tolerate her with a modicum of grace. Namaste.

As we walked back to our hotel after the Trainer Day had ended, the kids insisted I repeatedly impersonate Bobby Jo, especially her cackle, until our cheeks all hurt from laughing and Justin got the hiccups. What a great day!
Dinner tonight was very much enjoyed at Nobu (thank you Tiffany) where the Rock Shrimp were pure perfection and the kids professed their miso soup to be every bit as good as our local Japanese fave in historic downtown Los Gatos. The line for Ben&Jerry’s in the Marina Village was epic and so the kids opted for some vanilla bean frappacinos at Starbucks instead accompanied by Justin’s recommendation of going halfsies on the Classic Coffee Cake and Plain Glazed Crueler. The taste test unanimously revealed that the Crueler was the superior dessert pastry product, in case you ever need to choose.

Club Cleavage, Shark Tank Slide, AquaCycle for Two, Tiffany the Great and Mannequin Redux

2010-04-05T15:16:00.000-07:00

Livvy shared my king sized bed and snored powerfully all night, but I awoke somehow rested at 9am to the sounds of the Easter Egg Hunt Coordinator’s broadcast of the opening of the egg hunt on the beach just 21 floors below our room. The shrill yet joyful cry of dozens of chocolate seeking children was unmistakable. We donned our swimsuits and shorts, and made our way up to the Club on the 22nd floor for breakfast.

The first thing that struck me as I entered the sunny Club Dining Room was the abundance of beautiful 40 something women in plunging beaded cover-ups, Tory Burch flip flops, D&G sunglasses, fully make upped, and sporting copious amounts of plumping lip gloss. It took me a moment to notice the second similarity, namely the identical cleavage each was exposing between their grain silo shaped breasts. I had stepped off the elevator and landed in an episode of the Real Housewives of New York/New Jersey. While several of the men had obvious hair plugs gone very very wrong and an assortment of Tommy Bahama palm tree print shirts, the women were really far more of a sight to behold. They seemed to be exchanging knowing glances as they passed one another at the fruit buffet, daintily decorating their plates with a strawberry or lonely slice of cantaloupe. “Yes,” their eyes said, “we are soul sisters, carry on.”

I was not entreated to any such glances. Perhaps it was my Lacoste polo or tan Bermuda shorts, my suntan lotioned but unadorned face, my Oakley sport sunglasses, my lack of exposed cleavage or cleavage at all for that matter, but whatever the reason, it was clear that I and my pitifully unenhanced breast tissue were not welcome. I munched on my whole wheat toast with peanut butter and laughed hysterically with the kids as they attempted to re-enact scenes from our long airport wait, featuring a hyperactive girl from Indianapolis. I may not be a glamazon, but boy do I have awesome kids.

We found some beach chairs on the white sand Cove Beach, applied sunscreen in both lotion and toxic spray formats, and spent the next 7 hours on the shark tank water slide, the crazy lazy river, as well as the beach and the predator reef. Justin and Livvy tried out an AquaCycle, which looks like an oversized clown tricycle that floats on the water.

At one point midday, I went to visit the Concierge in order to book restaurant reservations for our stay. The lovely Tiffany assisted me and was genuinely sorry to inform me that both Nobu and Mesa Grill were booked solid for the entire week of our stay. Appealing to her sensitive nature, which was obvious from the length of her French manicured gel nails, I told her how disappointing that was, thanked her for trying and asked if there might by chance be someone to whom she could appeal for some help. “I just don’t trust myself at buffets," I confessed, "I just tend to eat so much more than I should,” to which she responded with a friendly giggle and supportive nod of understanding.

Sure enough, Tiffany told me with a twinkle in her eye that she had a few tricks up her sleeve if I didn’t mind waiting. I assured her that I would stand by her until we had succeeded at finding some kind of full service dining solution to “our” dilemma. Solidarity established I sat back and watched Tiffany work her magic, dialing two phones at the same time in an effort to reach the Director of Restaurant Services, a woman named Hope, which I thought promising. Tiffany’s dexterity with the phones was impressive, as was her tenacity. After approximately 24 dialed but unanswered calls to Hope, a young woman appeared from the back office and made some subtle inquiries of the 3 Concierges on duty, finally approaching Tiffany. They engaged in a quick chat in some type of island patois I could not comprehend, but Tiffany was clearly working it. She gestured toward me and I did my best to both avert my eyes, never make direct eye contact with a lioness I remembered from our recent Botswanian safari, and still look terribly sweet at the same time. I don’t know if it was Tiffany’s perseverance, my subservient posture, or divine intervention, but minutes later Tiffany handed me a sealed envelope with 7:15pm reservations each night to the top restaurants at the resort, including both Nobu and Mesa Grill. Oh yes, my friends, she did it.

After dinner that evening, Livvy spent a good 45 minutes redesigning the accessories on the window mannequins at the Sundry Shop, and displayed a genuine dressing talent, see pics. She transformed the erstwhile bald mannequins into chapeau doffed lovelies with exactly the right choice of eyewear to boot. I can only imagine this to be the beginning of a budding prepubescent career as a junior stylist.

Flight to the Bahamas, Imposter Check-in, Iced Tea by the Admiral, and an upgraded apology in paradise

2010-04-04T14:54:00.000-07:00

Promptly at 10am our driver appeared at the front door ready to load the sedan and take Livvy, Justin and me to SFO for our flight to the Bahamas. Livvy opened the door and was distraught at the stranger manhandling her carefully packed rolling Victronox ballistic blue duffel. “Mom, where is Jay? Why isn’t he taking us? Who is this guy anyway?,” she demanded. I explained that Jay was probably spending the morning with his family and had sent this nice driver in his place. Livvy was not impressed but seemed willing to let it slide, “Okay Mom, but you’re sitting up front with him, he could be a freak.” Fair enough.

We checked in at the American Airlines First Class kiosk thanks to my OneWorld Gold Status. You see dear reader, I am sad to inform you that some two months prior in a fit of determination to make more of an effort to not spoil the kids, I had decided we should all travel coach on this flight. I’m sure I had somehow rationalized this away by convincing myself that it is only a five hour flight to Miami and that the touch of the well worn upholstered seat in front of me upon my knees would be worth the imprinting done on the kids. I suspect now that David had only encouraged this, knowing he would not be joining the three of us on this particular getaway.

In any event, we checked in at the First Class kiosk, feeling a bit like gatecrashers at an upscale party, and had to endure further embarrassment by resorting to flashing my One World card to be permitted access into the well guarded Priority Boarding queue. As if that were not enough, once at the gate, soggy airport purchased burrito in hand, I was faced with the Priority Boarding debacle. Does my status allow me to board with First Class or do the magic powers end at check-in and security? It had been a while since I needed to pose the question and was eager to avoid the walk of shame if denied early entry to the aircraft in front of the swarming masses of carry-on clutching passengers lining the sides of the Priority line like paparazzi along side the red carpet. I paused to remove my One World member card again and stepped tentatively toward the gate agent at the turn style.

As I approached, I recognized the gate agent, he was the same fellow who so kindly took care of Justin when I dropped him off as an unaccompanied minor for his flight in February to meet my mother in Ecuador. “Hi,” I said exuberantly, “so nice to see you again. Remember me? How’s it going today, just as crazy as when you took care of Justin after the big east coast snow storm?” I said gesturing wildly toward my son. He scanned my face, then Justin’s and then mercifully, he smiled back with clear recognition.

