tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11123349484883802992024-03-05T00:41:11.060-05:00Mike and Shelley's French AdventuresCheck in as we start our year abroad living in southern France. Join us as we experience the French lifestyle and travel through Europe.Shelley's Roadmap to Engineer Your Dreamhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00327937042376941865noreply@blogger.comBlogger89125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1112334948488380299.post-91282410951242487252011-10-09T18:48:00.003-04:002011-10-09T18:54:28.683-04:00New Blog Site!For all you of you who were faithful followers of our French journey....thank you. <br /><br />And, I started a new blog! This blog shares stories from real life as I feel inspired! With a little luck, I'll make these regular. <br /><br />There are only three blogs posted now - the first about a weekend in DC, the second about our vacation in the San Juan Islands (lovely), and the current one about our trip to Smithville, TX where the fires recently devasted the area (heartbreaking). <br /><br />I hope you will try out the new blog site! <br /><br />http://engineeryourdream.blogspot.com<br /><br /><br />ShelleyShelley's Roadmap to Engineer Your Dreamhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00327937042376941865noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1112334948488380299.post-38286052980956438482011-07-06T19:15:00.046-04:002011-07-10T16:39:25.886-04:00Skeeter's Summer Vacation<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPa9rNZaUuDC7znFMbza4J_ySFs19p9ozhKQsYY7JSRKxnVVlbDIolGhlivQj3MVHRyI6fPTAZkzS0tw367VPgsvpwrlrZYkZc-4Ibp5GraRkWsEVA4cTtfm0RlxL71eVsQZ0iAxOG-MaY/s1600/P7020029.JPG"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 300px" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5626413643325564930" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPa9rNZaUuDC7znFMbza4J_ySFs19p9ozhKQsYY7JSRKxnVVlbDIolGhlivQj3MVHRyI6fPTAZkzS0tw367VPgsvpwrlrZYkZc-4Ibp5GraRkWsEVA4cTtfm0RlxL71eVsQZ0iAxOG-MaY/s400/P7020029.JPG" /></a><br />Every day is the same. Don’t get me wrong. It’s not a bad life. In fact of all the places I’ve lived, this one is the best. Each morning I wake up to a thoughtfully prepared breakfast. That's important to me since I’m hungriest in the mornings. After breakfast I go to my favorite place, the porch swing in the sun room, to curl up for my first nap of the day. What could be better?<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyHzpHMfE_seeFlOacyTsyw7rEI0o99zPT8cRE5gUcNtBTqs737FRNOM8ypEnJYmJxy373DEOHMugdIgAKMZd4bApNMFd0CO5fgqHk4EWTnYj346-uPfw_n3swJnw9oH9XnXJot4p1WcwG/s1600/P6270002.JPG"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 320px; FLOAT: left; HEIGHT: 240px" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5626406863942036322" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyHzpHMfE_seeFlOacyTsyw7rEI0o99zPT8cRE5gUcNtBTqs737FRNOM8ypEnJYmJxy373DEOHMugdIgAKMZd4bApNMFd0CO5fgqHk4EWTnYj346-uPfw_n3swJnw9oH9XnXJot4p1WcwG/s320/P6270002.JPG" /></a>Between naps, I wander around the house, look out the windows and eat a little. In the evenings I sit on the sofa with Him while he watches moving pictures on the flat, square screen. She’s not home often now, but when she is, I sit with Her. She and I used to play but I'm tired a lot now, so I like it best when she just holds me and scratches my chin. It is peaceful.<br /><br />Over the years, the house has become very quiet. There’s barely any noise at all. I will be peacefully napping, dreaming of chasing mice, when one of them will touch me. It makes me jump with a start!<br /><br />The nights, too, are quiet, but in a different way. I get lonely by myself when he and she are upstairs. So, I slowly climb the stairs to find one of them. I call and they pick me up to snuggle under the covers. We do this two or three times during the night. But for some reason, I now have to sleep in the sun room.<br /><br />Last year I lived with another family, the Nice People. They were very good to me but - they had a cat. I didn’t catch his name as it was quiet there, too. He and I didn’t get along. We found a way to work out our boundaries, but it was never peaceful. Plus, we were both sick. There was a time when I thought I was a goner but the Nice People took good care of me. I don’t know what happened to the cat, though. He was sick like me, then one day he was gone. I know we had our differences, but I hope he didn’t leave because of me. I wouldn't admit it to him, but, I missed him.<br /><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZe1z6MHMEe-qMYJdObFTvr1cjp9Wc0Rrw5EbrDZ65Y7OU7nLFa9K8-t72tDriAWHtOYrnfMgB81-_hMnxEfwvxMlaRZYEJNjm9qLCjPxHXm17J4uuyf7zX121PQos5ctN4X1nERgbKkCu/s1600/P6270003.JPG"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 320px; FLOAT: right; HEIGHT: 240px" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5626407468695055826" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZe1z6MHMEe-qMYJdObFTvr1cjp9Wc0Rrw5EbrDZ65Y7OU7nLFa9K8-t72tDriAWHtOYrnfMgB81-_hMnxEfwvxMlaRZYEJNjm9qLCjPxHXm17J4uuyf7zX121PQos5ctN4X1nERgbKkCu/s320/P6270003.JPG" /></a>Then I moved back home, and we were all together every day – Her, Him and me. I liked that. Whenever I wanted, someone was there to pet me. If not, I would say something and one of them would respond. Then something happened. Now, she’s gone for days at a time. I miss Her and wonder if she thinks about me. When she comes home, I want to be happy to see Her but instead I feel angry that she left in the first place. I make sure she knows I’m angry, too. But no matter how much I yell and make a fuss, she always smiles and picks me up. She holds me and scratches behind my ear until I give in and purr. I wish she wouldn’t leave, but in a couple of days she is gone again. It’s been like this for weeks, but last week was different!<br /><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqNBoeTCZnaSyi26mqUun1VyYtLih1XhQbEvnrAAUjaxcyPklp15k5a3d0voHj7vn0rvHUgh4s9kUp1YY6rS7ZqAob0TrWA_Of5jxjxxmVxTI6KP8CwGsng9Pg7P4nhZr1pSDfhB7FIVvv/s1600/P6270005.JPG"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 200px; FLOAT: left; HEIGHT: 150px" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5626407689211596034" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqNBoeTCZnaSyi26mqUun1VyYtLih1XhQbEvnrAAUjaxcyPklp15k5a3d0voHj7vn0rvHUgh4s9kUp1YY6rS7ZqAob0TrWA_Of5jxjxxmVxTI6KP8CwGsng9Pg7P4nhZr1pSDfhB7FIVvv/s200/P6270005.JPG" /></a>During the weekend while she was home, there was more activity than usual. He went up and down the stairs to the basement with bundles of fabric. Then he’d bring the same bundles back up in white, plastic bins. I remember when I would go to the basement. It was fun with all the dark corners to hide in. Dusty, sticky, stringy stuff clung to my tail and whiskers. But it’s not worth the climb down the stairs anymore. So, I was napping and dreaming about the fun times in the basement when she woke me up. There on the counter was the brown, plastic cage that I travel in. I hate that cage! Bad things happen every time I’m in it.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg11r250Tkn5X3-Emrh_9wkwciTTFLuvI8jw8To_Y99f2y2Qv9IpouAXdVv3tXsiSdSYnkiUMbuCs0lcsKoTuB8vP4D2YWQQPwHpDY2PAyuzx8iZ4YXJzkHXMM5E5u2c5SEfqpo-eo1bW1J/s1600/P6270013.JPG"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 200px; FLOAT: right; HEIGHT: 142px" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5626415531440571490" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg11r250Tkn5X3-Emrh_9wkwciTTFLuvI8jw8To_Y99f2y2Qv9IpouAXdVv3tXsiSdSYnkiUMbuCs0lcsKoTuB8vP4D2YWQQPwHpDY2PAyuzx8iZ4YXJzkHXMM5E5u2c5SEfqpo-eo1bW1J/s200/P6270013.JPG" /></a>It taunted me while she packed her big box on wheels. I hate that thing too because it means that she is going away again. This time, she packed it with more stuff than usual. Just when I thought she was leaving me again, she picked me up and stuffed me in that infernal cage. She seemed to be talking to me, but all is quiet.<br /><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjO-e4MFNWFV7WpFdxWzhAGftSwEInRMW4akdqbi_bcVTvhiMNXOBlfz8gY_-4T615885GLLC8ZcBcFOW-L_mFBcrSnT97ZXOGfIV1hXu1xQxXcpsNM1Ud_wjoC-88OikUIwgaDPZIDpOQ-/s1600/P6270015.JPG"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 226px; FLOAT: left; HEIGHT: 320px" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5626409042741832258" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjO-e4MFNWFV7WpFdxWzhAGftSwEInRMW4akdqbi_bcVTvhiMNXOBlfz8gY_-4T615885GLLC8ZcBcFOW-L_mFBcrSnT97ZXOGfIV1hXu1xQxXcpsNM1Ud_wjoC-88OikUIwgaDPZIDpOQ-/s320/P6270015.JPG" /></a>She took me and my cage to the car where he was waiting. That’s not a good sign either. I was in the backseat for a long time. We finally stopped and she carried my cage into a different building. As we walked to the building, I could sense new smells and a fresh breeze. Then we were inside and the strangest thing happened. As I sat in my cage, I felt a sensation of moving upwards. Odd. When we finally stopped she put my cage on the floor - a different floor than the one I left - and opened the door. Hmmmm.<br /><br /><br />I’m not good with new places. I have to explore slowly to find the best spots. It didn’t take long, though. <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjP1-VgxzFZioFzSU1XA2zS4uYiEoEWFypDEZagRtnOoZier0S-E3jm_GT9Apt_IPsKYru51BFhw0THYDntQYVzVMXKfKqhLRG6Lu27NytcBQRsg5rEnj_Vd3mU9LR3vdmxCaFmQhsayLSy/s1600/Shelley+Skeeter+crop.JPG"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 176px; FLOAT: right; HEIGHT: 200px" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5626412158200883810" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjP1-VgxzFZioFzSU1XA2zS4uYiEoEWFypDEZagRtnOoZier0S-E3jm_GT9Apt_IPsKYru51BFhw0THYDntQYVzVMXKfKqhLRG6Lu27NytcBQRsg5rEnj_Vd3mU9LR3vdmxCaFmQhsayLSy/s200/Shelley+Skeeter+crop.JPG" /></a>This place is not nearly as big as my other house. It's more like one, big room - and most of the floors are slick and hard. She showed me where my food was – and it was the same kind as always! And my blue box was here, too. Me, Her and Him stayed in the new place together that night.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpwKHruYZ7mA410uf8Y8W8oxuFplvCv39VWpOCdEXmr-t3twajx-Cmxm8Ih7lzwJXvA38lfX3S0YhWbyZNwfg5SeC27SylYVQc8z-bwUXgxTvF2PSSKUDftpP2g3_wKS4tjFBR1HbsYmlJ/s1600/P7020048.JPG"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 134px; FLOAT: left; HEIGHT: 200px" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5626411240719372434" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpwKHruYZ7mA410uf8Y8W8oxuFplvCv39VWpOCdEXmr-t3twajx-Cmxm8Ih7lzwJXvA38lfX3S0YhWbyZNwfg5SeC27SylYVQc8z-bwUXgxTvF2PSSKUDftpP2g3_wKS4tjFBR1HbsYmlJ/s200/P7020048.JPG" /></a><br />I couldn’t rest though. It was too much for me. I called for Her to pick me up several times during the night and she came every time, although she seemed a little grumpy by morning. Maybe she doesn’t like the morning.<br /><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj30K9V5wJzHsVw6CtSSI2k3_DMQO8cKmjdEVzvf3y0whxgr2ShljXuNW1ABp2lKAnSed7Kz-PLLgB22ieJxbdiUR9BF3zH3vsCcFe6-6fvuuUDeKGlK3tTvZpH7EbLMTIxh0aTxovRatNq/s1600/Mike+Skeeter+crop.JPG"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 200px; FLOAT: right; HEIGHT: 144px" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5626410827464060338" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj30K9V5wJzHsVw6CtSSI2k3_DMQO8cKmjdEVzvf3y0whxgr2ShljXuNW1ABp2lKAnSed7Kz-PLLgB22ieJxbdiUR9BF3zH3vsCcFe6-6fvuuUDeKGlK3tTvZpH7EbLMTIxh0aTxovRatNq/s200/Mike+Skeeter+crop.JPG" /></a>Then, they both left. It was okay since I slept most of the time – on the sofa, the bed or the soft part of the floor. And they left plenty of food (my favorite, tuna) and some reading material. But who is Harry Potter? That night – like each of the next several – she came home by herself. In my other house, he was there and she wasn’t. Now, she’s here and he’s not.<br /><br />It was fun. She let me sleep on the bed with Her. I slept better and didn’t have to call Her at night - well, not too often. I may not be as agile as I once was, but I could jump onto the bed. <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqE0QWEYkYegya7s-toyQ3nNQcWdhmW5bsr8Pi6QyirL7reHcr-wMsMNdLcBfgIIY_QFDoKp91jxuCvX-_dIIMqKU9prEiKWApyq9X3doyRhbbD31fLn-cmgmlX9Rk6C1GKC1cggMcpFtb/s1600/P7040005.JPG"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 320px; FLOAT: left; HEIGHT: 240px" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5626412448273235922" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqE0QWEYkYegya7s-toyQ3nNQcWdhmW5bsr8Pi6QyirL7reHcr-wMsMNdLcBfgIIY_QFDoKp91jxuCvX-_dIIMqKU9prEiKWApyq9X3doyRhbbD31fLn-cmgmlX9Rk6C1GKC1cggMcpFtb/s320/P7040005.JPG" /></a>There were times that - I guess - I wanted attention. Instead of jumping on the bed, I sat on the floor next to the bed and called. If I called long enough she put me on the bed. I don't think she like that as much as I did.<br /><br />Living together, you learn things about each other like the nights when she was so frustrating! It would be time for bed and she would still sit looking into that lighted, square thing and moving her fingers. She finally got up and I thought, "Yippee! Time for bed!" But no, she walked back and forth to the bathroom or the kitchen. I followed her until I got tired. I tried to tell her I was frustrated and ready for bed. Sometimes it helped but other times, not so much. Then there was breakfast. There were many mornings that she overslept breakfast time. I love Her but she can be hard to live with. I had to call until she got up to make my breakfast. Most mornings she got it right, but sometimes I didn't want tuna. I wanted chicken. She was slow to understand. While I ate breakfast she would go back to the bed. The same thing used to happen with Him, but now - like I said before - I sleep in the sun room.<br /><br />Oh - and there was a white, fluffy cat! He was only in the bedroom. Each time I walked in, so did he. When I sat by the bed, so did he. I would stare at him and he just stared back. He was <span style="FONT-STYLE: italic">really </span>annoying!<br /><br />Just when we were settling into a routine, here came my cage again! Where to now? She carries me to the car and he’s there. Again, it was a long drive, but when we arrive, I’m back at my real home – the big house. It’s just as it was before. I have never been one who likes change in my routine, but it was fun going to that other place and spending time with Her. Seems like I recall a word for it. What was it? Oh yeah – vacation. I wonder if the Nice People’s cat went on a nice, long vacation. I hope he likes it there. Maybe I'll see him again one day.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBqc3f4-uVAvgzYi_iaAGodoCPzkLdEYhW4tpcUN3veWAeQDweQcrOMNTiwjA3mRLVd0ja92IXsBSSeCCMjKCfoVY3l2Ma6-C9Eu3EMDW1uRsQJlAZJar-cHUlDwn2ETkPgCZzOhN8T-Z0/s1600/P7040004.JPG"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 300px" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5626413494887455794" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBqc3f4-uVAvgzYi_iaAGodoCPzkLdEYhW4tpcUN3veWAeQDweQcrOMNTiwjA3mRLVd0ja92IXsBSSeCCMjKCfoVY3l2Ma6-C9Eu3EMDW1uRsQJlAZJar-cHUlDwn2ETkPgCZzOhN8T-Z0/s400/P7040004.JPG" /></a> Skeeter writes regularly for <a href="http://www.beautifulcats.com/">http://www.beautifulcats.com/</a>. When Skeeter is not traveling you can find him sleeping on his porch swing in Annapolis. Skeeter lives with his family, Mike and Shelley. Skeeter wishes to thank the Nice People, Wil and Siena Scott, with whom he lived while Mike and Shelley were in France.Shelley's Roadmap to Engineer Your Dreamhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00327937042376941865noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1112334948488380299.post-71054196016148310242011-07-01T23:48:00.023-04:002011-07-24T12:15:19.052-04:00Out of the Past<span class="Apple-style-span"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicZX8YN6rzpnFny0KvTPlwj0AmA8nLurGQGkaE0EYUCJY8Lp44-nXfkJiZeOz9lsUuPkGpln5KAsFCDazx5FaJ6O6y4TE5pOwj32oTkfcqR3OHKlClpjwUIO_kKdI4kK9UDSRUCkiYNuj7/s1600/P6260067.JPG"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicZX8YN6rzpnFny0KvTPlwj0AmA8nLurGQGkaE0EYUCJY8Lp44-nXfkJiZeOz9lsUuPkGpln5KAsFCDazx5FaJ6O6y4TE5pOwj32oTkfcqR3OHKlClpjwUIO_kKdI4kK9UDSRUCkiYNuj7/s400/P6260067.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5624600859672139634" border="0" /></a><br /><br />The two inches of rain was a hot topic even before I landed. My seat-mate told me. Central Texas is in a deep drought. </span>A drought is a big thing in a town of cattle ranchers and farmers.<span class="Apple-style-span"> Mother and George collect me at the airport and talk with relief about the rain marveling at the resiliency of the grass. Sure ‘nough, the broad fields between the Austin airport and Smithville are the pale green of hope.<br /><br />The talk of rain like everything else is familiar. My head rattles with distant dialogue. “We sure need rain.” “Will have to start feedin’ early this year unless we get rain soon.” My grandmother knew rain was coming by the smell of the air. My granddad would put a newly killed rattlesnake on the fence to bring the rain. Now, rolling thunder makes me nostalgic.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvn63-t5gG3U7p3dKhw8b5Cqo69UrA-ts-_wx2xuXaBytBuVImEJnwil_2IUtislTtFTsES0v0P0YPmAeNnH3bl7DIX4o_vnn5eA175Sgul5va7QXB3xY0NFE4YZDDja9j9245eWec2yrH/s1600/P6250037.JPG"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvn63-t5gG3U7p3dKhw8b5Cqo69UrA-ts-_wx2xuXaBytBuVImEJnwil_2IUtislTtFTsES0v0P0YPmAeNnH3bl7DIX4o_vnn5eA175Sgul5va7QXB3xY0NFE4YZDDja9j9245eWec2yrH/s320/P6250037.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5624598561913647730" border="0" /></a>Like the grass, my roots are in Smithville. For years I couldn’t wait to leave; now I look forward to coming back. There’s a comfortable familiarity with it. I return to see Mother and George (my honorary step-dad). This is my excuse. It’s only later that I realize I come here for the grounding, to know the familiarity of three generations on my mother’s side who made Smithville their home. I feel connected here, more so than ever before. Maybe it’s because my life feels so disconnected otherwise – weekdays in DC and a quick visit to Annapolis on the weekends. It's like floating in a sea of uncertainty.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgV5qkuKrQaZ4o_dtGAWcZ5Ir3h1w0ax2HqA1DW9OM70H0FgcceOsf80tXkBhcoAHzuntSNiBaDEFgEk-yiNYAQlxklVVpyOp35HN6ZhBKGJmKiCxisyCxk8zNEbr6sFPGk03AhnbAOX6fj/s1600/P6260073.JPG"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgV5qkuKrQaZ4o_dtGAWcZ5Ir3h1w0ax2HqA1DW9OM70H0FgcceOsf80tXkBhcoAHzuntSNiBaDEFgEk-yiNYAQlxklVVpyOp35HN6ZhBKGJmKiCxisyCxk8zNEbr6sFPGk03AhnbAOX6fj/s200/P6260073.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5624598807180926498" border="0" /></a>In Smithville, I’m recognized as being “from around here” which means I get special treatment. At the Post Office, Edward patiently helps me mail a box then smiles and waves as I leave. I hear, “It’s great to see you again!” This is because he remembers me from high school.<br /><br />Memories return at each corner and with each spreading oak tree. Oh, it has changed for sure. Smithville has a feeling now of making-do. That started with the highway by-pass. It took away the Austin to Houston traffic that used to go through the middle of town. From the highway interchange all that’s visible of Smithville is the one-runway airport (which my dad helped start), and Smith’s Supply. Smith’s Supply sprawls next to the overpass with piles of culvert pipes of various sizes, rolled cyclone fencing, posts and PVC pipe.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEieHMJiKtUYv49zMzK8s8kioNsiuixWqWAqJlwvychmEESErw7Ac6NrGCpVzROOrkxZ3_26maMsigiaTssIFngAKQ39SqXZJTaxSOlyRlpXV7eCTw19hn52EJR5LJ8hfIH3FCv6cQNaLZNl/s1600/P6260049.JPG"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEieHMJiKtUYv49zMzK8s8kioNsiuixWqWAqJlwvychmEESErw7Ac6NrGCpVzROOrkxZ3_26maMsigiaTssIFngAKQ39SqXZJTaxSOlyRlpXV7eCTw19hn52EJR5LJ8hfIH3FCv6cQNaLZNl/s320/P6260049.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5624598969771468034" border="0" /></a>Smithville is mostly left to the locals and the residents of neighboring towns, like Rosanky, Kovar and Cistern. For me, that’s just fine. The streets are in an orderly grid with familiar names– Burleson, Gresham, Olive, Hudgins. Tall sycamores, pecans and magnolias shade the streets, and crepe myrtles sprout tassels of pink blooms. But, the grand matrons are the live oak trees with trunks too big to reach around and limbs that canopy an entire yard. I love these trees. I remember them as a kid. They are still there. Still growing. Still making me stop and stare in awe.<br /><br />Every morning, before the heavy heat sets in, I walk through town. The air is fresh. Dark clouds tease with a ghostly mist that doesn’t even leave a whisper of moisture on the ground. In its heyday, Smithville was a major railroad town. Walking, I hear the sounds of Smithville’s past. A train whistles as it comes through the yard, “Whoooon.” The wheels click on the rails and cars clank together like a giant slinky.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwd8EIInplDtJtUoaPB-I4zQXx6fsaR4zlkba_DyN3O592vK58wKU81oSF96_XGyLXaoFVdHp2vLuh3WbeiddbSUmsHchGsu_zrXQHbzhRfNiqzgH2G7VRApuF4-FuOCxQfMEK0CdLOiH1/s1600/P6260066.JPG"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwd8EIInplDtJtUoaPB-I4zQXx6fsaR4zlkba_DyN3O592vK58wKU81oSF96_XGyLXaoFVdHp2vLuh3WbeiddbSUmsHchGsu_zrXQHbzhRfNiqzgH2G7VRApuF4-FuOCxQfMEK0CdLOiH1/s320/P6260066.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5624599283587330306" border="0" /></a>There are two main roads in Smithville – Main Street and the old highway. Our traffic signal hangs where they intersect. Memories line both streets. On Main Street, antique stores like “Out of the Past” alternate with “For Rent” signs. It’s quiet except for the bustle of recollections. Ken’s Pharmacy where my grandmother worked used to be here. My sister and I would walk in, get a hug, and wave to Ken – or Mr. Blaschke, as we knew him. In the back we sat on chrome bar stools at the soda fountain and Elizabeth made chocolate milk shakes for us.<br /><br />Farther down Main Street was Mikeska’s barbeque. My granddad took me there. We entered through swinging, screen doors to smells of mesquite and the warmth of barbeque pits that had been cooking since the early morning hours. Our barbeque brisket was served on brown paper, and, yes, my granddad ate his with his pocket knife. I still have that knife. Oh – and there was sawdust on the floor.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQlQwsY4_dUhLhsdQ-83OVNsm-PWQHR_vndkRoESWVT5N2fptMAZTLifd_PEPCODd_Ku_Bqw9AHl6GIYjG5mOnBE4a6hIif0d3pvKIoFgu2dbTCVjbc62mS_ZG_oQ8R-ysXwM5Fnpt5AUH/s1600/P6260069.JPG"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQlQwsY4_dUhLhsdQ-83OVNsm-PWQHR_vndkRoESWVT5N2fptMAZTLifd_PEPCODd_Ku_Bqw9AHl6GIYjG5mOnBE4a6hIif0d3pvKIoFgu2dbTCVjbc62mS_ZG_oQ8R-ysXwM5Fnpt5AUH/s200/P6260069.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5624933610026307186" border="0" /></a><br />Mikeska's has been gone for years. Now we go to Zimmerhanzel’s. It has a real door and I’m okay with the plastic fork and knife. Everyone in town lines up for their barbeque. I watch for people I know. They spot me first and I struggle to put this new face with the high school face in my mind. Lunch comes early here. The old ladies are the first. They finishing as we arrived at 11:30AM. Next are the working men – road crews, farm and ranch hands – whose day starts early. When lunch is in full swing, you share tables. Our table’s conversation centered on the rain. “How’re you?” “Awrite.” “How much rain you git?” “Inch and eight tenths.” “My grass greened up.” “My grass had to come up from the roots.”<br /><br /><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhF5q1PTKLp4UiAmeeEUMKeIvQMRfTj5RXMbSsnX_QAKrG1x-hi_W0aMJSbXF4nS6ngNgHwxLf6VBp2QPi16AGK_nJqhHmb1O1cCtx07DEKtkrN9ZoOEi3L3P9dghJ4LIKFnUqT4i5Pqcg/s200/P6260059.JPG" style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5624600110857464770" border="0" />Billy Davis’ Texaco is on the highway near Zimmerhanzel's. As a girl, Mother and I went to Billy Davis’ to fill up our big Pontiac. We’d sing, “You can trust your car to the man who wears the star. The big, bright, Texaco star!” Mother and Billy played a game where Mother would look at the gas gauge and guess how many gallons it would take to fill it up. She was right EVERY TIME.<br />I thought she was the smartest mom ever. In hindsight, I think I was being duped. (It's not nice to fool a little girl, Mother!) Billy is still there so we stop by to say hello. The Texaco is mostly a hang out for George and his buddies who pass time gossiping on a bench. They probably wouldn’t agree about the gossiping part, but they are.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWnOBBZwFgAzpU8-8eVOQJ_Nmen5XdSqE7cv1YhudhM7i-hf_v2Ly-N6feoDwYtzQ4lb_7TjZbkpDGWg57rP_h1J1SVVuAXr_tdnQPZSRZPmkGyWDI5slZpRftWuVenrZvO6zJblJqvuAF/s1600/P6260051.JPG"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWnOBBZwFgAzpU8-8eVOQJ_Nmen5XdSqE7cv1YhudhM7i-hf_v2Ly-N6feoDwYtzQ4lb_7TjZbkpDGWg57rP_h1J1SVVuAXr_tdnQPZSRZPmkGyWDI5slZpRftWuVenrZvO6zJblJqvuAF/s200/P6260051.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5624599452064841474" border="0" /></a><br />On the other end of the highway is the Donut Shop in a red tin building and the washateria in a silver tin building.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhedARkdVm6xZV95dSe_fn3MUBK502yTmy6BEB9oiIQS2tvsMsIRDCBFKLLbpZ29__U6v660vbKFxfo4U1XSXKYTKEjwl7zVlzkowY91Jo-DQ8-LjkZyV17tKujTPC3uJNQbYxYWt1BoKg-/s1600/P6260058.JPG"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhedARkdVm6xZV95dSe_fn3MUBK502yTmy6BEB9oiIQS2tvsMsIRDCBFKLLbpZ29__U6v660vbKFxfo4U1XSXKYTKEjwl7zVlzkowY91Jo-DQ8-LjkZyV17tKujTPC3uJNQbYxYWt1BoKg-/s200/P6260058.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5624601514056843458" border="0" /></a><br />Both have pick up trucks parked out front. Tacos and tamales are sold from a pink school bus next to a chartreuse shaved ice stand. There is, of course, a Dairy Queen that, when I was young was where we went after church on Sunday nights.<br /><br />I love the wooden houses in artfully chosen colors. The wide-blade carpet grass is lush and thick –due to attentive watering. Sometimes it feels like nothing has changed, except the paint. The most noticeable difference is the large corner property with a delicate, old farm house that was once a stage coach stop. The new owner repainted it pink and green. Not pale, soft, subtle colors. Bright, vibrant, can’t-believe-your-eyes pink and green.<br /><br />I come out of the past when Mother and George tell me about the people. Some have died, others are sick, and all are older. Mother’s friends who have been in my life for my whole life are here. We interrupt Jeannette baking zucchini-pineapple bread. Tuffy jumps best he can with his four-inch long dachshund legs, but he soon lies quietly in the floor with a chew bone. He chews until one end is left, then he wants a new bone. Chew bone ends fill his basket. Joyce tells us about her twin great-grand daughters while we admire her garden. Silky with her sleek grey hair, even at 90+, meets us at the door. We visit sitting in a rocking chair that belonged to her grandmother.<br /><br /><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZQxvlTaw83iT7JOXw8DX-4nyhstRIVj-rzCIVLYbN1gmnnNZ-4hxkgRLpUAOmd3MNnZlruswaII4eVlwCdQYVoW3J2YtllRU03DFkfVwCfZRr5TGR6c_d9VjB-e2ErZFDG7qYh2zX-oTr/s320/P6250040.JPG" style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5624599729157423666" border="0" />George takes me on a ride through his pastures. It’s a pastime in Smithville – riding around, looking at the cows, and assessing the water level of ponds (Tanks as they are known here). Bouncing along the rutted, dirt road in the truck takes me back and I'm riding in my granddad's 1946 green, Chevy pickup with the wood-slat sides. George gets out of the truck to open his wide, aluminum gate. It swings open smoothly with one easy push. Not like the gates at my granddad’s pastures. They were made of barbed wire and a post. When I was old enough, he let me open the gate. I had to be strong enough to lean against the post and loosen it enough to pull it out of the wire loops at the top and bottom. I walked it to the ditch, tromping through the grasses to avoid prickly bull nettle and cow pies.<br /><br /><br />The film industry discovered Smithville. <img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjjWbmZ5m3o1k5Xo8emT5g748fcylYjjttTKjwyGNvyIJHARSQ-DSySAQw8DNQf7L88atB21y1xZHoWZ8nCkxh2Nvusw2YzMfhgEW-nhVRtrhe3-dS_2yGwyX1UklXvOR5Ce_533YaQRS6/s320/P6250038.JPG" style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5624600693405741538" border="0" />There was a hubbub in town when Hope Floats (Sandra Bullock, Harry Connick, Jr.) was filmed here. My dad was a parishioner in the church scene. Most recently, Smithville was the set for the Tree of Life (Brad Pitt, Sean Penn). I think this is just dandy. The streets are preserved on film and not just in my memory. There may be a drought in Central Texas and the tanks in Smithville may be low, but I’m floating in a lifetime of memories.</span>Shelley's Roadmap to Engineer Your Dreamhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00327937042376941865noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1112334948488380299.post-62631298893972344452011-06-12T20:59:00.019-04:002011-06-12T21:32:26.807-04:00Déjà Vu All Over Again<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjX3miJS7CTEnFujE5Txm2CRFXDHLt4uD-6HZLMjUOPXLWsIQ7KjT5th1TuQ6yy34Wm2sF3iXIPm9YxQloqU1HORiJgHKZCECx-JAdZaMMvvaG42jx9qYwd4carLAN_GSdZ7q-bAHHuOA3J/s1600/horse+fountain.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 326px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjX3miJS7CTEnFujE5Txm2CRFXDHLt4uD-6HZLMjUOPXLWsIQ7KjT5th1TuQ6yy34Wm2sF3iXIPm9YxQloqU1HORiJgHKZCECx-JAdZaMMvvaG42jx9qYwd4carLAN_GSdZ7q-bAHHuOA3J/s400/horse+fountain.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5617503495133887218" border="0" /></a><br />I am in France – yes, France – yes, again. I attend a business meeting or, rather, a series of business meetings in Lyon. The last time I was in Lyon was with Mike for the Fete des Lumieres in December. It was cold, a little drizzly and packed with people. Now, it’s warm, sunny, and, surprisingly, not packed with people.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9d9h0WXaTHNJsHddisY9Fq48HXrtvVYp3yyBFoVlcfViFhUkeSV34lCuLHydWkgH-pxrxl71FeeUomkYMXog1A3HIvOFUgJZrtE1wwRel9-c5ejXADonGRqtchGhyS8LgNcqwX64n7esE/s1600/Lyon+June+2011+041.jpg"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9d9h0WXaTHNJsHddisY9Fq48HXrtvVYp3yyBFoVlcfViFhUkeSV34lCuLHydWkgH-pxrxl71FeeUomkYMXog1A3HIvOFUgJZrtE1wwRel9-c5ejXADonGRqtchGhyS8LgNcqwX64n7esE/s320/Lyon+June+2011+041.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5617504333397948066" border="0" /></a>The afternoon was sunny and warm but not hot when I arrived. The Congress Center, the site of our meetings and of my hotel, is across the street from a large park with a lake, zoo, botanical gardens and rose garden - all criss-crossed by paths. My meetings left little time for exploring the city, but I was content with remembering our trip in December. My only personal task was to collect the items on Mike’s grocery list.<br /><br />On arriving, I decided to take advantage of the good weather to do my shopping. Plus, I was less likely to fall asleep if I was walking. The bus took me downtown in search of a grocery store. But I’d forgotten French business hours. Everything is closed on Sunday – shops, department stores, grocery shops and many restaurants. Exasperated by not accomplishing my tasks, I was “forced” to go for a walk in the park. <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgd2gC1UXi3zCYhTu9v0XVbMvGAwoNMQfUUhVZmeijWCy8UZmgVXenexJKodcaq_se9Q8XnzqXgbZcGf_ks0eRKClXpOWKIwm4Ks4Gjz0MRFrU87Pc-9XhsPJb4et1gUsONv_65FxcgOeca/s1600/Lyon+June+2011+022.jpg"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgd2gC1UXi3zCYhTu9v0XVbMvGAwoNMQfUUhVZmeijWCy8UZmgVXenexJKodcaq_se9Q8XnzqXgbZcGf_ks0eRKClXpOWKIwm4Ks4Gjz0MRFrU87Pc-9XhsPJb4et1gUsONv_65FxcgOeca/s320/Lyon+June+2011+022.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5617504819721844754" border="0" /></a>And that’s where I found French life – cyclists, families on roller blades, a dad rowing his kids across the lake, a young man juggling tennis balls to impress his girlfriend, runners, old couples walking, and others relaxing in the grass. Burly dads with muscles rippling under tight tee-shirts were on daughter duty. A tall, fit, young dad pushed a tiny, pink scooter as his toddler daughter ran ahead flat-footed with arms flailing and dark curls blowing. Teenagers clustered tightly looking oppressed. Their expressions reeked of, “I’m so misunderstood.” <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVn5aiMyYMytX2aVOcjQ0XKIM31-3TFqggQ-Y4hxO789wu6BkH0bFIDwyKHGs4xt_LeIih9ixBHoNy5j2XAGK4zGVPfNX1umaHIYC-EXe6ytC_OJzVQSnmjuRQBb-NojVBqgpiKisDy18y/s1600/Lyon+June+2011+020.jpg"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVn5aiMyYMytX2aVOcjQ0XKIM31-3TFqggQ-Y4hxO789wu6BkH0bFIDwyKHGs4xt_LeIih9ixBHoNy5j2XAGK4zGVPfNX1umaHIYC-EXe6ytC_OJzVQSnmjuRQBb-NojVBqgpiKisDy18y/s200/Lyon+June+2011+020.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5617505139912358930" border="0" /></a>In the background, frogs chirped and geese honked as the adults nudged teenage geese (they looked fully grown except for their fuzzy, downy heads) back into the water away from the grasping hands of kids. Ahh yes, life – at the speed of life, not light. Closing stores on Sunday may not be a bad idea.<br /><br />I took every opportunity to be in that park – in early mornings before meetings began or late afternoons after meetings ended. It felt refreshing, healthy and whole. <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxaGhYpI3WwmqFJTvKS55QuRvQqh8xG2vFEDHiZWRaf1rtp-_gHx3nA5WHmv4EBCD7Ythl7IBPQIibrPsP4pbnQcyVXu6ufaMemTB7rKYWhPmzKuyZ1rfA5g8cP-aWug2yTmcq-Z_o3PEC/s1600/Lyon+June+2011+049.jpg"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxaGhYpI3WwmqFJTvKS55QuRvQqh8xG2vFEDHiZWRaf1rtp-_gHx3nA5WHmv4EBCD7Ythl7IBPQIibrPsP4pbnQcyVXu6ufaMemTB7rKYWhPmzKuyZ1rfA5g8cP-aWug2yTmcq-Z_o3PEC/s320/Lyon+June+2011+049.