“How are you guys? Great to see you, thanks for saying hi.” I could have kissed his bespectacled face. I handed over our Zone 3 Boarding passes along with my One World member card. He pushed the card back at me, “You don’t need that,” he said smiling. He scanned our boarding passes and still smiling as he handed them back to me said, “If you ever need anything while you’re flying out of here in future, just let me know what I can do.” Bless his polyester clad heart.

And with that we boarded with the privileged few, heads held high until finding our seats in Row 30. At least I had an aisle and the two Chinese toddlers in front of me ceased their kicking/screaming game after a mere two hours.

We landed on schedule in Miami and made our way to the Admirals Club. There was a short queue and an attendant was shepherding people into one of two lines, Line 1 for “members” and line 2 for “American Express Platinum Card holders” a.k.a. freeloaders. When asked whether I was a member, I proudly replied, “Yes,” and was shown to the obviously more important line. The gentleman who helped me, a Mr. Jorge Ramirez was about as pleasant as could be, with his endearing “espanish ackee-scen”. Once upstairs in the lounge, Livvy and Justin enjoyed cocoa and cookies while I appreciated the complimentary freshly brewed, unsweetened iced tea. I looked but could not find a carafe of lemonade, suddenly thirsting for an Arnold Palmer, but drank my tea in good humor just the same.

Our flight was delayed by 90 minutes due to a late arriving crew, which completely baffled Justin, who at 13 is already fit to run international operations for a major conglomerate. “What do you mean the crew is late? Don’t they have a back up crew, I mean this must happen like all the time. That is so lame. What a bogus airline.” While I know I should have been teaching him a lesson in patience and the unpredictability of travel, I could not bring myself to do so and instead agreed with him wholeheartedly and even suggested he write an email to the CEO of American Airlines on the subject.

We decided to find a snack and found a take out stand attached to a Cuban restaurant that promised all variety of hot sandwiches and had a fingerprint-smudged display case filled with a strange looking assortment of baked and fried pastries. Two Indian women behind me mused over whether the fried dough pastries were filled with sweet or savory and decided against the risk, a wise choice in my lay opinion. Ordering the grilled chicken sandwich for Livvy was rather more difficult than I had anticipated, apparently in Miami my English is somewhat hard to understand for the indigenous people. In the end the manager helped translate my order into local English for the lovely Rosaria to punch into the computer. Note to travelers, when in Miami the word lettuce should not be pronounced at "let us" but rather as "let oooos", and be sure to say "sin" instead of "no" when trying to avoid certain foods appearing on your plate.

Finally after what amounted to a 1 hour and 45 minute delay, we boarded our plane to Nassau. Upon arrival at just past midnight local time, the airport was more or less deserted. We waited for a late shift attendant to unlock to doors leading from the gate to immigration and baggage claim. Our bags were there but our driver was not. I called the hotel and the night manager apologized profusely and suggested we grab a cab and let the hotel sort it all out once we arrive. A kind cab driver with a charming smile that revealed his missing front left tooth, named Philip, informed me that the private transfers tend to disappear when flights arrive after midnight and that he would be delighted to drive us to the Cove Hotel at Atlantis. Having no choice, I graciously accepted.

Once again Justin fumed at the incompetence he was being subjected to and this time I explained that when traveling to new, exotic locations, things don’t always go as planned so one needs patience and a willingness to go with the flow. Justin wasn’t buying it. The hotel was beautiful and the long outdoor arrival walk was lined with glowing red lanterns that lent the night a dreamy air. We checked in and were upgraded to a suite on the 21st floor with Club access and a magnificent view, a very suitable apology for the driver mishap in Justin’s view, and one I accepted gratefully. Livvy did some modeling in front of the water fall in the lobby and then we unpacked, washed up and by 2am were all fast asleep in our island dream hotel.

Tomorrow we hit the famed shark tank water slide….

Fast freezing eggs for breakfast, Cornbread Kendra Gone AWOL, and the Ecstasy of the Zero

2010-03-17T22:30:00.000-07:00

I arrived at breakfast bundled up in 4 layers of protective clothing, 2 pairs of socks, Sorel boots, a headband and hat, gloves and a sad sinking sensation in the very pit of my cold empty stomach. Cornbread Cookie Kendra was nowhere to be seen, although the Spanish-only speaking cook was dishing up eggs, turkey sausage and biscuits. Without Cornbread Kendra present, pandemonium almost let loose. Afterall, who would monitor the "No Leftover Club", who would select the quietest greenhorns to get their food first, who would hold up her fingers like coyote ears to get the kids to listen? Thankfully, in spite of the below freezing temperatures, a teacher from another school of kids visiting this godforsaken camp had her wits about her. She took charge and sent the children in table groups up to fetch their food.

I secured some hot water (clearly not boiled but above body temperature) and removed an earl grey tea bag from my jacket pocket, and prepared myself a cup of tea. After a biscuit and some eggs, that more or less froze immediately upon contact with my plate, I noticed a sad, shivering, sweet, adorable and chubby little boy at the table across from mine. He was fighting back tears and rocking back and forth. It was as though he was acting on the outside the exact feelings I was having on the inside. I felt an instant kinship and approached him slowly. I asked if he was cold, he nodded as tears streamed down his chubby cheeks, steam rising from them as they made their way down his cold face. I saw that he had only a sweatshirt on and asked if he had a jacket. He told me that his had gotten dirty and couldn't be worn. I put my hand on my compadre’s back and told him not to worry, I'd get him an extra jacket. It was at that exact moment that one of the naturalists wandered into the mess area. I pounced on her like a jungle cat and asked if she could secure a warm jacket for my freezing porcine little friend. Embarrassed by the notable absence of Cornbread Kendra and all other staff, she agreed immediately and returned within minutes with a warm jacket for my little buddy. Once he had the jacket on and was happily tucking into his fast freezing huevos, he smiled, and it was at that precise moment that I understood why I had been lured to gold country. Not simply to freeze my friends, but to serve.

After an artery clogging morning meal, I spent the entire day out on the mountain visiting mines, learning obscure horticultural facts and singing poorly composed folk music. The highlight of the day for the kids was the individual hike, where each child was sent down the ¼ mile path at 2 minute intervals to commune with nature and enjoy more freedom than they ever had before. The highlight for me came at noon while eating my rock hard plain bagel with soy butter, when I realized I had my can of Coke Zero in my knapsack and pulled it out for a thirst quenching chemical filled taste of the 21st century. Bliss.

The kids were also invited to join the "Hard Core" club which can only be done by eating the entire apple handed out at snack, core, seeds and all. If you do so, sparing the earth the discarded core, you get to write your name on Tumblesworth's guitar. This prize is so valuable that at least half the kids, including my adorable Livvy, ate the entire apple and jubilantly scribbled their names on the guitar. Of course, what confused me is how it is better for the earth to have the children eat the entire apple and then no doubt have it all end up in the toilet versus simply chucking the core onto the ground. I was about to pose the question of Tumblesworth but seeing the joy on the children's faces as they were individually indoctrinated into the Club, I thought better of it and kept quiet.

Dinner was an optimistic abundance of overly cooked spaghetti and turkey meat sauce with canned chemical tasting parmesan-like cheese that never crossed an international border, apart from quite possibly the People's Republic of China. The meal was served in the now familiar outdoor mess area at a balmy 30 degrees. Campfire entertainment for the evening was a local Miwok Indian woman who told stories with important morals, and sang several shrill and slightly off key tunes. I suspect that she may well have been making up the words.

And now I am standing in the wifi hotspot, arm to the sky, updating my loved ones and dreading my night ahead in the folding cot with my 16 tweenage bunk mates.
Tomorrow afternoon we will at last leave Coloma and after a 3-4 hour drive, I'll be home again. Hallelujah!

my best,
lightnin'

Horrific Hoe Down, No Left Overs Club Rewards, and awaiting the verdict of Cornbreak Cookie Kendra

2010-03-15T18:44:00.001-07:00

I know my friends you will be relieved to learn that I survived the night with only minor back injury from the aforementioned folding cot. I enjoyed a 5:45am wake up, courtesy of the 4 girls closest to me who thought it would be fun to draw images by directing their shining flashlights on my face. Hilarious.

After last night's Hoe Down, I for one can truly appreciate all music created without a fiddle. We gathered in the same tarpaulin covered space we had been welcomed into upon arrival the day before by our eager hosts. At night the space is transformed into a sub-freezing dance hall, complete with dirt floor and senior citizen fiddling trio, aptly named "Slim Pickins." Slim himself loves his fiddle beyond all imagination, while his overweight, balding "guieee-tahr" playin' girlfriend was notably less enthusiastic. The trio is rounded off by the near sighted and wild haired mandolin player, who had the presence of mind to keep her comments on the history of her six stringed instrument mercifully brief as the crowd approached a mass-hypothermic trance.

The kids were shown several dances and then the "caller", a naturalist whose name escapes me as it was so very cold that I am quite certain my brain cells froze and were incapable of retaining the admittedly extraneous data, began calling out the steps. The now blue-lipped children participated as best their near frozen limbs would allow and I huddled beneath the one heat lamp in the entire area, fending off little people as they tried to approach and displace me from my key position at the front of its flickering warmth. When finally Slim and his enthusiastic elderly accompaniests had had their fill of fiddling fun, we were dismissed to our bunks for a night fraught with tossing and turning in my sad looking cot.

After the early flashlight-rich wake up, I am now off to a frigid al fresco breakfast where "Cornbread Cookie Kendra" has promised to personally inspect our plates and decide whether or not each and every one of us will make it into the "No Leftovers Club." If I make it into the club then I will get a star on the "No Leftovers Club" chalkboard. I am a sucker for a star, so I hope it's worth the dense french toast congealing in my stomach. Then I will be off on a 7 hour hike with the complaining prepubescent masses. What delightful organic waste will I have to compost this morning? I can hardly wait.

my best,
Lightnin'

My Trip To Coloma: or Could This Simply Be A Cruel Joke; Gold panning, bunked down with 16 nine year old girls, putting the R in rustic

2010-03-14T23:43:00.001-07:00

I am on a three day overnight with my youngest daughter's 4th grade class to Coloma Resort, an outdoor wilderness school set in 1849 that only the most imaginative marketer could have named a "Resort". The school is located in the heart of Gold Rush country on the banks of the American River. I have a sleeping bag and flashlight in my duffle. We're not in cel phone or internet access range, so I am blogging now and will post when god willing I make it back to civilization. My only luxury is the can of Coke Zero I smuggled in my day pack.

Well we made it to camp and let's just say that rustic is insufficient to capture the essence of the place. I will be sleeping on a folding cot in a ramshackle bunk with 16 9-year old girls and 1 toilet. It's 40 degrees and I am not a Polar bear or Arctic fox, enough said.

Our naturalist, (that is an outdoor expert guide not a naked person,) has been speaking all afternoon in an Irish lilt but I think the accent is just a little too perfect and have shared my suspicions of the fraud with one of the other parent chaperones. To be clear, I am technically not a chaperone but a "teacher's assistant", and my fellow female companions have determined that my "assistant" status is a station or two below their "chaperone" status, and thus I am being treated ever so subtly like an enlisted soldier in an officer's camp. This is how I came to be sleeping on a folding cot. You see the bunk house had only enough actual bunks for the 16 girls and 2 parent chaperones, and so a folding cot was produced. This posed an uncomfortable problem, who would sleep on the uncomfortable cot? Naturally the parent chaperones immediately offered up the fact that I was just the "assistant" and then followed this up with laughter in a feeble attempt at masking this serious barb as merely a joke.

I, however, take my "assistant" role to heart and realizing that my compatriots were both: a)looking down at me; and b)not about to offer up a solution, I stepped forward and graciously volunteered to sleep on the offending cot. The teacher hugged me gratefully, appreciating my choice of rising above the situation and saving her a parent intervention, but the parent chaperones seemed to take it in stride, believing that justice has simply been served. As for me, I held my head up high, knowing I was being the bigger person I often encourage my children to be on the playground of life. I imagine this is how the men on the Titanic who sent the ungrateful upper class women to safety must have felt; doomed but vaguely superior.

I have vowed to smile through it all and make the most of the accommodations, the compost heaping duties, the high carb low fiber food, and the obligatory panning for gold in the frigid river water.

Now back to our naturalist and his phony Irish accent....I mentioned to the parent chaperones that "Tumblesworth" seemed to have too perfect an accent and that I suspect it to be a fake. No they responded in disbelief, it couldn't be. So I approached our tall, guitar playing, neck harmonica wearing, toe-headed new friend and casually asked him what part of Minnesota he was from. He nearly dropped his guitar and turned to me to ask, "Did Cornbread Cookie Kendra give me away?" (Cornbread Cookie Kendra is the lead naturalist) "No," I responded. He smiled, "Cedar Creek, Minnesota."

The parent chaperones turned to me incredulously, "How did you know?" they asked like children to a cheap party magician. "Lucky guess," I replied coolly. And smiling to myself thought, "Who's the assistant now?"

Later that afternoon we took our Gold Rush names, a baptism of sorts, sealed with the very cornbread we cooked as a team in the Dutch oven Tumblesworth set a top the fire he ably started from nothing more than a flint and some twigs. My Gold Rush name is "Lightnin' Lorna," the alliteration pleases me in a way I am certain nothing else here will. The children then failed miserably at the shelter making exercise but on the bright side no one was seriously injured.

I have asked my beloved husband to please book me a massage for 4pm Saturday (80mins), I'll need it.

Oh how I miss you all and my Egyptian cotton sheets.

One final note before I sign off, there is 1 tiny wifi hotspot half way across camp although I can only send and receive messages when standing in a particular spot on 1 leg holding my phone to the sky. Please picture this with me in 4 layers of outerwear, as I am doing it now.

my best,
Lightnin' Lorna (my gold rush Nom de plume)

Excommunicating Ali, Blue Moon Boma feast, High Speed Rhino pursuit and victory at last!

2010-01-12T20:42:00.000-08:00

Promptly at 5:30am I heard a Motswana woman’s voice calling out, “Knock knock, knock knock”. How lovely, she did not knock on the door but rather was far more gently bidding us to awaken with her sweet voice. I walked to the door and opened it, realizing that she was carrying a rather heavy tray with tea, coffee, milk, sugar and biscuits, and so did not have a free hand to knock with, but still it was romantic. After fresh hot buttered croissant for breakfast, we spent the morning out with Ali whose driving seemed to have gotten increasingly rough and whose manner was a bit too harsh for our liking. I got the distinct impression that he was enjoying the joy riding himself and actually trying to see if he could bounce us out of the speeding vehicle, like a sport. At lunch time David had a little chat with Elka and insisted we switch guides. To facilitate the exchange, David came up with the ingenious idea of Elka telling Ali that the new arrivals that were due that day had specifically requested Ali and so we would be given to another guide while he attended to his fans. Flattery works beautifully on the vain, and Ali bought it hook, line and sinker.