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5617505876910099170" border="0" /></a>The morning walks were the best. Crisp, sweet smelling air compelled deep breaths. The mirror-finished lake reflected sunlight so that leaves were backlit and glowing. Birds squawked and chirped filling the air with unexpected sounds. I counted a handful of duck varieties some with fluffy ducklings zipping along next to mom. Fir and pine trees dominated. Some had wiry branches with stubby needles. Others had layers of assertive branches, straight and long. Still others had curved branches with fingers of needles casually draped like curtains. My favorite trees were the sycamores – or plane trees, as they are called in France. <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVFzRqf1DNGG93dNRge-NLqm8lQ81cwO8D-N_A-W096zVSkpWZ5h559-fs1PDutrDeKsR1loFI-HAifciwxdZXC_eVK_TigvA_y5yZtJl-L5LyTz5WjxbhTfegArT_eyqnIy38uoM2D7Mt/s1600/Lyon+June+2011+051.jpg"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVFzRqf1DNGG93dNRge-NLqm8lQ81cwO8D-N_A-W096zVSkpWZ5h559-fs1PDutrDeKsR1loFI-HAifciwxdZXC_eVK_TigvA_y5yZtJl-L5LyTz5WjxbhTfegArT_eyqnIy38uoM2D7Mt/s320/Lyon+June+2011+051.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5617506241495811394" border="0" /></a>They towered with sunlight striking the top leaves while the branches created shaded pathways below. Couples, families and friends strolled in the comfort of the shade.<br /><br />As much as the park called to me, I could not neglect my grocery shopping. It’s not what you may think – the shopping. The bottom of my suitcase looked like a grocery aisle – cans of tuna filets, chicken bouillon, lavender honey, tilleul menthe herbal tea. I felt like a local. After all, who brings bouillon home from France? But these were things we’d grown accustomed to and could not find in the US. The big news was finding Mariage Freres tea at the Primtemps department store. My French teacher in Cotignac, Catherine, introduced me to Mariage Freres teas. Last January, I bought a box of Mariage Freres Marco Polo tea bags in Paris and carefully saved most of them to take home to Annapolis. The tea bags were sealed in a plastic bag and traveled around the world with us – or more accurately to Texas – the last time I saw them. Unpacking in Annapolis, I searched every pocket of the luggage. No tea. My mother looked in her house in Texas. No tea. It was my sister who solved the riddle. She knew exactly where my precious tea bags were. The dog ate them. <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBJYjRLMVJ_6B6quvDXR48CaqZIdvvXrkPiF_fEsvcurQtny3tTXO92egdpc22389v2Qc6B61YLy-NYSmqR1oDr7Qvk6MIamVgLKxeN7stJsvy6RSEZGuUa6fQmwyLWjVdUEXrRget3ALh/s1600/Lyon+June+2011+038.jpg"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBJYjRLMVJ_6B6quvDXR48CaqZIdvvXrkPiF_fEsvcurQtny3tTXO92egdpc22389v2Qc6B61YLy-NYSmqR1oDr7Qvk6MIamVgLKxeN7stJsvy6RSEZGuUa6fQmwyLWjVdUEXrRget3ALh/s320/Lyon+June+2011+038.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5617507308087595922" border="0" /></a>Apparently, my mother’s Jack Russell terrier, Daisy, enjoyed the tea as much as I did.<br /><br />This was my first opportunity to talk with professional colleagues from Europe. I laughed at how they teased each other about cultural stereotypes. I will forever be in awe of how they smoothly move between French and English. Even though English was the official language of the conference it was a wide range of “English.” I was entertained by English with the deep “lu-lu” of French, the clip of German, rolled rrrrs of Italians, and the lilt of the Irish. They comfortably accept difference in language and styles resulting from their long histories. I was included with ease and I felt a companionship now. So much so, that I was surprised when they referred to me as their American colleague. Which, of course, I am, but I feel a closer kinship than that like a distant cousin who is familiar but not.<br /><br />Everyone asked how it felt to be back in France. The short answer – great! The real answer – confusing. It felt familiar but not quite; comfortable but not. Gone was that first-time flush when everything has a glossy veneer.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1Ayhz1ROZifGNZXsOvOpTx2V_N5zaDucjz0wwsrGfqFTom_Y3maKEbcocv48EuJTtbD73DFYVDyM26OUyEqNEsDxKqdp8KwKGdb_ZOPMdJTRFErzjkiVJc0sIX_FbwyVVRkpQrBXu1uyp/s1600/boy+cropped.jpg"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 190px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1Ayhz1ROZifGNZXsOvOpTx2V_N5zaDucjz0wwsrGfqFTom_Y3maKEbcocv48EuJTtbD73DFYVDyM26OUyEqNEsDxKqdp8KwKGdb_ZOPMdJTRFErzjkiVJc0sIX_FbwyVVRkpQrBXu1uyp/s320/boy+cropped.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5617509819876665778" border="0" /></a> But I did not feel like a native either. There is a wide space in between. In that space is where my relationship with France will likely stay. I like that space. Mike and I saw most of the main sites when we were in Lyon in December. That left me liberated from touristique pressures and open to observe French life - kids playing in the street, pretty waitresses in jeans and tank tops serving tables and smoking between. The comforting buzz of conversation rising from packed sidewalk cafes and bistros. I eaves drop on conversations, although it’s not really eavesdropping since I only catch a word or two.<br /><br />Between work commitments I strolled along regular streets past a few charming buildings and apartments that were square, plain and industrial. Old women walked arm-in-arm, workers stole sidewalks for demolition remains, and kids returned from school. Ordinary life. A refreshing change from tourist shops.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWUZL_zz3_OpdzOZox4Fw1wNJiQ5la2x_26VUMaJKG8nDO6hy05l5LZ3OD8Q3AU7TsA1uOBi7xmP-F5RXL7vMx-FV7MNs4tVDwvLkT6tuw_Rx1sWajp4IrSWaGtxXXRM0S_2NWJ4B6kTIV/s1600/Lyon+June+2011+003.jpg"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWUZL_zz3_OpdzOZox4Fw1wNJiQ5la2x_26VUMaJKG8nDO6hy05l5LZ3OD8Q3AU7TsA1uOBi7xmP-F5RXL7vMx-FV7MNs4tVDwvLkT6tuw_Rx1sWajp4IrSWaGtxXXRM0S_2NWJ4B6kTIV/s320/Lyon+June+2011+003.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5617508098513963586" border="0" /></a>Still, the desire for familiarity called. My ego was gratified with my ease in moving through the city, ordering at restaurants, and generally getting whatever I needed. I had a history here that gave an extra layer to the sites and streets. Turning each corner evoked memories: the broad, pedestrian street, the hotel where Mike and I stayed; the fountain from which Neptune rose from the mist, the bridge where fireworks spewed. Food, too, brought back memories. French food was a treat particularly the foie gras and cheese which I had at every opportunity. We had a group dinner at a restaurant next to the Place de Celestin. The Place is home to the Theatre des Celestin. During the Fete, it was made of light. Windows were eyes and doors were a mouth. Now, windows were windows and doors were doors.<br /><br />Once again I found myself in a time warp, just when I was beginning to adjust to the U.S. The confusion felt stronger the longer I was there. France – US – France. Where do I belong? Honestly, I know the answer. It is here in my odd combination of Annapolis and Smithville. But the back and forth is disorienting. And, I was gone long enough from France to forget the sensibilities. I discovered – again – that even with best intentions, in the US, I measure “success” by how much I get done. In France, I measure success by how much I absorb of life.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFnlwxQqcb9x7UV1eOgRPlvRK8vghAu4PgYaRS5f3HhcrdZSKZwfNIKXXk5xRjs5nskEPs931CEjh8PkCOZ5BNNHoi3ao6sq21c3_fxFGWEyw4E1XHNp6qFaIEflt8sV-qHJMTm_-_EOIz/s1600/Lyon+June+2011+028.jpg"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFnlwxQqcb9x7UV1eOgRPlvRK8vghAu4PgYaRS5f3HhcrdZSKZwfNIKXXk5xRjs5nskEPs931CEjh8PkCOZ5BNNHoi3ao6sq21c3_fxFGWEyw4E1XHNp6qFaIEflt8sV-qHJMTm_-_EOIz/s320/Lyon+June+2011+028.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5617508391762428386" border="0" /></a>I write now sitting under a blooming tilleul tree like the one on our patio in Cotignac. I smile at the memory of its beauty and shade and I whisper thanks that I’m not cleaning the pollen from the table top. My wine is finished and I sip tilleul menthe tea after a leisurely dinner. I’ve written more in the few hours since I arrived than in the last two months. Why does it feel natural here to sit, feel and write when it is seemingly impossible at home? Yes - it’s simply a choice but not a simple choice. I feel inadequate for not having the will power to make this choice at home. Maybe, that’s why artists go to places that inspire them. Maybe they too can’t make this choice when surrounded by pressures of “normal” life. There is a long history of artists and writers who traveled to France and back from the US. I wonder if they too, had that sense of déjà vu all over again. While I struggle with choosing wisely, I will take advantage of this moment to revel in French life that flows in all directions. I guess you could say, it is ubiquitous everywhere.Shelley's Roadmap to Engineer Your Dreamhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00327937042376941865noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1112334948488380299.post-90544546960266421292011-05-12T15:42:00.006-04:002011-05-15T09:45:42.849-04:00A New Plan<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVt-TIBx5MLgm0ItcS8F70yVJWU7LIHbLl1QR_FvT59Q6KWT5SW2Bxsa5Wy6Ed_8sq9LNLodA4is_JzxRcLJlp4KPIacFvznLyS7msa1LfLUOSJxnm5-uxUJxDtmt9-GP_oWc4GReWUsaD/s1600/d+Dance+cropv2.JPG"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 231px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVt-TIBx5MLgm0ItcS8F70yVJWU7LIHbLl1QR_FvT59Q6KWT5SW2Bxsa5Wy6Ed_8sq9LNLodA4is_JzxRcLJlp4KPIacFvznLyS7msa1LfLUOSJxnm5-uxUJxDtmt9-GP_oWc4GReWUsaD/s400/d+Dance+cropv2.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5605920256674019890" border="0" /></a><br /><br />It wasn’t supposed to be like this. Returning. We allotted three weeks from the time we returned from France until I started back to work – refreshed and re-energized. <span style="font-style: italic;">That </span>was the plan. The plan changed.<br /><br />After one week in the office, with an aching back from a week in heels following a year in flats, I woke to a pain in my right hip and leg that escalated throughout the day until I could hardly walk. Two doctors, one physical therapist, one physician’s assistant and a partridge in a pear tree later, we knew it was a piece of disc between L4 and L5 that broke off and was pressing on the nerve. I’ve been blessed with exceptional health so this level of pain was new and (sorry) unnerving. As someone who prefers a “less is more” approach to drugs, “steroids” and “Percocet” were soon part of my regular vocabulary.<br /><br />I observed with wonder the change pain brings. I was home for four weeks during glorious, sunny, mild days. During that time, the garden came to life. The apple and pear trees bloomed, ferns unfurled frilly leaves, azaleas dazzled, rhododendron sported pink, pom-pom blooms, and a chorus of birds chirped and chattered. In the back yard, a robin built a nest in our wisteria. She went to and fro with sticks, twigs, and leaves to her hidden alcove. I struggled to see any of it. Pain seems to turn my thoughts inward. Even when my leg didn’t hurt my mind was still attending to it. “Don’t slump.” “Sit up straight.” “Don’t bend over.” “It doesn’t hurt now, but will it later?” “Is it better or the same?” Sitting on the living room sofa I’d think, “How badly do I want that Diet Coke?” Is it worth the pain of walking to the kitchen? No. Not really.<br /><br />Outside the window on the cool, sunny mornings, runners ran by. They didn’t even register in my mind. Running was too far outside the realm of possibility. The walkers I noticed. Not the ones walking briskly for exercise; the ones walking casually from their car to their front door or ambling over to visit with a neighbor. What a miracle, I thought, bones, muscles, nerves and blood, all working together to allow us to walk without a thought. And how precarious it all is – like a house of cards. One little chip out of place and down it all comes.<br /><br />And, I marveled at the thousand small household tasks we do in a day. Marveled because I could only sit and watch Mike do every, single one of them by himself. What to feel in those moments? Frustration that I can’t help? Gratitude that he does it all so capably and – astonishingly – so cheerfully? “Astonishing” because I couldn’t do what he does if the situation were reversed. Oh….I could do it physically – but cheerfully? Not so much. We argue the point. He says I would. I say – maybe, but not as peacefully as he. We agree to disagree. (Just between us – I’m right.)<br /><br />And, so, I sat – for hours, days, weeks. Some days were productive. I did a little work, studied some French, organized hundreds of photos, and developed a presentation about our experience to share with others (I hope). Other days I sat on an ice pack or napped. All days were and are about making lemonade from this unexpected pile of lemons.<br /><br />Now, I've had a shot in my back to relieve the pain and help with the healing. Supposedly, the offensive chip will shrivel and eventually float away. It's not clear how long that will take, or, due to the location of the chip, if it will cooperated. Worse case is out-patient surgery to remove it. For now, the pain is greatly reduced, enough to allow me to return to work. <br /><br />In my heart, I believe all things fit together for the best, like a jigsaw puzzle whose pretty picture isn’t discernible from an individual piece. Consequently, like so many others who deal with more serious health issues than me, I wonder, “What’s the point of this?” What is it I’m supposed to learn from this experience, and – really – wasn’t there any other way to learn it? Sure, there’s drama in an overnight, incapacitating illness, but I think I would have picked up on a more subtle message. Wouldn’t I?<br /><br />In the meantime, I’ll heal. I’ll walk, and, who knows, maybe I’ll even run again. Clearly, there is a new plan for me. I just haven’t been let in on the big picture yet. Maybe, as with the jigsaw puzzle, one day I will see a small corner of the pretty picture. For now, I the pain is a little less and I can walk. My wait for enlightenment may take awhile, so I think I’ll walk to the kitchen for that Diet Coke.Shelley's Roadmap to Engineer Your Dreamhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00327937042376941865noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1112334948488380299.post-54119987876693236532011-04-17T17:22:00.021-04:002011-04-30T18:52:30.241-04:00Life in a New 'Hood<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmmNs_Z9oFyoKZ17aHGKK2o1-jUqy2E2IoQXym5gXGoQ1odqaIUyB9xMGOyKMvsZk9mBRDef3AdSkj_PO5opbSE9nrGsI2kRGZQ4GeNnJB6oGtUlOD-bhJZ60p9oVyk4Ke1IkAQWl0zLtR/s1600/P4110043.JPG"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmmNs_Z9oFyoKZ17aHGKK2o1-jUqy2E2IoQXym5gXGoQ1odqaIUyB9xMGOyKMvsZk9mBRDef3AdSkj_PO5opbSE9nrGsI2kRGZQ4GeNnJB6oGtUlOD-bhJZ60p9oVyk4Ke1IkAQWl0zLtR/s400/P4110043.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5599852087450196466" border="0" /></a><br />The question has changed from, "How does it feel to be back?" to "How does it feel to be back at work?" The honest answer is that it's hard. I wouldn't be telling the truth if I didn't admit it - mostly to myself. The changes have come fast and hard in the last three weeks, and they are filled with contradictions.<br /><br />First we arrived home...after much drama and emotion. The day after arriving we went to DC and found a condo to rent so I wouldn't need to commute during the week. That was followed by unpacking our house in Annapolis and packing for my move into the city. We moved me in on a Wednesday. Thursday my body had had enough and came down with a cold, and Monday I started work...and came "home" to a quiet and empty apartment.<br /><br />My first day at work - in fact, my first week at work was filled with smiles and graciousness. Flowers were on my desk when I arrived from the staff, a miniature yellow rose was delivered from one of our associations and the RunHers sent a basket of plants. People all over the office stopped by. I'd sit at my desk in my big, new office and try to remember how to send an email when a head with a big smile - like the Cheshire cat - would poke around the door frame. Well wishers were around every bend - and there are a lot of bends in an office filled with cubicles. Everyone made me feel special and welcome. It made all the difference in a week that flowed smoothly on the surface belying the emotion flowing below.<br /><br />It was wonderful to hear how well everything went in my absence. I never doubted that it would nor did I ever check on the progress of any of our programs while we were away. The staff is great; they and the programs flourished, we probably all learned something in the process. Plus, I don't have to be in a rush to get up to speed on everything in the next week. They've done fine while I was away and they'll continue to do fine.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgeo6WVsr0wwaHn6-ZcsYC3bY29PB0FzUdTRxr0TerY2BG_OKXESny0hfk4i78Ez-Ivr-oNfqQEUrDvWuGqSNqZE7uZZZrfWqvGdAKDnfxozUU202RipQ9J4R0NJjBX8kfSARiDAen29ZQV/s1600/P4100002.JPG"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgeo6WVsr0wwaHn6-ZcsYC3bY29PB0FzUdTRxr0TerY2BG_OKXESny0hfk4i78Ez-Ivr-oNfqQEUrDvWuGqSNqZE7uZZZrfWqvGdAKDnfxozUU202RipQ9J4R0NJjBX8kfSARiDAen29ZQV/s320/P4100002.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5599852260561658754" border="0" /></a>The rhythm of the work place was a shock to my system - and it's not that busy for me yet. Being at a computer, in and out of meetings, listening intently, remembering what <span style="font-style: italic;">was </span>while simultaneously taking in what <span style="font-style: italic;">is </span>was exhausting. Each day seemed eternally long as it zipped by.<br /><br />At the end of the day was a delightfully short trip home - or as Mike and I are calling it, our "city house." Twenty minutes door-to-door and I was at the condo. Wow. It was - and will be - great. And, I quickly realized that it was exceptionally quiet and a little lonely. After a year together, this arrangement - me in DC and Mike in Annapolis - will be a big change. I remain optimistic that it will do what we intend - reduce my fatigue while providing time to write, create, and be. It's going to take some adjustment to realize that vision. But, it's easy to see the potential.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-v2FJyTZjw-oktSCqeLTc6dwMARj1Usj-fxKiJ7f01kQN8l0y6JKEZnlMyDVrz5OIoPcDZlNRLC6eCxuk9DTu8BnS1Qn0PnRTjggzrenY-BV-08VnCMZFkbKj-9Z1Vk3-aW975mSEL9Mw/s1600/P4100018.JPG"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-v2FJyTZjw-oktSCqeLTc6dwMARj1Usj-fxKiJ7f01kQN8l0y6JKEZnlMyDVrz5OIoPcDZlNRLC6eCxuk9DTu8BnS1Qn0PnRTjggzrenY-BV-08VnCMZFkbKj-9Z1Vk3-aW975mSEL9Mw/s320/P4100018.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5599852983536631010" border="0" /></a>Mike came with me to DC on the Sunday before work started. We unpacked boxes, hung the shower curtain, set up the printer and got the place for living. It's cute, comfortable and perfect for what we need. Afterward, we took a walk on the Mall. We were both struck by how beautiful Washington is with its monuments, regal buildings, bustling sidewalks and even outdoor cafes. We walked through the sculpture garden....my new backyard and around the Mall. The sun shone off the Capitol at one end and the Washington Monument at the other. We could glimpse the Lincoln Memorial in the distance. We vowed to take full advantage of the opportunity of city life for however long we have it.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFdwjJ9aIilrI6B4e4yzVlZgAJ9IR2HHfp5DHb9bW_og8C5wWOp0LvrwxgH6y_-b6jkIZd52wPvqOVgPhLAozjzZozg42_am618WA7qXpzC-LP0jYFRvbowHNeQmIIyanTl5cG63igjZgG/s1600/P4110037.JPG"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFdwjJ9aIilrI6B4e4yzVlZgAJ9IR2HHfp5DHb9bW_og8C5wWOp0LvrwxgH6y_-b6jkIZd52wPvqOVgPhLAozjzZozg42_am618WA7qXpzC-LP0jYFRvbowHNeQmIIyanTl5cG63igjZgG/s320/P4110037.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5599853425328076898" border="0" /></a>Later in the week after meeting a friend for dinner, I walked home the long way which took me through LaFayette Park lined with red and yellow tulips, a near-full moon overhead and the White House lit for the evening. Turning the corner onto Pennsylvania, the sidewalk cafes of the Willard hosted a few lingering guests. It's a lovely place to be on a beautiful evening. I can imagine growing to appreciate and enjoy this lifestyle, and I miss my real home. Both Mike and me felt as though I were on travel...without maid service. I kept thinking - just a few more days and I can go home.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirrODDMxg7cwy6OYGtFTZXS8U-QtbrpqhSEA4_bVcwEosZcyTKCR2ubAu_1XigIehOPwaKevqDYdUeSSCKnwdNaS8Kn41KUdV4Vl0dsgcfRbWIp1MBsIyAOfssVEYinW2X4F-R41C2xShx/s1600/P4110045.JPG"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirrODDMxg7cwy6OYGtFTZXS8U-QtbrpqhSEA4_bVcwEosZcyTKCR2ubAu_1XigIehOPwaKevqDYdUeSSCKnwdNaS8Kn41KUdV4Vl0dsgcfRbWIp1MBsIyAOfssVEYinW2X4F-R41C2xShx/s320/P4110045.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5599853713921448370" border="0" /></a>And in a few days, I did go home to Annapolis - and it felt great! And, it felt temporary, too. With only two nights at home, I never got to adjust there either. I found myself inadvertently moving something that Mike didn't want moved. There were times when I felt like I was visiting here, too. When it came time to go back to DC, my body rebelled again. This time it was the sciatic nerve in my hip and leg. Pain like I've never known hit and kept me on the sofa, and there I stayed all the next week. I'm still at home in Annapolis waiting for it to heal enough to make the walk from the Metro to my office.<br /><br />It's very strange - I'm back at work; but my heart is elsewhere. I'm not quite at home in DC nor am I at home in Annapolis. The time will fly by - it always does - but it feels ploddingly slow. Everyone at the office tells me that it's nice to have me back. I tell them that I'm practicing my line, "It's nice to be back." And it is. Sort of. It will be. I hope. I'll feel at home again - where ever that is.Shelley's Roadmap to Engineer Your Dreamhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00327937042376941865noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1112334948488380299.post-71483288317361276842011-04-09T14:53:00.012-04:002011-04-09T20:56:20.697-04:00Seeing with New Eyes<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwZDlnFzo7tcrEHV9GWZu60cYBoHfsCltEA9ZEY2iXsAjHvJQNinXGvqT3QwW5-Iid27GstdgoINAAam1dMbvQ7TVv5lmhhNeBWW4zOZzybkqADIXLEpIRBoEwW0bh4WfpOybQSzwFroos/s1600/P4070028.JPG"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwZDlnFzo7tcrEHV9GWZu60cYBoHfsCltEA9ZEY2iXsAjHvJQNinXGvqT3QwW5-Iid27GstdgoINAAam1dMbvQ7TVv5lmhhNeBWW4zOZzybkqADIXLEpIRBoEwW0bh4WfpOybQSzwFroos/s400/P4070028.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5593663884621966690" border="0" /></a><br />It’s harder than I expected – this being at home. I can’t get over the strange feeling of it, as though I’m here but not here. And, it’s going to be harder than I expected to hold on to the wonder of the past year. I find myself, already, slipping back into old patterns of going about my day without really seeing. That’s rarely happened in France. Thankfully, I was jarred out of stupor.<br /><br />It happened as I was walking on a sunny, cloudless morning. <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfKIxFzZhkVX9_FLOw74Zz4igL9jhzyAzlcIEA7DYFcR_M_SwLNiBkaP-BSjp2rJwXrPHqc5tw0tpb4wvF5TbJcIqGjTXW4oK4tSI6nyH08soYtwof5yWoz4y9iXb81musZUVQ1vMAYEzy/s1600/P4070012.JPG"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfKIxFzZhkVX9_FLOw74Zz4igL9jhzyAzlcIEA7DYFcR_M_SwLNiBkaP-BSjp2rJwXrPHqc5tw0tpb4wvF5TbJcIqGjTXW4oK4tSI6nyH08soYtwof5yWoz4y9iXb81musZUVQ1vMAYEzy/s320/P4070012.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5593660380606435122" border="0" /></a>It was a beautiful day as I crossed the Eastport Bridge into downtown. And there it was, dazzling in the early morning light, Annapolis. The water was like glass reflecting the sky, the boats and the buildings. The brightness of the light against the white boats and the houses lining the creek made me squint, and gasp with wonder. If this had been a village in France, I would have been watching and waiting for the wonder, but here in Annapolis I was plowing forward without seeing. For the rest of my walk – and hopefully for much more time to come – I committed to seeing Annapolis as though I were in Honfleur. Here’s what it looked like.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0X2Q3rvYFcKcxW8_70TZDcmMMSnCKb5KkBF7o8NeEHCLZ6Ri4ljST4-fIgYogy0XZo28cN5nvJmL3vCFW2sRfP_-aeCcDX7bsbOJkr09MvO2BWx-Osk3BryPNgYqm5Pd7dyrx02dw4d1v/s1600/P4070016.JPG"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0X2Q3rvYFcKcxW8_70TZDcmMMSnCKb5KkBF7o8NeEHCLZ6Ri4ljST4-fIgYogy0XZo28cN5nvJmL3vCFW2sRfP_-aeCcDX7bsbOJkr09MvO2BWx-Osk3BryPNgYqm5Pd7dyrx02dw4d1v/s320/P4070016.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5593660700266372530" border="0" /></a>The trees were showing off. Flower encrusted branches, some in soft pinks and others so pale they were almost white, were translucent in the sunlight. Tulip Poplars defy gravity with heavy blooms upturned to the sky. I had to duck under some of the branches of trees lining the sidewalk. I ambled along the quaint streets of the historic district admiring the old townhouses dressed in their muted colors. The smell of freshly mulched beds was in the air, and little kids were on their way to class at St. Mary’s. Parents were unloading vans full of them. A cute, little boy was running up the street to his friends as a neighbor called out, “Hey, Zach! How are you?” <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQxOxrliSbBLbkIUzMxKrLsvxZecik_cu6taiNalSYsHtOp4o5eLzU_iXdiHwpgDbq78vvvDii3MKNbokA5g2uDRn4l4JHGSTKWRt_6ZL46qnf6YFKclhPbtMAI6z2Uemh0o2fxBowi3OA/s1600/P4070026.JPG"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQxOxrliSbBLbkIUzMxKrLsvxZecik_cu6taiNalSYsHtOp4o5eLzU_iXdiHwpgDbq78vvvDii3MKNbokA5g2uDRn4l4JHGSTKWRt_6ZL46qnf6YFKclhPbtMAI6z2Uemh0o2fxBowi3OA/s320/P4070026.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5593664289453056194" border="0" /></a>Without turning or slowing he yelled, “Awesome!” Exactly.<br /><br />The view from City Dock was lovely. I’d forgotten how the skyline is filled with spires. Against the blue sky, the white of the Capitol dome gleamed and the steeple of St. Anne’s Church rose up behind. To the left was the spire of St. Mary’s Church and to the right, the dome of the Naval Academy Chapel. The day before, I was stopped in my tracks at a street-end park in Eastport as the bells in the chapel chimed across the creek, just as they did in Cotignac.<br /><br />I’ve gone to Quiet Waters Park a few times since returning to let it work its own brand of charm. It is quiet there without the noise and smell of car exhaust. <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyukUxnGwSyLwSB3Dn6EKI-28hYY8i1ndP9GXDwmVLTY5rJMrgoX5U93D2CKlH-R4tD3PlqeYaDIKQP7xfnzKYCZukvtmysmNvS5-H8Iywrayo8BFnTPUa2ifCShpV9KCb1m8iGc6Hxo40/s1600/P4090004.JPG"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyukUxnGwSyLwSB3Dn6EKI-28hYY8i1ndP9GXDwmVLTY5rJMrgoX5U93D2CKlH-R4tD3PlqeYaDIKQP7xfnzKYCZukvtmysmNvS5-H8Iywrayo8BFnTPUa2ifCShpV9KCb1m8iGc6Hxo40/s200/P4090004.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5593662120672661922" border="0" /></a>What delight there is in hearing the dry leaves rustle underneath tiny claws of scampering squirrels (there were no squirrels in France). Birds chirped overhead in the still-bare branches, and there was the rat-a-tat-tat of a woodpecker working on a tree. Back home, our yard looks like a pink-themed New Years Eve party took place last night. The flower petals from the purple plum and star magnolia are falling like confetti.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1f4-qbTgsVoh7KlNKdS554TWf30-g32isjTEYZ8o7Drf-ScFw9XJOpsWqjAy_vbxVBwm93jShOudob5ZzKRJzowz00gWjrwKdfGVT4OnKd2WdATlz_Zgyu4prVwB0LvIMWfV7ULdqeQtm/s1600/P4090001.JPG"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 305px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1f4-qbTgsVoh7KlNKdS554TWf30-g32isjTEYZ8o7Drf-ScFw9XJOpsWqjAy_vbxVBwm93jShOudob5ZzKRJzowz00gWjrwKdfGVT4OnKd2WdATlz_Zgyu4prVwB0LvIMWfV7ULdqeQtm/s320/P4090001.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5593663197038066866" border="0" /></a><br />Mike continues to be a source of amazement to me. He, like the squirrels, scampers around the house fixing this, cleaning that. I watch as he hauls out my enormous flower pots that I’ll plant next month. I don’t ask. He just does it. He is so clearly at home that it makes me smile.<br /><br />And what’s next for me? Hmmm. I start back to work tomorrow. We rented an apartment for me in DC so that I don’t have to commute during the week. <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBt6iN331iF7_H9I2RbbRkk2hwgRsb7fGgQzgJmsOmjN6RBPPDsUzf_OWVmmhQMtQ5OyQEaWXzhfiSKAWUvN1zev9K3G0jgaKFyIkt1x8EE_KB2eA0QMGdCii8O8bj5-8jrpcGVU3nlAEo/s1600/P4050002.JPG"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBt6iN331iF7_H9I2RbbRkk2hwgRsb7fGgQzgJmsOmjN6RBPPDsUzf_OWVmmhQMtQ5OyQEaWXzhfiSKAWUvN1zev9K3G0jgaKFyIkt1x8EE_KB2eA0QMGdCii8O8bj5-8jrpcGVU3nlAEo/s200/P4050002.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5593663413144128946" border="0" /></a>Last week was spent gathering furniture scavenged from friends, packing up a truck, and moving everything into the city. We were thankful to have Mindi’s nephew, Elan, to help load (he lifted a huge rug into the truck by himself!) and Maggie to help unload. <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj68EsxfVuXhSSmrqy8yAyiPC0Lceqpo_LA9ablvISVNeF-YqjSgttiRDDVvHFMv85DByc8oe0LAlhVJkI7z_UP4hU-ee5Ia04cMEjcfckcLQYXUuEYNEMfFPcq1fjrf4jptAmXIBJ-rxg9/s1600/P4060004.JPG"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj68EsxfVuXhSSmrqy8yAyiPC0Lceqpo_LA9ablvISVNeF-YqjSgttiRDDVvHFMv85DByc8oe0LAlhVJkI7z_UP4hU-ee5Ia04cMEjcfckcLQYXUuEYNEMfFPcq1fjrf4jptAmXIBJ-rxg9/s200/P4060004.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5593663641417655890" border="0" /></a>I don’t relish being away from Mike during the week, but it will be nice to have more time and less exhaustion from the traffic. I can already tell that, for a time, I will feel a sense of loss. On top of missing France, I don’t want to lose connections with friends and the community of Eastport while I’m away in DC. Mike and I will sort that out as we go.<br /><br />On the other hand, there’s much to look forward to in the future. I plan to periodically write blogs and hopefully some of you will keep reading. And, Mike and I want to write about our experiences. It’s a way for us to encourage others to follow their dream. Being alone in DC will give me time and energy to write and develop speaking materials to literally tell our story. I am excited about that - really excited. I can’t yet see how this may play out, but it will be fine. It’ll be more than fine. I want to be like that kid running to school. Without looking back, I know it’ll be awesome.Shelley's Roadmap to Engineer Your Dreamhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00327937042376941865noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1112334948488380299.post-76383340245126384312011-04-04T14:47:00.021-04:002011-04-04T19:22:54.507-04:00Gratitude<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgK-PoI5-EfXpVUgvV-lOcVy826z3Fz9th_Fuilkhp4sRYTPxQOmpMe8UkowQhkhYHNxhBH_MK-8OaQRn4TNMp22aXIN5xtWgRSPqzjMbNcvBFKy-8Na2Zu1okJIcJp6TQE1-0QcQVFpMv-/s1600/P4040004.JPG"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgK-PoI5-EfXpVUgvV-lOcVy826z3Fz9th_Fuilkhp4sRYTPxQOmpMe8UkowQhkhYHNxhBH_MK-8OaQRn4TNMp22aXIN5xtWgRSPqzjMbNcvBFKy-8Na2Zu1okJIcJp6TQE1-0QcQVFpMv-/s400/P4040004.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5591807067092220498" border="0" /></a><br /><br />We’re home. Everyone asks, “How does it feel to be home?” Good question. How <span style="font-style: italic;">does </span>it feel to be home? I’ve been trying to sort that out since we’ve returned. In one moment it feels like we never left as we drop easily into old routines. The next minute finds me staring at a wall. What’s with that? While I puzzle over my feelings, there is one thing of which I’m sure. I’m overwhelmed with gratitude. No matter which way I look or the direction my thoughts run, I come back to gratitude. The list could run to pages but here’s the top ten.<br /><br />• We made it home safely. There were times when we weren’t sure that would happen as we left a trail of pestilence in our wake.<br />• We’re healthy. After a year without seeing doctors, our many checkups show that we’re in wonderful health. Most importantly, Mike’s cancer checkup was better than ever.<br />• Skeeter is alive and well. Our little, furry kitty almost didn’t make it, but with loving care from Wil and Siena, he is now curled up on the sofa doing what he does best – sleeping.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5eYwRxQEv6BoVWkCO0KXOAtWUIvUdjuDoo3-KhBNF0_WON5OTOyR3hNbcPX-dpGIwWHB8rK2govFT7hvUT9Hamxux507eu06n-p1euiLo-97OVqILmJe6M0nR_9YRevqAnJiFoT8h5ugh/s1600/P4040009.JPG"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5eYwRxQEv6BoVWkCO0KXOAtWUIvUdjuDoo3-KhBNF0_WON5OTOyR3hNbcPX-dpGIwWHB8rK2govFT7hvUT9Hamxux507eu06n-p1euiLo-97OVqILmJe6M0nR_9YRevqAnJiFoT8h5ugh/s320/P4040009.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5591807393868115890" border="0" /></a><br />• Our home was beautifully kept. Thanks to the hard work by Denise and Ron, our home was spotless when we walked in the door. They made sure it was ready for our return.<br />• Sleeping in our very own bed. Enough said.<br />• My job is waiting for me. Due to the efforts of my boss, I am able to return to my job at USDOT. And, thanks to the hard work by the staff, my deputy and my bosses, the program has moved forward without a hitch.<br />• I’m running again. After almost a year without running, I’m back running and running with my girlfriends – the RunHers.<br />• Spring is coming. It’s been a little chilly since we arrived, but spring is on its way. The yellow, spiky branches of forsythia are in bloom, perky daffodils look like little suns, our purple plum tree is in full bloom perfuming the yard, and robins hop along the freshly tended flower beds.<br />• Our friends. Everyone has been so wonderful. They have made us feel welcome and loved, and I have much more to say about that.<br /><br />Here’s what our first few hours were like. As we walked off the plane, I was a bundle of nerves. Mike sat by the window as we flew into Baltimore because I couldn’t bear to look. Still, from the plane I could see the ruddy, red trees about to leaf out. After being on fourteen flights within six weeks, it was surreal to step into the BWI airport. Like many things to come, it was at once familiar and strange. And my tears started. Why the tears? I still don’t know – happy, sad.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6iCTbTjk_DNQApUflEcwA0lHHUVOCxEhODJn3QGgwyPxa_FfYh95v8SFYjZYydL7Xr20BSyGAmtYHWUUWVNUSFkWEQMbmbocJZ_i1Kw7VYtlGtYBmYdu7QftL5fpAzyDEED9MEmwWiL0T/s1600/P3230003.JPG"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6iCTbTjk_DNQApUflEcwA0lHHUVOCxEhODJn3QGgwyPxa_FfYh95v8SFYjZYydL7Xr20BSyGAmtYHWUUWVNUSFkWEQMbmbocJZ_i1Kw7VYtlGtYBmYdu7QftL5fpAzyDEED9MEmwWiL0T/s320/P3230003.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5591803987380345490" border="0" /></a>Maggie and Enser and John and Raleigh were waiting for us. As we walked down the aisle, Mike said, “I see John waving!” Sure enough, there they were, waving and smiling – and John with his video camera. I collapsed into the arms of our friends and sobbed. Bless John – he sobbed with me.<br /><br />They drove us home – in separate cars with our six bags and two backpacks. Maggie took the route through downtown Annapolis. It looked the same – as though we’d never left. Odd. How could it look the same? And that was only the beginning. Even after two weeks, I don’t know what I felt driving into the driveway of our house. “Numb” is as close as I can come. We walked inside and there we were. Home, but not home. Everything was immaculate. I inched through the rooms with a deer-in-the headlights stare. Our understanding friends left us to our thoughts along with a bag of goodies – wine, Mike’s favorite sparkling water, cheeses, homemade gluten-free bread and more. How very thoughtful. They went to a restaurant to wait for us.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihwpCBnMykDv5lPADU_nUZ9hJ73jkWl6wd9VvJZ-Ue4R3qGTS1eM2Pk1-nx0oY1MLCj8rsrzTbrKTMCwJhBYTgPC5rXAhV-eQnEYR76oR7b1Dfctkr8kAbEdwwJN0O4dM_A3Csb90JnFbb/s1600/P3230002.JPG"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihwpCBnMykDv5lPADU_nUZ9hJ73jkWl6wd9VvJZ-Ue4R3qGTS1eM2Pk1-nx0oY1MLCj8rsrzTbrKTMCwJhBYTgPC5rXAhV-eQnEYR76oR7b1Dfctkr8kAbEdwwJN0O4dM_A3Csb90JnFbb/s320/P3230002.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5591804159615399074" border="0" /></a>Mike was amazing. He was instantly a man on a mission. He raced through the rooms already busy with hot water heaters and thermostats. He is great with caring for the house and he was back in his element. He hasn’t slowed down yet! I, on the other hand, was dazed and confused. Our home is filled with travel posters from our various trips – many of which were in France. There on our walls were images of Nice, Avignon and Antibes. I found myself standing in front of the poster of Antibes in the dining room. We bought it several years ago during a vacation in France…back when Antibes was a charming vacation destination. I saw it now with new eyes. Antibes is part of a different “home.” I know the streets, the restaurants where we ate with Linnea, Bobbie and Robert, the days of their market, and my favorite wine shop. The poster is the same but all is different. Obviously, it’s me who is seeing with different eyes and feeling new things in my heart.<br /><br />Thankfully, my phone jangled and brought me back into this home. It was a text from Sharyn welcoming us home. The text was filled with “XOXOXOXO!” How great is that? And on the back porch was a festive pink flower with a welcome-home note from the Slawsons. They would bring dinner for us the next night. So very thoughtful. As Mike and I stepped out of the house to walk up to Carroll’s Creek, a car pulled up. It was Sharyn, Teddy and Mindi! When they received my response text, Sharyn and Teddy jumped in the car, picked up Mindi and rushed over for, as they said, a drive-by hug. Yes, there were more tears. All of this was within the first four hours of landing.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgv4qtJiPV-_ZZ0owRf2NDzytxOpb_PsW6xj1pS3EkpezdA3LbQ90HygBcM2bDridLD78FsFemRm7f0CFctX2hDJ18aztV7eqjoIRUHlkwpJEAluApQLjR1e_uLQrX23dxWYDQeQzA9fn7j/s1600/P3280013.JPG"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgv4qtJiPV-_ZZ0owRf2NDzytxOpb_PsW6xj1pS3EkpezdA3LbQ90HygBcM2bDridLD78FsFemRm7f0CFctX2hDJ18aztV7eqjoIRUHlkwpJEAluApQLjR1e_uLQrX23dxWYDQeQzA9fn7j/s320/P3280013.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5591804378544688146" border="0" /></a> Since then, we had wonderful dinners with the Baldwins and the Scotts, and ran into friends and neighbors all over town. Yes…..this is home.<br /><br />Mike and I talk about the differences that stand out like the impatient customers at Starbucks, honking horns at the precise minute that the light turns green, the wide roads, really big coffees, iced tea, garbage disposal, lighting fast restaurant meals with no one lingering over coffee or tea. Portion sizes are bigger, too. Mike took home a doggie bag – something that is unknown in France. A request for <span style="font-style: italic;">le doggie bag</span> would bring perplexed stares. We’ve already left behind our habit of walking everywhere. Oh well.<br /><br />As the last two weeks passed filled with unpacking a dozen boxes as mountains of paper accumulated, my dazed feelings are diminishing, but there’s something still unsettled. I can’t seem to reconcile how different I felt there with coming home where time stood still, and struggling with how to balance it all.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbgzpWHtQPPYFJyORYC9XrW7WH2g10ST1yq9MyCChNJ76dMUC6PyChJ6SPH4LfVdaNL4TmeirmzJBcKeoLOasQW8qxgE5BaiqM_1oSx2HtJhwNoHsw31u79271ByUVz6NzSuOGp3bcrL78/s1600/P4040002.JPG"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbgzpWHtQPPYFJyORYC9XrW7WH2g10ST1yq9MyCChNJ76dMUC6PyChJ6SPH4LfVdaNL4TmeirmzJBcKeoLOasQW8qxgE5BaiqM_1oSx2HtJhwNoHsw31u79271ByUVz6NzSuOGp3bcrL78/s320/P4040002.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5591807776136930482" border="0" /></a>As I drive around town running countless errands (how did we live in France without a full day of errands?), I am sometimes comatose. I drive along familiar streets and feel that I never left. France is a distant memory. Other times it’ll hit me. I imagine my morning walk down the hill into town where Marie would be sweeping outside the brasserie, the young men running the Spar would be pushing their vegetable carts outside, Mr. and Mrs. Frank (of the hardware store) would be walking to work, and my little man would amble by with his cane and black cocker spaniel. I can smell the buttery croissants baking at Pouillard. It’s enough to make me ache all over. I miss it so. Or maybe I miss the me I was there.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZkMhmCihmGUoKQUEnwBKYZuC-l3j54nn-Vy0f-QSzLtW6GhmwnAV-H8Z4-RFgBV_GsvR702BlwOgQ_-ttr43QthQuy2fObHXDn2ZsO87Ri9NXO-tFLKX0XWLmS03urnsmX48jyK0JoOVq/s1600/P4040007.JPG"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZkMhmCihmGUoKQUEnwBKYZuC-l3j54nn-Vy0f-QSzLtW6GhmwnAV-H8Z4-RFgBV_GsvR702BlwOgQ_-ttr43QthQuy2fObHXDn2ZsO87Ri9NXO-tFLKX0XWLmS03urnsmX48jyK0JoOVq/s320/P4040007.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5591807982441604626" border="0" /></a>I try to focus on feeling grateful that France is a part of me now but the ache is still there. Without thinking, I find myself buying little things that seem to be a salve to my heart – a lavender scented candle, French cheese or wine – or I listen to French music just to hear the cadence of the language. In my first visit to our gourmet cheese shop, I nearly tackled the woman behind the counter in excitement. There – before my eyes – were some of our favorite French cheeses. Yippee! Without thinking, I snapped up little slivers of Compte and Beaufort like we bought every few weeks at the Cotignac market. Proudly, I showed them to Mike. After an appropriately enthusiastic response, he said, “Shelley, did you notice how much these cost?” Well….no…in my excitement I hadn’t looked. One was $4.50 and the other was $9 – for a sliver – and they weren’t as good (shipping changes the flavors)! The French cheeses will have to stay in France. Having learned my lesson about checking prices before purchasing, most of my favorite French wines will also stay in France. That’s how it should be, I suppose – at least for cheese and wine – but I don’t want it to be that way for me.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKeooWe6ZcOl9ZhDgwQRcTKCjPAdRDVM7e3f1Drwztj18BM3OkaDk8KXigucZ3YQzXZzUwl_HdLp9AMWDlxIqtedQby00foF6ERlE0R9PDpvU7VDM9luapsprRQocNZ1WK-aPo4C4Db2-O/s1600/P3280020.JPG"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKeooWe6ZcOl9ZhDgwQRcTKCjPAdRDVM7e3f1Drwztj18BM3OkaDk8KXigucZ3YQzXZzUwl_HdLp9AMWDlxIqtedQby00foF6ERlE0R9PDpvU7VDM9luapsprRQocNZ1WK-aPo4C4Db2-O/s320/P3280020.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5591808221729145890" border="0" /></a>When we left France, I promised myself that I would do what was necessary to preserve my new-found balance. My ideas, in the quiet of our French lifestyle, were grandiose. I’d change my lifestyle. I’d prioritize my time for the important things. I’d exchange the Annapolis Shelley for the French Shelley. Guess what – it’s harder than I imagined. Still, my goal is to maintain the important new aspects of my life – learning French, writing, creativity and meditating. I have not been terribly successful at it so far. Sometimes, they become just new additions to the to-do list. As my first day of work looms, I can’t imagine how I’ll do it while working full time. I guess that’s the crux of it for all of us. How do we make our way in life, raise families, make money, and still hold and develop the fullness of who we are? It sounds like a journey of growth and self-discovery. That’s what I said about moving to France, but thanks to France, I have a sense of who I can be. To quote Marcel Proust, "The real journey of discovery is not in seeking new landscapes but in seeing with new eyes."<br /><br />Some would say that our journey has ended, but for me, the affects of the last journey linger and the new one can only be glimpsed. And that is the top thing I’m grateful for – the excitement of the journey continues.Shelley's Roadmap to Engineer Your Dreamhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00327937042376941865noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1112334948488380299.post-4872433371917231492011-03-21T09:32:00.027-04:002011-03-22T09:18:05.998-04:00Boogie Back to Texas<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtn_msHv52BcfTtOgxTrOHGU34en6YTzT2nPLG98i5LoXpT3NP684Ew0SUoxH7FjPxpo1wWu_5HTlNQRPz-m4f8-5sHdMiJ6ffylYoA-bAqqPRuA2VCPz3EOqk9wF8qS43csytCc8ZyCLb/s1600/Mother+and+george.JPG"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 286px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtn_msHv52BcfTtOgxTrOHGU34en6YTzT2nPLG98i5LoXpT3NP684Ew0SUoxH7FjPxpo1wWu_5HTlNQRPz-m4f8-5sHdMiJ6ffylYoA-bAqqPRuA2VCPz3EOqk9wF8qS43csytCc8ZyCLb/s400/Mother+and+george.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5586745037251885714" border="0" /></a><br />As we walked off the plane in Austin, I experienced that odd combination of surprise and familiarity. There, across from the gate was Salt Lick Barbecue. A neon sign above read “Asleep at the Wheel” (my favorite Texas music group) and the shop next door sold tee-shirts in UT orange that blared “Don’t Mess with Texas” (for those who don’t know, this was a litter campaign slogan started by the Department of Transportation decades ago). It made my head spin with culture shock. Downstairs I felt like a stranger in my own homeland. My yoga top and pants – my standard travel uniform – seemed out of place midst the jeans, tee-shirts and boots. Outside gigantor pick-up trucks claimed happy travelers.<br /><br />We had our own gigantor pick-up truck to claim us. George was waiting outside in his new Dodge Ram pick-up with the extended cab and full-sized bed. It was huge! We saw him approaching with my mother’s tiny head just visible above the dash. <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBPnj6HyD4hIACPoOuKdDxuiBkslqral1deez9e95Phx7uBX7Ny7beUXZ8xvzHNMjRPzMStBz87XnjFwWFt4swIUKzsFx882YfEngCx0B9DjF1H9UClxvfzHD9O58_eqbgswh3m0b7GnxO/s1600/P3190055.JPG"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBPnj6HyD4hIACPoOuKdDxuiBkslqral1deez9e95Phx7uBX7Ny7beUXZ8xvzHNMjRPzMStBz87XnjFwWFt4swIUKzsFx882YfEngCx0B9DjF1H9UClxvfzHD9O58_eqbgswh3m0b7GnxO/s320/P3190055.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5586748078980813906" border="0" /></a>We felt like locals as we stowed all the luggage in the bed of the truck and piled into the cab. Off we went for the familiar drive home to Smithville. But first, I had a very important date.<br /><br />We stopped for lunch in Bastrop at Guadalajara. We barely sat down before chips and salsa appeared. Perfect. Next was a Texas-sized glass of iced tea. Perfect. A long-awaited lunch of TexMex followed. Even more perfect. Over the course of five days, my dear husband humored me. He ate tacos at four different Mexican restaurants, sometimes having Mexican food for both lunch and dinner. He was lucky to be spared breakfast. I had enchiladas, tacos, tamales, rice and refried beans (cooked in bacon fat). Yuuuuum! And, of course, we had barbecue beef and sausage, too, from Zimmerhanzel’s. My mother hadn’t been feeling well and lost too much weight so I sacrificed myself by accompanying her to Diary Queen where we split milkshakes or ice cream.<br /><br />With all this food, I looked forward to running through town. Smithville is small (about 3500) and is laid out in a grid, making it easy to run up and down the tree-shaded streets where I refreshed my memory of the houses, yards and, well, life. The wood-frame houses with big porches and rocking chairs are painted in sherbet colors or deep mossy greens. Many have tin roofs that make the most comforting sound in the rain. Pecan trees were budding and red bud trees were just showing their pink blooms. Blue bonnets were beginning to blanket the roadsides. As I ran, glimpses of life poked its head out. There were two little boys in their pajamas throwing paper airplanes in the yard. A woman’s voice behind a picket fence called out, “Ready or not, here I come!” Birds chirped and chortled outside our window. Trying to be helpful, I decided it was time to remove the Christmas wreath from my mother’s front porch. Its red balls, bows and festive bird nest seemed a little out of place in March. But, when I reached to grab it, the tiny brown bird in the nest moved! The nest, it seems, was not part of the decoration but had been carefully built inside the wreath as a new home. The wreath will have to stay on the wall a little longer.<br /><br />One of the best things about being home in Smithville is seeing friends and running into all the people I know. It’s like – well – coming home. The day we arrived I bumped into Lynn Doty at the grocery store. As usually happens to me, there is an instant recognition but delay while my brain catches up trying to come up with name, context and history. In Smithville, the context is always about where this person was in relation to me in school. In Lynn’s case, she was several years older and she reminded me that she babysat me and my sister. I barely remember that but I do remember Lynn from when she was in high school and I was a grader schooler looking with envy at the grown-up high school kids.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg813O9hX92Fo951cBFeNrBmXPa8VsEx6Kr5kkRCt0yPw47xO5_gcaNh_AnNTdBHRyGO3jdhld7gbXQBX6CdgJbB1nlU94LdVFLw4wetoKgSfzda3c8R9Gm7GQs9nFXHdgvnjdkECEmEWuy/s1600/P3170002.JPG"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg813O9hX92Fo951cBFeNrBmXPa8VsEx6Kr5kkRCt0yPw47xO5_gcaNh_AnNTdBHRyGO3jdhld7gbXQBX6CdgJbB1nlU94LdVFLw4wetoKgSfzda3c8R9Gm7GQs9nFXHdgvnjdkECEmEWuy/s320/P3170002.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5586741559364510178" border="0" /></a> Some seemed aloof and untouchable, but not Lynn. I remember her as pretty, friendly and always smiling. She’s still like that. While we were in Smithville, I ran into familiar faces at the Post Office, the liquor store, the barbecue place, the Mexican restaurant, and shopping in Bastrop. The world keeps getting smaller but Smithville is smaller still.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUW_kdZaOLbcUP0PXNcS6TbJrFFUYFED4tI6_r2YapOSSPvOdvOv8xIvol6d1DpnRnNNnKEsdj-80Vh6jA19AEB7f3kw-FRg8qXREJdh__7DrKUYkdfTiALOcZRQLUWbq2VATVPc4_Am-f/s1600/P3170011.JPG"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUW_kdZaOLbcUP0PXNcS6TbJrFFUYFED4tI6_r2YapOSSPvOdvOv8xIvol6d1DpnRnNNnKEsdj-80Vh6jA19AEB7f3kw-FRg8qXREJdh__7DrKUYkdfTiALOcZRQLUWbq2VATVPc4_Am-f/s200/P3170011.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5586741950738655442" border="0" /></a>A trip to Smithville wouldn’t be complete without visiting Bobbie Sue and Robert. After our wonderful time together in France enjoying French food, Robert wanted to cook for us – Texas style. Wow – it was wonderful! As we admired their recently renovated home, we munched on two types of venison sausage, as well as, javelina sausage from game shot by their son, Derek. There were kabobs with veggies, shrimp and venison (that Bobbie shot) – and those were only the appetizers! Dinner was homemade mashed potatoes, broccoli casserole, pinto beans, and salad. T<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgjzkDkOdV3KajHnB3MQNLWsth1hy8-Gn0lr4ygaJZZbDH8NOiaZPXo19YlzaqPd2w48BTwjWwWx3uFk60SLOl-q-_BCY-i6_5c5kO3QKVNg1zE6Nd_-byLdwiwt_lWBYqXKnvwjUmsu79/s1600/P3170006.JPG"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgjzkDkOdV3KajHnB3MQNLWsth1hy8-Gn0lr4ygaJZZbDH8NOiaZPXo19YlzaqPd2w48BTwjWwWx3uFk60SLOl-q-_BCY-i6_5c5kO3QKVNg1zE6Nd_-byLdwiwt_lWBYqXKnvwjUmsu79/s320/P3170006.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5586742214197076850" border="0" /></a>hen Robert grilled T-bone steaks and more venison sausage. All washed down with Bobbie’s famous margaritas, and finished off with her homemade lemon meringue pie. They outdid themselves!<br /><br />It’s funny – being in Smithville again with lifelong friends after a year away brings up confused feelings. With no effort, I drop back into life here. It’s like there’s a slot in my soul where Texas just fits – or maybe, I just fit into Texas’ soul. Either way, there’s deep-seated comfort being in a place that is so familiar and with people who know me, know my family, and with whom I share a history. I open my mouth and am astonished to here myself say, “How’r yu?” I can go along any street and know something about someone who lives or lived along that street. Layers of memories flood back when I’m with my mother’s friends like Joyce, Jeannette or Silky. <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgE0aMvjHKga-MKoGq22AkoiJDwVFG2JexW7fidEQKgbfk7FD0O0iJMcNzZ1H1Qa4XkirAj-gLQAXnhwHEG2TCbeXSc_qJnp0KS_L4kVo7eA4YWQv_Ul1IitvJFKg-ShplWA1X6beOBTWT6/s1600/P3190032.JPG"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgE0aMvjHKga-MKoGq22AkoiJDwVFG2JexW7fidEQKgbfk7FD0O0iJMcNzZ1H1Qa4XkirAj-gLQAXnhwHEG2TCbeXSc_qJnp0KS_L4kVo7eA4YWQv_Ul1IitvJFKg-ShplWA1X6beOBTWT6/s200/P3190032.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5586746986292236754" border="0" /></a>There’s never been a time that I didn’t know them as a part of my life. I become that little girl from Smithville again – for better or worse – in her jeans and tee-shirt. But, at the same time, I’m that woman in the little, black dress and pearls enjoying the opera at La Scala in Milan, Italy – and, here’s the miracle, it doesn’t feel like pretending. Sometimes, I relish this diversity that lives inside me. Other times, it feels schizophrenic. Which life is the real one? Wouldn’t life be simpler to be one or the other? As many times as I’ve asked myself that question, there’s never an answer. <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_UMGO32xs-PyNAmXzEaugucsX0T4lK59Ltu3I6Z_WG6rPA_mHWNBMbuawYs1qjC4pVlZvA799XosL9aeg8VTDNouQBp6F22em28LG0fiJXIiGRJXowutWBf-di5egapeoLTUKLfhAlfZF/s1600/P3190048.JPG"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_UMGO32xs-PyNAmXzEaugucsX0T4lK59Ltu3I6Z_WG6rPA_mHWNBMbuawYs1qjC4pVlZvA799XosL9aeg8VTDNouQBp6F22em28LG0fiJXIiGRJXowutWBf-di5egapeoLTUKLfhAlfZF/s320/P3190048.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5586745863709410818" border="0" /></a> I’ll just have to live with one foot in boots and the other in high heels.<br /><br />The main event was a joint 80th birthday party for my mother and George. Mother and George have known each other every day for those 80 years. I love listening to them tell stories of growing up on farms during the Depression. After raising their separate families and suffering through the death of spouses, they have shared the last several years together. George is the best thing that’s happened to all of us in a very long time even though our families couldn’t be more different. <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhz0mSHYF33m2Drf_kCavLKpowiFdnTrRKAGH8vzaKwkG9zLOooarSUjMrs1bGZpfTQBulXVBCsboLOzCEC8FF3_2CO0ho40VQHEmzvpZl-HGR9tnhgKG3TvyDcwYpm62FhtAZriIUEmIxv/s1600/Burns+family+cropped.JPG"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 286px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhz0mSHYF33m2Drf_kCavLKpowiFdnTrRKAGH8vzaKwkG9zLOooarSUjMrs1bGZpfTQBulXVBCsboLOzCEC8FF3_2CO0ho40VQHEmzvpZl-HGR9tnhgKG3TvyDcwYpm62FhtAZriIUEmIxv/s400/Burns+family+cropped.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5586746429288517682" border="0" /></a>George’s is large – both in number and in size. He had five kids all of whom I’ve known forever, and his extended family seems to encompass most of Smithville. While they are many, we are few. We could have used Alison's husband, Jerry, to boost our numbers, but he was not able to make it. And then there’s scale. All of George’s kids are tall – and that’s putting it mildly. I barely come up to Bubba, Andy or Stewart’s chest. I have to look up to talk to their arm pit! They may all be tall, but they and their families have embraced my teeny, tiny mother into their family. <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEE6WrVOaWu8dNDgWymSpntZt-Yje4Fn1mvWqQOtNhNs4bJKEIsTXmXdIxdQFnOPLpaipiuNxYxEye6cSIFjFfVfF5i_bm71z733YiUD0QcCOJcUtvd-xB_0FoGNhA8S86rnhtaxH1E8EP/s1600/P3200004.JPG"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEE6WrVOaWu8dNDgWymSpntZt-Yje4Fn1mvWqQOtNhNs4bJKEIsTXmXdIxdQFnOPLpaipiuNxYxEye6cSIFjFfVfF5i_bm71z733YiUD0QcCOJcUtvd-xB_0FoGNhA8S86rnhtaxH1E8EP/s320/P3200004.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5586747595663456642" border="0" /></a>George’s great grand children – Ryan and Will – run to her and crawl into her lap as she walks in the door (Six year old Ryan stayed with us the following evening. He and Mike bonded over shared interests like watching ghost stories on TV.). <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDeqyXOB3qNswrU-tV_nu3pA8gMwzGcT8oImAxVf3W5g6tQe4WJBOYGQWMOaOy5mHpXwYg9oczIHVjORWmtbV624BqOEveEqOjjzhzGwziyghX92qdpfpY7PXgRT_8iS0KUIFpGa0NRxN6/s1600/P3190023.JPG"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDeqyXOB3qNswrU-tV_nu3pA8gMwzGcT8oImAxVf3W5g6tQe4WJBOYGQWMOaOy5mHpXwYg9oczIHVjORWmtbV624BqOEveEqOjjzhzGwziyghX92qdpfpY7PXgRT_8iS0KUIFpGa0NRxN6/s200/P3190023.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5586748626144757698" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />The birthday party was held at George’s grand daughter’s house. Kristin, Allison and Katelyn made all the arrangements; Stewart, Shawn and friends cooked. This was another feast – fried fish, fried onion rings, fried fritters, fired poppers, fried mozzarella sticks, and fried potatoes (and there was grilled fish, salsa, and pinto beans, too). <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiae32jvn7YBqpXppqzr68DLs6AVKyVIWkTyGLYJEVjcdf-Cvs43DoDhI_1fpyO6drczcSJwyWbwzY11PScNPDAFKIoHBwbcEj73Npn5ijfYG2TXyRV7X6Oqfm14gMfThQ4rlhp7f3DLsOj/s1600/P3190058.JPG"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 150px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiae32jvn7YBqpXppqzr68DLs6AVKyVIWkTyGLYJEVjcdf-Cvs43DoDhI_1fpyO6drczcSJwyWbwzY11PScNPDAFKIoHBwbcEj73Npn5ijfYG2TXyRV7X6Oqfm14gMfThQ4rlhp7f3DLsOj/s200/P3190058.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5586748908080673586" border="0" /></a> We opted not to fry the birthday cake or ice cream! Mother and George received lots of nice gifts but the best gift was to be surrounded by family and close friends who represent a life time of togetherness. (As an added treat, George presented his grandson, Jarold, with his acceptance letter to law school.) When the time came to go home, we all laughed as Mother, Jeannette and George’s sister, Irene, grabbed their walking canes and were individually escorted to the car and carefully loaded inside. It was quite a procession! <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkiZZ_9mU8lr1cBhtmHJ8pacmr96-QO4khnRvR1M8e0Ba_itwU0sZOx1Wl1n4e8P0EQhxGpL7bWJG1sDqKDc4mFtnTPsm3P1Hv-4XMfru5D6ECH76JsSrEI4yNH1YPfjZp0bUeUxT4C2Zc/s1600/P3190114.JPG"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkiZZ_9mU8lr1cBhtmHJ8pacmr96-QO4khnRvR1M8e0Ba_itwU0sZOx1Wl1n4e8P0EQhxGpL7bWJG1sDqKDc4mFtnTPsm3P1Hv-4XMfru5D6ECH76JsSrEI4yNH1YPfjZp0bUeUxT4C2Zc/s320/P3190114.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5586749325711247138" border="0" /></a> Smiling and laughing, Jeannette said, “That’s okay! Y’all be old someday, too.” I sure hope so.<br /><br />By the way, as we were leaving for the birthday party, Bobbie called to say, "There's a huge forest fire between Smithville and Bastrop, and it's all your fault!" Our reputation for leaving a trail of mayhem and destruction is following us! <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhz0mSHYF33m2Drf_kCavLKpowiFdnTrRKAGH8vzaKwkG9zLOooarSUjMrs1bGZpfTQBulXVBCsboLOzCEC8FF3_2CO0ho40VQHEmzvpZl-HGR9tnhgKG3TvyDcwYpm62FhtAZriIUEmIxv/s1600/Burns+family+cropped.JPG"><br /></a><br />All too quickly, George’s truck unloaded us and our mountain of luggage at the Austin airport. With reluctance and a few tears, I said good-bye to my mother and promised that I’d be back in a couple of months. In the words of Asleep at the Wheel, I’ll “Boogie back to Texas; Back to my hometown.” I can’t wait, y’all.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvKl-efFxBaysrnmVChl5ugIq6X5hNT-r31Sy3ixhVJV3lR2TX46gBDpyrJtgTGdog-dJuZyjvIMse_UgF9yJd3CuMYIHUb_Yp2HvzwQawZEmok0D60tzOnIQbYfIza8eqDGDZWXclP3hT/s1600/Mother+and+george+2.JPG"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 229px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvKl-efFxBaysrnmVChl5ugIq6X5hNT-r31Sy3ixhVJV3lR2TX46gBDpyrJtgTGdog-dJuZyjvIMse_UgF9yJd3CuMYIHUb_Yp2HvzwQawZEmok0D60tzOnIQbYfIza8eqDGDZWXclP3hT/s320/Mother+and+george+2.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5586749629605086770" border="0" /></a><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhqleZIV_E3PGqrsKHql1nDb_qDsyTnn8yc9XUQKt0HPrDUMii1V0j0r_AuLDd60JAISbSKbT4t_MBQpznDynOo44GtORZB7D_Oa5c36Yc6YvmfVVRCO8MveDkQMNNRf10rfPAd81oRGGE/s1600/Row+family+cropped.JPG"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 286px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhqleZIV_E3PGqrsKHql1nDb_qDsyTnn8yc9XUQKt0HPrDUMii1V0j0r_AuLDd60JAISbSKbT4t_MBQpznDynOo44GtORZB7D_Oa5c36Yc6YvmfVVRCO8MveDkQMNNRf10rfPAd81oRGGE/s400/Row+family+cropped.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5586741448376603394" border="0" /></a>Shelley's Roadmap to Engineer Your Dreamhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00327937042376941865noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1112334948488380299.post-43922257057556229802011-03-16T12:04:00.003-04:002011-03-16T12:07:33.331-04:00Back in the USA<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipV__RhIRLmyjlcufWiKVmUELIJxSAGckx8VmHASwZaoPF3DEF8XiuvYbVdKJ0768tippPtZfALhxXnFWUkzbxLwLN869S17GixCd_s8oJxA31y2QlzS8YpMbtBDjR4bjaybmu8hH9eksd/s1600/mike+linnea+shelley+crop.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 286px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipV__RhIRLmyjlcufWiKVmUELIJxSAGckx8VmHASwZaoPF3DEF8XiuvYbVdKJ0768tippPtZfALhxXnFWUkzbxLwLN869S17GixCd_s8oJxA31y2QlzS8YpMbtBDjR4bjaybmu8hH9eksd/s400/mike+linnea+shelley+crop.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5584709852286456386" /></a><br /><br />We’re back. I can no long ignore that fact. Technically, we were in the US once we landed in Hawaii. But Hawaii has that delightful otherworldly feel. I’m always surprised they accept US currency. And so it was that landing in LA that brought our return to my attention with brut force. Tears filled my eyes when we touched down. I’m not quite ready to be back. <br /><br />Don’t get me wrong, seeing Linnea arrive to pick us up was a wonderful sight. Now we’re on our way to Texas to see my mother and George and friends. That’s all good. I can’t wait to see our dear friends in Annapolis. I missed the people who fill our life but I’m starting to mourn the end of the experience we’ve been enjoying.<br /><br />We’ve both noticed little things that were common before but now strike us as unusual. For example, we keep waiting to go through passport control. At the LA airport it felt odd that we could just walk off the plane into the city. Didn’t anyone want to check us out? Guess not. Linnea whisked us off to our hotel although “whisked” may be a slight overstatement as we traveled a ten-lane freeway for the first time in ages. All around were enormous cars and trucks. They seem huge by the rest of the world’s standards. What is it that we need to put in all this space that others don’t have? Our car which seemed large in Europe now looks like a compact.<br /><br />As I stood in line at a fast food restaurant for the first time in months, I fumbled with my US bills. How odd it felt to hold this money and realize that it felt strange. Plus, all the bills are the same color and size. That now seems like a rather inefficient system. Once I finished staring at my money, I handed it to the impatient, near-comatose fast food worker in front of me who reluctantly answered my questions. I was one of those pesky customers. It’s not like there wasn’t bad service in France, but, honestly, it happened rarely. As my French teacher explained, sometimes it’s less a difference between the US and France but more a difference between city and country living. I think, in many cases, that she’s right. In Cotignac, we knew the butcher, the café owner, the family who ran the grocery store and our favorite market vendors – and fast food literally didn’t exist. I’m still adjusting to the timing of meals. Mike keeps reminding me that we no longer need to allot one and half to two hours to eat out for lunch.<br /><br />We stayed at a charming hotel in Santa Monica that was facing the ocean. It was beautiful. In the mornings, we could look out over the beach and ocean. I watched several groups of 20 to 30 runners jogging on the path. No more was I the unusual one who got up early to run. I had company!<br /><br />Our hotel, The Georgian, reminded us of our hotel facing the Mediterranean in Nice where we stayed on our last night in France. Here in Santa Monica, however, there were no little sidewalk cafes to walk to. How odd to drive everywhere instead of walking along charming, narrow streets. As we went from one fabulous restaurant to another over the weekend, I noticed that I felt distracted by conversations at adjacent tables. Everyone was speaking the same language and I understood what they said! That was new and different. Then there was the constant presence of Blackberries. Everyone was spinning that little ball, punching on teeny keyboards, or talking (sometimes far too loudly) into little microphones dangling from their ear. It’s not like we didn’t see cell phones and such in France but it didn’t seem so pervasive. And you would never interrupt something as sacred as a meal with a cell phone or Blackberry.<br /><br />We’re also back in the land of super air conditioning. It seems that the US is the place where indoor temperatures need to be – at least for me – freezing! I don’t know whether it’s that the people in Europe are generally small, but I never felt too cold until we arrived back in the US.<br /><br />There are also more processed foods here. They were overseas as well but not as prevalent. I had to laugh at the “healthy” snack bar we were given on the plane (yes, a snack on a US airline!). The wrapper, covered with photos of fruit, read, “natural flavors with other natural flavors.”<br /><br />Mike finished reading the sports pages to discover that they were filled with basketball and baseball. Soccer was relegated to a portion of the last page and rugby and cricket had been thoughtlessly omitted all together. Imagine!<br /><br />I’m sure I’ll adjust and it’ll all seem normal again although I’m not sure that I want some of this to be “normal.” We’ve flown over the Alps, the Mediterranean, the Red Sea, the Indian Ocean, the coast of Australia and New Zealand, and the Pacific Ocean. From the plane, I look below as Arizona and New Mexico pass by and Texas looms ahead. I know I’m home. I know I’ll be glad. I know I’ll love being with friends again. It will just take a little time to adjust to this now foreign country. For now, I look forward to iced tea, TexMex, and barbeque. I just hope our passports work in Texas.Shelley's Roadmap to Engineer Your Dreamhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00327937042376941865noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1112334948488380299.post-58572294263142434682011-03-12T22:25:00.033-05:002011-03-13T19:48:53.197-04:00Rainbows and a Tsunami<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0qdg46wdOfZAB7UtHX1Lj-wPN4Lj-XHdFMJUzp2jIpHEskNmu_Yhg3DqEqIqEzcC63l6voJfNaNn3agIMY6ZHnhoEDooNPJknPjJIXsTq-tL0NI7tFnSqup5eBKoDbSDllDdru0JtXpVp/s1600/P3110084.JPG"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0qdg46wdOfZAB7UtHX1Lj-wPN4Lj-XHdFMJUzp2jIpHEskNmu_Yhg3DqEqIqEzcC63l6voJfNaNn3agIMY6ZHnhoEDooNPJknPjJIXsTq-tL0NI7tFnSqup5eBKoDbSDllDdru0JtXpVp/s400/P3110084.