Luckily for us, we met our new gentle guide Rex. Rex drove like a normal person and took care to call out, “Watch out!” each and every time we came close to grazing an acacia. Rex showed us the Hyena den where his uncle had been gored and the plants that were used to stop the bleeding, fond memories I’m sure. He introduced us to the two groups of male lions in the immediate vicinity; the decrepit Mambo boys (as the group of three old lions are called) and youthful Golf boys trio who had muscled the seniors out of their prized position with the females and killed off their young to boot. Disney clearly bases their animated films on careful research.

Rex also loves singing and enjoyed the children’s rousing rendition of “Awimbabway” in the truck, joining in for the chorus as though part of the family. He even taught us all a Setswana song and didn’t mind our mangling the lyrics in the least. Rex was our man. We ended the say with a sunset cocktail hour out in the bush amidst the animals and a beautiful rainbow. (see pics)

New Year’s Eve dinner was served under the stars and blue moon with a Boma feast; I avoided the Warthog Ribs and Kudu filet in favor of the corn polenta and pumpkin stew. Wild dogs were howling in the distance as we sat entranced watching the approaching electrical storms surround us.

Our last morning had only Justin and I fully committed and up at 5:30am for the final elusive rhino hunt with Rex. When almost all hope had been abandoned, a radio signal from Ali came alerting us that rhinos were in the vicinity. Rex asked if we were up for a punishing high speed drive through the bush, and by god we were. Rex warned us it was only a 50/50 chance we’d see the rhinos, and so Justin adopted a stern focused expression and attempted to cross himself, although as a young Jewish boy, he has absolutely no idea how to cross himself beyond what he has seen in movies and seemed to be merely poking his shoulders and belly with vigor.

Off we went on what can only be characterized as a truly wild chase (never to be referred to as a “chase” for the purposes of the Botswana ministry of tourism whose armed guards are authorized to shoot to kill any guide seen involved in a “chase”) culminating in our seeing 2 male rhinos in the wild running in the bush with remarkable speed. We had done it, the Big 5 sighting at last, and some excellent photos to boot (see pics). Rex, oh gentle Rex, thank you!

Dung dung beetle alert, Botswana Kitchen choir, elephant wake up call and flying termite infestation

2010-01-10T08:06:00.000-08:00

We breakfasted on the terrace overlooking the Chobe River and then headed out with our lovely guide, Mushe, for our first safari of the day. This morning we passed a few hundred baboon on the roadside having what appeared to be some sort of town meeting. We headed deeper into the national wildlife park which today seemed like Dung Beetle Central, with male dung beetles everywhere navigating their individual balls of dung, each with a female atop and egg inside hoping to be buried safely out of harms way. Occasionally the males stop their rolling dung balls to climb on top to view the terrain like a live beetle periscope and then adjust the direction of their ball. We sat watching the fascinating site but according to Livvy it is, “Seriously gross mom. They lay their eggs in a giant ball of pooh.” While I obviously see her point, I must say that I found the notion of the male physically moving his mate and unborn egg to safety, rather courageous and romantic. I daresay David would have collapsed of cardiac arrest had he been attempting to move the weight of my pregnant self anywhere. The Dung Beetles sort of make the occasional foot rub seem like a flaccid gesture really.

Livvy and Justin have taken to referring to dead dung beetles as “dung dung beetles” for they will be part of the dung heap in the circle of life again soon, very Lion King of them. The number of dead dung beetles and live ones is so large that as we walk from our villas to the dining room, Livvy and Justin (a.k.a. Muscle and Sweeper) have adopted a new routine. Livvy takes the lead and as she proceeds calls out warnings to Justin behind her, “Black ants on the right, cicada next to the path, dung beetle watch out Justin, dung dung beetle in front kinda squished,” and so forth. This procedure is somewhat more laborious after nightfall with the human caravan of our escort in the lead shining an impossibly bright torch to ward off leopards, and Livvy behind him shining her more modest flashlight on the ground as we walk, while calling out warnings to her big brother. A dung beetle in the wild after dark is significantly more menacing than during the day time given that they fly and are much more difficult to spot as well as avoid accidentally squishing underfoot you see.

A few more safaris and one more night in Chobe, sans scorpions or giant dragonflies, and we were off to Chief’s Camp in the Okavanga Delta bush of Northern Botswana. Our light aircraft pilot, George, was not the least bit shaken by the appearance of impala, zebra, giraffe and warthog on either side of the runway as we approached for our landing. I for one kept my eye on the larger male impala who seemed to be considering a run across the landing strip and hoped that George had "Sully"-esque experience with wildlife landings.

We were greeted by our full figured, gold toothed guide, Ali, “Just like Mohammed,” he explained with an overly confident smile. With our bags loaded into the Land Cruiser, minus the camera bag David had forgotten on board the plane in all the excitement, (which would prompt Justin to insist that I be in charge of bag counting for the remainder of our journey), we made the 10 minute drive to the Camp. Upon arrival we were met by at least 8 staff in traditional bush garb waving and smiling, offering refreshing towels and beverages. We stepped out of the vehicle and met the manager, Elka, think Belgian Bruhnehilda, and her friendly but somewhat diminutive hubby Sean. One could not help but wonder at the amazing feats of physics required to be employed in their bedroom.

We were shown to our luxury semi-permanent villas with wooden floors on stilts and thick canvas walls with floor to ceiling screens to enable viewing of the beautiful bush scenery without risking actual invasion by either the animals or the insects. Justin immediately requested additional cans of Doom for his and Livvy’s quarters.

We enjoyed a sumptuous lunch cooked by the team of chefs trained and supervised by the handsome and ever smiling Zimbabwean executive chef Phineas. After high tea that afternoon, Ali took us out on safari, and in spite of his rather rugged driving which had us gripping our seats for dear life while simultaneously grazing our skin against innumerable razor sharp Acacia thorns as we bumped along the bush. We enjoyed seeing leopards, female lions, giraffe, elephants, sessebes, wildebeest, buffalo, warthogs, impala, and greater kudus (not to be confused with the smaller lesser kudu). We showered, treated our cuts and scrapes with copious amounts of polysporin, changed for dinner, and at 8pm were fetched by Ali, with a very serious industrial-sized torch to ward off the abundant wild animals that wander through camp freely, who then walked us to dinner.

Over cocktails we were serenaded by the 15 person Kitchen Choir who sang half a dozen songs for us replete with yululation and African dancing. The tiniest woman of them all was quite the aggressive and passionate yuyulator, and each time she belted out her yululus I felt sure we were to be seized by a rival tribe at any moment. My personal fave was the penultimate song “I nevah will forget Boot-swana” which was followed by the staff lining up in The Sound of Music, So Long Farewell Aufweiderzen style and singing to us to “Enjoy yo dinnah dear guests, enjoy yo dinnah.” Dinnah was delicious.

Livvy, ever the social butterfly, made friends with a 60-something couple from Cairo, who invited her to sit with them at dinner. There was Livvy surrounded by her new found friends recounting her observations of life from the perspective of a Northern California fourth grader. The laughs from her table mates were audible and plentiful. The only unfortunate event at dinner was the 30 minute long flying termite mating infestation at the other end of the dining room where the flying termites were congregating around the two large chandeliers in a frenzied dance that would culminate in the termites dropping their wings and walking home with their mates. We had to put coasters over our water glasses to prevent the wings from flying into them.