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5583603115281878738" border="0" /></a><br /><br />Hawaii. I had forgotten how beautiful it is. It’s been almost 30 years since either Mike or I were here. Tall rugged mountains covered with lush, dense, tropical vegetation dropped precipitously to white, sand beaches fringed by palm trees. There the beach met a tapestry of blue waters. Mike laughed at me as I turned first one way and then the other uttering, “Stunning. Simply stunning.” And it was. My friend, Barbara, has lived here for the last sixteen years. She was the perfect reason to stop over for a few days. And we’re glad we did, in spite of the tsunami. Yes – of course, we were there for the tsunami. We hope this is it for disasters.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibFBkoEnSu_1Mn4Yr39DtLpxHGKtyFSzQ4gyyqWqXbEvX3Qb3UvAGM_HLUYvi17EUlH4BS4YxetmSY1UTNFH9YNV9A3Y8c6kD7LoJVF0otaLV8sQeZC9qSMm3QgIBGjhcoBeQ7GxuoglT1/s1600/P3080029.JPG"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 78px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibFBkoEnSu_1Mn4Yr39DtLpxHGKtyFSzQ4gyyqWqXbEvX3Qb3UvAGM_HLUYvi17EUlH4BS4YxetmSY1UTNFH9YNV9A3Y8c6kD7LoJVF0otaLV8sQeZC9qSMm3QgIBGjhcoBeQ7GxuoglT1/s320/P3080029.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5583603768987163586" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghQQhzzfZhewRrm6OPUY5Y-A4H7RfhUZXev7g0XhyphenhyphenonF7e9zD-cjP_1Vc9ERO1EcqzVvphTCicXGmWYOA-2GD4zEnKb_sQa0FOeAAZIRsMhZ6-Kvg7AYb2mhoyweJ9srQYXzhYeQdfQONj/s1600/P3080036.JPG"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghQQhzzfZhewRrm6OPUY5Y-A4H7RfhUZXev7g0XhyphenhyphenonF7e9zD-cjP_1Vc9ERO1EcqzVvphTCicXGmWYOA-2GD4zEnKb_sQa0FOeAAZIRsMhZ6-Kvg7AYb2mhoyweJ9srQYXzhYeQdfQONj/s320/P3080036.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5583604381882260578" border="0" /></a>But first, more about Hawaii. I’m thrilled to say that we were on Oahu for five days and spent <span style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;">no</span> time in Honolulu. Barb lives on the North Shore near Haleiwa in a charming cottage by the water. From her back porch, we could see the mouth of Waimea Bay with the sea crashing into rocks. Her neighbor was kind enough to let us sit on his porch for an unobstructed view of the sunset. What could be better?<br /><br />While some may be disappointed in us, we enjoyed doing <span style="font-style: italic;">absolutely nothing</span> – no tours, no sightseeing, no Pearl Harbor, no luau. We explored the North Shore and came to love its casual charm, character and relaxed atmosphere. <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8184Ks6KiT5QtAxUxqYfrWzixWaclpMkygfKCuE4O59dOnJgPzjfPNioUQdQo7zc1lYQOQnTGVbTr5ohRvzu9xomuKRffnVb9BXwfZzB9PO9GO4rczGNOLJonC6Swvua9QwibMCOGFQoT/s1600/P3070013.JPG"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8184Ks6KiT5QtAxUxqYfrWzixWaclpMkygfKCuE4O59dOnJgPzjfPNioUQdQo7zc1lYQOQnTGVbTr5ohRvzu9xomuKRffnVb9BXwfZzB9PO9GO4rczGNOLJonC6Swvua9QwibMCOGFQoT/s320/P3070013.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5583604120048201794" border="0" /></a> Kamehameha Highway runs along the coast next to the water. White sand beaches, including famous ones like Sunset and Pipeline, are lined up every half mile or so. Big waves crash to shore while surfers bob in the water waiting for the perfect opportunity.<br /><br />There is a bike path between the road and the beach. It was my running route each morning. From the path, I saw life on the North Shore unfold. <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlsD5TjDlCo3tE3cRN2xqzG-Coac6E6g0oeOxY6WF6wPIVz8_xbSZ6mgypd_-O3czANkuTrseadbdV-a_-H6Sbrwq2BaKN6cO6-udzEfONvxqKZg0bGv2YrEbwbnEnTSpoIo6dGCx0tmwp/s1600/P3060047.JPG"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlsD5TjDlCo3tE3cRN2xqzG-Coac6E6g0oeOxY6WF6wPIVz8_xbSZ6mgypd_-O3czANkuTrseadbdV-a_-H6Sbrwq2BaKN6cO6-udzEfONvxqKZg0bGv2YrEbwbnEnTSpoIo6dGCx0tmwp/s200/P3060047.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5583605042316573874" border="0" /></a> There were young mothers walking their toddlers in the sand; young men biked to the beaches with their surf boards tucked under their arm; old VW buses held surf boards and fit, tan young men with sun-bleached hair; teenage girls walked casually to the beach in skimpy bikinis. Along the roadside, hand-painted vans that had seen better days sold shrimp, fresh fish, fruit, smoothies or shave ice. It was all part of the live-and-let-live lifestyle.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTbtPQNX0j2UcHESlZRfq7H4lSH-GvvHbl6Ig5Ii3EgdKQAqY2MwBYcdFyoJTNsTAaRLXKwWxGIgcQXIDLE3RZN-Ua2JQzELoskEi0XKMye2Jd7lzZrQH37ufvxFDyWsglFldltr1Y-IPk/s1600/P3080021.JPG"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTbtPQNX0j2UcHESlZRfq7H4lSH-GvvHbl6Ig5Ii3EgdKQAqY2MwBYcdFyoJTNsTAaRLXKwWxGIgcQXIDLE3RZN-Ua2JQzELoskEi0XKMye2Jd7lzZrQH37ufvxFDyWsglFldltr1Y-IPk/s320/P3080021.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5583605476179332770" border="0" /></a>And it rained a little each day – sometimes a light sprinkle and other times a downpour. Neither lasted long. We learned to continue doing what we were doing rain or shine. With all the rain, rainbows are common. They may be common but they are still a treat. One day we saw six rainbows. Another morning, while running (in the rain), I saw a startling rainbow that was completely visible over the ocean. Its colors were vibrant and lively. People were pulling their cars over to photograph it or simply stand and stare.<br /><br />With all the rain, there are also waterfalls. Barb lives a stone’s throw from Waimea Valley, so we walked over, through the lush gardens and to the falls. It’s funny. We’ve seen so many waterfalls that the Waimea Falls – while lovely – looked quaint after the gushing cascades of New Zealand.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZaDpmznR2BE-E7bYJt8v7zAV5r6fM3j1CEl-sVZo4Wxz9INzRjyps5Lmsa2X3UQB09_pG_Bj_u95GPkZB8GSlX3B9mFpNWMhwqqTZM2EYs-Q0wTtFy-LfImKMZWrGc3SSq3fnbnJC3Kg6/s1600/P3080025.JPG"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZaDpmznR2BE-E7bYJt8v7zAV5r6fM3j1CEl-sVZo4Wxz9INzRjyps5Lmsa2X3UQB09_pG_Bj_u95GPkZB8GSlX3B9mFpNWMhwqqTZM2EYs-Q0wTtFy-LfImKMZWrGc3SSq3fnbnJC3Kg6/s200/P3080025.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5583606567327114674" border="0" /></a>We drove to Kaena Point and watched kite surfers being pulled by parachutes over the waves – jumping, twisting, and flying along the water. It looked like great fun. I know it’s sacrilegious, but we never got in the water. I know…. We were just tired from all the travel, and didn’t have the energy to deal with sand and surf. Plus, I could watch the water and waves all day and be happy. The waves are so peaceful. I honestly felt no need to be <span style="font-style: italic;">in </span>the water when all I wanted was to <span style="font-style: italic;">watch </span>the water. One morning while watching the water, I saw a whale as it stuck its head up, blew a spout of water, and seemed to stand on its head flapping its tail in the surf. Fun.<br /><br />We did go for a nice walk on the beach. <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkTdqlO43MJXooZdxL8V4BtaVoEtqac653uUIKXkEyY3tjMwEFdlFG_PmxwV35fkRziu6TZtVnIF_fKocgrK0cWDsXoiLzZbpw2cIfi4n3Atv9dfaHlZ6V0IVb91ex7-eE713eN99zWGGf/s1600/P3090046.JPG"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkTdqlO43MJXooZdxL8V4BtaVoEtqac653uUIKXkEyY3tjMwEFdlFG_PmxwV35fkRziu6TZtVnIF_fKocgrK0cWDsXoiLzZbpw2cIfi4n3Atv9dfaHlZ6V0IVb91ex7-eE713eN99zWGGf/s200/P3090046.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5583607241265414914" border="0" /></a>We thought we would be walking through the woods but the trail led onto the beach. With shoes filled with sand, there was nothing to do but give into it; take off the shoes and step into the warm sand. I sunk up to my ankles. The sand felt wonderful; both gritty and soft. Funny how it can be both at the same time. With a light breeze blowing, and the sound of the surf and waves, it was an ideal walk.<br /><br />Another day we set off for a 2.5 mile loop trail on the windward side of the island. We found the trail and started climbing up the hillside. After coming off of the rain and snow of the Routeburn Trek, I thought this would be a piece of cake. Wrong. With the recent rain, the trail was muddy and slippery. Roots and moss-covered rocks made the walking slow and tricky. But it was beautiful. We walked through a forest of Norfolk pines with their fingers of needles in tiers all the way up the tall trunks. <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQ9_a2IYgEuAjzBuREy5ZeTxV1i1k6QWHON7YmlhrOHKW_qWNuAVs04mzjwGh-wEZf9i74zHUUUiNWMkcWCrVjpEJZBLqO-PKnjXIdhqM1FqnPaNu_MqInQ7d24sg1iO0zWw4GCIyNY2a_/s1600/P3100052.JPG"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQ9_a2IYgEuAjzBuREy5ZeTxV1i1k6QWHON7YmlhrOHKW_qWNuAVs04mzjwGh-wEZf9i74zHUUUiNWMkcWCrVjpEJZBLqO-PKnjXIdhqM1FqnPaNu_MqInQ7d24sg1iO0zWw4GCIyNY2a_/s200/P3100052.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5583690115977212930" border="0" /></a>My dad was in Hawaii with the Air Force years and years ago. I remember him talking about the Norfolk pines. He loved them so much that he bought a small one that my mother tried desperately to keep alive in a pot in our den. I understand why he loved them and I also understand why that little tree wasn’t going to like central Texas. The wind was wonderful through these trees. It was so different from the wind in the pines of Cotignac. <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRj6rdpgM43Hk5glAYFrk1i1q4hC_ku7IRjhka0SqJ2bOVWbNh9LPulY4A-JJPY9femAgFyXwEZtNUQ31w7Ff8Wa0lO5H0G3YfPs32OZvSuI70wEYpNtnYcIjTzQo7qxjcO6Lmbknh6xrq/s1600/P3110077.JPG"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRj6rdpgM43Hk5glAYFrk1i1q4hC_ku7IRjhka0SqJ2bOVWbNh9LPulY4A-JJPY9femAgFyXwEZtNUQ31w7Ff8Wa0lO5H0G3YfPs32OZvSuI70wEYpNtnYcIjTzQo7qxjcO6Lmbknh6xrq/s320/P3110077.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5583690602294406738" border="0" /></a>This was a deeper, roaring sound as the big heavy trees swayed. There were also ironwood or Australian Pines with droopy, 8” long needles. They looked like a pine tree version of a willow tree. While we walked, we were caught in a heavy downpour that made the already slick trail even more slick. We headed back for the car with a little protection under the trees. Between steps, we tried to appreciate the rain in the forest. Those 8” long needles captured the rain so that a small drop hung on the tip of each needle and sparkled in the light. It was like a pine tree chandelier. It was lovely until you walked into it and all those drops dumped on head, shoulders, or back. We were drenched by the time we returned.<br /><br />Our last day, we drove around the island, past the volcanoes of Koko, Diamond Head and Punchbowl to our hotel by the airport. <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8TxMcpm8bqf8KuTYq4V6c42yzUHjtzearAH_htBy5bJT-o2l-iJIScM8EVQx7QT3CMeq5AFFF0lueiqQNhnauu9AHLBh0K2GVIjaDjZ7HBSeVrghkIzchQSSQdC315ledgmFwaxCvobHz/s1600/P3100062.JPG"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8TxMcpm8bqf8KuTYq4V6c42yzUHjtzearAH_htBy5bJT-o2l-iJIScM8EVQx7QT3CMeq5AFFF0lueiqQNhnauu9AHLBh0K2GVIjaDjZ7HBSeVrghkIzchQSSQdC315ledgmFwaxCvobHz/s200/P3100062.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5583691476243824194" border="0" /></a>Due to our early morning flight to LA we chose to stay nearby that night and it was a very good decision. Thankfully, Mike turned on the news after dinner to learn of the huge earthquake that struck in the waters off the coast of Japan. The footage of the tsunami that hit Japan in the quake’s aftermath was unbelievable. And – the tsunami was making its way through the Pacific with Hawaii in its path. (Let me just pause to say – I am <span style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;">done </span>with disasters – government overthrows, earthquakes and now a tsunami. Done.) So, we watched the news for hours. <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqobtDRmDuZ4sU2SnyptOqDLyvTYAjjrmSbbM_N1DX0ia3YHaa5fdvKEDSz2_9UAo0RaU_FfrVeJLf7W1lk9Enpt5r5ty2H7LagDGDvbT1seuFSd6-HZSjUCtKaQLCL_4_URTlzFXktPo_/s1600/P3110076.JPG"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqobtDRmDuZ4sU2SnyptOqDLyvTYAjjrmSbbM_N1DX0ia3YHaa5fdvKEDSz2_9UAo0RaU_FfrVeJLf7W1lk9Enpt5r5ty2H7LagDGDvbT1seuFSd6-HZSjUCtKaQLCL_4_URTlzFXktPo_/s320/P3110076.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5583691723528626658" border="0" /></a> A six foot sustained wave of water was predicted for all of the Hawaiian Islands. It was expected to hit at 3AM. In the meantime, the tsunami warning sirens were sounded every hour starting at 10PM until 2:40AM. People in low lying areas designated as evacuation zones were to leave immediately for higher ground. Unable to access the evacuation zone maps with the hotel's slow internet connection, Mike asked the hotel staff. Thankfully, we were not in an evacuation area, plus we were on the fourth floor. Nonetheless, we were a half mile from the airport which is directly on the coast.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvRPhbs-YpZDU5OQw2H_Cx8MLt8b1UoLvsQXvpL2cnBrPeUtzogUiE8cwt1tMDCO2ahzoE-s7kL59DaYcA1d1KqPUEKD3Z1jrmZi6MG9dCh-xiBvwjibRyqs4Qr-BfwevG_XuwTo-ZefiA/s1600/P3100061.JPG"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvRPhbs-YpZDU5OQw2H_Cx8MLt8b1UoLvsQXvpL2cnBrPeUtzogUiE8cwt1tMDCO2ahzoE-s7kL59DaYcA1d1KqPUEKD3Z1jrmZi6MG9dCh-xiBvwjibRyqs4Qr-BfwevG_XuwTo-ZefiA/s320/P3100061.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5583691948926591826" border="0" /></a> All was probably fine, but, once again, it was unnerving. Just as I would fall asleep – with our clothes lying at the end of the bed – the siren would go off with a loud wail. The road in front of the hotel was closed to all traffic, the Governor was on the TV from the emergency management center, and the spokesperson from the Pacific Tsunami Warning Center was giving updates every half hour. So, another sleepless night. At 3AM, we watched the camera for Waikiki Beach that was broadcast from the traffic management center. And, we saw….nothing. There was a bit of water rise but that’s all. There was still danger as the energy from the tsunami was not fully dissipated, but it wasn’t to be the big event as predicted. Thankfully, particularly after seeing the devastation in Japan. (FYI. Barb’s house was in an evacuation area. We called but couldn’t reach her; however, she’d told us about the previous tsunami warning last year. She evacuated to high ground then so we were confident she did the same this time. I talked to her yesterday and she and her house are fine, although she had a stressful night.)<br /><br />The next morning we flew to LA for the weekend with Linnea. We had a wonderful time with her, got much needed sleep, ate great food, and – there were no earthquakes!<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihkkHKbrY9yd7RQZvrvAEkKVIaFsvHV5WPuTjmuukeggEBEv8JqFSJg15sXBlkFYn9jmSMOX923YfPFkJ8srGeEfMypeSFsmXXFyswS3WMMDklXJLb7CaTLuKbLSojL1fyFxL_lgoxhSCA/s1600/P3110086.JPG"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihkkHKbrY9yd7RQZvrvAEkKVIaFsvHV5WPuTjmuukeggEBEv8JqFSJg15sXBlkFYn9jmSMOX923YfPFkJ8srGeEfMypeSFsmXXFyswS3WMMDklXJLb7CaTLuKbLSojL1fyFxL_lgoxhSCA/s400/P3110086.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5583692187099311538" border="0" /></a>Shelley's Roadmap to Engineer Your Dreamhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00327937042376941865noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1112334948488380299.post-9905153374401968162011-03-08T00:40:00.039-05:002011-03-08T03:02:42.754-05:00Blue Skies – Undoubtedly!<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGofxd87d_ip2kjVK855HBFC8-jIEDI437nOwTC2AFURamjdTgVHLxAIPUOMdGD1VgABVcByZ9I9KTk8XYI2SLoh3_G36eypwd8wPjbg0aIPZr-S5m2xF9WnGMHAcSFDDLW6IJokNsvm81/s1600/P2260064.JPG"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGofxd87d_ip2kjVK855HBFC8-jIEDI437nOwTC2AFURamjdTgVHLxAIPUOMdGD1VgABVcByZ9I9KTk8XYI2SLoh3_G36eypwd8wPjbg0aIPZr-S5m2xF9WnGMHAcSFDDLW6IJokNsvm81/s400/P2260064.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5581602447246234354" border="0" /></a><br />The natural beauty of New Zealand is astonishing. We saw vistas across the South island from Mt. Cook, The Remarkables in Queenstown, and Doubtful Sound. <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgExbVddEsXFlsZ_dOcjk1rQLnc6BNG0K9gWHMsd0jK_fzvPUkwDDQgC4ZHV_Nqgs-YLWlvnun8mNLC6tnc5sz87nj1Yam8PfrtKAG2a6bEH1WNxuvZeDraXT36GF1LNVP5CBNU4lzmN0UO/s1600/P2230046.JPG"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgExbVddEsXFlsZ_dOcjk1rQLnc6BNG0K9gWHMsd0jK_fzvPUkwDDQgC4ZHV_Nqgs-YLWlvnun8mNLC6tnc5sz87nj1Yam8PfrtKAG2a6bEH1WNxuvZeDraXT36GF1LNVP5CBNU4lzmN0UO/s320/P2230046.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5581581064743236066" border="0" /></a>Each place had its own beauty. I found myself wondering, how can a place like this exist, and why aren’t we all there?<br /><br />Mt. Cook was our first stop after leaving Christchurch and the trauma of the earthquake. We took a bus for the four hour ride from the plains of Christchurch to the mountains surrounding Mt. Cook, the highest point in the South island. The peaks of the mountains were obscured by clouds as we arrived so that could only imagine the view. <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgMmi8Lf_EiWTff9NV2caMg5kNdr9rZK7XXtF4SSwFRIiuv4dtWMUrOI8mu81Ru9om4urY4h27-jb_E_gQAvhe26zj_zGCSfMm0S3wo8olrML6UzuG2smZ6lhgg6Cmi07b2Pi71UV-PQjO/s1600/P2230034.JPG"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 150px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgMmi8Lf_EiWTff9NV2caMg5kNdr9rZK7XXtF4SSwFRIiuv4dtWMUrOI8mu81Ru9om4urY4h27-jb_E_gQAvhe26zj_zGCSfMm0S3wo8olrML6UzuG2smZ6lhgg6Cmi07b2Pi71UV-PQjO/s200/P2230034.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5581610124979475410" border="0" /></a>I went for a walk to the valley to stretch my legs and was greeted by tall, purple lupine which remind me of Texas bluebonnets. The valley floor was covered with scrubby golden grasses that whispered in the breeze. There were large boulders sprinkled about that had been carelessly dropped by the glacier as it went through thousands of years before. The mountains rose up in the distance. I walked across glacial fed streams with waters gushing past, filled with fine silt from the melting ice. The water, minus the silt, was 99% pure. We would hear that again and again across New Zealand as we drank water directly from mountain streams.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwv19pmVLlbAxMN48SMZlGg4YauNPRU88UvM3IEvLPuccNM7VGhQdv3erYrxzrzCChUfrZgjiUikhxQ6jQo89tx42LMKm2NI6l5HnCo-ejcuALgxDFKMHqZF26_ArjiEKEeVzEwoSSkJcl/s1600/P2230021.JPG"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 150px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwv19pmVLlbAxMN48SMZlGg4YauNPRU88UvM3IEvLPuccNM7VGhQdv3erYrxzrzCChUfrZgjiUikhxQ6jQo89tx42LMKm2NI6l5HnCo-ejcuALgxDFKMHqZF26_ArjiEKEeVzEwoSSkJcl/s200/P2230021.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5581583825391415794" border="0" /></a><br />Our room faced Mt. Cook – or so we were told. It would be a stunning view if only we could see the mountain (The Maori word for Mt. Cook translates as "cloud piercer." It is only visible one out of three days). And, next morning, there it was. I woke to sunlight streaming into the room and clear, blue sky out the window. It took a minute to register that there was a soaring mountain peak directly out the window. Beautiful. I photographed it every few minutes as the light changed against the snow-covered peak. <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivsOUjRvoMMCrYy4Qk7WmF4JJZq3WZCv1pJdIv09uCkedSGbx9ckekW1u20dFRAFc-RR_ZMJQjc92e2u9igqU92XG7EQL2mO5FF2hhrcmkDjX-ucgachTiqktX7PrWlRfhjI3mYM-3xzRg/s1600/P2230041.JPG"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivsOUjRvoMMCrYy4Qk7WmF4JJZq3WZCv1pJdIv09uCkedSGbx9ckekW1u20dFRAFc-RR_ZMJQjc92e2u9igqU92XG7EQL2mO5FF2hhrcmkDjX-ucgachTiqktX7PrWlRfhjI3mYM-3xzRg/s200/P2230041.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5581596618291294610" border="0" /></a>Clouds roll in quickly so we soaked up the view for as long as we could. The peak would be invisible by noon. But, the weather was beautiful for our boat excursion to the Tasman Glacier. After a walk through an adjacent valley, we came to the lake that was created – only 30+ years ago – by the retreating glacier.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEosawe62zq68iLzRSHCXqXIUy0jb7Hpr3cmVdkdjAUL7DxWdLOHAqADYmibd4CgVp265GavoPNjrlvxYG5r4ENJarBIWxcPpMOK6sU3Oihk3HG_B8BJj7rBDGA26_L_nqYERyb63ReSuu/s1600/P2230050.JPG"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEosawe62zq68iLzRSHCXqXIUy0jb7Hpr3cmVdkdjAUL7DxWdLOHAqADYmibd4CgVp265GavoPNjrlvxYG5r4ENJarBIWxcPpMOK6sU3Oihk3HG_B8BJj7rBDGA26_L_nqYERyb63ReSuu/s320/P2230050.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5581596795221273442" border="0" /></a> The water was the same murky gray from silt as the streams. But we were in luck. When the earthquake rocked Christchurch the tremors also shook loose a chunk of the glacier. In fact, 30 million tons of ice calved that day and all of it was floating in the lake. It was the perfect time to see Mother Nature up close. Our guide took us through the small pieces of floating ice – like giant slush – so we could pry off an ice crystal to taste the perfectly pure water that was 300 years old.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEheaqlScze_3dKMiA65XHy1BNnNj3wA9xa6jAsFStd9OWY0uk01KUGaTQAak6Pq6mUFwRavgkcWxvAoDH7Zx-s4x19oYBOeBOQqTgJq8KFZfRXIeQBXe2aZgaUGMGguenh7Idv-UMUQzTZE/s1600/P2230071.JPG"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 150px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEheaqlScze_3dKMiA65XHy1BNnNj3wA9xa6jAsFStd9OWY0uk01KUGaTQAak6Pq6mUFwRavgkcWxvAoDH7Zx-s4x19oYBOeBOQqTgJq8KFZfRXIeQBXe2aZgaUGMGguenh7Idv-UMUQzTZE/s200/P2230071.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5581597224475705634" border="0" /></a> She took us as to the new, large icebergs as was safe as they were still fragile and unpredictable. These fresh bergs were turquoise blue from the densely compacted water. It was remarkable.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWXP9DXen_XpEmMZPecumSHuxNq4W-6kLZWL8dHfIbrqIp10mPWf8CYfaeVOb75v0QYY3PGh1YmnI5gPgXMV2BS94QJjPwCp3pa__o9VK917veefhdoLKmGM6QnZa1D_R5jRhgRiEEmxf3/s1600/P2250124.JPG"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWXP9DXen_XpEmMZPecumSHuxNq4W-6kLZWL8dHfIbrqIp10mPWf8CYfaeVOb75v0QYY3PGh1YmnI5gPgXMV2BS94QJjPwCp3pa__o9VK917veefhdoLKmGM6QnZa1D_R5jRhgRiEEmxf3/s320/P2250124.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5581598321532082674" border="0" /></a>And speaking of remarkable, we left that afternoon for a five hour bus ride into Queenstown. Queenstown – a charming small city – is the epicenter for outdoor activities in New Zealand. It is situated on a large, deep blue lake and ringing by The Remarkables. The Remarkables are a range of mountains that seem to form a ragged, green wall protecting the lake and Queenstown. I look forward to hiking in those mountains on my next visit. This time, we were content to watch as the light and clouds changed them from green to blue to purple. However, we also enjoyed a boat ride on a 100 year old steam ship, TSS Earnslaw. We watched them shovel coal below decks as we motored along the blue water with mountains on all sides.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzcea965OmFnPUwyowEzIN0Y_XWfUZJAm5S4DyoeId4BMSe2vUZPOhjtYWqhsQtMVOrihl9qDbmIDJwE1RTmoMgy8uZcuodFunab_bsEb6sWqVgDFMdJvgbieZdpM7knsi2XP5_J9sNQBC/s1600/P2260054.JPG"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzcea965OmFnPUwyowEzIN0Y_XWfUZJAm5S4DyoeId4BMSe2vUZPOhjtYWqhsQtMVOrihl9qDbmIDJwE1RTmoMgy8uZcuodFunab_bsEb6sWqVgDFMdJvgbieZdpM7knsi2XP5_J9sNQBC/s200/P2260054.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5581602728633334626" border="0" /></a><br />One of the excursions we were particularly excited about was an overnight boat trip to Doubtful Sound in Fjordland National Park. We held our breath for good weather as it is notoriously changeable in the fjords. Weather karma struck again and we were greeted with blue sky and puffy clouds when we arrived (a 2 hour bus trip this time) at the lake and village of Te Anau. <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZOTypjQLBZFWZhkQwXAnQGqLIn-4G5XEdWxUVl36eOubQQcBaWRYEOhXWXvzgQ5EZMpk-HEQoqwETVs9qXE3g-DNmvxLSI4k-ulsZ_cTWjHksn8lEMsnLFxiyF9aCFSdB_YBSjvtZLpzR/s1600/P2260027.JPG"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZOTypjQLBZFWZhkQwXAnQGqLIn-4G5XEdWxUVl36eOubQQcBaWRYEOhXWXvzgQ5EZMpk-HEQoqwETVs9qXE3g-DNmvxLSI4k-ulsZ_cTWjHksn8lEMsnLFxiyF9aCFSdB_YBSjvtZLpzR/s320/P2260027.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5581603028727780914" border="0" /></a>Milford Sound is the best known of the tourist destinations in the Park, consequently, it is packed with bus-loads of tourists and airplanes doing scenic flights. We opted for the less trafficked Doubtful Sound. There’s a reason it has fewer tourists. Just to get there entailed a 55 minute ferry ride and a 40 minute drive over a pass on a steep, narrow, gravel road to arrive at the boat dock. Already, the scenery was stunning. Mountains shot up from the lake and lush vegetation blanketed the slopes.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwEVYvx4tQh1CHlKz9tWvDChuIpBuGpQDbC9iJlJZeP_jcgemNM9rb4rLsHYEo1-Pg02M1-XdH045665q4HSKarDM_W6EEJgiYCwm6qZJVXRx1KnKNBEXRtghqR2DRevfYO8Uo104-3HHO/s1600/P2260050.JPG"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwEVYvx4tQh1CHlKz9tWvDChuIpBuGpQDbC9iJlJZeP_jcgemNM9rb4rLsHYEo1-Pg02M1-XdH045665q4HSKarDM_W6EEJgiYCwm6qZJVXRx1KnKNBEXRtghqR2DRevfYO8Uo104-3HHO/s320/P2260050.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5581603894140034834" border="0" /></a>Our boat had been custom-made for this tour and had sleeping berths for six couples plus the crew (captain and first mate). We boarded about noon and set up through the Sound. Doubtful Sound is actually a fjord, we learned, as fjords are carved by glaciers. The day was stunning and our first treat was the pod of dolphins playing with the boat. They jumped and spurted water so close that we could hear them breath – an inhale and sharp exhale that shot water into the air. They rolled around under the bow eyeing us as cameras snapped frantically.<br /><br />Then we were off again. The vistas were ever changing as we motored though narrow passages with valleys cutting dramatically into the water. <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizhGPuwweIKATP6ratIkwi0oTvMZcXPdoXLx3W5X_N0oUTrscmGqe_8gdGDgOGPMgDqynobnAV0qyWqEOJN6FAxD9BF1TDJjSLGEs8MGKRpRlkUtjLfmWpuyi6unElWJ55eRVT0XmipNCP/s1600/P2260129.JPG"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizhGPuwweIKATP6ratIkwi0oTvMZcXPdoXLx3W5X_N0oUTrscmGqe_8gdGDgOGPMgDqynobnAV0qyWqEOJN6FAxD9BF1TDJjSLGEs8MGKRpRlkUtjLfmWpuyi6unElWJ55eRVT0XmipNCP/s200/P2260129.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5581605078265849874" border="0" /></a>After lunch of fresh crayfish (they looked like large lobster) caught from the Sound, we sat back and enjoyed the ride. We went all the way to where the Sound opens to the Tasman Sea. When we arrived, giant albatross (we think they were really Mallymawk) swooped and soared behind the boat. They had round, compact bodies attached to long, slender wings and bright orange striped beaks. <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJ227hqMYbpJhTd8Fti_f5TCUP-LiR-4GdPFS77F7nTua6tCnvUSWuzNoZ2bhoAaU_bfkeQ1C6AHp_k542y_c2XgpMOYHVsAKyREK4KjJH4ZjYBEfG3bi10L17JDJO9RLfq93TMcoUvlQt/s1600/P2260140.JPG"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJ227hqMYbpJhTd8Fti_f5TCUP-LiR-4GdPFS77F7nTua6tCnvUSWuzNoZ2bhoAaU_bfkeQ1C6AHp_k542y_c2XgpMOYHVsAKyREK4KjJH4ZjYBEfG3bi10L17JDJO9RLfq93TMcoUvlQt/s320/P2260140.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5581604546501528034" border="0" /></a>It was fascinating to watch them shift their bodies into a graceful turn. We had a close up view from the back of the boat.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />As we turned back into the Sound, I overheard Captain Chris talking on the radio to another boat captain. <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxa0Xy6ixiLLKpazfXqUzUuiOG2juxuS344YNUfwLgyw806aN_Ta2FxNifafrSluzLS_2FvDx80CMMTUFk-5oky5dfgHGHINHy-f0bQg2MsY0bA9G-KWMsma-jJ-9VkFhbL5HIO7KXk1I5/s1600/P2260091.JPG"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxa0Xy6ixiLLKpazfXqUzUuiOG2juxuS344YNUfwLgyw806aN_Ta2FxNifafrSluzLS_2FvDx80CMMTUFk-5oky5dfgHGHINHy-f0bQg2MsY0bA9G-KWMsma-jJ-9VkFhbL5HIO7KXk1I5/s320/P2260091.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5581606038581364354" border="0" /></a>Chris remarked on what a beautiful day it was to which the other captain exclaimed, “It’s a cracka of a day.” I couldn’t have said it better! Eventually, Captain Chris got out the fishing gear and Mike was in heaven. He caught fish after fish including some that we had for dinner that evening. A young man from Germany was traveling with us who had never fished before, so Mike successfully taught him. He caught the biggest fish of the trip.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfFly_tcc4eEML8wmT9yQ740HOUxTOFLnyR51VmoG1aZ3SrsKCPaxRifr_273Qa-0S_x-WDAehMtAVdaslxXYKqgC8dQbDlS1ZlBiwwT5368NSKG7LvDr8ANCqLPTzdCBaPEGdlKONFUxA/s1600/P2260123.JPG"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfFly_tcc4eEML8wmT9yQ740HOUxTOFLnyR51VmoG1aZ3SrsKCPaxRifr_273Qa-0S_x-WDAehMtAVdaslxXYKqgC8dQbDlS1ZlBiwwT5368NSKG7LvDr8ANCqLPTzdCBaPEGdlKONFUxA/s200/P2260123.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5581606783958109026" border="0" /></a>While Mike fished, I kayaked. The kayaking was so peaceful. The only sounds were the splash of the paddles and the drip of water running down my arms. Every now and again a bird would chirp from the dense trees and ferns. The sun was warm and I felt like I could float there all day. But I was missing all the excitement of Mike’s fish!<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIOJKrrlUwjNQ4MNKu4aQfOyU12f7DMLw87w4bMEFhR_oEGWtlVeoJxhrKWbCBPtRPh5wJHAU13Ir7Vm1Lqirmp0mEuVk7Hh3sL4u9CDdFuaEbA7MczVlsmVl-bMr0h3lsZYTJiZushMdl/s1600/P2260209.JPG"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIOJKrrlUwjNQ4MNKu4aQfOyU12f7DMLw87w4bMEFhR_oEGWtlVeoJxhrKWbCBPtRPh5wJHAU13Ir7Vm1Lqirmp0mEuVk7Hh3sL4u9CDdFuaEbA7MczVlsmVl-bMr0h3lsZYTJiZushMdl/s320/P2260209.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5581607107569390882" border="0" /></a>With a glass of wine and a seat on the back deck, we watched the water and the mountains turn dusty colors as the sun dropped. Dinner was fresh fish and venison along with a variety of vegetables. As good as it was the main event was to follow. We all stayed awake until after 10PM to watch the darkening sky play host to the Milky Way. There are few things as astounding as a sky full of stars. It reminded me of being a little girl and standing in the back yard as my dad showed me that same vast swath of tiny lights. And there we all stood on the upper deck of the boat, barely able to make out each other in the blackness. <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvqXD3aYXnZrBOGvDP6-qHuVnw36xctUO2UFhWbh1z48wb57C-PTQZbj8xYJWJTBnTco6tJvi55yd2EAmU8c1k6P4t32gLDonYL_zZ-orM06t2ugz7kvP4yKap5PxIKZSx18h6jii4fA34/s1600/P2260207.JPG"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvqXD3aYXnZrBOGvDP6-qHuVnw36xctUO2UFhWbh1z48wb57C-PTQZbj8xYJWJTBnTco6tJvi55yd2EAmU8c1k6P4t32gLDonYL_zZ-orM06t2ugz7kvP4yKap5PxIKZSx18h6jii4fA34/s200/P2260207.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5581607801542285858" border="0" /></a>We ohhed and ahhed at the constellations of the Southern Hemisphere: the Southern Cross and the upside down zodiac configurations. Orion, standing on his head, was the only one I could grasp.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3StvzwzTX6aBUOKJorM1e6E42T6Cbdr87XfEkf3LFB7Ds97DDc7DAD14UDyEAMd0TLZZvLCBuhGqg_IM6QrTLGvaOvYNfx33PEZ0CiJPrBcVjGw9_d6I-AdOBDqujgqx6Wnq9VWYlom16/s1600/P2260167.JPG"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3StvzwzTX6aBUOKJorM1e6E42T6Cbdr87XfEkf3LFB7Ds97DDc7DAD14UDyEAMd0TLZZvLCBuhGqg_IM6QrTLGvaOvYNfx33PEZ0CiJPrBcVjGw9_d6I-AdOBDqujgqx6Wnq9VWYlom16/s320/P2260167.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5581608157033770674" border="0" /></a><br />I wish I could say we had a restful night, but we didn’t. The berths are not the most comfortable. But we woke in the middle of the Sound – fabulous. Chris started our trip back to the dock in the early morning hours. But this day was not full of blue sky. Rain sprinkled down as we traveled, and we were all thankful for the perfect day before. Chris returned us to the ferry dock and waved good bye as his next guests arrived. They, unfortunately, would spend their day fishing in the rain.<br /><br />Doubtful Sound was all we could have hoped for, and, as for New Zealand, well, it’s a cracka!<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHJPZJoXnnu-e8J74NH3lJoPT401s30SAeCfzWi3GTF1_BkMuI2twJgDr-74dw7ZtvpIkmBjWmYwD9GiKe-szw9w-0fHqKaYjXJ4jMOVD3E8HdGX1k09_3dW8manNwpgeaZ-3L4_Junh4h/s1600/P2260201.JPG"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHJPZJoXnnu-e8J74NH3lJoPT401s30SAeCfzWi3GTF1_BkMuI2twJgDr-74dw7ZtvpIkmBjWmYwD9GiKe-szw9w-0fHqKaYjXJ4jMOVD3E8HdGX1k09_3dW8manNwpgeaZ-3L4_Junh4h/s400/P2260201.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5581608440413241666" border="0" /></a>Shelley's Roadmap to Engineer Your Dreamhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00327937042376941865noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1112334948488380299.post-38849813492706909282011-03-06T02:42:00.037-05:002011-03-06T23:35:36.425-05:00Tramping Through Gales, Mountains, and Mud<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiE3Ka_70fU7EzpvnIDdDRpicBCHKJ0CvmJPBuYBHK4rnhr-t3GABXrDFtB57ndRK3kzDXuI-o8DB4640hNcYEinqb8XE0x_ofoyxLfysTx8-A16S7GqwzV95Nfw1Ea0WFN874e1uU3Ts_7/s1600/P3020153.JPG"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiE3Ka_70fU7EzpvnIDdDRpicBCHKJ0CvmJPBuYBHK4rnhr-t3GABXrDFtB57ndRK3kzDXuI-o8DB4640hNcYEinqb8XE0x_ofoyxLfysTx8-A16S7GqwzV95Nfw1Ea0WFN874e1uU3Ts_7/s400/P3020153.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5581181589730037362" border="0" /></a><br />The Routeburn Trek in Fjordland National Park is considered one of the “Great Walks” of New Zealand. It involves three days and two nights on the trail. Mike and I walked it as part of a guided tour with Ultimate Hikes. The scenery was spectacular and we had spectacularly bad weather. We walked – or tramped, as the Kiwis say – through rain, snow, hail and gale force winds. And it was still stunning.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjA32yzRXFev5WGg1lz68TGd2nogXpFrONcBowSlSHGT8sFJeCV_W4cxdy2jhaKnVz48jPeSOdHmcmzJGj1oPRkEKpN9PUCweHF0gM2Xr2oYd6I_4TvSOq2crHbRAG5Ja5BTOtsEIWha2fg/s1600/P3010006.JPG"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjA32yzRXFev5WGg1lz68TGd2nogXpFrONcBowSlSHGT8sFJeCV_W4cxdy2jhaKnVz48jPeSOdHmcmzJGj1oPRkEKpN9PUCweHF0gM2Xr2oYd6I_4TvSOq2crHbRAG5Ja5BTOtsEIWha2fg/s320/P3010006.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5581168425063572498" border="0" /></a><br />We showed up at the Ultimate Hikes Center in Queenstown for our pre-trek briefing and listened with increasingly sweaty palms as a perky, young woman told us how much we were going to enjoy the trek – even in the bad weather that was forecast. Prepare for the rain and cold, she advised. Hmmmm. It was the middle of the summer in New Zealand and the day had been beautiful and sunny. It couldn’t be THAT bad – could it?<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfPkuQWbpNsczBNdJTTrRvROUlZXfqW0i1vpB_mWn-miHonjqrFcaOhbb7zGcOpyFOGcfs1qJiQ_rzJ3dil_BJhkUEmjBCOMOt5vHapt4DsD3pJ8yaUUuCj7_-p91IvKbnMyMQP7gzDXpU/s1600/P3010035.JPG"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfPkuQWbpNsczBNdJTTrRvROUlZXfqW0i1vpB_mWn-miHonjqrFcaOhbb7zGcOpyFOGcfs1qJiQ_rzJ3dil_BJhkUEmjBCOMOt5vHapt4DsD3pJ8yaUUuCj7_-p91IvKbnMyMQP7gzDXpU/s320/P3010035.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5581169208280508978" border="0" /></a>With borrowed backpacks and rain slickers, we showed up at the crack of dawn the next day. We met the others we’d be hiking with – 24 in all – and boarded the bus to the starting point of the trek outside of Te Anau. Buckled up and strapped into our backpacks that suddenly felt heavier than they had the night before, Mike and I dropped into line behind the guides – Hillary, Gina and Masa (our Japanese speaking guide), and off we went. This would be Mike’s first overnight hike carrying a backpack – and he was doing it through the mountains of New Zealand. <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2UmBy055tsCUD5LTNiNCaq9dvsFKk4M67dYsO_x2uHEi0yzpZdD4eSGIdpTiZxdRkuXEtHmJXIBSgb7t0Lw7_tUT-mBOrEydTgUQFTRJXNFRNrt0So76ALA1cTN5in2YUtHk79Kb0whZo/s1600/P3010029.JPG"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 150px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2UmBy055tsCUD5LTNiNCaq9dvsFKk4M67dYsO_x2uHEi0yzpZdD4eSGIdpTiZxdRkuXEtHmJXIBSgb7t0Lw7_tUT-mBOrEydTgUQFTRJXNFRNrt0So76ALA1cTN5in2YUtHk79Kb0whZo/s200/P3010029.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5581170308875636706" border="0" /></a>Lucky guy….although I’m not sure he always saw it that way even though he never once complained!<br /><br />The entire first day, we hiked, gradually climbing, through mountain rainforests. A light mist hung in the air and the sky was overcast. There would be no mountain views that day, but it was okay as the trees stole the show. The trees – small and huge – were completely encased in green moss and lichens. Rocks were blanketed with green and the ground between the trees was a mass of ferns. One of the women said it was like walking inside a terrarium. For me, it felt like fairy land. Any moment, I expected to round a bend and surprise a flock of fairies (do fairies run in flocks?) hovering in the ferns and moss. <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9PL2e42eW1Ps1eQ-Hdp84Th21E77kJ3o0oEUb0gjYLyYAwaoZsMGUB-XJ9rwkhy8LAPJoQzxoFrtA-hG0X_pes6yheXll8WR-yTXwKrEOMzjte5n8gXtjULCpVwEB_fb4_Y63fEJUUCa5/s1600/P3010036.JPG"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9PL2e42eW1Ps1eQ-Hdp84Th21E77kJ3o0oEUb0gjYLyYAwaoZsMGUB-XJ9rwkhy8LAPJoQzxoFrtA-hG0X_pes6yheXll8WR-yTXwKrEOMzjte5n8gXtjULCpVwEB_fb4_Y63fEJUUCa5/s320/P3010036.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5581170555762663570" border="0" /></a>Once we left the roadway behind, the forest was surprisingly quiet. Every so often, the chirp or twitter of a bird would sparkle in the distance. New Zealand is working to rejuvenate its native bird population which was decimated by non-native predators like cats and stoats (small, vicious weasel-like animals). Consequently, there is not an abundance of birds. Each sighting was a highlight. We walked along trying to take it all in. Photos don’t come close to capturing the moist, magical greenness that was everywhere. The air was so refreshing that I simply wanted to breathe deeply and clean out all the staleness inside. We walked past small waterfalls that had sprung up with the recent rains, and we scampered through the spray of a large waterfall tumbling down the mountainside. <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOCoBswnf73GCKxXMdcO3eR4ny_4VzebEuqAipBq9P6mWe1sNXVlR72AXl-fqJrOPjVw-DCG28YqPsE4sE1KESRmgmToPf_o28K8mkQNxjqnBRLLoRHIEVjJJ9AVk8l-uA1X4FJsmUaCMx/s1600/P3010041.JPG"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOCoBswnf73GCKxXMdcO3eR4ny_4VzebEuqAipBq9P6mWe1sNXVlR72AXl-fqJrOPjVw-DCG28YqPsE4sE1KESRmgmToPf_o28K8mkQNxjqnBRLLoRHIEVjJJ9AVk8l-uA1X4FJsmUaCMx/s320/P3010041.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5581170989429421986" border="0" /></a>The only sounds were of hiking poles clicking against rocks, the distance rush of falling water, and the occasional drip of water dropping from moss and fern. It was beautiful, the pack was heavy and we were excited to see the lodge late that afternoon.<br /><br />That’s when we discovered one of the big benefits of a guided hike. The tour company provided and staffed the lodge with two happy people who welcomed us to the glass-fronted lodge with drinks and snacks. We were assigned a room with a Japanese couple who were part of the Japanese tour group that was hiking with us. They were nice and unbelievably quiet. There was not a lot of pillow talk that night or the next! <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcaWRlk9Gq8ywlNO3zr_zGjGFxDOWV524rxNsnVkMJJuVHEsNXHqSs7bh79WQqyKTFTQxNKO1ap_DSnEWAeQG1M9wUhwJVwWZ7G_DhqeuXpEOzjC7zo1zLSFZUj9Cw0zH8DIGpJwsgIi6F/s1600/P3010052.JPG"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcaWRlk9Gq8ywlNO3zr_zGjGFxDOWV524rxNsnVkMJJuVHEsNXHqSs7bh79WQqyKTFTQxNKO1ap_DSnEWAeQG1M9wUhwJVwWZ7G_DhqeuXpEOzjC7zo1zLSFZUj9Cw0zH8DIGpJwsgIi6F/s200/P3010052.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5581171852922317778" border="0" /></a>The lodge had hand washing facilities and even a drying room so that our hiking clothes were refreshed the next morning. A hot shower did wonders, not to mention the glass of wine. Dinner was hot – baked chicken and veggies – and freshly prepared. Food and supplies are flown in by helicopter. After dinner, the guides prepared us for the next day. We gave them our food order for breakfast. Everyone but the Australians had to translate. The first breakfast option was porridge. Mike and I exchanged puzzled looks until we realized that porridge was oatmeal. The next option was Eggs Benedict. We all laughed as we watched Masa explain Eggs Benedict to the Japanese group. He held out his hand and pantomimed an English muffin with a flurry of Japanese in between. After that, the guides gave a presentation on the next day’s hike. Despite their best attempts to assure us how great it would be in any weather, there was bad news. <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCJO8oipUWMXPeoJdV14tZClONbakHk6-xI8i_TJHN0at932JT7HblCJ8XA58aYv7SKZczVHyBfRO8JH1BcPJ7hS0s7NccBfn12aFHPJnBLDQWLFMttYkdFoYneRvdwrpjcge65eZmjdp6/s1600/P3010064.JPG"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCJO8oipUWMXPeoJdV14tZClONbakHk6-xI8i_TJHN0at932JT7HblCJ8XA58aYv7SKZczVHyBfRO8JH1BcPJ7hS0s7NccBfn12aFHPJnBLDQWLFMttYkdFoYneRvdwrpjcge65eZmjdp6/s320/P3010064.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5581172491521791442" border="0" /></a>The weather was getting worse. Already rain was starting to fall and the wind was picking up. I confess to feeling some trepidation. Those feelings didn’t let up as the wind howled ferociously throughout the night. In fact, the guides delayed our start the next morning due to high winds. But, finally, it was time to set off. Mike read the weather forecast before we left. It read, “Heavy rain, hail, snow at lower altitudes, periodic gale force winds; becoming fine.” Becoming fine?<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiI6Ty7YLyCJumgW_F_fEReRQoMCkDe_JEOZocxPWXOEnAVdyHLphJViB7quZY1qkg8xn2yYs948h45BCZydAr8TNL3qK5YnUrVTK4JTtF8gYSndb_qKqksT-Wup6sZKgQJcMkMwTtELPdA/s1600/P3010057.JPG"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 101px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiI6Ty7YLyCJumgW_F_fEReRQoMCkDe_JEOZocxPWXOEnAVdyHLphJViB7quZY1qkg8xn2yYs948h45BCZydAr8TNL3qK5YnUrVTK4JTtF8gYSndb_qKqksT-Wup6sZKgQJcMkMwTtELPdA/s400/P3010057.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5581172714102629538" border="0" /></a><br /><br />With all of our layers of clothes on (I felt like I was wearing everything but my PJs), rain coat and hood in place, rain cover on the backpack, and gloves, we started on our all day hike along a high mountain ridge. <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg92ApSKpjTXsMoS0XiaeB4ID3Gd1l8DReW85Fl-toU_qUnoI7_lelSqQQ_N6RF5nQO2lRoaFp7TRtnuCIrdngNU_-Jj3KM74_-123zsk9_v8PNitdjlwKtdYMaVOGHpIa8-5MH9f2s9bv5/s1600/P3010088.JPG"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg92ApSKpjTXsMoS0XiaeB4ID3Gd1l8DReW85Fl-toU_qUnoI7_lelSqQQ_N6RF5nQO2lRoaFp7TRtnuCIrdngNU_-Jj3KM74_-123zsk9_v8PNitdjlwKtdYMaVOGHpIa8-5MH9f2s9bv5/s200/P3010088.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5581178160588399106" border="0" /></a>Walking in the rain, we climbed rocky boulders through the rain forest until we cleared the tree line to emerge on the mountain side covered with low, golden grasses. <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkKBlzmv3Ip_TkKqjVZBlXda71l0Zung4QW9BoyK9gpcok1we4C0UTcYMn7s17gBWox4q9JM5-6KgHvj0hnvE8uriw0jbe1negpDRLT0nvfdTSTLKqforQeOs-K98Ac-AgNbk5w6YAmrni/s1600/P3020096.JPG"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkKBlzmv3Ip_TkKqjVZBlXda71l0Zung4QW9BoyK9gpcok1we4C0UTcYMn7s17gBWox4q9JM5-6KgHvj0hnvE8uriw0jbe1negpDRLT0nvfdTSTLKqforQeOs-K98Ac-AgNbk5w6YAmrni/s320/P3020096.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5581179268599188082" border="0" /></a>The views were obscured by clouds so we pressed on. The rain continued as we climbed making the trail like a river coursing around slivered blue rocks that glistened in the rain. I was hiking in my trail running shoes which are mostly mesh. Consequently, I was stepping stone to stone along the trail as though it were a stream crossing. Nonetheless, it wasn’t long before my feet were soaked through. We climbed slowly and the rain became slush and then snow and hail. Mike was such a trooper. He kept hiking as the wind blew the hail into our face with stinging, prickly barbs. I was fighting the hood on my raincoat to keep it in place but still be able to see out. We kept looking at the sky watching for it to “become fine.”<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihD8LM7HXI8HvTE9HOcY7qT_zhwrWVPkIQXALJoOVYzZ3QKxtKi3Ri2Qun9VF0u0ezGN_91hiAG34XD3MN7KQMfkx3v9FLwoXCxGsBcccyL54eWCQhJHUJUrvgRB1HmSHAC9Irx8qbebsF/s1600/P3020099.JPG"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihD8LM7HXI8HvTE9HOcY7qT_zhwrWVPkIQXALJoOVYzZ3QKxtKi3Ri2Qun9VF0u0ezGN_91hiAG34XD3MN7KQMfkx3v9FLwoXCxGsBcccyL54eWCQhJHUJUrvgRB1HmSHAC9Irx8qbebsF/s320/P3020099.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5581179522030270946" border="0" /></a> Most of the group was ahead of us and we found ourselves alone on the mountain side. A stiff wind blew up that tried to toss my backpack around. The trail was exposed with ghosts of distant mountains visible across the valley. Even so – they were beautiful, high peaks. Finally, we reached the hut where the rest of the group was already gathered for a very welcome lunch. The afternoon was more of the same as we cleared the highest point on the trail at about 4000'. The clouds lifted a little as the hail became a fine mist. <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5us046jvylbYi7jyqKk5W_pVVUsMLHUgk06vRx7fpz0Uu-ZgD-vptRTlJnkL6zzz-5A6_WzDQw7nuriVkB67cSIxI-ZeoOLF2dV7PKIehdzU86T8m-dupeDBSj49QN0zK5i_i2daeZYA2/s1600/P3020110.JPG"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5us046jvylbYi7jyqKk5W_pVVUsMLHUgk06vRx7fpz0Uu-ZgD-vptRTlJnkL6zzz-5A6_WzDQw7nuriVkB67cSIxI-ZeoOLF2dV7PKIehdzU86T8m-dupeDBSj49QN0zK5i_i2daeZYA2/s320/P3020110.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5581180373950672482" border="0" /></a>Waterfalls, mountain lakes, and newly snow-dusted peaks made us pause and stare – even if the rain was pelting and water running over already wet feet. The weather still was not becoming fine. Hillary pointed out tiny carnivorous plants with sticky finger to catch bugs – their only source of nourishment in this harsh, mountain environment. We finally made it to the next lodge where the operators handed us a warm towel. <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzHWbsRurS6kSWuNbtNwArXySXfo8wvzyiXD7j_PMR8rEc0xc0RJIwq3mJfaBQomSy_FpaNGc4SJ3w-0wzJ6Zed8UHCVgQp0TUcKoQVKMA4SmWRVlT_wFriyHk_0X3cr4utfMEB_0PkADq/s1600/P3020151.JPG"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 150px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzHWbsRurS6kSWuNbtNwArXySXfo8wvzyiXD7j_PMR8rEc0xc0RJIwq3mJfaBQomSy_FpaNGc4SJ3w-0wzJ6Zed8UHCVgQp0TUcKoQVKMA4SmWRVlT_wFriyHk_0X3cr4utfMEB_0PkADq/s200/P3020151.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5581181338053517554" border="0" /></a>It was a very welcome gift! We were told later that this weather was the worse they had experienced since Christmas. But, Hillary added, if you’re going to have bad weather it’s better to have “proper” bad weather than just a mist. She agreed that we’d had “properly” bad weather.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjB95RewT7PWed8cGMmBkXRoPw9H08jAb5YUhEuv3NnR-5e6DszyeXgrksvMuFT4urd_Ow1NQA3zDLT8WaXmKyBJInUeTdhVTyJu4v6X_Ns1DnzX-D5Aw-zcKc4TcOR3ijiBD-YhQJYTM7I/s1600/P3020164.JPG"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjB95RewT7PWed8cGMmBkXRoPw9H08jAb5YUhEuv3NnR-5e6DszyeXgrksvMuFT4urd_Ow1NQA3zDLT8WaXmKyBJInUeTdhVTyJu4v6X_Ns1DnzX-D5Aw-zcKc4TcOR3ijiBD-YhQJYTM7I/s200/P3020164.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5581183178939034642" border="0" /></a>Another warm shower, washed clothes and glass of wine made the wet, cold day take on a remarkable shimmer of accomplishment. The difficulties were quickly forgotten. Dinner was great – grilled salmon – and dessert was pancakes. The pancakes had history. The original owner of the hiking company and the man who first built a lodge at this site apparently became frustrated with unruly hikers who impatiently wanted their pancakes. Out of frustration, he threw the pancakes at them. The tradition continues today. The guides made pancakes and while still hot in the skillet threw them overhead to a hiker with a plate. <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPk33PudtEd3MJt2YqYp5bPwbQBzNnZQluFY47UGWQBmaiyABdQcijlPEaW8WbWFZFh-sH5Uct5TZbWHdXeCJ6w25mb2mUxHjgwQ5n0nkUVm6h3IFZfiOyd9OFl3BCTuJWTw4_9lgXU_Xp/s1600/P3020160.JPG"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPk33PudtEd3MJt2YqYp5bPwbQBzNnZQluFY47UGWQBmaiyABdQcijlPEaW8WbWFZFh-sH5Uct5TZbWHdXeCJ6w25mb2mUxHjgwQ5n0nkUVm6h3IFZfiOyd9OFl3BCTuJWTw4_9lgXU_Xp/s320/P3020160.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5581182443098536082" border="0" /></a>The trick was to catch the pancake without dropping it. Shockingly, I caught my pancake between my plate and my shoulder. Mike, however, was not so lucky. He jumped and dodged but missed the pancake. No worries – he ate it anyway –<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSzMfQBoy64t0F6O_cbR4cYFSc-stGOdgA-8yGk9GxQkFo5oUGbK8FNLn1_1uSfPf84TbO_wjSvRAu5aL6wIFllKvcskhqTkj7IRpa6F5WkyqR3RYdCQEBvNKVrFPQFJanaH1gdp_Kx7GD/s1600/P3030189.JPG"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 150px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSzMfQBoy64t0F6O_cbR4cYFSc-stGOdgA-8yGk9GxQkFo5oUGbK8FNLn1_1uSfPf84TbO_wjSvRAu5aL6wIFllKvcskhqTkj7IRpa6F5WkyqR3RYdCQEBvNKVrFPQFJanaH1gdp_Kx7GD/s200/P3030189.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5581183605295588514" border="0" /></a> with the assortment of toppings (peaches, bananas, whipped crème, chocolate, and syrup) provided.<br /><object width="425" height="344"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/Z4iwI3LWoko?hl=en&fs=1"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/Z4iwI3LWoko?hl=en&fs=1" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="425" height="344"></embed></object><br />The last day was still drizzling but it seemed to be becoming fine. The day was spent hiking downhill over rocks and along an easy gravel path through more forests. Birds flitted past too quickly to identify. It was a pleasant walk and the heavy trees kept the rain off so that we no longer needed hoods and heavy clothes. Thankfully. By noon, the final hut was in view. With a tremendous sigh of relief, the backpack was removed. It is amazing how good that feels. <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSJCqvaN37oX8vVVJPMlmJ75prrPlCH2A6E36YVH8pNQyMlLWaORUAhf8ttFxHwUt1iKR1nMSd6XN2Im71qcQ_c_-fyyNmLgfLF76qhPjY7LGxXyXY5LAGsEP2g0dOGP_WGPRH42Kpgk1g/s1600/P3030197.JPG"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSJCqvaN37oX8vVVJPMlmJ75prrPlCH2A6E36YVH8pNQyMlLWaORUAhf8ttFxHwUt1iKR1nMSd6XN2Im71qcQ_c_-fyyNmLgfLF76qhPjY7LGxXyXY5LAGsEP2g0dOGP_WGPRH42Kpgk1g/s200/P3030197.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5581184132516706802" border="0" /></a>We sat in the sun – (it had finally become fine) – and ate our sandwiches. As we ate the Japanese group walked up the trail to the hut. Our roomies came rushing forward repeating – “roommates!” They wanted their picture with us! It was so cute.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgq0y91ZFmXBc9JZYcL3FX94FsR8BM7PZ0gbzzfvpRIHjtDGFOPHpNEVpuxp0ohW-ANMbc0V-dplQBaoYUtmrcd3llz5WkhWAPWmRJisXKSipTKGTvRRdQtkNNTNML-TrkD_3HYTJcNfPv1/s1600/P3030205.JPG"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgq0y91ZFmXBc9JZYcL3FX94FsR8BM7PZ0gbzzfvpRIHjtDGFOPHpNEVpuxp0ohW-ANMbc0V-dplQBaoYUtmrcd3llz5WkhWAPWmRJisXKSipTKGTvRRdQtkNNTNML-TrkD_3HYTJcNfPv1/s200/P3030205.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5581185333106456098" border="0" /></a>We snoozed on the bus back into town with a short stop in Glenorchy for a celebratory drink, French fries, and presentation of certificates. It was a festive time in a country pub, but everyone was ready to be back and take a shower. We met so many nice people in our group. Kathy and Erik from Minnesota were the only other Americans. There was a group from Australia, the tour group from Japan, and a couple of blokes, Mick and Peter, who were sheep and dairy ranchers in Australia. We shared good laughs with them and swapped sheep stories – now that we were experience sheep shearers!<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjoQbdu0OF1mDXpT8DE7vOUFmJqd29My06l48_qz6BCY8mysZ9xW8hiI68AYwwlp8QIx2cmVOdU_4l4XfkvJbLkXI7xBZ7v48lQc6Zwvc5ybKWzZfpjwvYHL51kW6KMjLYpSHAHZY_Tx6mN/s1600/P3030191.JPG"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjoQbdu0OF1mDXpT8DE7vOUFmJqd29My06l48_qz6BCY8mysZ9xW8hiI68AYwwlp8QIx2cmVOdU_4l4XfkvJbLkXI7xBZ7v48lQc6Zwvc5ybKWzZfpjwvYHL51kW6KMjLYpSHAHZY_Tx6mN/s320/P3030191.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5581184516160416098" border="0" /></a>I loved the peace and quiet of the mountains and the stunning scenery along the Routeburn Track. I’m glad to have the chance to experience the wildness of New Zealand, the magic of the rainforest, and the craggy mountain tops. And I’m glad to have done it with Michael. We’ll always have this memory together as our last event before returning to the U.S. Now, we turn our attention toward home with mixed emotions. But, you know - it’s becoming fine.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipTfOH0EcOGAFEdrZt7aVfW-q_E7_hWLEcgVAsvRflFaMUJsg0qpfQxeRqqhlgZKoioipkqRHTznGQf0kT3qIAdFIV-xmxddHDAPRAf7duQw0pEqoxqtOI8kWlDd513QCTv6ASBLJrRyeA/s1600/P3020120.JPG"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 286px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipTfOH0EcOGAFEdrZt7aVfW-q_E7_hWLEcgVAsvRflFaMUJsg0qpfQxeRqqhlgZKoioipkqRHTznGQf0kT3qIAdFIV-xmxddHDAPRAf7duQw0pEqoxqtOI8kWlDd513QCTv6ASBLJrRyeA/s400/P3020120.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5581180874693278866" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFfEBfIOe_QxWYQTijhzI2AscI4IJrzQoldEJRaltZs8L2sHN2ZkgMG97cCSxAbQ1xwCmPSZ5AmbDD4zoB8zrugCsXehSrTaXZsb286HJb4hl21DKeGpETP9hGJtIwGNd6mKwOpmvyEti5/s1600/P3010043.JPG"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFfEBfIOe_QxWYQTijhzI2AscI4IJrzQoldEJRaltZs8L2sHN2ZkgMG97cCSxAbQ1xwCmPSZ5AmbDD4zoB8zrugCsXehSrTaXZsb286HJb4hl21DKeGpETP9hGJtIwGNd6mKwOpmvyEti5/s400/P3010043.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5581185891292367138" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhte5zPhzLc4JSNqp1fMYzSuggIyTHf3w66Abbwz4Oc2ujs3n6k6w3nktb3Yio7XsVCHBEuM2q8Px_tiIbpjIWBaEQFUjEQ0PXba32INJoLjgG7mhrAG65qw_g5-alH1r4yumoCDt1FuNKq/s1600/P3020157.JPG"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhte5zPhzLc4JSNqp1fMYzSuggIyTHf3w66Abbwz4Oc2ujs3n6k6w3nktb3Yio7XsVCHBEuM2q8Px_tiIbpjIWBaEQFUjEQ0PXba32INJoLjgG7mhrAG65qw_g5-alH1r4yumoCDt1FuNKq/s400/P3020157.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5581181908097940962" border="0" /></a>Shelley's Roadmap to Engineer Your Dreamhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00327937042376941865noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1112334948488380299.post-80094210036946440792011-03-03T21:54:00.034-05:002011-03-04T02:31:08.918-05:00A "Wee" Mob of Sheep<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqRO0TCLjg4jagvgffN_HNmOwLjvxg6dvpNiRXLdL4CjafqkfqiJKKqPgSn-Gy1sb4-fjpZxEPznHMGGb0ehSBiN3ZymmmqmrEcP0fZJvqg5n9mL5W5Vx68SW5u_Y4C9dL3JFNQAYyFAtI/s1600/P2250162.JPG"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqRO0TCLjg4jagvgffN_HNmOwLjvxg6dvpNiRXLdL4CjafqkfqiJKKqPgSn-Gy1sb4-fjpZxEPznHMGGb0ehSBiN3ZymmmqmrEcP0fZJvqg5n9mL5W5Vx68SW5u_Y4C9dL3JFNQAYyFAtI/s400/P2250162.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5580053807714971730" border="0" /></a><br /><br />Mike and I have been in awe of the landscape in New Zealand ever since we left Christchurch after the earthquake. <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJjFZbObCf8Zy1iGg0wsmZz7PjyWTnT1JUGsuEGXEbnEYHD9UFnXI4pa1pOK8lcoQPqmyrAe3F0ukoEj9Ad3wzP73ZmJ1NnWLaJfsImjoqAP9HLWTwjRexZp5SXz8OU0YutH6Qey87s3ej/s1600/P2250173.JPG"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJjFZbObCf8Zy1iGg0wsmZz7PjyWTnT1JUGsuEGXEbnEYHD9UFnXI4pa1pOK8lcoQPqmyrAe3F0ukoEj9Ad3wzP73ZmJ1NnWLaJfsImjoqAP9HLWTwjRexZp5SXz8OU0YutH6Qey87s3ej/s320/P2250173.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5580056738486345202" border="0" /></a>As we traveled our way south to Queenstown, we passed rolling green hills and towering craggy mountains with green slopes. All had a gentle dusting of white sheep on the slopes. Some sheep were recently sheared so that they look skinny and naked. Others were fluffy with curly wool and still others have so much wool that their little legs and faces stuck out from a round ball of fluff. The sheep were everywhere – field after field of them. It had the most peaceful feel – the white dots against the green fields. They were simply captivating. So much so that I wished to learn more about the sheep and this industry that is so important to New Zealand.<br /><br />We stopped by the Queenstown tourist office to inquire. The tourist office is swimming in activity brochures. There’s rafting, jet boating, bungee jumping, hiking, mountain biking, hand gliding, parasailing, and more. The staff seemed a bit perplexed with an inquiry about sheep shearing. <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWpiiRaKmtUiu_m1Pv86sAvPN0VW-LT_DjEt6oPvDOAWVJjuZwePkyP5Aoy9RyTMTmc8aeTrBD_eHP2TrYSK-Jqy5-GrrTY4ELIC9BagKatMWezwnQQT1GAU4wd_NO6ffYA-seNdeE1Iv4/s1600/P2270004.JPG"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWpiiRaKmtUiu_m1Pv86sAvPN0VW-LT_DjEt6oPvDOAWVJjuZwePkyP5Aoy9RyTMTmc8aeTrBD_eHP2TrYSK-Jqy5-GrrTY4ELIC9BagKatMWezwnQQT1GAU4wd_NO6ffYA-seNdeE1Iv4/s320/P2270004.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5580057026826147954" border="0" /></a> They only knew of one place – in Glenorchy – just up the road. There was no colorful brochure; just a phone number.<br /><br />The man on the phone told me that he runs a morning and afternoon “tour.” He still had room on the morning tour so all we had to do was drive up the lake to the village (250 population) of Glenorchy and meet him at 10AM. How do we find the meeting place, we inquired. Well, he explained, Glenorchy is very small. Turn left at the roundabout and there will be a “wee shed” on the right. He’d meet us there. There was, and he did.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidUmfBhUoUWic-1eRKNjlgvuxFPQMmWkXWmZ0VFKd1rBSHcBFu5NE7QpRxut6_NJ68VGjBE0X4hHlyxanKkq65myWZ60RUsVZts3ZGaZX7ESWIBc4D_B-dQGQwfNyuKw0biHXywjhQ0aMb/s1600/P2280025.JPG"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidUmfBhUoUWic-1eRKNjlgvuxFPQMmWkXWmZ0VFKd1rBSHcBFu5NE7QpRxut6_NJ68VGjBE0X4hHlyxanKkq65myWZ60RUsVZts3ZGaZX7ESWIBc4D_B-dQGQwfNyuKw0biHXywjhQ0aMb/s320/P2280025.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5580058953934183714" border="0" /></a>We drove quickly up the road from Queenstown with its stunning scenery to make it by 10AM (we found out later that this is one of the top ten scenic drives in the world). We didn’t want to miss the tour. The “wee shed” was called The Wool Shed and was definitely “wee” at only a few feet square and filled with wool garments for sale. John was inside. When I told him we were there for the 10Am tour he said great and let’s go. It seemed that it was only me and Mike. We followed him – like sheep – to his truck. “Hop in,” he said. The truck was his farm truck just like one we would have in Texas. The floor was covered in mud and dust, and various tools and garments were scattered about. I immediately felt at home. This was going to be a special event!<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgoJLIm6Ql01PmFnwOghehMlAC7pxOSQtssSTJyfdJXPtA8ultayjcxCfURgwbCsziDKmRBzq9KJU40q27LBIPqtyX-xSF0HesBC5ZEWAnKJbJxvkIW8i2oSBpewygA0Sp7qsvvPt6gElKC/s1600/P2280066.JPG"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgoJLIm6Ql01PmFnwOghehMlAC7pxOSQtssSTJyfdJXPtA8ultayjcxCfURgwbCsziDKmRBzq9KJU40q27LBIPqtyX-xSF0HesBC5ZEWAnKJbJxvkIW8i2oSBpewygA0Sp7qsvvPt6gElKC/s200/P2280066.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5580059743009817330" border="0" /></a>John drove about ten minutes up the road to part of his farm. We pulled up to a gate and he scampered out to unlatch it. Mike and I took in the scene. There were truck and tractor parts lying under a tree with scraps of lumber from old fences. Just past the gate was a three-sided barn assembled from sheets of corrugated tin- some silver and some red – whatever was handy. <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJrK-MNehf6ZkUrmhsMoB9YCurfHDuQA-5BqlPCpnpcXptGCy4YGTFCC2BsHcCqMeolccKueJBQupK0YjvziKJ5yX1una049wsNxIkwWTPepSVaU4-Hf0Pn8R_25ESMNftFBmPrOttUeLh/s1600/P2270010.JPG"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJrK-MNehf6ZkUrmhsMoB9YCurfHDuQA-5BqlPCpnpcXptGCy4YGTFCC2BsHcCqMeolccKueJBQupK0YjvziKJ5yX1una049wsNxIkwWTPepSVaU4-Hf0Pn8R_25ESMNftFBmPrOttUeLh/s200/P2270010.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5580060033337221202" border="0" /></a>Junk was everywhere amongst the hay shed. As the three of us climbed out of the truck a welcoming party of a sheep and six chickens came running up. <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEha8l8rKlc6i3Ns9aWNLmcATJ7Haf3-Unm1q8CbnNkeTeGT-Xdrbdw0BuThnSurDkRKwr3-Xk6zJDOAU1iVN6n0EOCPQIM1yB2Kjq9BlIZeZN6Th85V9N-EECwduxtbXCkp5j-KbLYv1AYZ/s1600/P2270019.JPG"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEha8l8rKlc6i3Ns9aWNLmcATJ7Haf3-Unm1q8CbnNkeTeGT-Xdrbdw0BuThnSurDkRKwr3-Xk6zJDOAU1iVN6n0EOCPQIM1yB2Kjq9BlIZeZN6Th85V9N-EECwduxtbXCkp5j-KbLYv1AYZ/s320/P2270019.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5580060394401337746" border="0" /></a>The lot of them followed John through the barnyard. It seems that this particular sheep had been bottle raised and was now a pet – and it knew the routine. John found an old, red, plastic bucket and got some feed from a tin shed. Soon, with the help of the feed, we had the sheep eating out of our hands. There was no hand sanitizer, no napkins….just sheep slobber as she gobbled up the feed between my fingers. It was just like home except that sheep drool less than cows. And, there was a pig, too.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj58f7fEwSTkMdCyt2vcBscXAsrvrkWIRKxkaLIR7rsKBAupkNX8HbiwaQY7U0dHdhkhYWHk0sHcNLKhE0Wj244fsGkBsa8Nm9T3_OniEd04iP7m70FrVcaPhncoNdsODFFoSnn_YldIG7F/s1600/P2280060.JPG"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj58f7fEwSTkMdCyt2vcBscXAsrvrkWIRKxkaLIR7rsKBAupkNX8HbiwaQY7U0dHdhkhYWHk0sHcNLKhE0Wj244fsGkBsa8Nm9T3_OniEd04iP7m70FrVcaPhncoNdsODFFoSnn_YldIG7F/s320/P2280060.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5580093430713112354" border="0" /></a> The small, spotted pig was in a muddy pen next to the barn. John told Mike to feed him from the bucket of yucky pears by the fence. The pig turned up its little, pink nose with interest as Mike held a pear. With a toss, the pig was after it and woofed it down along with a little mud and straw.<br /><br />John had a film to show us so we walked over to the barn trailing a string of sheep and chickens behind.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgy5cWcacD0UYeP_7C00OS-QDTgStk9VPrqNFVs2NQP-uV9zuARHd6OQpiUyboOG7m0aF_gJYFIP2r7hphr9CzrHa8oICedPQT7iNZqeeSs_PrEI4ZVRwX8YcJ753fTuEqQvPJkuh-6QMBw/s1600/P2280057.JPG"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgy5cWcacD0UYeP_7C00OS-QDTgStk9VPrqNFVs2NQP-uV9zuARHd6OQpiUyboOG7m0aF_gJYFIP2r7hphr9CzrHa8oICedPQT7iNZqeeSs_PrEI4ZVRwX8YcJ753fTuEqQvPJkuh-6QMBw/s320/P2280057.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5580093898676129698" border="0" /></a> It was too funny. Definitely not your typical polished tourist experience. We walked into the open end of the tin barn to find yet more junk. John – completely unconcerned – said, “Take a seat.” We looked around and at each other. Finally, I said, “Where should we sit?” There, on the ground in front of us was an old bench seat from a truck with a couple of sheep skins thrown over it. Okay. We’ll sit there. As we settled in for the movie there was an old, dirty sheet covering something on a stand in front of us. John whisked the sheet away and there was a shiny, new 47” flat screen TV! It was all we could do to stifle a belly-laugh (that came later). To make the scene even more unlikely, the pet sheep wandered in to block our view of the movie. John kept shooing it out so that it wouldn’t “baa” while we were trying to listen. So, we watched two films - one about bringing sheep in for the yearly shearing and the other about the men who shear sheep for sport. <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgP9NdnUnofVRmHfPJPRw1U6Rb914xdJ46U-y1GukF_JG7EHZm_Tu7U7284cSCjrbdT0CwM65Ws6CLG8ltye-lq8czox2QYbxJkRhqySVCSiuh6GjbC9BugxVuhVFaj0QSLUA_eM1nzzsNO/s1600/P2270021.JPG"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgP9NdnUnofVRmHfPJPRw1U6Rb914xdJ46U-y1GukF_JG7EHZm_Tu7U7284cSCjrbdT0CwM65Ws6CLG8ltye-lq8czox2QYbxJkRhqySVCSiuh6GjbC9BugxVuhVFaj0QSLUA_eM1nzzsNO/s320/P2270021.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5580094165582494178" border="0" /></a>The world record is 843 sheep in ten hours (non-stop from 7AM-5PM). This includes reaching inside the pen and hauling out a full grown sheep. It takes 46 passes to completely shear the sheep. Then the wool is collected by women working the floor. They throw the fleece in one fling onto a bed and sort it within seconds so that they are ready when the next sheep is finished. It is a choreographed ballet where each person’s timing has to be exact. It was impressive and extremely hard work.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLZ60vdJsiRtY1VY2MVrCQbjDCFRMpGrfYTcwrsIepd0br7Hg8V3j4Gc1Q3jYTlHqUoGsHMJFF6yi2Tbjf5NhNe0B8sLxIOOMvSzoiHL8z0omOzPOQem1NiMRq3ho_oOHm-M8ATmL0TD4o/s1600/P2280026.JPG"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLZ60vdJsiRtY1VY2MVrCQbjDCFRMpGrfYTcwrsIepd0br7Hg8V3j4Gc1Q3jYTlHqUoGsHMJFF6yi2Tbjf5NhNe0B8sLxIOOMvSzoiHL8z0omOzPOQem1NiMRq3ho_oOHm-M8ATmL0TD4o/s200/P2280026.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5580094672443027730" border="0" /></a>And we got a small taste of it. John has been running merino sheep for 30 years and clearly loved telling us about the different breeds and how they are used. Merino sheep are raised for wool and live high on the mountain slopes. They are rounded up twice a year using people and dogs. Dogs being the more important of the two. Crossbred sheep are raised for meat and are generally penned in the lower elevations making it much easier to herd them up for shearing. Which is what we were about to do.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0cH2f1ncPIQiu92RNOgmk45-coFvnUcUQWO1XfMuLAlSXbFqdpeCMzgYsvu0H3BobHOCX_BZEJLnjXdX0DkPwWLia1u6oRqH3PE3QDR3yVWqP8-0UWdyUc86X57Fq_E7jiO8l3wgXlUUw/s1600/P2280029.JPG"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0cH2f1ncPIQiu92RNOgmk45-coFvnUcUQWO1XfMuLAlSXbFqdpeCMzgYsvu0H3BobHOCX_BZEJLnjXdX0DkPwWLia1u6oRqH3PE3QDR3yVWqP8-0UWdyUc86X57Fq_E7jiO8l3wgXlUUw/s320/P2280029.