As Ali escorted us back to our villas that night, a large and menacing hyena was waiting on the children’s porch, which Ali scared away with some loud shouting and clapping. I did notice a slight but perceptible tremor in his hand when faced with the creature and its powerful jaws. I also noticed the absence of a gun on his person, which of course begs the question, how is he meant to protect us from being torn to bits by a predator if one decides to attack without a side arm? Has Ali taken some sort of bush oath to throw himself in front of us, a la Secret Service, and if so, how do we know he will actually do that or that the animal will prefer him to us for dinner? Livvy is quite delicious as you know and frequently smells of Suave no tears strawberry shampoo which must be irresistible to wild animals. I decided not to share these thoughts with David or the kids but would check with Elka in the morning on the number of guests that have been devoured on site and the details surrounding the bushman's oath of service.

Safely tucked in bed beneath the mosquito netting canopy, I fell asleep quickly, knowing we would be awoken at 5:30am for our morning safari. It was pitch black when I heard a loud knock at the door. I stumbled to my feet and called out, “Thank you, I’m coming,” and walked toward the door to collect the tray of tea and coffee from the valet. I switched on the porch light and opened the door, but rather than finding the valet with tray in hand, I found a rather large bull elephant who was enjoying the acacia leaves from the tree outside and occasionally knocking the side of the villa with his trunk. He didn’t seem to take any notice of me, and so I quietly returned to bed grateful it was only an elephant and scolded myself for my rookie mistake, vowing that in future I would scan the area through the screen before opening the door after dark. No matter how many attractive pairs of adaptable zippered safari trouser/shorts I own, I am deep down a city girl.

Tomorrow we hunt for the elusive White Rhino...

Travel to Botswana, Scorpions and deadly dragonflies

2010-01-05T19:07:00.000-08:00

We left Zambia and the Royal Livingstone Hotel after breakfast with our guide Victor, and arrived an hour later at the river crossing where the Chobe meets the Zambezi, the only spot on earth where 4 countries intersect: Zambia; Botswana; Namibia; and Zimbabwe. We piled into our aluminum boat and traveled across the river, arriving ashore in Botswana. We cleared the Immigration shack and were instructed to follow the curb for 10 metres until we came to the “Disinfecting Station”. I lead the way and could find nothing along the curb other than what appeared to be a very wet oversized welcome mat with a large blue plastic jug next to it filled with some kind of clear liquid. Our driver motioned for me to step on the mat, which I did and then stepped off onto the earth and toward the waiting open air Land Cruiser. This was apparently the “Disinfecting Station”, which must be symbolic of the Botswanian desire for cleanliness as it can in no way actually reduce any hazard whatsoever, unless of course dry shoe soles are considered to pose some kind of danger.

We drove another 20 minutes along the main road and came across a herd of 20 elephants crossing the bush en route to the river to drink on this hot day. The elephants were not in the least bit afraid of us and came within a couple of feet of the vehicle before charging on across the road. Luckily, no one panicked and we got some excellent photos. Justin who has been asking every time we see an animal whether they are actually wild did not have to ask this time, he just beamed a bright smile and kept a look out for more.

We arrived at the Chobe Chiliwero Lodge in time for lunch and were shown to our amazing villas overlooking the Chobe River, which this afternoon was dotted with dozens of elephants, hippos, buffalo, warthog and birds. I was in my villa unpacking when the phone rang, on the other end was Justin crying into the phone and begging me to come to their villa, while Livvy was in the background screaming something about a scorpion. David and I rushed over to their villa, which is next door to ours, and found the kids standing on their beds clutching on to one another, safe but somewhat hysterical.

Our junior dynamic duo had been attempting to fumigate their villa with the use of 2 enormous cans of bug spray aptly branded “Doom”, with Livvy stomping on the bugs and beetles and Justin then sweeping them up and disposing of them. Livvy, who in this operation is the “Muscle”, was stomping on a particularly stubborn spider when she saw something dart across the room. She was sure it was a scorpion and shouted to Justin, who is more of the “Sweeper”, but he thought she was making it up. The Muscle then began shouting at the Sweeper as only a little sister can and insisted he come over and see that she wasn’t lying. Reluctantly, the Sweeper sauntered over expecting to see a beetle, but instead was faced with a real, live, poisonous, and as far as he knew, deadly scorpion. At this point the Sweeper became hysterical and began to cry which understandably caused the Muscle (who has rarely seen her big brother shed a tear let alone a river of them) to panic and jump on the bed, for though she was right that this was indeed a scorpion and her brother believed her, she was now certain she had in fact come upon something deadly.

The Sweeper sprang into action, jumped off the bed and ran for the telephone which he grabbed and somehow remembering the emergency number 200 he had been given upon arrival, alerted the staff to the scorpion and their need for assistance. He then jumped back onto the bed where he and his sister clung to each other like shaking leaves. The cavalry arrived in the form of a maintenance man and a housekeeper who did not display sufficient urgency or concern as far as the dynamic duo was concerned. The maintenance man casually told them that the little scorpion could not harm them and then shooed it out the door with the back of a lodge pamphlet returning it to the wild where, according to the Sweeper, it would no doubt spend the rest of its life trying to figure out how to get back in. The Muscle however disagreed and felt the scorpion would know exactly how to regain entrance to the villa and would do so immediately. As you can well imagine this made for some additional hysteria.

And so as I entered the room, the duo was standing atop the bedclothes crying and quite beside themselves with terror. The Muscle, additionally, was demanding to be airlifted out of Botswana and back to Los Gatos pronto. “What kind of terrible mother would bring her children to Africa to be killed by scorpions? Get me out of here now!!!!!”

After spraying another can of Doom throughout the room and stuffing tissue into every visible crack and crevice in the structures walls and laying rolled up towels along the door and window frames, I had calmed the kids down enough to coax them down from the bed and outside. I assured the children that the proper measures would be taken to secure their environment against any other scorpions but reminded them that like the maintenance man said, the little scorpions cannot harm them. “Maybe not harm us Mom,” said Livvy, “but they can still hurt us!” Good point. We met our guide/tracker Mushe, enjoyed a restorative cup of tea and some gooey chocolate cake, and then headed out in our open air vehicle to spot the animals up close.

We had barely left the lodge when we came upon no less than 4 herd of elephant, or “Ellies” as Mushe affectionately refers to them. Soon we were amidst herds of impala, warthog, and buffalo, as well as a pack of giraffe, hundreds of different birds, too many flying dung beetles which the locals refer to as “Zambian Helicopters”, and even tracked a leopard down by the river bank.

After our afternoon safari, we returned to our villas to shower and change in time for drinks and dinner. Given that the lodge is situated in the middle of a national game park that is not fenced in, we had been advised not to leave our rooms after nightfall without the assistance of a hotel “escort”. Chloe cannot understand why they are called “escorts” when they are really guards, and at 15 years of age, the connotation of an escort is hardly lost on her. As we were waiting for our escort to arrive and guide us to dinner, I opened the door a bit too wide and too long and let in a lone dragonfly. David, however, would later argue that the so-called dragonfly was actually the size of a bird and patently dangerous. I will leave that judgment up to you dear reader.