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5580095046181454930" border="0" /></a>John had a few Crossbreds in the field and our job was to herd them into the pen by the barn. Since we had paid money for this activity, we headed off through the field tramping through high, green grass and more than a little sheep shit. Sheep shit comes in much smaller piles than cow shit which made it more difficult to spot. The good thing about these sheep is that they are largely wild and afraid of people. As soon as we started walking toward the small herd of about 20 sheep, they moved away, staying in a tight pack with their buddies. Walking and shooing, we got the sheep over to the barn where John opened the gate to a rickety pen and herded them inside.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhILXtX6hQD2PwsBzLzb5Q8POJEjto-1IzKxmAoXzdzbbnHkDEJgsWXYt_o31oj5iO-8m-x3V8nGHhHYVfV0JfiMiWKGVZabDNcsAIGXDEjfia8jsGLeul4s-3v52YVnFBBOanEfMDkGePM/s1600/P2280033.JPG"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhILXtX6hQD2PwsBzLzb5Q8POJEjto-1IzKxmAoXzdzbbnHkDEJgsWXYt_o31oj5iO-8m-x3V8nGHhHYVfV0JfiMiWKGVZabDNcsAIGXDEjfia8jsGLeul4s-3v52YVnFBBOanEfMDkGePM/s320/P2280033.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5580095280914326050" border="0" /></a><br />We had to get them to move up a chute into a smaller holding pen for shearing. So there we were – me and Mike – inside a pen with a bunch of sheep. Frightened and panting, they ran around us as we moved avoiding the chute. There was nothing to do but shove. John laughed as we pushed and shoved on the sheep. With his help, we got the lead sheep to head up the chute and the rest followed.<br /><br /><object height="344" width="425"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/PjbzK3FxkQ8?hl=en&fs=1"><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/PjbzK3FxkQ8?hl=en&fs=1" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" height="344" width="425"></embed></object><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjiaUgw1Dnwrbh-8rkXqcOYiNF-A8aaE74D7ISSLVzjb8aUC8JwK2NMvxV6W_HiOo21WR4Vrajq6satVAIfJtGG86zTnnLSZOwe5WHdgNgqxNZxyUpIQJxE6OxmvSBT-ebZD0JT_aRh6xBI/s1600/P2280074.JPG"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjiaUgw1Dnwrbh-8rkXqcOYiNF-A8aaE74D7ISSLVzjb8aUC8JwK2NMvxV6W_HiOo21WR4Vrajq6satVAIfJtGG86zTnnLSZOwe5WHdgNgqxNZxyUpIQJxE6OxmvSBT-ebZD0JT_aRh6xBI/s320/P2280074.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5580096035374647250" border="0" /></a>Inside the shed we had photo ops with the six or so sheep waiting to be sheared. Some of them had curly, oily wool (this is where lanolin comes from) and others had dense, thick soft wool that made me want to snuggle up next to this cute animal. Sheep have great faces framed by their big, soft, warm ears. They didn’t have a lot of choice, so they let us pat them, feel their fur and take countless photos. By this time, my hands were covered with sheep slobber, dirt, oil from the wool and the charming smell of farm animals. <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLjdvhyphenhyphenhOBa_47adYPz2BS5RyMhGwacATFPWwOULQ50xGdBMSyYA3BgRF53qLXXiFZcC7w9Xnmz7Rq-ztQHC6eau6Swcr-ytG5_iotplCcYWYCiiFE7s-c8qjcQlRjRyAxcZN_Pn4_5Mak/s1600/P2280040.JPG"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLjdvhyphenhyphenhOBa_47adYPz2BS5RyMhGwacATFPWwOULQ50xGdBMSyYA3BgRF53qLXXiFZcC7w9Xnmz7Rq-ztQHC6eau6Swcr-ytG5_iotplCcYWYCiiFE7s-c8qjcQlRjRyAxcZN_Pn4_5Mak/s200/P2280040.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5580096347283974802" border="0" /></a>No time to worry about that - it was time to try our hands at shearing.<br /><br />John hooked up the electric shearer (it looks like a larger version of the shears we have for Skeeter) which was suspended from the wall of the barn. <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivrDW05bhbEkwV88c1Ru5tOtwOAa_7ow_QENUWEnGB_EU3XKPXcI9zGf7eGmMfTo0KA4YWz4jcEq8OLqjAlir-vhcCcl1AZkjIKdwTNaGNN8AGG3QMkDHHv6TLwvb6-_M7aUFo49J6icHY/s1600/P2280050.JPG"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivrDW05bhbEkwV88c1Ru5tOtwOAa_7ow_QENUWEnGB_EU3XKPXcI9zGf7eGmMfTo0KA4YWz4jcEq8OLqjAlir-vhcCcl1AZkjIKdwTNaGNN8AGG3QMkDHHv6TLwvb6-_M7aUFo49J6icHY/s320/P2280050.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5580097172574013842" border="0" /></a>He went into the pen and grabbed one of the sheep and dragged her out by her front legs on her butt. There’s something about this posture that keeps the sheep calm. She just sat there on her “bum” while he held her by her front legs. She looked so funny with her skinny, stick-thin legs stuck straight out as though she was pointing her toes. We each got to try holding her and she cooperated very well. John demonstrated how to shear her and then had me – and then Mike – try it. I carefully ran the shearer down her side as the wool curled up and peeled away. It was so cool! John said I was a “natural.” <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtIHoodHtc5Lv9xFilQTgCtOso0coTBbxHhFmRmQnKNd_3dhcAgFcepGWYcOWTR0EscONN3UdmjguVqaXqkA8zDYbtTWjd8YZV5_12sb6PVmwh5Gzs2Uae54eV0IGPAnf1Q1VL37ngxZti/s1600/P2280082.JPG"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtIHoodHtc5Lv9xFilQTgCtOso0coTBbxHhFmRmQnKNd_3dhcAgFcepGWYcOWTR0EscONN3UdmjguVqaXqkA8zDYbtTWjd8YZV5_12sb6PVmwh5Gzs2Uae54eV0IGPAnf1Q1VL37ngxZti/s320/P2280082.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5580097755488668082" border="0" /></a>I’m not sure the sheep thought so.<br /><br />Mike took his turn on the same, poor sheep. After we’d finished, we let her go and surveyed our handiwork. It was lame. All the other sheep are laughing and calling her names. She had a very bad hair day! Poor thing.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqZQWvF_Uzimksh6K0wGquog3nHGdPILTZxcfiJh544v4nm6F3yZfqoR_yPpuK5ZzbDaNY8X39BXlIIu2vHlupRzj-mZ9Goq3f5UHgfOcBxZ-I9oaQZDuunzrk8Aa16pZc5BeSZAS9QC1l/s1600/P2280086.JPG"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqZQWvF_Uzimksh6K0wGquog3nHGdPILTZxcfiJh544v4nm6F3yZfqoR_yPpuK5ZzbDaNY8X39BXlIIu2vHlupRzj-mZ9Goq3f5UHgfOcBxZ-I9oaQZDuunzrk8Aa16pZc5BeSZAS9QC1l/s200/P2280086.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5580098574895351890" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><object height="344" width="425"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/_zdEDMjyji0?hl=en&fs=1"><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/_zdEDMjyji0?hl=en&fs=1" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" height="344" width="425"></embed></object><br /><br />With her on the outside and all her buddies on the inside, she was very unhappy and wouldn’t leave. Much “baa-ing” started so we let them all out. They were a little slow to catch on so I had to get back in the pen and try to direct them to the open gate. John instructed me to grab a sheep’s head and physically turn it in the direction I wanted her to go. Once again, when one started moving the others followed. Soon all the sheep were headed back out to their pasture for some more peaceful grazing – before the next “tour” of uninformed city-slickers arrived.<br /><br />After shearing, John taught us how to see the difference in wool quality by the number of wrinkles in the fibers. Merino wool is filled with tiny wrinkles and the fiber is very fine. It's perfect for high quality, soft garments. There was a memorable moment as John described how merino wool was prized by the high fashion industry for its drape - as he tipped his body to one side to demonstrate the drape of the fabric.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9Nuialyc9x5aHYz3Sd1myC-jgujqf3dveglowTii6Scj8KSg3S89S_0XtMvLLsh7kQRdK_AdFpfIuZb7_ADzKtGSBn7gEkKpbYq2MEPf3-1whM4saKHHpz-I4Lf_SRzFo0RcsX-2SkYdO/s1600/P2280067.JPG"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9Nuialyc9x5aHYz3Sd1myC-jgujqf3dveglowTii6Scj8KSg3S89S_0XtMvLLsh7kQRdK_AdFpfIuZb7_ADzKtGSBn7gEkKpbYq2MEPf3-1whM4saKHHpz-I4Lf_SRzFo0RcsX-2SkYdO/s320/P2280067.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5580099111436840482" border="0" /></a>With the flat-screen TV recovered, and back in the truck, we said good bye to the chickens, the pig and the pet sheep. What a morning! We can’t thank John enough for a most memorable experience. After leaving the wee shed, we stopped for lunch at the Glenorchy café. Thankfully, they had a sink AND hand sanitzer!<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2hH-S4jGOv67g0SLnTCx2uCmK4t7Udt-5pQ1P_N22lwdvEckCFNdG4XaWMKzlmrfOjKsxxv96phyphenhyphennRcelPQkCmPXM9wnyCpUQKOhmd_wS517fRxRuUiLyqurlgA_TGl3JH_sM_AyxhPqe/s1600/P2280042.JPG"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2hH-S4jGOv67g0SLnTCx2uCmK4t7Udt-5pQ1P_N22lwdvEckCFNdG4XaWMKzlmrfOjKsxxv96phyphenhyphennRcelPQkCmPXM9wnyCpUQKOhmd_wS517fRxRuUiLyqurlgA_TGl3JH_sM_AyxhPqe/s320/P2280042.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5580099370412399938" border="0" /></a>Shelley's Roadmap to Engineer Your Dreamhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00327937042376941865noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1112334948488380299.post-62811955092133025862011-02-24T04:36:00.066-05:002011-02-27T01:15:39.143-05:00What a Difference a Day Makes<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1FBx-ngJaEVqg5Iw_SjYlo-X1oiWDLIsRZDmO6UsECnU3lAsdWY3W_jc8A4Z4SLGYz3jfDSuyzPB92vr4xrIomdctF3_H7kqKte__DqBx9bwAuvBeyieyWqAZyD6VGZwsOlBJ9W4XA4Bh/s1600/cathedral+cropped.JPG"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 354px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1FBx-ngJaEVqg5Iw_SjYlo-X1oiWDLIsRZDmO6UsECnU3lAsdWY3W_jc8A4Z4SLGYz3jfDSuyzPB92vr4xrIomdctF3_H7kqKte__DqBx9bwAuvBeyieyWqAZyD6VGZwsOlBJ9W4XA4Bh/s400/cathedral+cropped.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5577193201081863362" border="0"></a><br /><br />We’re two for two. First Cairo and now Christchurch. We feel like “disasters r us.” We landed in Christchurch, New Zealand after a long flight from Singapore to discover Christchurch to be a charming, small city with a British feel owing to its history. <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0GXdOYpq-1otVx141TiXA4vB6Ump0ZWEmU7NJ8N_Vu6WddrsDQdO2InayYbgJpCVTazRyEvx10ZVDFOwkH0r6rGnCuERHCDNfLF6PBXG0siM4geGpn-lduAJxXqH0_vQkutYNbQYXSc6y/s1600/P2210011.JPG"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 150px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0GXdOYpq-1otVx141TiXA4vB6Ump0ZWEmU7NJ8N_Vu6WddrsDQdO2InayYbgJpCVTazRyEvx10ZVDFOwkH0r6rGnCuERHCDNfLF6PBXG0siM4geGpn-lduAJxXqH0_vQkutYNbQYXSc6y/s200/P2210011.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5577194353448601122" border="0"></a>Christchurch looked jubilant with mounds of colorful flowers blooming their hearts out – roses, hydrangeas, geraniums, and an array of bedding plants. The city has the feel of a distinguished college campus – similar to Duke University –as people walked and biked past brownstone, Tudor-style buildings with their high pitched roofs, Gothic windows, and intricate spires. <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLzKOBVMOS5wJc5Vs7nvyNhRP56eToxuwMK68Hwmwy1ExdYzDi3SLC24X7IsV6Y7YnPMSRabOjXrtkoVojEO7YPNNv7uj2SRAAsi_9AsTrL-hG3b1emtyBJJt3ZcWuSkU0caTpz_WWJdyA/s1600/P2200020.JPG"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLzKOBVMOS5wJc5Vs7nvyNhRP56eToxuwMK68Hwmwy1ExdYzDi3SLC24X7IsV6Y7YnPMSRabOjXrtkoVojEO7YPNNv7uj2SRAAsi_9AsTrL-hG3b1emtyBJJt3ZcWuSkU0caTpz_WWJdyA/s320/P2200020.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5577194004741860178" border="0"></a>In the center of the city the historic cathedral dominated Cathedral Square. We arrived during the annual flower show so the front of the cathedral was decorated with an archway of flowers. And there was a carpet of flowers down the middle of the nave inside. As we approached the square the carillons in the tall spire chimed their tune filling the square with ringing. The city loves its British roots. (According to our local tour guide, the British settlers arrived over 200 years ago in a “wee boat.”) The Avon river meandered slowly through the center city with green grass and graceful willow trees draping the river. The Bard pub was on one corner and The Oxford on the Avon restaurant occupied another. <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfliUgFLw_b2v7Ss5AVPP1PhkZ_r3i7kS73bKPEsldz6NkE6MP6tmxhIoa-SxhD_CCwcsC0zoqOfVTAzVVO3D-Bm3TuEnFmURnXxEOcqdrZqF_FeGC8hyphenhyphenw9B1zlifesybOEc76JaBdfcon/s1600/P2210025.JPG"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfliUgFLw_b2v7Ss5AVPP1PhkZ_r3i7kS73bKPEsldz6NkE6MP6tmxhIoa-SxhD_CCwcsC0zoqOfVTAzVVO3D-Bm3TuEnFmURnXxEOcqdrZqF_FeGC8hyphenhyphenw9B1zlifesybOEc76JaBdfcon/s320/P2210025.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5577194695433328370" border="0"></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYgJSF5jXVzRVYaS5gsBijp6y53FLojEeNNyd2_6HAwCQaYdVn8xLWPX8IOp0tEIpVmtul7LrO__NVcvxcxAhrDB_TtQwCy7nzsubQk0gmaKqoC6tt3zklmw4G-kj7a9tsHIF65B5bl4fg/s1600/P2200021.JPG"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 150px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYgJSF5jXVzRVYaS5gsBijp6y53FLojEeNNyd2_6HAwCQaYdVn8xLWPX8IOp0tEIpVmtul7LrO__NVcvxcxAhrDB_TtQwCy7nzsubQk0gmaKqoC6tt3zklmw4G-kj7a9tsHIF65B5bl4fg/s200/P2200021.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5577195232096055458" border="0"></a>We spent a stunning, blue-sky day walking all over the city – through the historic, Tudor-style Arts Center directly across the street from our hotel, visiting the Canterbury Museum, and strolling along the river for coffee at the historic Antigua Boat Shed. Our highlight was punting on the Avon. The Avon River is very shallow and clear. Punting is accomplished by boarding canoe-like boats that are very shallow. A punter uses a long pole to push the boat along the river. We floated – or punted – under arched bridges with decorative scroll-work railings, under willow branches and past old brown stone buildings from the 1800s. Our punter kept up a running commentary which included discussion of the 7.1 earthquake that hit Christchurch last September. It caused substantial damage to many buildings in the city, but, he told us, another "big one" is predicted sometime soon. Prophetic words.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjhHS0c4xp6j_OkzOb4TsqZreLlG6s8kVKIzH27bGu3VeC10549VVFO3DTyV1dbnaxObNuDpm-tgozSM62LZr9V3TV1GTU78FQ6Ac-A4UUI8gsznVeDLKa2GqBZYI2Iet51KulEJObO6LK/s1600/P2220075.JPG"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjhHS0c4xp6j_OkzOb4TsqZreLlG6s8kVKIzH27bGu3VeC10549VVFO3DTyV1dbnaxObNuDpm-tgozSM62LZr9V3TV1GTU78FQ6Ac-A4UUI8gsznVeDLKa2GqBZYI2Iet51KulEJObO6LK/s320/P2220075.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5577196078465311154" border="0"></a>The next morning we left for the small coastal village of Akaroa to swim with the dolphins. As we sat in a tiny café having lunch before the boat ride, we felt quivering and heard low rumbling. It’s amazing how quickly thoughts flit through your head. Later Mike and I realized that we were thinking the same things. Our first thought was – are we still on the Orient Express with all this rocking? Next thought – no, this is an earthquake. Next thought – it can’t be that bad or last long. Wrong. Very wrong. For us, the 35-40 seconds of shaking were enough to realize what was happening but not enough time to act. Mike noticed the cars moving in the parking lot. I was fixated on the rocking book case and wondering if it would hit Mike if it toppled over. About the time my brain engaged enough to say – let’s move – the shaking stopped and the power went out. Everyone inside looked at each other as if to say, “Was that what I think it was?” But all seemed to be okay at least initially. A shop keeper was the first to say that what we’d experienced was small, but Christchurch had a significant quake. Hummm. <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVwjgJrmc-0KLt2ZK5-FbE67-Q_L-ap23VNVCxq7MdIvNU9fcgG37uRFBfJnYjwg4aXX5ehMc2FpU2XDJxzkaUgtQRCMLVGOSO_Y2FBAo3eofywQDzOQ-Gww98tbzegIoVFNAeTycqjvNa/s1600/P2220089.JPG"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVwjgJrmc-0KLt2ZK5-FbE67-Q_L-ap23VNVCxq7MdIvNU9fcgG37uRFBfJnYjwg4aXX5ehMc2FpU2XDJxzkaUgtQRCMLVGOSO_Y2FBAo3eofywQDzOQ-Gww98tbzegIoVFNAeTycqjvNa/s320/P2220089.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5577196323441729234" border="0"></a>Crowds of people began to cluster into groups outside. Some listened to a car radio and others gathered around a battery-powered radio outside the visitor center. The grim picture began to emerge.<br /><br />The quake was 6.3 – smaller than the September quake – but it was closer and, importantly, near the surface. Rumors emerged about significant damage to many buildings downtown such as the cathedral and office buildings. Roads were closed and people were being evacuated.<br /><br />It’s the strangest feeling – all the thoughts that converge at once – some noble and some not. Unfortunately, we’re beginning to become experienced at travel during emergency conditions. We focused first on practicalities like buying water and snacks – a good lesson from Cairo - particularly since we heard reports of broken water lines and water quality problems. Next we wondered about transportation. Would we be able to return to Christchurch on the bus that afternoon or would all the roads be closed. And if we made it back to Christchurch, would our hotel still be standing. Visions of sleeping in the tour van or in the park (the emergency center) flashed through our eyes. We’d slept in the Cairo airport, why not a van or a tent? Even as we were sorting out our predicament, we were increasingly conscious of the depth of destruction. Buildings had collapsed on top of tour buses, people were trapped inside damaged or collapsed buildings. Phones were down so that locals (like our bus driver) could not reach family members. In the face of such serious problems, it felt trivial to spend a moment worrying about our issues, but we needed to deal with our practicalities while being sensitive to the troubles of others.<br /><br />The atmosphere was grave and uncertainty hung over the huddled crowd. No one knew what to do or what to expect. We boarded our bus (our bus driver finally reached his wife to find that she and their home were okay) and headed for Christchurch not knowing how close we’d be able to get to anyone’s hotel or even if the hotel would be there. We drove past beautiful coves and over hills dotted with black and white dairy cows and fluffy sheep. The calm beauty was not enough to divert troubled thoughts crowding our minds. <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSogo1XB5WVpAKYB6DMHGO8hU5_U0dMuzs-cdMoaRLxNuo8Y65SGxq2PPAQ_7klKyCqaNPmu4vzLSg9id4CPUnJru-RNxmhmJ-N0VYrU6bq9zDY8Y0fBwYCjbRs7mM4OWbMfJ9p9_Jlg7M/s1600/P2220111.JPG"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSogo1XB5WVpAKYB6DMHGO8hU5_U0dMuzs-cdMoaRLxNuo8Y65SGxq2PPAQ_7klKyCqaNPmu4vzLSg9id4CPUnJru-RNxmhmJ-N0VYrU6bq9zDY8Y0fBwYCjbRs7mM4OWbMfJ9p9_Jlg7M/s320/P2220111.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5577197992231196402" border="0"></a>About 6km from Christchurch we began to see damage.<br /><br />Cracks appeared in the roadway and muddy humps like large ant hills splayed out alongside the road. This was liquefaction. The normally stable fine-grained soils became like quick sand when moist and shaken. The material oozed to the surface leaving empty space under sidewalks and roadways that then cave in. Water ran down streets from water line breaks. <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiksgL2s-HK7UoqB6WEvnlpLj2HQ6oQlog3aW8gRBhlmMATWOopqXbmL2Y_Vb7J4sKjq3XHMnIohDFaMWT_999TAGUSngQZb6VrTwFgl83lqrBEPC4dlQoadUHNbwVI7dW4bckUBUXTKifc/s1600/P2220097.JPG"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiksgL2s-HK7UoqB6WEvnlpLj2HQ6oQlog3aW8gRBhlmMATWOopqXbmL2Y_Vb7J4sKjq3XHMnIohDFaMWT_999TAGUSngQZb6VrTwFgl83lqrBEPC4dlQoadUHNbwVI7dW4bckUBUXTKifc/s200/P2220097.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5577200429186514962" border="0"></a>Buildings already boarded up from the first earthquake were now piles of rumble. Brick walls were sprawled into the street. Cars lined up at any open gas station hoping to fill their tanks before the nearby damaged Lyttleton port was closed. For the second time in two weeks, we saw a convoy of army vehicles rolling down city streets.<br /><br />After much maneuvering, our driver got us into the vicinity of downtown. <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVO8r_3hyfuWh-8fFKPIvD_CJ5B538xDW7FZGoYo9TeaaKB4-jDLv65pIAHSb3wyXS8hn3WLtK4IDMxzC4CuxaCDLkuUH7nyaCWbdyeLtg5DNNrRskmgSlKH1kMkqhHjmozEIuolgYLrDq/s1600/P2220116.JPG"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVO8r_3hyfuWh-8fFKPIvD_CJ5B538xDW7FZGoYo9TeaaKB4-jDLv65pIAHSb3wyXS8hn3WLtK4IDMxzC4CuxaCDLkuUH7nyaCWbdyeLtg5DNNrRskmgSlKH1kMkqhHjmozEIuolgYLrDq/s200/P2220116.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5577198396640427186" border="0"></a>We had to walk from there. Our hotel, the Classic Villa, was literally three blocks from Cathedral Square in the heart of the damaged area. We could only hope that we’d be able to get close. The more we walked the more the damage escalated. Huge cracks in the pavement were encircled by orange cones. The large willow trees were missing branches two feet in diameter. The quiet, clear river was now swollen and muddy. It was unnerving. But it was nothing compared with what was coming. First was the sight of Canterbury Museum. The façade had broken stones and the statue in front was toppled off its base leaving the head smashed. <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilEgjSdrkou-Moa6z-ZKBH7s0Vz6Jd2sNWrUS3aWAikEc2KAiIjuHLlOOvVCWImNp2GBG6vjGW14zipRoAVw4kLHZTEGWiCP82DkNOv-7ybFl_nfOBpIcTzN-QdIovWN3uZf4BO_cYWRl1/s1600/P2220118.JPG"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilEgjSdrkou-Moa6z-ZKBH7s0Vz6Jd2sNWrUS3aWAikEc2KAiIjuHLlOOvVCWImNp2GBG6vjGW14zipRoAVw4kLHZTEGWiCP82DkNOv-7ybFl_nfOBpIcTzN-QdIovWN3uZf4BO_cYWRl1/s320/P2220118.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5577201125047742322" border="0"></a>We turned the corner of our street to face the Arts Center directly across from our hotel. We’d eaten dinner at a charming restaurant there on our first night. The façade was in shambles. Stones from the tall gabled roof were shattered on the pavement below covering tables, chairs and umbrellas. gabled end was completely gone exposing the inside of a room and clothes hanging inside. Farther along a side of an adjacent building had collapsed. All of these were 1800-era buildings that provide the charm to Christchurch. We walked past army vehicles as far as we could but were stopped at the river where the day before we’d gone punting. <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhd8skpFnjIf3C_pnuyeuMBXrhDyL2nbCxKX-51oDgPX165VviLdDi3hyrrKsiOS_3wDgs54rojeopL77yaYUM8oyqF4P1tpm4TCmM7-rK0hnSJwFRRjHAPLPidC4dCpwRYKDTmMJZHXi3E/s1600/P2220117.JPG"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhd8skpFnjIf3C_pnuyeuMBXrhDyL2nbCxKX-51oDgPX165VviLdDi3hyrrKsiOS_3wDgs54rojeopL77yaYUM8oyqF4P1tpm4TCmM7-rK0hnSJwFRRjHAPLPidC4dCpwRYKDTmMJZHXi3E/s320/P2220117.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5577203445880161906" border="0"></a>From there we could see the cathedral. The gabled end with its rose window seemed fine until we realized that the tall spire was quite simply missing. Gone. Yesterday, its bells chimed over the crowd and today it was rubble. I can only imagine the horror of those who were in the square as it fell. Mike remembered that he videoed the chiming bells less than 48 hours ago. We replayed that video and listened with sadness as we struggled to comprehend that these sounds and the happy buzz of people were silent.<object height="344" width="425"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/LVeWiaVG7O4?hl=en&fs=1"><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/LVeWiaVG7O4?hl=en&fs=1" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" height="344" width="425"></object><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTxsmlzkufKMQ40fTC1TwixJu_In7rFMD90LsAb7noAGuv19-vaDrNWeinCpMO58MjXw0qQ8xgZCfzrU4I3MNn2yd4_zjEKnRBzyaIAUTMbTgTH7i6FkLaAQ6w7_yxenpLgn-4JpdQVYrS/s1600/P2220122.JPG"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTxsmlzkufKMQ40fTC1TwixJu_In7rFMD90LsAb7noAGuv19-vaDrNWeinCpMO58MjXw0qQ8xgZCfzrU4I3MNn2yd4_zjEKnRBzyaIAUTMbTgTH7i6FkLaAQ6w7_yxenpLgn-4JpdQVYrS/s320/P2220122.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5577204004251218210" border="0"></a>Feeling oddly empty and stunned we returned to our hotel. Cracks ran alongside the exterior and we stepped over brick rubble from the collapsed chimney of the next door building. But – joy! – the house was open, people were inside and our room was largely unharmed (tilted mirror, plaster dust from cracked walls, dislocated shower door). And, we’d be able to stay there overnight. There would be no sleeping in the makeshift tents erected in the park.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhx3cNTR7NHgqFDMKgxlNuLwk_O3yur-UWZmg0Jy5T6K6M9YdNFMXh-rIwmGN5PXPuRX2NE80c-WqVs5Z6nJbaoGceuqxB3JTsYkUxr_xIbdjUc1xskJVVDzcLrCQrlxJxZ-xv5yb5_ChtT/s1600/I.JPG"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhx3cNTR7NHgqFDMKgxlNuLwk_O3yur-UWZmg0Jy5T6K6M9YdNFMXh-rIwmGN5PXPuRX2NE80c-WqVs5Z6nJbaoGceuqxB3JTsYkUxr_xIbdjUc1xskJVVDzcLrCQrlxJxZ-xv5yb5_ChtT/s320/I.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5577204446782285154" border="0"></a><br /><br />And so began a most unusual evening. Others arrived and gathered in the large living room. Our proprietor, Peter, was there and was more concerned about caring for us than attending to his damaged, but still safe, house. Decorative items inside and out were in pieces, bottles of alcohol had been thrown into the floor and smashed. Most of it had been cleaned up by the time we arrived. There was no power so he was busily placing candles on the floor all around the dark house. The only other lights were from flashlights and camera flashes. No restaurants were open nor were there operable cooking facilities in the house. Everyone pitched in. We’d bought trail mix, Peter and his wife, Jan, put out cheese and crackers, someone else made a salad with smoked mushrooms, and, thankfully, Peter provided wine. I was VERY happy for a glass – or two – of wine. Everyone had a story and everyone was uneasy. <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHRTWx_-HqXX_I8PT7sdeUL1yPALoRZGNbNmkr6WMZzIhF9KnpXyY_P5X0KmSE4DKkLYp0Fx1tmB5xvNIr_7vEwsAJi2PZsSpanZ3-qkTRpfZg7Af3ODklN9yEIOYiniiPvkknNltmm-O7/s1600/III.JPG"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHRTWx_-HqXX_I8PT7sdeUL1yPALoRZGNbNmkr6WMZzIhF9KnpXyY_P5X0KmSE4DKkLYp0Fx1tmB5xvNIr_7vEwsAJi2PZsSpanZ3-qkTRpfZg7Af3ODklN9yEIOYiniiPvkknNltmm-O7/s320/III.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5577204788418497122" border="0"></a> One couple was in the Arts Center as it began to come apart. I was glad we had been outside of Christchurch. We’d surely have been downtown like all the others.<br /><br />We shared stories, ate what we had, drank wine and Peter played the piano. It was almost enough to distract from the aftershocks. Peter and Jan stayed up for awhile waiting for other guests to arrive and to settle them in as much as possible. Before going to bed, he played one last tune on the piano and Jan sang while candles burned peacefully on the floor even as after shocks shook the house. <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhko8MFfDmu2NSWUD0AtEYDOaGyBf7sQvAOBYjQNyXXb6EnQA1zDAD0BLDQ5DiZ5BF5npQM3KnmtLAqNgAatiTKdnhItQAtkRfJ6OZxX19yvfV3q4Rf9GJTCGnSNX9Pwq7LuoMEPzczbioP/s1600/P2220002.JPG"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhko8MFfDmu2NSWUD0AtEYDOaGyBf7sQvAOBYjQNyXXb6EnQA1zDAD0BLDQ5DiZ5BF5npQM3KnmtLAqNgAatiTKdnhItQAtkRfJ6OZxX19yvfV3q4Rf9GJTCGnSNX9Pwq7LuoMEPzczbioP/s320/P2220002.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5577205594396211826" border="0"></a>How hopeful to hear a cheery, “Que sera, sera; whatever will be will be,” fill the living room as the floor quivered and windows vibrated.<br /><br />Mike and I went to bed but with the first strong aftershock the room rocked, the window rattled, and, afterward, the coat hangers in the closet jangled a high-pitched, tinkling sound. It was eerie. The next aftershock shot me out of bed. I felt more stable in the new part of the house rather than in our room in the original section. So, I curled up on the sofa under a fuzzy blanket, wearing my robe and shoes, and holding a flashlight. <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQJUN7LTqqMkP0J3WQT6pMYPnPe-evbtZe20Y1HaEn_SgGIUbcNDmG80KgIOq2MXuAxWtjPOpoa0e4nQtQtA1-CDcR0AHdFAu5Vat8JKXAK4-2rQMpwSqMq65gqBbQpzVK5A1pK5v0t41z/s1600/II.JPG"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQJUN7LTqqMkP0J3WQT6pMYPnPe-evbtZe20Y1HaEn_SgGIUbcNDmG80KgIOq2MXuAxWtjPOpoa0e4nQtQtA1-CDcR0AHdFAu5Vat8JKXAK4-2rQMpwSqMq65gqBbQpzVK5A1pK5v0t41z/s320/II.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5577206499893774178" border="0"></a>Candles glowed, rain splattered outside, and I tried to sleep. But each after shock racked my nerves, and they came every quarter to half hour throughout the night. Five times they were so strong that I jumped up and ran into the center of the room away from all windows. Needless to say, sleep was elusive. But that’s okay. Mike and I were better off than many. People – perhaps hundreds – were buried in buildings a few blocks away. Thousands were in the makeshift refuge camp across the street in the park – shivering in cold, crowded tents. We heard stories the next day of residents bringing clothes and offering spare bedrooms to stranded tourists who were unable to return to their hotel rooms even to get luggage. We met three people on our bus the next morning who were traveling with only the clothes they had on as their hotel was in the city center and was inaccessible.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjh0Xokj9inoihims4m6R-r2id8Gl6mEVIY4AwGjJ2H0GDBmpALvykHux7pB-TUARTfazukI28Al0L5warj6aL9P13m5LVaPEKnmoYaUeWh8nXcwy9IXrV0dowNIzr0It559dLgCo5B9qi6/s1600/IV.JPG"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjh0Xokj9inoihims4m6R-r2id8Gl6mEVIY4AwGjJ2H0GDBmpALvykHux7pB-TUARTfazukI28Al0L5warj6aL9P13m5LVaPEKnmoYaUeWh8nXcwy9IXrV0dowNIzr0It559dLgCo5B9qi6/s320/IV.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5577206790765196786" border="0"></a>I told Mike, I’ll take Cairo over this. At least in Cairo, we were not the target of violence or anger. No one wanted to see tourists like us hurt. Tanks were there to keep peace but also to ensure protection. Even though we could hear gunshots, none of it was directed at us. As long as we stayed out of the way, the chances were good that we’d be okay. This earthquake was a completely different situation. It did not discriminate, nor could we get out of the way. It would hit when and where it did and all we could do was hope that we weren’t there.<br /><br />Between Cairo and Christchurch we’ve learned a few things about being in crisis situations. The first is patience. You just don’t know – nor does anyone else – what will happen in the situation. <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMexJyFBDp_6NsrNlu61K04tInjBQKcf7ByCuFfsZ1R_n8pib6ZYm6HAke7q4O-88O6eizAOAIt4CUxAon1fUeNVvl9BFFb7zUyG7M7-s28iPjPT35dx_7fUjNg87DMvbSHRk-UtClX4tc/s1600/P2220006.JPG"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMexJyFBDp_6NsrNlu61K04tInjBQKcf7ByCuFfsZ1R_n8pib6ZYm6HAke7q4O-88O6eizAOAIt4CUxAon1fUeNVvl9BFFb7zUyG7M7-s28iPjPT35dx_7fUjNg87DMvbSHRk-UtClX4tc/s320/P2220006.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5577207112448456002" border="0"></a>There’s no use getting excited or frustrated. Everyone is doing their best. And that’s the other thing. You have to rely on the kindness of complete strangers. How many times have we seen unfortunate things in the newspaper, thought, “Oh, so sad,” and turned the page? But it’s real – very real. And many of those people will get through their day because of the stranger who stops on the street to help them. And finally, I learned that you can only take work through it one step at a time – and that’s sufficient. Crisis situations are filled with unknowns – so many that you can’t sort out the future direction. Sometimes all that’s possible is to do what seems right at that moment; get to the next place; evaluate; and make the next choice. Advance planning is a nice theory but it doesn’t work when situations are completely filled with unknowns.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBnBStIq-6OpcMHD7ivORyYzfvZAKePghccNndRm0SBqw0K4JEHs-M4yImNR5unaoqxdVx6SH07J2X_wCmaXjIfIYUbzWLgLGTIKSdBctfb4sl069gfwL_0Rkw1bzGZSNhR10UDoiliw3w/s1600/P2220133.JPG"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBnBStIq-6OpcMHD7ivORyYzfvZAKePghccNndRm0SBqw0K4JEHs-M4yImNR5unaoqxdVx6SH07J2X_wCmaXjIfIYUbzWLgLGTIKSdBctfb4sl069gfwL_0Rkw1bzGZSNhR10UDoiliw3w/s320/P2220133.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5577207489631648786" border="0"></a><br />Mike and I have also learned that true customer service shines through in a crisis. We experienced it in Cairo and we saw it again here. Peter and his family suffered damage in their personal home; Peter’s daughter burst into tears when she found him at the Classic Villa; and yet they stayed in the Villa with us that night. Food, wine, song and words of comfort are not on their brochure, but that’s what we got. And, you know, it helped.<br /><br />We are now safely away in Queenstown but the impact of this earthquake remains with us in many ways. Each rumble or creak we hear makes us fear another quake. But more importantly, we are touched by the immensity of what happened to all these people. It took several hundred years for Christchurch to become the charming town we experienced. It took a few seconds to turn it to rubble and destroy lives, families and livelihoods. The people of Christchurch, along with others from around the world, are already clearing away the debris and moving on. It will be day by day, but - what a difference a day can make.<br /><br />Mike says everything comes in threes. We leave New Zealand for Honolulu in about a week. Let the wagering begin on the likelihood of a volcanic eruption while we’re there!Shelley's Roadmap to Engineer Your Dreamhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00327937042376941865noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1112334948488380299.post-30915249977482579842011-02-20T02:38:00.044-05:002011-02-21T04:21:11.804-05:00Singapore: Like Another Country<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjv1TujFl0RgGbA3tKDAtKLrazyb725tiVjhBOAL4tgf9jG-8kKWvR8J_hc4hBMzoa9ghdDy6Cet0c57Z6PaQezAbHgDTyH7y02wxtcRV_O624iltuT-DWY4GXtywlu1E6LzrCQoGdrnvEU/s1600/P2180055.JPG"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjv1TujFl0RgGbA3tKDAtKLrazyb725tiVjhBOAL4tgf9jG-8kKWvR8J_hc4hBMzoa9ghdDy6Cet0c57Z6PaQezAbHgDTyH7y02wxtcRV_O624iltuT-DWY4GXtywlu1E6LzrCQoGdrnvEU/s400/P2180055.