The dragonfly flew to a lamp in a small alcove-like shelf by the bed and was fluttering its transparent wings. David began shouting to me, “Whoa, close the door, close the door, you’re letting huge bugs in here! Oh this is gross.” He then grabbed the can of Doom from the dresser and making sure to keep his legs a good 3 feet behind and leaning over toward the dragon fly (as though performing the limbo only facing down), he began to spray the entire contents of the can in the general direction of the insect. His aim was perhaps less than accurate given his state of excitement and agitation and so this did not produce the intended effect. David then spied a large umbrella in the corner and grabbing it firmly began to joust at the firefly (maintaining the modified limbo position which thanks to his steady yoga practice was possible) with the pointed tip in a wild attempt to impale it. Finally, my husband the dragon slayer, (or dragonfly slayer) killed the dragonfly and victoriously released the umbrella.

At dinner when describing the incident, David told the kids that the insect was “huge, the size of a bird with a torso as wide as a dinner knife and an enormous wing span.” Raised in Westmount, the most exclusive neighborhood of Montreal, I suspect there were people to dispose of mosquitoes and dragonflies in David’s childhood, and so we can hardly blame him for his current state of unease with the natural world.

Needless to say, in our room I am both the Muscle and the Sweeper.

Chief Makutu Village, Ebeneezer Orphanage, and Crocodiles

2010-01-04T16:25:00.000-08:00

Yesterday we enjoyed Victoria Falls, known locally as the Thunder that Smokes. We hiked and helicoptered through and over the falls, and enjoyed the views immensely. Today, after breakfast at our romantic mosquito-netted table for 6, we met Victor and drove to Chief Makutu Village where we met John, one of the village men who gave us a walking tour. The village is 650 years old and is governed by the Chief and the Queen who are cousins. The Chief is head of matters of justice while the Queen is head of matters involving property and finance. John complained repeatedly during our 45 minutes together about how important the women are and how unimportant the men are. He was also most unhappy about the dowry which in Chief Makutu Village is paid to the bride’s family rather than the other way around, “You-eh see,” said John, “eet eez de woman det is vel-u-eb-el he-ah end naught de man. Eet eez naught fay-er baat eet eez so.”

We passed the Big Shop and the similarly sized Little Shop with its motto “Do Not Despise Small Beginnings”, see pics, and the village jail which is essentially a one room shack with a locked barred door where the men are put to sober up when a bit too inebriated from a night of drinking in one of the many pub shacks from which African music blasts to be shared by all in the village. John assured me that there are “noh-eh dengeros creemeenals een de jail, jus’ drank-ards,” I was relieved as it hardly looked secure. John also mentioned that “those thet precktice weetchcrahft are naught ellowed to leev een de village, but dey git meny visitahs.”

A good tip we learned was that if building a home in the bush one must choose between safety and fashion. Round huts are safe as snakes cannot find a dark corner to comfortably coil up in, while square huts are apparently all the rage these days but can pose mortal danger to the residents. Sort of like the 6 inch ultra high heel trend of Fall ‘08.

In the village, families, defined as descendants of the “sem grendfatha’ oh grendmatha’” live together in a stick fence encampment containing anywhere from 2 to 5 thatch-roofed huts. Children can attend school just 2 km away but only if they can afford to pay for a uniform. By the looks of the children we were seeing, there would be precious few able to attend school. Living conditions are extremely poor, bare red clay and mud huts with thatch roofs and newspapers strewn on the floors. A few chickens could be found scratching around and children in filthy clothes and bare feet were everywhere. In spite of the poverty, several of the family areas were incredibly well swept so that the red clay earth looked like a smooth inviting carpet. John explained that these were the homes of the families that had patrons in Johannesburg. You see the men of the village are craftsmen and homebrew makers while the women maintain the home, raise the children and manage the money. The better craftsmen are engaged as contractors to business men in Jo’burg who have tourist shops and sell the crafts at a hefty mark up. In exchange the village men receive compensation that enable them to have a few extras, including money for a broom to sweep their earth.

We met many of the village children who were eager to meet Livvy and Justin and see if we had any “sweeties” for them. We went into several of the huts to meet the locals and while they were very friendly and even gave us a few mangos as gifts, their desperation for us to purchase their carvings was heart wrenching. We did our best at the village craft market where each family has a stall to buy something from many of them. One fellow asked to trade me a craft for my plastic water bottle, but I couldn’t bear the thought of taking anything so just gave it to him as a gift which he accepted with a nod and a smile.

From there we drove to the only orphanage in town, Ebeneezer Children’s Home, where 30 children aged 2-16 reside. Most of the children are here as the result of losing their parents to HIV/AIDS, and many nursed their parents until their deaths, leaving their eyes dark and oh so sad. The smallest, a little 2 year old girl with amazing rhythm who danced to the welcome song we were treated to upon arrival, had been found on the side of the road where numerous newborn babies are simply left to die each week. The children gave us a tour of the orphanage, holding our hands like old friends, and sharing their ages with us and how long they had been at the orphanage. Every child at the orphanage has a uniform and attends school.

Livvy, Justin and Chloe were mesmerized by the children who were their same ages but whose stories were nothing like their own. We had made a donation as well as brought a large duffel bag from home full of boxes of coloring markers, stickers, paper pads, crayons, pencils etc., and though there was plenty for each child to have several items of their own as well as a good amount of supplies for the school, it felt to all of us like we needed to figure out how to do more. Justin and Chloe immediately began discussing a clothing drive they would organize at their respective schools to send to the orphanage after we get home, and Livvy wants to do a presentation to her class and have her classmates donate baby supplies for the nursery they are building. As we drove away from Ebeneezer’s Children Home, we felt hopeful that these kids would have a chance at a better life thanks to the schooling they were each receiving and that maybe in some small way our visit and donations would make a difference.

We drove back to the hotel for a bite of lunch and then Livvy, Justin, David and I headed out with Victor to the town craft market in search of a Big 5 carving for Livvy, and then to see the crocodiles. Tomorrow we leave for Botswana and our safari adventure.

Travel to Zambia, Pirates on the Zambezi, and the Animal Kingdom at last

2009-12-30T03:49:00.001-08:00

Dear Reader, the internet is not easy to access here in the bush and when accessible, quite slow so I am unable to upload the incredible photos we are taking. Once back in civilization I will add the photos but for now, please enjoy the latest installment of the African Adventure blog...

This morning we woke at the brutal hour of 5:30am. I find it impossible to believe that just 9 months ago this was my usual hour of weekday work wakening. If I ever return to believing this to be normal, please smack some sense into me. The butler knocked at my door with a beautifully brewed pot of earl grey tea and this did lift my spirits measurably. We left Clive at the airport and boarded the first of our two flights en route to Livingstone, Zambia. Shortly after lunch we arrived in Zambia, obtained our visas, and met our greeter, Victor, and his 2 porters and 1 female assistant, who loaded our luggage into the van and drove us to the Royal Livingstone Hotel on the shores of the Zambezi River.

Breathtaking is the only way to describe the setting of the hotel with its colonial architecture set in the middle of a wildlife preserve along the river bank. Wild giraffe, zebra, antelope, hippos and monkeys all call this home, and we have been assured that we will have ample opportunity to observe the animals in their natural habitat. We have also been warned by our red Fez and satin sash wearing butler Terrence, to keep our terrace doors firmly bolted when out of the room, as the monkeys are “naughty” and have been found in guest rooms sipping wine and enjoying scones. Justin immediately assumed the role of room security and informed Livvy of the strict room protocol that he would be enforcing.