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5576055525824086594" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6bnzWDRE6dK6Vv6d6-TJ8slA4z1BB3odyZie1u5C61CIlN5wtjA-Uo_jY2PfMS-AZbOo-GPumDGM8Yuz7_3xeKFyvlGPx3TVwPaE0YPX71eb7EnAuBFJxEy9xIC3XLJwvWpOsFwdGUuaM/s1600/P2180057.JPG"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6bnzWDRE6dK6Vv6d6-TJ8slA4z1BB3odyZie1u5C61CIlN5wtjA-Uo_jY2PfMS-AZbOo-GPumDGM8Yuz7_3xeKFyvlGPx3TVwPaE0YPX71eb7EnAuBFJxEy9xIC3XLJwvWpOsFwdGUuaM/s320/P2180057.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5575680233436059826" border="0" /></a>Singapore isn’t just <span style="font-style: italic;">like </span>another country, it <span style="font-style: italic;">is </span>another country. And what a country! I have literally never experienced anything quite like Singapore. It is a tropical paradise that feels like living inside an immaculately kept garden that sprouted skyscrapers. As we rode in the taxi to our wonderful hotel, The Fullerton (another selection by Maggie - I'll stay <span style="font-style: italic;">anywhere </span>she selects!), we could hardly believe our eyes. Glass and steel skyscrapers, each one of a more extraordinary design than the next, were packed shoulder to shoulder with more under construction.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjCnD-ro2hpXZhGGJ0I9-SLZkFPW3NLN4r0Ca4Q8ZelYV-cfVG3B4uUleIxJ5VopMMd1WTNxrHeu1coEZ62vR0wU3dUbWmZ6xR1afot6bP59qwjHUAvRb2unFA_t-XK2ulZx6nA338Mm7u/s1600/P2160142.JPG"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjCnD-ro2hpXZhGGJ0I9-SLZkFPW3NLN4r0Ca4Q8ZelYV-cfVG3B4uUleIxJ5VopMMd1WTNxrHeu1coEZ62vR0wU3dUbWmZ6xR1afot6bP59qwjHUAvRb2unFA_t-XK2ulZx6nA338Mm7u/s320/P2160142.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5575681537904493026" border="0" /></a><br />The first thing that struck me about Singapore was the vegetation. Lush greenery is everywhere. Palm trees line the streets, flowers such as bird-of-paradise grow along walkways. Bougainvillea fills the planters across bridges. But here’s the most amazing part.<br /><br />There’s not a piece of litter anywhere – not one scrap. As we walked around the city, we counted the number of individual pieces of litter that we saw. <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7HZqWcKmstPCfqejo6jrQDTEbns9hS42_uSgfuXH6vPL5cASyBu5EzpUW6eFl7mt-h5-4dKVyW7V5jL0zNRO1rzOViulQMpK146yLHJyLD-bQdMOLt5idmfkx-szucWBTaKZAs8Ex9hxs/s1600/P2170031.JPG"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7HZqWcKmstPCfqejo6jrQDTEbns9hS42_uSgfuXH6vPL5cASyBu5EzpUW6eFl7mt-h5-4dKVyW7V5jL0zNRO1rzOViulQMpK146yLHJyLD-bQdMOLt5idmfkx-szucWBTaKZAs8Ex9hxs/s200/P2170031.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5575681982500003506" border="0" /></a>We never needed more than two hands for the entire day’s walk. A plastic bottle in the grass looked so out of place that we would pick it up to throw into the nearest can. The other dominate feature of Singapore is the water – either the river that runs through the center of the city or the ocean. Unlike, say, Baltimore Harbor, there was not one piece of debris floating in the water. Our hotel faced onto a large inlet where the river joined the ocean. <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyxBGijak1aV0xH0ACJuZbNrpQag8QZaEyfuwPyWAXg06a3XEAZlplPmJupe5YuDFrw-aK9KFppm2lTnk7lZyPifAFphvBkSk8xsZjaFZR4W7EZ5xil0KPujEFZo7-2nYEZ5JCaSOkjzEs/s1600/P2170033.JPG"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyxBGijak1aV0xH0ACJuZbNrpQag8QZaEyfuwPyWAXg06a3XEAZlplPmJupe5YuDFrw-aK9KFppm2lTnk7lZyPifAFphvBkSk8xsZjaFZR4W7EZ5xil0KPujEFZo7-2nYEZ5JCaSOkjzEs/s200/P2170033.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5575682317982148658" border="0" /></a>We saw two boats cleaning the water by sucking up debris, except, there wasn’t anything to suck up. An old man swept a public sidewalk with a dust pan and broom and, in the course of the morning, had amassed a few leaves and a couple of cigarette butts. Workers were pressure washing already clean sidewalks. During my first morning run, <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKaaOQ9iq6UPVYQIPnXQ1Ucu_QWzDZAoYRpjHD2bXIwwVkNwam9JyhMBG_KjHt5LC4m_DBZUq2kcOelDBHidJ-v9Eopx_3XqEcm2CCC12bhCfMvhJvApL4Jm8hbwGDFGwZmMKcF7EoU7Ty/s1600/P2160176.JPG"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKaaOQ9iq6UPVYQIPnXQ1Ucu_QWzDZAoYRpjHD2bXIwwVkNwam9JyhMBG_KjHt5LC4m_DBZUq2kcOelDBHidJ-v9Eopx_3XqEcm2CCC12bhCfMvhJvApL4Jm8hbwGDFGwZmMKcF7EoU7Ty/s320/P2160176.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5575683793973055778" border="0" /></a>I saw a small group of people meditating <span style="font-style: italic;">underneath</span> a highway overpass which was pristine clean – no trash, no graffiti. A Starbucks was operating under the same bridge on the opposite side. We were told that there is a substantial fine ($300) for littering so people simply don’t do it. It must save a boat load of money in cleaning expenses. It’s amazing how pleasant it feels to walk around in such a clean place. It makes you care more.<br /><br />The other thing I didn't realize about Singapore is how multi-cultural it is. The city seems to be a mixture of Chinese (the predominant culture), Malay, Thai and Indian with others thrown in for variety. There were Chinese temples, Buddhist temples, mosques and Christian cathedrals. It was a sophisticated urban environment filled with young people lapping up culture, food and drink from all over the world. <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhm5I_3oZ0nmSmIyRz1Uu8JLh0_SxvS6Phbi0oOToK__C0TWlEib4lb2bwpggSG5ycuFqgdXgBFhnGMEXvuorMnq3qsO51M4_Lie_dcBjkRiREsRPtZOY4hkBfueOh5JhnmpT65dQkW8fJz/s1600/P2180134.JPG"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhm5I_3oZ0nmSmIyRz1Uu8JLh0_SxvS6Phbi0oOToK__C0TWlEib4lb2bwpggSG5ycuFqgdXgBFhnGMEXvuorMnq3qsO51M4_Lie_dcBjkRiREsRPtZOY4hkBfueOh5JhnmpT65dQkW8fJz/s320/P2180134.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5575683179157980562" border="0" /></a>We saw every type of ethnic food you can think of. For example, there was a restaurant, O’Gambino’s, which was advertised as an Irish Italian Bistro Bar. Figure that one out! And, it was situated between Australian and German restaurants. We tried to stick to “local” foods although I was never quite clear what was considered "local." Would that be Malay, Chinese, Thai, Vietnamese, Korean or Indian? We went to a "hawker" market for lunch. These markets are clusters of vendors selling all types of local cuisines - mostly in the open air. I watched a tiny man grill my chicken satay over charcoal fanned with a banana leaf.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhq_MeBe4DmHwh4JR2P3uKMLrjw1CpHIaPaKSXwrwtJ5pqmM0VhcDN5bHHA7SHOeRATVMJGEL8D5aY967SaL8AcIepHVvRGyng3QcdHNqBKp0sj2LeHLfiRvnXLYgKAv9944BZd7fc8Vmbq/s1600/P2190008.JPG"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhq_MeBe4DmHwh4JR2P3uKMLrjw1CpHIaPaKSXwrwtJ5pqmM0VhcDN5bHHA7SHOeRATVMJGEL8D5aY967SaL8AcIepHVvRGyng3QcdHNqBKp0sj2LeHLfiRvnXLYgKAv9944BZd7fc8Vmbq/s200/P2190008.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5576069768194950050" border="0" /></a> Mike came away with freshly steamed prawn dumplings. Awesome. One of my favorites was a dessert (of course!) of fresh mango served with sticky rice and coconut milk. So yummy! Like a flavorful rice pudding. And there’s the ubiquitous Singapore Sling which originated at the Long Bar of the Raffles Hotel. <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7Sh0Flf1ZkbQ-p7d74x4tMw7ghE4dbQemuleRoCAulxfz-cU46MBe-TAJirn34MfrctW3sIvhGgSDIpENzfHdzRUNyS6eFxkawJUa3ERifej2S6D2l8wLa0NOhA4ofK9jSM2Wufba22eR/s1600/P2190012.JPG"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 150px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7Sh0Flf1ZkbQ-p7d74x4tMw7ghE4dbQemuleRoCAulxfz-cU46MBe-TAJirn34MfrctW3sIvhGgSDIpENzfHdzRUNyS6eFxkawJUa3ERifej2S6D2l8wLa0NOhA4ofK9jSM2Wufba22eR/s200/P2190012.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5576070252893750674" /></a>We made the trek over to Raffles and discovered a charming, old hotel that reeked of old-world British culture with a top-note of Indian. So civilized. So civilized, in fact, that it felt cold and pretentious. We tried to have lunch at their outdoor café and never got service. The Long Bar was better with its dark wood interior, bamboo leaf ceiling fans, and peanut shells on the floor. <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEip9ItSCh3777Q6W4wkjnr-DHnwUnQ4yxJPajQkrlMjv5uWwFkNVP7SegrcLWg2nzJtQrVZRIz3XSe9J97cF9pxie6PYXR0WiCxlVheKpwB8pGUhWkdBfZ15WmLu3UK0pyk7ZYkGmgsuYJ7/s1600/P2170003.JPG"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEip9ItSCh3777Q6W4wkjnr-DHnwUnQ4yxJPajQkrlMjv5uWwFkNVP7SegrcLWg2nzJtQrVZRIz3XSe9J97cF9pxie6PYXR0WiCxlVheKpwB8pGUhWkdBfZ15WmLu3UK0pyk7ZYkGmgsuYJ7/s200/P2170003.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5575686970267294850" border="0" /></a>Mike watched as I nursed my Singapore Sling (there serve 800 per day on average) as we had a wonderful beef kabob for lunch.<br /><br />Singapore is a mecca for shopping, but shopping was the <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCXKotT6vcDwJrysLYKeGxY_UPzjXJuU_VnHzJAET7vijlxQcxoM8s06tt6BJJTneHooaRCe2UirhCtYYq1qg-2s-FlA5S0cBrgyj4z4-oKlAnO7CNpUmOOwW5cja24h3j0HT-JsELwiea/s1600/P2170004.JPG"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 150px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCXKotT6vcDwJrysLYKeGxY_UPzjXJuU_VnHzJAET7vijlxQcxoM8s06tt6BJJTneHooaRCe2UirhCtYYq1qg-2s-FlA5S0cBrgyj4z4-oKlAnO7CNpUmOOwW5cja24h3j0HT-JsELwiea/s200/P2170004.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5575685461134362882" border="0" /></a>last thing we needed as our luggage is already brimming over. So we walked and walked through this beautiful city. I ran each morning around the water front or through lush, spotless parks. This is the perfect place for walking. Pedestrians – unlike in Bangkok – are treated with great care. No matter the circumstances, if a pedestrian is hit it is automatically the fault of the driver. <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2FCHz2uN9dhqmPsK95EKUbil5jp9lT3H3bGIyQp2vXsqlGkEVIm1BEQH-F-9BppOqC_i0jhnucA9OJWHXeB8uQRvsmcKLksDXSKx20h-jhwnquaSI6kjXvS8BHljSg_SYlRD5mlNcfa5-/s1600/P2160175.JPG"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2FCHz2uN9dhqmPsK95EKUbil5jp9lT3H3bGIyQp2vXsqlGkEVIm1BEQH-F-9BppOqC_i0jhnucA9OJWHXeB8uQRvsmcKLksDXSKx20h-jhwnquaSI6kjXvS8BHljSg_SYlRD5mlNcfa5-/s320/P2160175.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5576053568582729826" border="0" /></a>Pedestrian cross walks are meticulously signed and large urban streets have underground tunnels for pedestrian access. You could eat off the floor inside these tunnels. All the bridges have large, flower encrusted pedestrian walkways.<br /><br />The weather was just like I like it – warm and humid. Perfect for shorts and tank tops everyday. It was quiet in the heat of the afternoon but the river front came alive with activity at night. There was a large marina development across from our hotel. It is connected across water by a free standing pedestrian bridge that is wrapped in a spiral truss. The bridge springs to life at night with twinkling colored lights. All the bridges, in fact, are beautifully lit. We took an evening boat ride under a full moon, with cooler temperatures, and enjoyed the lights of the towering skyscrapers and the ornamented bridges. <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkCYHxFaB4fvnQe9wnLr8dTVhTkZG9gS4BG3rynTrXs_T3cWTaaILh7tT7TsEdw1pBDxNnPBaFf-wpjBBerYc5WX26ftiLKLHTeQiMMZgUdKXfTf4gxUPW-yID6tAV6bCKhRybaSJb-U3M/s1600/P2170018.JPG"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkCYHxFaB4fvnQe9wnLr8dTVhTkZG9gS4BG3rynTrXs_T3cWTaaILh7tT7TsEdw1pBDxNnPBaFf-wpjBBerYc5WX26ftiLKLHTeQiMMZgUdKXfTf4gxUPW-yID6tAV6bCKhRybaSJb-U3M/s320/P2170018.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5575686337677627954" border="0" /></a>The marina development had its grand opening and we just happened to be on the boat in front of it as they shot off fireworks. Very fun. Oh – and the boats are all electric so that the river area is quiet and pollution free. Impressive.<br /><br />Since we weren't shopping, what else do you do in a tropical paradise? You go to the botanical gardens. The park is huge and filled with walking trails around lakes and through a rain forest. The plant life is so lush and exotic it was like walking through a scene in <span style="font-style: italic;">Avatar</span>. One section of the park contains a ginger garden. <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjDIJ4lZbqLnsq2U78yuoDvgO_2xvgX7cLolkFYwG-2g67Kh_TaKvn2VIxmvtVsA4MnieDdbmCg-UqqJwBMWR4Vgo9sJlYy0qjCX7irDozyBTK9ZyczQsVRuOCU-D33_5Vbckqm4v7Mg_p/s1600/P2180046.JPG"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjDIJ4lZbqLnsq2U78yuoDvgO_2xvgX7cLolkFYwG-2g67Kh_TaKvn2VIxmvtVsA4MnieDdbmCg-UqqJwBMWR4Vgo9sJlYy0qjCX7irDozyBTK9ZyczQsVRuOCU-D33_5Vbckqm4v7Mg_p/s320/P2180046.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5576057383167606546" border="0" /></a>Ginger, as it turns out, blooms in the most delightful ways. Some are odd, spiky flowers and others look like variations on a bird-of-paradise. The unopened blooms are bright and festive as though they are candy waiting to be licked. The National Orchid Garden is the jewel of the park. <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXOmPOr_o_GnmbWVChGXjRyyJWG-j0hztqEfe4uQfyqPhmuLFE8jRFYxHWyknzT0QiZEV-PvjUixvTYfBMzluUhIqi41RN2jkb0ojOd0jr7Rw24qVANkAWK0tTBEREizMDWIkou4Udc9wb/s1600/P2180118.JPG"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 150px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXOmPOr_o_GnmbWVChGXjRyyJWG-j0hztqEfe4uQfyqPhmuLFE8jRFYxHWyknzT0QiZEV-PvjUixvTYfBMzluUhIqi41RN2jkb0ojOd0jr7Rw24qVANkAWK0tTBEREizMDWIkou4Udc9wb/s200/P2180118.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5576059993357414818" border="0" /></a>Orchids bloomed at every turn (prepare for flower photos!) – large, small and tiny; yellow, white, pink, purple, orange; solid-colored or speckled. There were masses of blooms tumbling off of rocks and tree branches. But as spectacular as the orchids were, I was captivated by the palm trees. <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgeQOvo8WrYTLOIbfDIKGSKArD9e1FHvkMGQjjK-JN1Cj0ThzJHOPA68Fa98syHmbyu0TsluY8xSfWs6Z_P86H5cZMXHPI-peFQ_ZxVUyURCc8eS2OLKgJmKSC74E6_B_NnkGjCXBVKwuzA/s1600/P2180108.JPG"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 150px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgeQOvo8WrYTLOIbfDIKGSKArD9e1FHvkMGQjjK-JN1Cj0ThzJHOPA68Fa98syHmbyu0TsluY8xSfWs6Z_P86H5cZMXHPI-peFQ_ZxVUyURCc8eS2OLKgJmKSC74E6_B_NnkGjCXBVKwuzA/s200/P2180108.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5576060286957296994" border="0" /></a> Some of the palm fronds were close to 5’ in diameter. They were spectacular! And there was a “cool house” with plants that grow in the mountains of the tropics. The most notable were the carnivorous plants like pitcher plants that entice bugs inside only to be trapped as plant food.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtnRi7r3iwwa8ksA_pnRGSPSPAEpOjaHTWKCouMOideFEoc-st0EEDH-YLIjoXPTna_FcawVTs_rNaw-XfPjuqb8MzxoUL-cWuRTntE6ZwaFYkv-A6QdfVKiY5ZybFGRwp9wmPVR8niX54/s1600/P2180115.JPG"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtnRi7r3iwwa8ksA_pnRGSPSPAEpOjaHTWKCouMOideFEoc-st0EEDH-YLIjoXPTna_FcawVTs_rNaw-XfPjuqb8MzxoUL-cWuRTntE6ZwaFYkv-A6QdfVKiY5ZybFGRwp9wmPVR8niX54/s320/P2180115.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5576060575704249138" border="0" /></a><br /><br />The people were as nice as the environment. Hotel staff treated us like family (and upgraded us). In Istanbul, we had discovered that this part of the world adores Barak Obama. So, Mike has gotten a lot of mileage from telling Obama fans that I work for him. Technically, it’s true, but I think they have images of me roaming the halls of the White House. The young man checking us in at the Fullerton was beside himself with glee thinking that I worked for Obama (He’s the one who upgraded us. Thanks, Mr. President.).<br /><br />There’s so much that we didn’t see of Singapore. And yet, as we lifted off on yet another long plane flight, we watched the lights of this small country grow dim. Nonetheless, Singapore will remain a bright light in our memories. What a fabulous country.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifzQWBDDHDiaEZ9TiQTLJ0RZdIfEKRrj0_YnyNHB5bTJqNt-M33XlLY3cQ1IzUuyOD_9FCIG7RnqKVZLUnB0eD7Rqhp3c8oQ2oPweYk50tXe14SMbckjHI8K3iJqJwLA5Ru4_bJ0kkCA1k/s1600/P2180066.JPG"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifzQWBDDHDiaEZ9TiQTLJ0RZdIfEKRrj0_YnyNHB5bTJqNt-M33XlLY3cQ1IzUuyOD_9FCIG7RnqKVZLUnB0eD7Rqhp3c8oQ2oPweYk50tXe14SMbckjHI8K3iJqJwLA5Ru4_bJ0kkCA1k/s320/P2180066.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5576061613277194130" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqN4gOrW8wEpZKJRszvv1lZqHqgLyRiw-fXCq-nvG4n7GtHXLtuTSDZr7dYPlF5xGmVpa5wKv-oCUxbjKp71OfsV5e_CskJMniacjQIXhdydOXVp9th_2H9OvFqziIu118FOn20JGTMyy_/s1600/P2180088.JPG"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqN4gOrW8wEpZKJRszvv1lZqHqgLyRiw-fXCq-nvG4n7GtHXLtuTSDZr7dYPlF5xGmVpa5wKv-oCUxbjKp71OfsV5e_CskJMniacjQIXhdydOXVp9th_2H9OvFqziIu118FOn20JGTMyy_/s320/P2180088.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5576061897311834114" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3wSZwRAkNJyHU1PRTP7KzJYHtKTxtBoOFf9jKn6g6dNw-eI78oSlc4vghoUJqbMfBqlhNDm7I5_E4kcb85YJZZRamXdkUyUqOW0y1i4aAXd6-fD1XTP_uFtKQ_7t16ILxhCEXj52KjLCR/s1600/yellow+orchid+crop.JPG"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 229px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3wSZwRAkNJyHU1PRTP7KzJYHtKTxtBoOFf9jKn6g6dNw-eI78oSlc4vghoUJqbMfBqlhNDm7I5_E4kcb85YJZZRamXdkUyUqOW0y1i4aAXd6-fD1XTP_uFtKQ_7t16ILxhCEXj52KjLCR/s320/yellow+orchid+crop.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5576063723359106866" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgch7-XsuhN0lqgjoNGfecR2hpCpWOblXYGj007ntU_vF_v3HmW1SAcwxvrz5M4RWd5LfZ2xnspwdG-kPj-UoYz3diWr58VCFz_JBZ00n5CMI-IdwlPWpfKSteJQyMUO-rQ-jugjdAzJOOq/s1600/P2180061.JPG"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgch7-XsuhN0lqgjoNGfecR2hpCpWOblXYGj007ntU_vF_v3HmW1SAcwxvrz5M4RWd5LfZ2xnspwdG-kPj-UoYz3diWr58VCFz_JBZ00n5CMI-IdwlPWpfKSteJQyMUO-rQ-jugjdAzJOOq/s320/P2180061.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5576062466514604994" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjV0Yo03ulHOdossKNCUGehH6fZ9B8Idq5Xf5bclKixMJOBuo8KJ5OGl0TyOk9FoDG4jB83JYPqYg22ROwyUwsLJFq91flilAScSIfQ3TsvtMunf5E0faQZv9Bj7atnJt5-btFT5OuqjdCe/s1600/orchid+cropped.JPG"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 214px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjV0Yo03ulHOdossKNCUGehH6fZ9B8Idq5Xf5bclKixMJOBuo8KJ5OGl0TyOk9FoDG4jB83JYPqYg22ROwyUwsLJFq91flilAScSIfQ3TsvtMunf5E0faQZv9Bj7atnJt5-btFT5OuqjdCe/s320/orchid+cropped.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5576063167082478002" border="0" /></a>Shelley's Roadmap to Engineer Your Dreamhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00327937042376941865noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1112334948488380299.post-72375488882651975642011-02-17T04:02:00.038-05:002011-02-17T05:48:58.536-05:00Rocking Along on the Orient Express<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibQRpFrl1nMCD_O2QESP1pZv78O29h2rPRLmND1F3hLNyYNAyLD5Xz_YUEZFy98QHhoJ1elejt9Nr4PVVfjpx0BiOhzms1ZfYLljdiBPWgGhwzbyoZi4jH6BYY5JSpz1yi0ztHC5dcyUfO/s1600/P2160139.JPG"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibQRpFrl1nMCD_O2QESP1pZv78O29h2rPRLmND1F3hLNyYNAyLD5Xz_YUEZFy98QHhoJ1elejt9Nr4PVVfjpx0BiOhzms1ZfYLljdiBPWgGhwzbyoZi4jH6BYY5JSpz1yi0ztHC5dcyUfO/s400/P2160139.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5574603322168335810" border="0" /></a><br /><br />For years, we dreamed about taking the Orient Express train. Mike loves trains and this one is supposedly the best. The Orient Express conjures up images of old-world luxury, and, of course, Agatha Christie. We were so intent on riding the Orient Express that we scheduled all of our return travel plans around the train dates from Bangkok to Singapore. It would be four days and three nights on the Eastern and Orient Express.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1vOB1EsMHpgy9bKts6KhNe7c2WKaTpAO8WKSFYdjmTCTWcBKtybT0dt0eswfji01yUccLb9kiMB_GnH_iS60M76vaq_yRR-tMbqGFl0VOWUzNknQl8eMuCQzZ69M8RRyzYhIiPJWrKN-g/s1600/P2130009.JPG"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1vOB1EsMHpgy9bKts6KhNe7c2WKaTpAO8WKSFYdjmTCTWcBKtybT0dt0eswfji01yUccLb9kiMB_GnH_iS60M76vaq_yRR-tMbqGFl0VOWUzNknQl8eMuCQzZ69M8RRyzYhIiPJWrKN-g/s200/P2130009.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5574591038373157362" border="0" /></a>We’ve had many exciting moments during our ten months of travel, and yet, occasionally there are special moments that seem unreal. Walking along the train platform next to the dark green and gold train bearing the gleaming words in brass, “Eastern and Orient Express,” was one of those “pinch me” moments. Impeccably attired staff in deep green and red Thai silk dresses and vests stood outside to welcome us aboard along green and gold carpet.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgj50F9Op1xAg951m29CGkN4KeMRb5r9SGfzVGRF45nIxrZEzu3xerGEgtO8sqNa1AfhWuSOtcCegPi69tuKWbpbksHNaBzGFUHMMpD9PaDjJf1l2JlDEu3zN5hayKNETD67hp8aIta3GIw/s1600/P2160129.JPG"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgj50F9Op1xAg951m29CGkN4KeMRb5r9SGfzVGRF45nIxrZEzu3xerGEgtO8sqNa1AfhWuSOtcCegPi69tuKWbpbksHNaBzGFUHMMpD9PaDjJf1l2JlDEu3zN5hayKNETD67hp8aIta3GIw/s320/P2160129.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5574591318797800050" border="0" /></a>I knew Mike would love this trip but, I admit, it caught me by surprise. I was captivated the moment we stepped on board. We boarded the “G” car to find a picture-perfect train car – long narrow hallway, frilly lights overhead and wood parquet walls and doors. I felt like I was in a movie walking down that hallway in search of our cabin. The glass fronted door opened into our compartment. It was a calming, comforting feast. The parquet walls had inlaid designs behind the cushy upholstered sofa and chair. Two, large curtained windows faced the train station. It was small (although we somehow ended up with a larger cabin than we expected – and it was a blessing) but wonderfully appointed - even the tiny bathroom with thick white towels bearing the E&O emblem.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg65RJ6N8n0LbreFS2_1sIWqq5M3sjcDxaXcouC9CuVqVXLTtreIM0G4AVUV9M4UzFhOnRTUVCXssxFuDTthKyHlIffLl2owzRqklFjfDy6vzbLdFAT99L0LdumdIUdeq-FdaG0x-tChoSb/s1600/P2130019.JPG"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg65RJ6N8n0LbreFS2_1sIWqq5M3sjcDxaXcouC9CuVqVXLTtreIM0G4AVUV9M4UzFhOnRTUVCXssxFuDTthKyHlIffLl2owzRqklFjfDy6vzbLdFAT99L0LdumdIUdeq-FdaG0x-tChoSb/s200/P2130019.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5574591532237451186" border="0" /></a><br />We like many others hurried to the open-air observation car to watch as we pulled out of the station. Even now, I feel the excitement of that moment. People on the platform waved and smiled as we – those most fortunate ones – rode away in our green and gold carriages. It was an auspicious beginning.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGKXOiWTLxkj5h10t1lnXHqLOsz2eRvvyZ0ZjhxAQ1XC8mqONMN0pi6a1zqWcz0ZSBWr81k1-c7JGRiErJ5YrZpVNXl5Llvj4x_DhAeVd_gqd9rXZUrQ7-b1tKeL08DPzMG1Fx6b7fCIxe/s1600/Mike+shelley+hall.JPG"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 229px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGKXOiWTLxkj5h10t1lnXHqLOsz2eRvvyZ0ZjhxAQ1XC8mqONMN0pi6a1zqWcz0ZSBWr81k1-c7JGRiErJ5YrZpVNXl5Llvj4x_DhAeVd_gqd9rXZUrQ7-b1tKeL08DPzMG1Fx6b7fCIxe/s320/Mike+shelley+hall.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5574591834107295362" border="0" /></a><br />We boarded late in the afternoon so before we knew it we had to dress for dinner. Encouraged to dress up for dinner, Mike donned his new custom-made suit, me a little, black dress and off we went to our reserved table in the dining car. The dining car had large windows opening to Bangkok as it receded away. White clad tables with graceful lamps and vases of orchids, held crystal, silver and the E&O china. Service was attentive- the best I’ve ever experienced. The French chef ensured that the food was excellent! After dinner there was a cup of coffee and tea in the piano bar before turning in for our first night on the train. Our cabin had been made into two twin beds with crisp white sheets carefully turned down so that the E&O emblem was on top in the center. Delightful. We snuggled and fantasy met reality.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9SO8KwqZm7TM3gEugIruO3NqPS16ILoQpk59AZvWo3ljAL8v1ZZfVmyQg_N9UuVqARiJgBMoWdM0zeW6IIRbbZHtpiw2ZM1UeESd7L1VHeNC34nBP36h3Y0z0JKOqke0qiJor3PPg5-AG/s1600/P2140089.JPG"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9SO8KwqZm7TM3gEugIruO3NqPS16ILoQpk59AZvWo3ljAL8v1ZZfVmyQg_N9UuVqARiJgBMoWdM0zeW6IIRbbZHtpiw2ZM1UeESd7L1VHeNC34nBP36h3Y0z0JKOqke0qiJor3PPg5-AG/s320/P2140089.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5574592571109107986" border="0" /></a>The Eastern and Orient Express started in Thailand, passed through Malaysia into Singapore – three countries. Importantly, we were running on train tracks built and maintained by three countries. We quickly discovered that track standards are not what they are in – say, France for the TGV. We rocked and rolled, jerked and jolted through the night. I finally fell asleep when the train stopped for several hours only to wake with a start when it jerked to life again. Neither of us – or anyone else on the train, including the staff – slept much that evening. Plus, we got up early to see the train cross the 300 meter wooden trestle bridge hugging the rock cliff. The trestle was build as part of the Thai-Burma railway in World War II. <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEioK2t2KUAMtP4PSbRPQntUe0avRipRY1y4jZjQjc5a4T8Lhrqsj3exez2DB7DmG_zKhnjrgDT20qOGkesS9vrUNFNnVGLR64H7GsAmF9Qb4xtbNuMfi6U-rpaZ2I1o4micCbuazdycDplT/s1600/P2140092.JPG"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEioK2t2KUAMtP4PSbRPQntUe0avRipRY1y4jZjQjc5a4T8Lhrqsj3exez2DB7DmG_zKhnjrgDT20qOGkesS9vrUNFNnVGLR64H7GsAmF9Qb4xtbNuMfi6U-rpaZ2I1o4micCbuazdycDplT/s200/P2140092.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5574603013420056306" border="0" /></a>This was the so called “Death Railway” because it was built by prisoners of war and local Thai and Malay people desperate for jobs.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgclv6epyFlNF-9g_F6qX1vdkqmJMh0X5Frfi8qLhBqND3GXWbiupT8U9LE-Ls4Gxbf4lG2Q3hOmX46fOAzC3YJoL1o0KJ2I7H14mtEEOiUUh3s18OvQ8NNKmXb_ETOeJhdrdNhf0Y5ftPZ/s1600/P2140115.JPG"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgclv6epyFlNF-9g_F6qX1vdkqmJMh0X5Frfi8qLhBqND3GXWbiupT8U9LE-Ls4Gxbf4lG2Q3hOmX46fOAzC3YJoL1o0KJ2I7H14mtEEOiUUh3s18OvQ8NNKmXb_ETOeJhdrdNhf0Y5ftPZ/s320/P2140115.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5574592859840728306" border="0" /></a>Bleary-eyed and tired, we disembarked the train which was parked partially on the bridge over the river Kwai (yes, the one from the movie). We boarded a large raft that was towed up the Kwai River under the bridge while we were given a walk about the war and the construction of the railroad. The visit concluded at the railroad museum that clearly described the deplorable conditions for the workers. <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgb59PETbV-wIQ9FVhyphenhyphenN4fyEDwEKFu-dB5KCgi0jxCfuKrzWzd8K8e8G4tYiQmSneR0l4xWWNAtMZ15K0EtUteiqXFn8gN8M0i6syQoFg_CHBr5rcuctFaX3PSWblEiBGEOVDxHCbP1wfM/s1600/P2140139.JPG"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgb59PETbV-wIQ9FVhyphenhyphenN4fyEDwEKFu-dB5KCgi0jxCfuKrzWzd8K8e8G4tYiQmSneR0l4xWWNAtMZ15K0EtUteiqXFn8gN8M0i6syQoFg_CHBr5rcuctFaX3PSWblEiBGEOVDxHCbP1wfM/s200/P2140139.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5574593158905486450" border="0" /></a>More than 80,000 Malay and Thai workers died during construction. Prisoners died too but not in these numbers. Across the street from the museum was the cemetery for British and Dutch soldiers. It was beautifully maintained. A Thai woman was scrubbing individual grave stones. The train staff had given each of us a handmade flower wreath to place on a grave - a lovely gesture.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwf8J4Qxsx_DKB9_a81n150V2FSroFG_JYwDTUbrJujyYQMsFgBnEwp6Gx1LOI7r7m8aLa461GkaJs0bRqBzIKxNB9doAg1toJ4wVtxdIBmh9yw5wa2kyffLfVLbw2gQt3hryzpaiVLzqt/s1600/P2140218.JPG"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwf8J4Qxsx_DKB9_a81n150V2FSroFG_JYwDTUbrJujyYQMsFgBnEwp6Gx1LOI7r7m8aLa461GkaJs0bRqBzIKxNB9doAg1toJ4wVtxdIBmh9yw5wa2kyffLfVLbw2gQt3hryzpaiVLzqt/s200/P2140218.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5574594692459733362" border="0" /></a>Time can get long on a three day train journey so there were several entertainment options. There was a piano player in the evenings in the saloon car, a reading car with an astrologer, a tropical fruit tasting, Thai music and Thai dancing. We tried it all. Since Mike had his fortune told in Istanbul via coffee grounds, I chose to try the astrologer. She read my palm and predicted a long and happy life. She said that I'm very responsible and organized, sometimes too much so. And Mike's favorite - I have a good-looking husband. How'd she know?!<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMYuWefvMXpET_Vyfny_Pbvrt1Z8sfXM93z0N2Pa-MDFBinTEXiSRx8PI4un6S3am2vBupLVwSO3g-BRWV-y3CWxMcnB6_Yvtx6icsjUlU7tJVbF2ZGIqMl7Lnpwc0M5-JzD13ccVTMxjc/s1600/P2150041.JPG"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMYuWefvMXpET_Vyfny_Pbvrt1Z8sfXM93z0N2Pa-MDFBinTEXiSRx8PI4un6S3am2vBupLVwSO3g-BRWV-y3CWxMcnB6_Yvtx6icsjUlU7tJVbF2ZGIqMl7Lnpwc0M5-JzD13ccVTMxjc/s320/P2150041.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5574595125259224066" border="0" /></a><br /><br />The afternoon of our second day we stopped at Penang, Malaysia. We saw the Khoo Konsi Chinese temple and had a trishaw (a three-wheeled bicycle pedaled by a tiny, old man) ride through the streets to the historic Eastern & Oriental Hotel (not affiliated with the train).<br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgX-IlbpQHY7xsWHqCWaF3a_G4vYQ_zNYqbMLzicdTXlUfc_4FknYrzXqZwiKuBm4tYRJmKr1u7FqR8wKA_qk_cH3jiRcV1ox6m4B3Lxca_jibxjnIUyEOvkh6D3jqsJQMQkGvRUIgmTDCk/s1600/P2140142.JPG"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgX-IlbpQHY7xsWHqCWaF3a_G4vYQ_zNYqbMLzicdTXlUfc_4FknYrzXqZwiKuBm4tYRJmKr1u7FqR8wKA_qk_cH3jiRcV1ox6m4B3Lxca_jibxjnIUyEOvkh6D3jqsJQMQkGvRUIgmTDCk/s320/P2140142.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5574595501464254754" border="0" /></a><br />The service throughout was exceptional. Beautiful women wore outfits typical of each country – Thailand (dark green and red silks), Malaysia (pink silks) and Singapore (bright red silks). Our steward served us breakfast and afternoon tea in our cabin, made the room for day and night, and fulfilled every request. He was polite, kind and deferential. I’ve never been “Madam-ed” so much – “Excuse me, Madam,” “Thank you, Madam,” “You’re welcome, Madam.”<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjnpchR5SXK_j3Qd3ncsB1ThH2iiTHskMBxLPDPmz-_mmS5cO9jx-83DUQaUpgZwaFc_X7tR3H3HALPASsd4T7CAnnFMBUR33S6PNlCd27X92JeyAV5H7pisdOVawpWf0xk3dYCrOW1NHb/s1600/kids+waving.JPG"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 291px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjnpchR5SXK_j3Qd3ncsB1ThH2iiTHskMBxLPDPmz-_mmS5cO9jx-83DUQaUpgZwaFc_X7tR3H3HALPASsd4T7CAnnFMBUR33S6PNlCd27X92JeyAV5H7pisdOVawpWf0xk3dYCrOW1NHb/s320/kids+waving.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5574599636717328274" border="0" /></a>All of this was background of the most pampered kind, but my main memories will be of the evolving scenery as we traversed from Thailand, Malaysia and Singapore. Everything changed as we traveled – the scenery, the agriculture and the lifestyles.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqFHxuHcxb0XhKAwm5bE1_QX3goYFuuerh-oM3oeFv8BrUOL6-iOxwUrxgU1OEop3LhsLlqOSjhIdfDuxCeiwDf6Co3_bOhZrdwPAhFsaN6SYfGVkZ2UX237NHXs4oB6ZjTy3M6Rm0zIaz/s1600/P2150016.JPG"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqFHxuHcxb0XhKAwm5bE1_QX3goYFuuerh-oM3oeFv8BrUOL6-iOxwUrxgU1OEop3LhsLlqOSjhIdfDuxCeiwDf6Co3_bOhZrdwPAhFsaN6SYfGVkZ2UX237NHXs4oB6ZjTy3M6Rm0zIaz/s200/P2150016.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5574601161233610546" border="0" /></a><br />Thailand was filled initially with vast swaths of green rice fields with white cranes flying low overhead, as well as, tapioca and coconut trees. These changed to rubber and banana trees in the southern part of the country. People here were poor. <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_Wr__vplH4VkVH4sWsoVLEAyfpJJJmEaLUxXfe8F0jTRU7XSPQPi_Amr2frAd7pAaWbd8cEooI8vhUjTJrxW6EvoUbQwUNIJeNtK_RdKCQAyv71cw0bG1wbH0fHmE0LDn_BO_vywrMGv1/s1600/P2160125.JPG"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_Wr__vplH4VkVH4sWsoVLEAyfpJJJmEaLUxXfe8F0jTRU7XSPQPi_Amr2frAd7pAaWbd8cEooI8vhUjTJrxW6EvoUbQwUNIJeNtK_RdKCQAyv71cw0bG1wbH0fHmE0LDn_BO_vywrMGv1/s320/P2160125.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5574599816634674130" border="0" /></a>The landscape was dotted with skinny, Brahma cows laying on the side of the road, under a coconut tree, or next to a ramshackled trash-strewn house. Pampered and well cared for, it was a jolt to see barefoot children run from hovels to laugh and wave at the train. It felt great to see their joy but the differences is our circumstances was stark. Our fare was more than they would make in a year. Stopped at a station, eating breakfast in our private car with a silver tea and coffee pot on the table, it was difficult to look out at the people gazing in awe at our train. It felt shockingly unequal and unfair.