We unpacked and soon were picked up for our Zambezi River cruise aboard the double decked African Queen, one of no doubt thousands of similarly named vessels along the river. Our hostess, Martha, gave us a very thorough and exuberant description of both the cruise trajectory as well as the food and beverage service aboard. From time to time Martha or one of her colleagues would take the on board microphone in hand and repeatedly blow into it to test the system with great ceremony before making a crucial announcement about the availability of beer and wine. We spotted dozens of hippos on the cruise and Justin and Livvy did an excellent job as wild life photographers with Mom and I serving as armchair spotters/trackers.

About mid-way up the river an African Queen speedboat approached containing 6 black male passengers aboard. Mom visibly tensed as the boat advanced, concerned that we were being overtaken by pirates. I told her that I was unaware of any recent pirate activity on sunset cruises along the Zambezi. The men climbed aboard casually, and were seated at a table unfortunately upwind from where we were situated. Mom was relieved to realize that we were not being hijacked but a bit frustrated that not even one of the men offered her a drink. The group turned out to be a bunch of taxi drivers out for an evening cruise dressed in their uniforms of light blue long sleeved dress shirts and navy trousers. Similar I imagine to the modern pirate uniform.

Justin and Livvy befriended an adorable 4 year old Zambian boy who was an board with his family. His little sister began to cry when I smiled at her and her father assured me that it was nothing personal but it is just that she is afraid of the "Maguweh". I smiled at the man, "I understand. She is adorable. What are the Maguweh?" He chuckled, "Maguweh are why-et pipple." How perfect.

When we returned from the cruise we were stopped by a troop of giraffes enjoying dinner in the trees by the large roundabout near the hotel and once back at the hotel heard the high pitched braying of a group of zebras who then thundered across the lawn between the restaurant terrace and the river. We were most definitely in the animal kingdom now.

Wine country, Butterfly World, cheesetasting, Cheetah encounter and accounting irregularities with Clive

2009-12-26T07:32:00.000-08:00

This morning we drove toward wine country, stopping for a quick visit at Butterfly World, a rather dilapidated structure overzealously filled with imported South American butterflies as well as an open aviary with molting local exotic birds that have been rescued and will hopefully be nursed back to good health. There were also a fair assortment of local spiders, lizards, snakes and rodents kept in what can only be described as makeshift enclosures, akin to a 5th grade science project. Creepy is the best way to describe the place and after checking my clothes meticulously for signs of any escapees that might have attached themselves to my shirt, was ecstatic to leave. A healthy dosing of Purel was in order and I did not feel disinfected until we were well on our way to our next stop at a local winery. Justin, however, was positively gleeful at getting so many vertical photos and even capturing one of a real wild meerkat outside.

The winery we visited has a unique attraction, a goat tower. Truly a structure where the prized family goats live a la Repunzel, {see pic} fashioned into a brick tower with a turret. Fanciful would be a kind way to describe it. We enjoyed the goat’s milk cheese with our wine tasting, although the wine itself was rather forgettable in spite of our effort to find one we sincerely liked enough to purchase. Clive on the other hand was having a jolly old time stuffing his chubby cheeks with cheese and espousing the virtues of the special “pinotage” created here in Stellenbosch by an apparent genius cross-pollinating viniculturalist. Clive you see, aspires to become something of a wine baron, no doubt all the pennies he’s pinched from unsuspecting tourists have gone into the wine course he’s been taking part time for a few years. He and a friend are apparently set to make their first barrels of wine next year and Clive was waxing poetic about the many varietals indigenous to the area as well as those imported and whether they do well on the hill with the cooling temperatures or in the valley where the heat is retained and creates higher sugar and alcohol content etc etc etc. He even managed to bore Mom a bit I think, and she’s French. Of course ever since the penguin fee incident, Clive has hardly been in my good books, so I may be just the tiniest bit uncharitable but who can blame me really.

We then decided the postpone lunch as we were well bloated from all the cheese, and headed instead to our Cheetah encounter. Clive had us wait outside while he went to the ticket booth and paid the entrance fee, and then ushered us through the gates and toward the cheetah enclosures. There were various large fenced-in pens with groups of 4-5 cubs or adults in each. People were queued up outside a sort of holding pen where 4 guests at a time are given the cheetah instructions and invited to disinfect with hand and shoe sanitizer so as not to infect the cheetahs with whatever the humans may be carrying. From the looks (and smells) of the group of backpacking Germans in front of us, this seemed like an excellent idea.

Clive told me that he had paid for us all to enjoy the Adult Cheetah encounter but that if we wanted to pay the extra for the Cub Encounter we could do so and he would go get the extra tickets. Mom and David decided to wait on the observation deck while the 3 kids and I decided to pet the cubs and so told Clive the same. Clive asked me for an extra 300 RAND (~$45USD) which I handed over. As Clive disappeared in the direction of the ticket booth, I noticed a sign reading CHEETAH ENCOUNTER PRICES, ADULT ENCOUNTER: 50 RAND PER CHILD, 100 RAND PER ADULT. CHEETAH CUB ENCOUNTER: 200 RAND PER ADULT 100 RAND PER CHILD. I did a quick math calculation and indeed the difference between the ADULT and CUB ENCOUNTER FEE for 2 11 and unders plus 2 adults was 300 RAND but given that neither David nor my Mom were participating, I wondered why Clive wasn’t applying their 2 x 100 RAND ADULT ENCOUNTER fees to our CUB upgrade. I didn’t say anything though, imagining there must be a no refund policy. Clive returned with our tickets and David at his side who decided to join us for the CUB ENCOUNTER. David asked me for 200 RAND to give to Clive, to which I steadied myself and then asked as calmly as possible, “Why?” David explained that is the amount Clive said he needed to get David a CUB ticket upgrade. Again I steadied myself, took a deep cleansing breath and then responded speaking to David but with content clearly audible to and intended for Clive this time as follows: “I don’t think that makes sense. We paid for all 6 of us to do the ADULT ENCOUNTER, so 2 kids at 50 each and 4 adults at 100 each, making 500 RAND. And I’ve already given Clive an extra 300 RAND so that’s 800 RAND altogether and it says here that the CUB ENCOUNTER is 200 per ADULT and 100 per CHILD, so that would be a total of 3 ADULT and 2 CHILD fees for the 5 of us of 800 RAND since Mom isn’t doing it.”
Before David could respond, Clive jumped in quickly, and I might add guiltily, with a big smile saying, “Well then we are all square. Great.” Great indeed. Good old Clive would not be making a tidy little profit off of this tourist. I handed the 4 tickets I had to the volunteer and then we enjoyed a tremendous 20 minutes petting the cheetah cubs that were as docile as house cats. As we were exiting I noticed Clive taking David’s ticket from him, so I looked away and innocently asked David to hand me his ticket so that I could give it to the volunteer. Clive awkwardly handed over the ticket and the volunteer and I exchanged a knowing glance as she gratefully accepted the ticket from me and put it in the metal cash box. Gotta hand it to sly Clive, the guy does not quit. He wisely avoided eye contact with me for the next hour, oh yes, he knew I was on to him.

We also visited the wild bird enclosure at the Cheetah park which was inhabited by dozens of indigenous wild bird species kept side by side in stalls with their feet tethered to wooden perches like avian convicts, see pics. The vultures looked particularly sinister but it was the Secretary Birl, so named for their long legs and long eyelashes that stole our hearts, she was named Mary Anne like my sister and the kids got a massive kick out of that. There were a pair of owls whose expressions were eerily human, they must be siblings or an old married couple as the looks they were giving one another seemed to be saying, "You are so embarassing," see pics.

Then we were off to lunch at a vineyard overlooking the valley. The menu had mostly fish and game with little for Livvy, so I ordered her the Spring Bok rolls and told her they were simply beef springrolls, which I think is a bit of a stretch as I am unsure whether Bonta Bok qualify as cattle or more of an antelope. Fortunately she thought they were delicious. Back at the hotel we said goodnight to Clive, I gave him an especially warm handshake having been taught to be a gracious winner.

Justin and I headed to the craft market in search of the elusive perfect miniature hand carved wooden hippo. We scoured the market and then happened upon the stall of a chubby and jovial visually impaired woman who chuckled at everything through her coke bottle glasses. Justin found a perfect specimen and we bargained until we reached a fair price. Unfortunately, our semi-blind new friend uses her brassiere as a wallet and I didn’t have the correct change, so left the stall with a handful of breast-sweat soaked bills. Justin was mercifully unaware of the moist misfortune that had befallen me, and clutched the newspaper wrapped creature to his chest like a mother carrying a newborn all the way back to the hotel where a fresh bottle of Purel awaited me.

After dinner we enjoyed a delicious dessert of sticky toffee pudding and vanilla ice cream paid for with the 200 RAND we didn’t give Clive at the Cheetah Encounter. Excellent day.

Road side baboons, Penguin suffrage, Coastline beauty, and the great escape from dinner

2009-12-22T21:00:00.001-08:00

This morning we were served breakfast by a delightful waiter called Thompson, who did not mind in the slightest when David repeatedly called him Thomas. Our trusty guide Clive picked us up at 8:30am and we began our drive down the beautiful Southwestern coast toward the Cape of Good Hope. We stopped on the side of the road when Clive, who resembles a 55-year old version of a South African Philip Seymour Hoffman, spotted a family of baboons. Justin was in shock at the humanlike nature of the baboons, especially the mothers with babies on their backs, and snapped away dozens of photos not wanting to drive on. Unfortunately, Justin has decided that vertical photos are preferable to horizontal shots in spite of David’s insistence to the contrary, so I expect we will end up with a battle royale once we reach Botswana on photo technique. For the time being please enjoy the ample vertical photos from today.

We stopped several more times for roadside baboon watching and the occasional ostrich (remarkably well camouflaged in these parts but Justin had no problem spotting them and alerting us with ecstatic shrieks of OSSSSTRICH!!!!!) before stopping to pay the entrance fee to the national heritage park at Cape Point. Clive told the park ranger that we were 4 adults and 2 11-years and under, this is patently false and I knew that Clive was well aware of Justin’s age as we had discussed his 13th birthday just that morning. I then saw Clive hand over a pre-paid voucher and get back a small wad of folded bills. I suspected that Clive was pocketing the difference between the adult fee the tour company had prepaid and the child’s fee, but it was a small amount (<$10USD) and so I decided to let it slide but keep my eyes on my shifty friend Clive.

Once inside the park, we climbed up to the infamous lighthouse built by clearly the dumbest lighthouse engineers in history; the lighthouse was erected in 1870 at a huge cost atop the hill at Cape Point only to be found absolutely useless due to the preponderance of heavy cloud cover at night obscuring the lighthouse lights. And so, a second less elaborate but far more effective lighthouse was erected very shortly thereafter on the bottom part of the Cape Point. We also made a quick stop at the Cape of Good Hope to snap a photo en famille at this Southwestern most point on the continent just 4,000 miles from Antarctica.

More photos with the baboons enjoying a lunch of pincushion protea roadside until the alpha male bore his incisors at us in warning, and then it was quickly on to Simon’s Town to observe the flock of wild African penguins tending to their eggs on the beach and waddling about with much humor. I learned that it's the male penguins who sit on the eggs for 4 months, now that is just awesome. At the entrance to the penguin beach Clive once again said Justin was only 11 years of age and again pocketed a small amount of cash, I could see this was part of his m.o. and wondered what other tour guide loopholes he had discovered. My imagination ran temporarily wild, imagining Clive living in a sprawling mansion paid for by the thousands of pre-pubescent American boys he had guided over the years and used as ponzies in his elaborate entrance fee refund scheme. Snapped back to reality by my growling stomach we sat down to a thoroughly forgettable lunch where the kids compared the local ketchup to Heinz and pondered how they might make a buck importing Heinz which they concur is clearly far superior to the local brand. Nowhere in their discussion did the notion of fraud arise.

We then drove to the office of Baboon Matters, a local baboon conservation group which offers hiking tours of the territory inhabited by the baboons they are trying to save. We met our guide, Mzewatu, one of 12 monitors who work from dawn to dusk each day, attempting to keep the 4 baboon troops from leaving their natural habitat and entering the adjacent township where the residents view them as pests to be shot on site. Mzewatu gave us a thoroughly unintelligible orientation speech and we all smiled politely nodding our heads to his nonsensical instructions not wanting to offend or let on that the language he was speaking was not in fact English.

We drove through a nearby township called Ocean View, so named for its irony as the residents were relocated from their ocean side homes to this inland township during Apartheid. We piled out of the van and followed Mzewatu past the shacks and piles of rubbish onto a hiking trail at the foothill of the mountain. Mzewatu began calling out in a tribal tongue to locate the baboons, cupping his ear in his hand to listen to the forest and quickly shifting directions. Somehow Mzewatu understood the animals and could tell exactly where they were, for just minutes later he lead us directly to a group of over a dozen males, females, juveniles and babies. It was only later that I noticed the tiny mobile phone he was holding up to his ear and the other Baboon Matters monitor perched on a high rock some 200 feet up the mountain.
The juvenile baboons were fantastic to watch, just like kids daring one another to jump farther, run faster and come as close as possible to the humans in their midst. Livvy began the outing terrified of being attacked by the wild baboons but ended up a junior wildlife photographer snapping pics (horizontally thank god) while crouching in the tall grass. Yeah Liv!

We drove back to Cape Town and Chloe, Justin, Mom and I headed to the shopping area by the wharf before meeting up with David and Livvy for dinner at a steak house. Once seated at the restaurant we glanced at our menus and were uniformly turned off by the exceptionally unappetizing menu and décor. I noticed David and Livvy were still missing and asked where they were. Justin told me that Livvy wasn’t feeling well so she and David stayed behind to have room service. It was at that precise moment that our waiter was approaching the table with sparkling water I had requested, and Mom, ever the quick thinker, began to address me very loudly, “Oh no Lorna," she exclaimed, "do you think she will be okay all alone in the room?” Livvy was not alone but I realized this was our exit strategy and our waiter noticed the agita straight away, so I played along, “No she won’t be, we have to go now.” I rose from my chair with great drama, turned to our kind-faced waiter named Pride and apologized, “I’m so sorry, my daughter is ill (sounded better than saying sick I thought) and we must go to her now. I fear she may be quite unwell.” For some reason my English had turned into something written by Emily Bronte. “Ov kewse,” said Pride, “Aye hewp she filz behtah.” And off we scurried like mice, high fiving each other once safely out of site and congratulating Mom/Grandmaman for her ingenuity. We then returned to Meloncino’s for dinner as we had our first night. Thankfully Livvy is feeling much behtah now.