<br /><br /><object width="425" height="344"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/v-BiWMLwm6g?hl=en&fs=1"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/v-BiWMLwm6g?hl=en&fs=1" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="425" height="344"></embed></object><br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicZlFzt4ovPRMtbf9mkmF04H_l_Xj3HKsdDp55aJTMDw8NEe1yzt952UN6TQ7HgWmZ05FctuiRuodX7hBFow1XaryxgoAmLJYVPVPqoy7mHWEhGrGwp9AEU_RkAA1ILHN1wbmQE5xyOHxO/s1600/P2160097.JPG"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicZlFzt4ovPRMtbf9mkmF04H_l_Xj3HKsdDp55aJTMDw8NEe1yzt952UN6TQ7HgWmZ05FctuiRuodX7hBFow1XaryxgoAmLJYVPVPqoy7mHWEhGrGwp9AEU_RkAA1ILHN1wbmQE5xyOHxO/s320/P2160097.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5574600457377906594" border="0" /></a><br />In southern Thailand and Malaysia, craggy limestone cliffs rose abruptly from the flat farm land. At the narrowest part of the peninsula we glimpsed the South China Sea with its white beaches and waves washing ashore. It was beautiful and a little frustrating since photography from the back of a moving train is iffy at best. Sometimes leaves and branches brushed our hands as we held tight to the brass railings. Leaning out was definitely NOT a good idea. <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHCp81h-npAqtqgzpGMudPne-UbnVSMDIBIu74VTe-ZeC3d_nuhyjfmwo_T626eGfuRYoVUTmsoZwhYTh0IcjdaghN_8CUl0eLNd5TcpkZXbFHULeVZL19prwkDoQ0x1V3uFZC8MPN_avj/s1600/P2160121.JPG"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHCp81h-npAqtqgzpGMudPne-UbnVSMDIBIu74VTe-ZeC3d_nuhyjfmwo_T626eGfuRYoVUTmsoZwhYTh0IcjdaghN_8CUl0eLNd5TcpkZXbFHULeVZL19prwkDoQ0x1V3uFZC8MPN_avj/s200/P2160121.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5574600815043800322" border="0" /></a>Agriculture changed first to rubber trees then to palm trees for palm oil production with hill after rolling hill of palm trees. Houses in Malaysia seemed to improve and the debris decreased. Dark skinned workers toiling in the perpetual sunshine. Most people traveled on motorbikes – some had sidecars for hauling equipment. Other times whole families were piled on the narrow seat. I saw a young woman with her toddler standing in a compartment between the handle bars holding on.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGDEow75NoIAAD7lfpHTmYX0qzslaRdX11vjoZbYnDLyI4Zih6r_LZVkM-TQ0nrWAFeoG7IALSAHrUC_Zy8sZQuigm9P3RI8SgKryjtZ77sR0JVTtoMQgXOElxoUPZyI_IJ2ZdZy-bq84g/s1600/P2140198.JPG"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGDEow75NoIAAD7lfpHTmYX0qzslaRdX11vjoZbYnDLyI4Zih6r_LZVkM-TQ0nrWAFeoG7IALSAHrUC_Zy8sZQuigm9P3RI8SgKryjtZ77sR0JVTtoMQgXOElxoUPZyI_IJ2ZdZy-bq84g/s200/P2140198.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5574601610021637618" border="0" /></a><br /><br />And then we reached Singapore. All trash disappeared, roads improved, agricultural production ceased, and skyscrapers soared. It was as though we entered a tropical garden with elephant ear plants the size of umbrellas. The difference was dramatic.<br /><br />My other memory of the Orient Express will be the rocking train. We traveled the length of the train to the wood-lined observation car with its brass railings. Walking down the narrow corridors with the train swaying and jerking along we bounced and jostled from wall to wall like a pin ball. Everyone good naturedly waited at the end of cars so that others could pass. We’d hang off the back of the train watching the scenery go by in the warm, humid breeze that left our skin slightly sticky as our hair whipped around in the wind.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuGPYzA7KVBOynV3IugT4z9ABfuL6_gXVItgiogZZN1rV6MOxZqxUop_IZ8BrTOgd4nmNkWAdp3Q2keUOVvqVJ4B5kjd_z3pO6g3YNIHIzXvoR8RI4wB9-5iSBT9-crLgtU1MSGW03iEeE/s1600/piano+bar.JPG"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 229px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuGPYzA7KVBOynV3IugT4z9ABfuL6_gXVItgiogZZN1rV6MOxZqxUop_IZ8BrTOgd4nmNkWAdp3Q2keUOVvqVJ4B5kjd_z3pO6g3YNIHIzXvoR8RI4wB9-5iSBT9-crLgtU1MSGW03iEeE/s320/piano+bar.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5574601956603017138" border="0" /></a>The second night the tracks were still rough. It felt like we were bouncing along a gravel road. Sleep was marginal again. The last night traveling through Malaysia was better but still difficult. Mike tucked the sheets around him like a sleeping bag to keep from rolling out of bed. Even beautifully appointed, our cabin began to feel confining after 36 hours. It was certainly possible to live, shower and dress in the small compartment but difficult after a time. The small shower was challenging as I was tossed from side to side. Mike kept hitting his head on the mirror when he leaned forward to brush his teeth. And then there was putting on mascara. The waiters were gifted at pouring water, wine and coffee while moving to and fro.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgoUGkLyqSGogRu5O2EZAw5BHIf-Ok-m4JjZBKPEvH-VQrMA19c4gvD_atXwyqbIublvOS-DqRZXa-RK9wU7tt3zy-rF_Hb8c0a1_K2pNyQZvUX4r5eAsouKSdukfO3SjhKbDJnLdj5wRCE/s1600/P2160141.JPG"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgoUGkLyqSGogRu5O2EZAw5BHIf-Ok-m4JjZBKPEvH-VQrMA19c4gvD_atXwyqbIublvOS-DqRZXa-RK9wU7tt3zy-rF_Hb8c0a1_K2pNyQZvUX4r5eAsouKSdukfO3SjhKbDJnLdj5wRCE/s200/P2160141.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5574602351770663250" border="0" /></a><br />It was a wonderful experience. And I was ready to get off the train when we arrived in Singapore. We rejoiced when we reached our spacious hotel room in Singapore. The bed didn’t move and I could open my arms and not touch the walls of the bathroom. What joy!<br /><br />Our burl wood-paneled room, the attentive, impeccably clad staff, the ambiance of care and luxury while zipping through ever-changing tropical landscapes – it all adds up to the Orient Express; that, and bouncing our way along the narrow corridors.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTeMeWuhTOBIZ6Onq0cuxGWqQzLDZ06FBjjL6odxTJElsMOnhvyZLmwVAp1rPa8ZAg_nRIUObN3huiH31-Ybr2gVfNyJXjJ4NVzJ0Tcr_8cZMi3r_DYPj8kw2JL7TxzFF9XtHsq0CYVdC2/s1600/mike+%2526+shelley+dinner.JPG"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 286px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTeMeWuhTOBIZ6Onq0cuxGWqQzLDZ06FBjjL6odxTJElsMOnhvyZLmwVAp1rPa8ZAg_nRIUObN3huiH31-Ybr2gVfNyJXjJ4NVzJ0Tcr_8cZMi3r_DYPj8kw2JL7TxzFF9XtHsq0CYVdC2/s400/mike+%2526+shelley+dinner.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5574602570457305570" border="0" /></a>Shelley's Roadmap to Engineer Your Dreamhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00327937042376941865noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1112334948488380299.post-49416073617120679282011-02-12T08:19:00.031-05:002011-02-13T00:53:32.088-05:00Aladdin’s Garden<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjn5otIeuBJTUF05-H91fYlghp3kmAGavlW9ypRhmaYZ7VzqTQQvyNpra5yx3ruDILEi5y_FK1bt0cKjGdfrx0xJj1WaRRRhgxwQj84K6qDjU_wtAd8eGdtc0bdmloVQBcGjNBMRA96d-Vp/s1600/P2060154.JPG"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjn5otIeuBJTUF05-H91fYlghp3kmAGavlW9ypRhmaYZ7VzqTQQvyNpra5yx3ruDILEi5y_FK1bt0cKjGdfrx0xJj1WaRRRhgxwQj84K6qDjU_wtAd8eGdtc0bdmloVQBcGjNBMRA96d-Vp/s400/P2060154.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5573043439754082882" border="0" /></a><br /><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:worddocument> <w:view>Normal</w:View> <w:zoom>0</w:Zoom> <w:punctuationkerning/> <w:validateagainstschemas/> <w:saveifxmlinvalid>false</w:SaveIfXMLInvalid> <w:ignoremixedcontent>false</w:IgnoreMixedContent> <w:alwaysshowplaceholdertext>false</w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText> <w:compatibility> <w:breakwrappedtables/> <w:snaptogridincell/> <w:wraptextwithpunct/> <w:useasianbreakrules/> <w:dontgrowautofit/> </w:Compatibility> <w:browserlevel>MicrosoftInternetExplorer4</w:BrowserLevel> </w:WordDocument> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:latentstyles deflockedstate="false" latentstylecount="156"> </w:LatentStyles> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if !mso]><object classid="clsid:38481807-CA0E-42D2-BF39-B33AF135CC4D" id="ieooui"></object> <style> st1\:*{behavior:url(#ieooui) } </style> <![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 10]> <style> /* Style Definitions */ table.MsoNormalTable {mso-style-name:"Table Normal"; mso-tstyle-rowband-size:0; mso-tstyle-colband-size:0; mso-style-noshow:yes; mso-style-parent:""; mso-padding-alt:0in 5.4pt 0in 5.4pt; mso-para-margin:0in; mso-para-margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:10.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-ansi-language:#0400; mso-fareast-language:#0400; mso-bidi-language:#0400;} </style> <![endif]--> <p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p> <p class="MsoNormal"> </p> <p class="MsoNormal"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhW02FITBkJel3oeCGZaCxYrPJ0Ok-uUigqd1DoJtU98I0PLGw3t84Fcnu33BBYThx0JRgAYleVYIbHKiKfhElE5cnHgfNsiLD8Kt2DPaRycebW-pxMCXtdU8nGaHGXLMY_Q-7rDqbLQWUq/s1600/P2050050.JPG"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhW02FITBkJel3oeCGZaCxYrPJ0Ok-uUigqd1DoJtU98I0PLGw3t84Fcnu33BBYThx0JRgAYleVYIbHKiKfhElE5cnHgfNsiLD8Kt2DPaRycebW-pxMCXtdU8nGaHGXLMY_Q-7rDqbLQWUq/s320/P2050050.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5573035622970998546" border="0" /></a>Forget the Garden of Eden. I don’t think it compares with Aladdin’s Garden which is Thailand.<span style=""> </span>Its cup runneth over with gardens and food, particularly fruits of the most extraordinary kinds. </p> <p class="MsoNormal">In order to get out of Bangkok, we took an excursion outside the city to the floating markets. The farther we drove the more greenery we saw. Skyscrapers turned into low buildings and small parks became large fields.<span style=""> </span>We nearly jumped from the moving van when we saw our first large rice field complete with a worker in the field with his conical bamboo hat.<span style=""> </span>Our astute guide and driver found a rice field where we could stop to take photos.<span style=""> </span>They were amused but happily accommodated the crazy American tourists. <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTdzHqVMEHWQ2aE44BI7h3tbpRKy8mYB07H8havYEjfA_sg7rKB_giao9mSSPfjhr7PyDM2LNQj0YlzErgZMAK9X9W7NHjI7G7qquuTJEw4-kihOmrUPhtz0Tp5AW-MGa6PAW9jQkhpDRD/s1600/P2050051.JPG"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTdzHqVMEHWQ2aE44BI7h3tbpRKy8mYB07H8havYEjfA_sg7rKB_giao9mSSPfjhr7PyDM2LNQj0YlzErgZMAK9X9W7NHjI7G7qquuTJEw4-kihOmrUPhtz0Tp5AW-MGa6PAW9jQkhpDRD/s200/P2050051.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5573035845729107650" border="0" /></a>It’s the equivalent of tourists taking pictures of a corn field in Texas or the Eastern Shore of Maryland.<span style=""> </span>No matter – we were thrilled.<span style=""> </span><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjl2FLXRXMuvaj5aO9igEEm06ByGIoCC5o7Ex8RkKWsMc2k_W9f1OAcGmrYNRZ_6DksHeVwyckQV1lxMngrqNXv1N4K5tdIxCHhQN9hb1XNxTXsfGYvtLm6KYBUxoOXUkXTb83so_AXVrky/s1600/P2060106.JPG"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjl2FLXRXMuvaj5aO9igEEm06ByGIoCC5o7Ex8RkKWsMc2k_W9f1OAcGmrYNRZ_6DksHeVwyckQV1lxMngrqNXv1N4K5tdIxCHhQN9hb1XNxTXsfGYvtLm6KYBUxoOXUkXTb83so_AXVrky/s320/P2060106.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5573036480171888130" border="0" /></a>And we remained thrilled as we boarded a long boat for the trip through narrow canals to the floating market. Bangkok is known as the "Venice of the East."<br /></p> <p class="MsoNormal"> </p> <p class="MsoNormal">The canals wound through coconut groves, bamboo huts overhanging the water with green mangoes hanging heavy on the trees. The floating market is a series of piers where shoppers walk by perusing the vendors who are floating in long, narrow boats like canoes. The boats are stacked several deep so that goods and money are exchanged via a small net at the end of a long pole. Food, food and more food.<span style=""> </span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhN264eTUj4h6-Cydt5Z2h1Yejjfgd995XwJYNvVmalvd3NxIAC1Qh1c_QBdLbXjHnNYuB8HWklXtG0ZzxJkhQJm9mTKsS2qjxHF3vTaNIgDW49DETd1CFLYUd545AcMq50fORCSG0TF5Ir/s1600/P2060066.JPG"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 150px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhN264eTUj4h6-Cydt5Z2h1Yejjfgd995XwJYNvVmalvd3NxIAC1Qh1c_QBdLbXjHnNYuB8HWklXtG0ZzxJkhQJm9mTKsS2qjxHF3vTaNIgDW49DETd1CFLYUd545AcMq50fORCSG0TF5Ir/s200/P2060066.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5573036960598838482" border="0" /></a>Old women had boats overloaded with mangoes, pineapple, tangerines, and papaya – the most familiar items – that they would slice on the spot. Then there are the guava, rambutan, mangosteen and rose apple.<span style=""> </span>Others were cooking inside their tiny boats and dishing up foods to waiting hands.<span style=""> </span>Tiny “monkey” bananas (half the size of the ones we typically see) were fried and served hot. <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhneDYNS4O7zt7RbXeRqQTduOIpAW8mcFRBu0uX-LP64EOWnJ63uNryrffaDxQ7svmfPuCGlBM9cUnKoxvuZhCekO7qeoN2Axeei6BzHOSr05ODvfoYLHrHNS2ccvdUMj81Ck5RXZzdVBJQ/s1600/P2060102.JPG"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhneDYNS4O7zt7RbXeRqQTduOIpAW8mcFRBu0uX-LP64EOWnJ63uNryrffaDxQ7svmfPuCGlBM9cUnKoxvuZhCekO7qeoN2Axeei6BzHOSr05ODvfoYLHrHNS2ccvdUMj81Ck5RXZzdVBJQ/s200/P2060102.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5573038013780290530" border="0" /></a>Tiny, custard pies, slightly bigger than a silver dollar, were fabulous coconut pancakes. And, my favorite, coconut ice cream served inside a freshly cracked coconut and on a bed of the coconut meat scraped from the sides as we watched.<span style=""> </span>Yummy! Not everything was a fruit.<span style=""> </span>An old man made soup from his boat heating it on the spot with a small burner. </p> <p class="MsoNormal"> </p> <p class="MsoNormal"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSjIG_-QAF4dETPXm3CgSEY52sm8zcdPWOYI6V-ksslfE4-TgSlkiD_iLsRK8AyMzgcI-lt9gL7226-o-VwVLjTq2o5Kv_klcIpZuA9wK_XXAffdB0V7tpg3apZQYPbtNrIbvBMDwiBi3l/s1600/P2060002.JPG"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSjIG_-QAF4dETPXm3CgSEY52sm8zcdPWOYI6V-ksslfE4-TgSlkiD_iLsRK8AyMzgcI-lt9gL7226-o-VwVLjTq2o5Kv_klcIpZuA9wK_XXAffdB0V7tpg3apZQYPbtNrIbvBMDwiBi3l/s320/P2060002.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5573038420129723970" border="0" /></a>On our way back, our driver took us the scenic route through the fields and orchards. We saw mango and papaya trees, coconut groves and guava trees. There was even a grove of dragon fruit plants that looked like yucca gone astray. The fruits are sold in carts all over Bangkok and Chiang Mai.<span style=""> </span>Fruit drinks, made fresh, are on every corner. Coconuts seem to be the workhorse though. We stopped at a coconut facility where they showed us how coconuts are used. <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYnKG-Xtsw4iVicEIDZfrMVCwcq7tWC-kNyxV-8F37NvvL6IOX6cP47p50j6zYizAdLKg2PnrUThkhn9lT9BDQuD8jjwp0Ledkm4DJdXRneh9U5-SeoP3J2XOBjkeZV-3vx9ToOFcEi3aa/s1600/P2060156.JPG"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYnKG-Xtsw4iVicEIDZfrMVCwcq7tWC-kNyxV-8F37NvvL6IOX6cP47p50j6zYizAdLKg2PnrUThkhn9lT9BDQuD8jjwp0Ledkm4DJdXRneh9U5-SeoP3J2XOBjkeZV-3vx9ToOFcEi3aa/s200/P2060156.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5573040183724649794" border="0" /></a>The long, then coconut blooms (the look like overgrown ears of corn) are whacked off at the bottom so that the juice is drained. The bloom is left on the tree to develop into the coconut.<span style=""> </span>Meanwhile the juice is cooked for 90 minutes in a large vat until it caramelizes into coconut sugar.<span style=""> </span>It tasted like….caramelized sugar. It’s used in Thai cooking as we would experience later.<span style=""> </span>The coconuts are harvested, cracked and drained and the meat is scraped using a small bench with sharp teeth on the end.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"> </p> <p class="MsoNormal"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-KxbtKkbB6iYeZwnPRWp1_EuM4NJpS-ApRFDj2U3TLoqSosZvztR9oG7MaotHMqq6NxGOdZcKYlQBXXzVZkIg2YqjUllSNvB-j7Iu2qxxLP6G4ywufTBfbU-SLdBNmw6zf-NsGV2i50tt/s1600/P2120001.JPG"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-KxbtKkbB6iYeZwnPRWp1_EuM4NJpS-ApRFDj2U3TLoqSosZvztR9oG7MaotHMqq6NxGOdZcKYlQBXXzVZkIg2YqjUllSNvB-j7Iu2qxxLP6G4ywufTBfbU-SLdBNmw6zf-NsGV2i50tt/s200/P2120001.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5573040500097253810" border="0" /></a>While fruits are a star, the flowers are not far behind.<span style=""> </span>Shrubs of hibiscus and bougainvillea grow in the highway medians.<span style=""> </span>Tree-sized dracena line country roads, as do shrubs of croton in many varieties. Of course, lotus flowers float in decorative bowls placed around temples, hotels, and more.<span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"> </p> <p class="MsoNormal"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_hWUVf2eitkCGsTQDQpiKY2btyK-DsNVq1XPF-egmsZOXRXNWKFwDEdQv2aIO3BxaQE4JMNUPEHwKz0m-vsl231axr_5Zy3IY8KxHV6GJMmRbhB2UrS_bc4VVSF7_E2z4PKwtEsBuDHNp/s1600/P2120024.JPG"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_hWUVf2eitkCGsTQDQpiKY2btyK-DsNVq1XPF-egmsZOXRXNWKFwDEdQv2aIO3BxaQE4JMNUPEHwKz0m-vsl231axr_5Zy3IY8KxHV6GJMmRbhB2UrS_bc4VVSF7_E2z4PKwtEsBuDHNp/s200/P2120024.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5573041265140487826" border="0" /></a>We literally walk past cart after cart of prepared foods, dried fish, and fruits on every street and alley.<span style=""> </span>And much of it goes into the traditional Thai dishes which we both love.<span style=""> </span>It was only natural that with no plans for the weekend, we took a Thai cooking class at Silom Thai Cooking School with Sanusi Mareh. It was only us and a young, newly married couple from Sweden. We met Sanusi on the street and he took us to the market to do our shopping. <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDUEZJZza2YMSntA1Q0ot6SPUjBkeRnRtedtzljhWyTIiL2pCWcXveziUmxqg9pFW1yynjd9-wlb7J5an3DL0X5FQETmpH7v6AttKZg0expri4wvYGZEcBuDw61vUNXpsnMTRwX9IOLLai/s1600/P2120044.JPG"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 150px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDUEZJZza2YMSntA1Q0ot6SPUjBkeRnRtedtzljhWyTIiL2pCWcXveziUmxqg9pFW1yynjd9-wlb7J5an3DL0X5FQETmpH7v6AttKZg0expri4wvYGZEcBuDw61vUNXpsnMTRwX9IOLLai/s200/P2120044.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5573041574965853730" border="0" /></a>It was great fun to finally learn about the unknown vegetables and the essential Thai spices (for example, they have three types of basil and four types of ginger). After our shopping spree – vegetables and herbs for four cost about $3.50 – he led us to the cooking school down a long alley.<span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"> </p> <p class="MsoNormal">A quick side note.<span style=""> </span>One of the delightful things I’ve come to love about Thailand is the custom of removing your shoes before going inside.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTVMzc4FwCrbzCz72ek82q4nwpGFG4b4F392rboNay8cJJWPp66BX83dcETC0b6AeT-K2A7n9fpTm_BABeYek9HrlyRfePxlh3wSSbxKSj7z4eyoapHsVadSBBRq7vQ-rgNjbjmCJu54vC/s1600/P2120070.JPG"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTVMzc4FwCrbzCz72ek82q4nwpGFG4b4F392rboNay8cJJWPp66BX83dcETC0b6AeT-K2A7n9fpTm_BABeYek9HrlyRfePxlh3wSSbxKSj7z4eyoapHsVadSBBRq7vQ-rgNjbjmCJu54vC/s200/P2120070.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5573042055916499314" border="0" /></a> It’s primarily a cleanliness thing.<span style=""> </span>In the temples, people kneel and bow to the Buddha so a clean floor is essential.<span style=""> </span>In a traditional Thai home, meals are eaten while sitting on mats on the floor.<span style=""> </span>Keeping the floors clean is a priority – so, shoes are removed and left at the entrance.<span style=""> </span>But I love the sensual feel of it. There’s something about walking around in bare feet on a smooth, cool surface that just feels great.<span style=""> </span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjptuk9FTSXbILnrpA4N5Y6rZNMK5pYr5D2-xMOyLAj29lcPAx-0ij6gEvU59oWGZyBB996QAKLI8t9Bn04gdOnHYZa7n_8I7Rk4LavX7TqQNUTtWSSlf9DoxCiSlQTiDotY-SFTVlNNmWC/s1600/P2120067.JPG"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjptuk9FTSXbILnrpA4N5Y6rZNMK5pYr5D2-xMOyLAj29lcPAx-0ij6gEvU59oWGZyBB996QAKLI8t9Bn04gdOnHYZa7n_8I7Rk4LavX7TqQNUTtWSSlf9DoxCiSlQTiDotY-SFTVlNNmWC/s320/P2120067.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5573042996111501634" border="0" /></a>At the cooking school, our shoes were left outside and we padded around prepping food, cooking and eating in bare feet.<span style=""> </span>How great is that?</p> <p class="MsoNormal"> </p> <p class="MsoNormal">In the span of three hours we prepared five Thai dishes – tom yum soup, pad thai, chicken salad with sticky rice, green curry paste for chicken curry, and a dessert of rubies in coconut milk (the "rubies" were actually turnips -that's right, turnips - soaked in flavored syrups). We prepped the veggies, sliced and diced the herbs and even pounded out green curry paste from scratch (we’ll use a food processor at home even though they insist it isn’t as good). <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPjb-MGH0nSfLEih87Y7rpji5WuZKDP4gkkmv3xMQL7T_6RkiiWvMJrMmn_1o27URGpsZCbJMCJA5CRjS_rB9jZeF0Mwl54_ajyNJfb5K2fjrnZ5BSHTlgjklDVXHbO1hm0FBHm8uG8S28/s1600/P2120038.JPG"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPjb-MGH0nSfLEih87Y7rpji5WuZKDP4gkkmv3xMQL7T_6RkiiWvMJrMmn_1o27URGpsZCbJMCJA5CRjS_rB9jZeF0Mwl54_ajyNJfb5K2fjrnZ5BSHTlgjklDVXHbO1hm0FBHm8uG8S28/s320/P2120038.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5573042379031445426" border="0" /></a>We stood outside on a narrow terrace with a row of woks in front and sautéed, boiled or stir fried each dish. The instruction was great and everything tasted fabulous. Mike loved the tom yum soup and I can’t decide my favorite between the pad thai and chicken curry. The chicken salad with sticky rice as a delightful and yummy surprise.<span style=""> </span>We have the cookbook and are ready to try it all again from our indoor kitchen in Annapolis.<span style=""> </span>But – maybe, just maybe – we’ll cook barefooted. </p> <p class="MsoNormal"> </p><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmDAu5uiYLgxZTME5SiWDA-URA0WzIbx_G0tSVdSXS5PSSCYV8-OnaFULdFzt7a5WG3Qnd_XujcdXoTSEeZvgA-nuxhyphenhyphenquudUprilTz1JyyD8SPg8ZV4FYJZSbzKGwjfiFVIZaGZNZNRvE/s1600/P2030110.JPG"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmDAu5uiYLgxZTME5SiWDA-URA0WzIbx_G0tSVdSXS5PSSCYV8-OnaFULdFzt7a5WG3Qnd_XujcdXoTSEeZvgA-nuxhyphenhyphenquudUprilTz1JyyD8SPg8ZV4FYJZSbzKGwjfiFVIZaGZNZNRvE/s400/P2030110.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5573039746138767154" border="0" /></a>Shelley's Roadmap to Engineer Your Dreamhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00327937042376941865noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1112334948488380299.post-44317119547197819172011-02-11T04:07:00.029-05:002011-02-12T08:57:08.624-05:00Magic Carpet Ride<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnniVoYBYQDl12TEU0xA1Lfud4mgK13YBqOXCNcMo10ELAQANFYKMwxW6I0g_e7hSqoicrgNtQ7nk7tQQzt0mq9X1JdxZUbQv6uxsJ5-wupqPu2X8Hk6vCL7D6tRzsQT1scgLhVz-y-4Aj/s1600/P2090086.JPG"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnniVoYBYQDl12TEU0xA1Lfud4mgK13YBqOXCNcMo10ELAQANFYKMwxW6I0g_e7hSqoicrgNtQ7nk7tQQzt0mq9X1JdxZUbQv6uxsJ5-wupqPu2X8Hk6vCL7D6tRzsQT1scgLhVz-y-4Aj/s400/P2090086.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5572798602355006706" border="0" /></a><br /><br />Ahhh – Chiang Mai. Chiang Mai is a smaller city northwest of Bangkok. It is slower paced, less traffic, less pollution, more walkable and a more complete Thai experience. And, it is easier to get out into the countryside, which is what we did.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyFEjnVKPoek2cOdWStSl-dw-nV-hEdioCfE1isL17Dd8MUnJj7bbWreKOG4M-eCt8NhAdDUpb48gMeraWIHLVXc_DQ24rlPStrePYd9f7lkC1YjE934Fv2rnHaPw5swCZwGQQNS3Q40Jd/s1600/P2090005.JPG"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyFEjnVKPoek2cOdWStSl-dw-nV-hEdioCfE1isL17Dd8MUnJj7bbWreKOG4M-eCt8NhAdDUpb48gMeraWIHLVXc_DQ24rlPStrePYd9f7lkC1YjE934Fv2rnHaPw5swCZwGQQNS3Q40Jd/s200/P2090005.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5572672794887260226" border="0" /></a>We booked a one-day trek. In this case, our magic carpet came in the form of a covered pick-up truck with bench seats along the sides and an open back – no seat belts or airbags! It whisked us away to the hills and jungle outside of the city along with seven others from Austria, Germany and Israel.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-BhoiJPyC-9Ip8JPUXqe2XSl7GDjQJI2VA9WiVskeZtLRUaL-ltLlHvu_wJN1RoyVyDqerXWxrpYSzhCwnMFOJaxw3OyilDPOn4lu-GPn8_cmOcEHQrhCJs-X06cKA3YYJ-q1V6ioTcdT/s1600/P2090043.JPG"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-BhoiJPyC-9Ip8JPUXqe2XSl7GDjQJI2VA9WiVskeZtLRUaL-ltLlHvu_wJN1RoyVyDqerXWxrpYSzhCwnMFOJaxw3OyilDPOn4lu-GPn8_cmOcEHQrhCJs-X06cKA3YYJ-q1V6ioTcdT/s320/P2090043.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5572792797193623858" border="0" /></a>I have felt a bit suspicious since the Grand Palace scam so I was concerned when our first stop was an orchid farm. It was beautiful with bursts of colorful orchids floating in the air. Next we were off to see traditional villages. That was an experience in conflicting feelings. The “village” was actually a collection of huts for several tribes, such as the Hmong and Karen tribes. We understood that this area helped to preserve the tribes’ cultures – a worthy goal. Nonetheless it felt like a zoo for people. <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2-oAtU6B1SoTWEwQYu8IqTjBXwQ9P28Y4b5zElYk3Pg6IxMNil12ycM1kPQ8AMOsbMHI5tywq1jQuhGsUvRVhZx9mX8xVuVK0ImskgLTQ2B7dlgeUu8OgxyAPtejFfxPW5TfDPQnkO5re/s1600/P2090080.JPG"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 150px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2-oAtU6B1SoTWEwQYu8IqTjBXwQ9P28Y4b5zElYk3Pg6IxMNil12ycM1kPQ8AMOsbMHI5tywq1jQuhGsUvRVhZx9mX8xVuVK0ImskgLTQ2B7dlgeUu8OgxyAPtejFfxPW5TfDPQnkO5re/s200/P2090080.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5572793083823780994" border="0" /></a> When we arrived, an 85 year old woman got up from her seat when we arrived to demonstrate who they separate rice grains from the hull by beating it with a lever operated by her foot. It took a lot of strength. She could probably out run me! Kids ran around everywhere in traditional clothing, placidly posing for photos like they’ve done it many times before.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh327PDuB8PRkbvxc4cqNViMf_u2JdWc-h7117TJba0wp0Qqzw3D0UdR3fVpWIq_tuSReNxTwiBoTMYGPxVpErraeH2eSH45N1tyMy5U68MIcqOKNDMY9brzNnU9GDMb2PdYAekoZkG2hue/s1600/P2090066.JPG"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 150px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh327PDuB8PRkbvxc4cqNViMf_u2JdWc-h7117TJba0wp0Qqzw3D0UdR3fVpWIq_tuSReNxTwiBoTMYGPxVpErraeH2eSH45N1tyMy5U68MIcqOKNDMY9brzNnU9GDMb2PdYAekoZkG2hue/s200/P2090066.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5572793276385786530" border="0" /></a>One of the most notable tribes was the Karen Long Necks. These women wear metal rings around their necks, legs and arms starting at a very young age and advancing one ring per year until age thirteen. They were able to choose whether or not to wear the rings. They were all beautiful women. They sat quietly while tourists photographed them in their rings and hair wrapped in colorful fabrics.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBiUgludR0TMhoH4i3W-hz2L57xaB6-O4L265CGqZHs5NgulvECBM0nSv8xeUYOwtJw5G6y7QoM89Dmv1EX7YLiw540AguUqkM1Op0cjlw0dHLEz7m779vS5HLAYN01fWqKzgrU_r1Esm1/s1600/P2090077.JPG"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBiUgludR0TMhoH4i3W-hz2L57xaB6-O4L265CGqZHs5NgulvECBM0nSv8xeUYOwtJw5G6y7QoM89Dmv1EX7YLiw540AguUqkM1Op0cjlw0dHLEz7m779vS5HLAYN01fWqKzgrU_r1Esm1/s320/P2090077.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5572793650615771330" border="0" /></a>The church and school were at the end of the village. The school was an outdoor pavilion with only a roof and one wall. The wall held a huge blackboard where they appeared to be teaching Thai and English. Throughout villagers were selling their locally made traditional products. We skipped the products and donated to the school. It’s sad to think these people’s history and traditions may eventually end. But I’m not sure this is the lifestyle they envisioned for their future.<br /><br />Back into the magic carpet truck and to the elephant camp. On the way we saw several elephant camps with the animals standing under trees. We arrived to a dusty spot under the coconut trees with a few bamboo huts. <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJ1G8AxPQNIPsadgry9o-XSYbxnG4PcRPlOIssKnMB4WTOD1OxjdtKOlzexhyLqWyyNQuOiRWMIG7SHgHmrQRoo23GewmNMtKMpEodPzPIMECMzSYQPMo3-YBhiu5_sJ-jhnS9OfwNWbW4/s1600/P2090096.JPG"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJ1G8AxPQNIPsadgry9o-XSYbxnG4PcRPlOIssKnMB4WTOD1OxjdtKOlzexhyLqWyyNQuOiRWMIG7SHgHmrQRoo23GewmNMtKMpEodPzPIMECMzSYQPMo3-YBhiu5_sJ-jhnS9OfwNWbW4/s320/P2090096.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5572793958691878866" border="0" /></a>We could buy bananas or sugar cane to feed the elephants. Mike apparently didn’t hear that part, so as I went back for bananas, he yelled, “But they’re not ripe yet!” They’re not for us – silly!<br /><br />With no preamble, we walked to a small bluff with a planked area. I was intently watching the elephants all around and was taken by surprise by a long brown snake-like thing curling up and around searching. Silly – it was a trunk! And it was searching for the bananas I held in my hand. <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgK_uAIWDogg8QE-F-jKG2-ZMehg7MOlxoICqB0BmmXPSbjszF0ZNXuTs0DgTV2wdILeDpXn3Pi3i8PZAEiNsYIQVdL7DtVy4LLbKKHcYfYMBQlOBxCTaH_vHmTE-KsyLqxfD7vHEFosv6e/s1600/P2090120.JPG"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 150px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgK_uAIWDogg8QE-F-jKG2-ZMehg7MOlxoICqB0BmmXPSbjszF0ZNXuTs0DgTV2wdILeDpXn3Pi3i8PZAEiNsYIQVdL7DtVy4LLbKKHcYfYMBQlOBxCTaH_vHmTE-KsyLqxfD7vHEFosv6e/s200/P2090120.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5572794522769462738" border="0" /></a>After tearing one off, the trunk – seemingly disconnected from the head below us, curled around the banana and zipped it into the waiting mouth below. Fabulous.<br /><br />The elephants had a sort of saddle on their backs. It was a metal frame seat for two people sitting on a pile of thick pads and strapped to the elephant’s back. But there was a problem. One elephant had a baby last week and another was pregnant. With two elephants out of commission, they needed volunteers to ride behind the driver on the neck of the elephant while two others sat in the seat behind.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6q443lo6vI5q8-vq-lxpGoyYROU4DZxyAgFg2wS5gVTcEZhUOKqqkGSnbyI0U9b0fxGwvKHOvWU71B8z2WQ_-MH0X2lUMyoVVbD2eZTCruEbucYe7LTvlpEvPiH4jldBI6myf4gKDTE6-/s1600/P2090112.JPG"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6q443lo6vI5q8-vq-lxpGoyYROU4DZxyAgFg2wS5gVTcEZhUOKqqkGSnbyI0U9b0fxGwvKHOvWU71B8z2WQ_-MH0X2lUMyoVVbD2eZTCruEbucYe7LTvlpEvPiH4jldBI6myf4gKDTE6-/s320/P2090112.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5572794837491879650" border="0" /></a>Pick me! Pick me! No worries. I was the only one clamoring to get directly on the elephant’s back. With a little juggling we got all three of us on board with the driver. But we were on one of the smallest and with four people. And the elephant wasn’t happy about it. No amount of coaxing could get more than a grudging few steps. All the others soon passed us. With a brief discussion in Thai, the solution apparently was for the driver to slide off the wide face of the elephant and lead from the ground – leaving me perched happily directly behind his ears and looking down over the broad head. It seemed odd to not see his eyes which were well below me.<br /><br />This approach worked better. With me talking and coaxing with my legs and the trainer in front we made “good” progress. <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpbUqTqMZu0Q60akvz5Ha8NbYEXiByCrzzNDWhIv8c9UG04FNN0H-82ECC0CcolRfUivwVg_bw1Fy0BJ6ShRTIeH8sREbidINBWGdnPvZ3br6Uuz5LC8_WQxHJ_q0zY78EO_Z2e34uOd4Z/s1600/P2090123.JPG"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpbUqTqMZu0Q60akvz5Ha8NbYEXiByCrzzNDWhIv8c9UG04FNN0H-82ECC0CcolRfUivwVg_bw1Fy0BJ6ShRTIeH8sREbidINBWGdnPvZ3br6Uuz5LC8_WQxHJ_q0zY78EO_Z2e34uOd4Z/s320/P2090123.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5572795067014818402" border="0" /></a>In 40 minutes we went about 200 yards. Not exactly zipping along. It was like a trail ride on plodding horses who only perk up as they near the stables and food. In this case, the elephant would stop periodically and raise his truck to me looking for more bananas. Nope – not until we finish. He accepted that and we’d ease forward again. It was a strange ride as he slowly placed one big, round foot in front of the other. His large legs hinged just under my butt creating a strong back and forth rocking motion.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVd3Iyr9xD-z9Q_FnO_4WxIk7CR0Nxt1A5FwFUh4n3FM88GapJ0r9tAWGPjH9ws5B_vhFeF_TNHT9wtOnbbfIRu0f_KIfqoscaja6ikigb-q4cA9rRnw6KgNkEcny2gMrVplyCUn5KOjWA/s1600/P2090127.JPG"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVd3Iyr9xD-z9Q_FnO_4WxIk7CR0Nxt1A5FwFUh4n3FM88GapJ0r9tAWGPjH9ws5B_vhFeF_TNHT9wtOnbbfIRu0f_KIfqoscaja6ikigb-q4cA9rRnw6KgNkEcny2gMrVplyCUn5KOjWA/s320/P2090127.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5572795406384214850" border="0" /></a><br />And it was a messy business – sitting on an elephant. The wiry hairs prickled and dust swirled. The end of the trunk was moist and slimy. They also use their trunks to throw dirt on themselves to keep away bugs. So, moist and slimy combined with dirt made mud. Every touch and banana left a broad smudge of elephant snot/mud – snud – on my arm. As we plodded along, we heard a loud blast. The trainer giggled as we realized it was an elephant fart. I was glad to be on top. But that was nothing compared to the dismount. When we arrived at the dismounting platform, I wanted to see his eye so I bent over to say hello. <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnjcmU6ndJwRpVsXs-_gEO2Ni0Y6pQQcPS-lckA3rKicOAhUgq6KiIhvu0snHPWFyE58Dz59tHYj8pqVSWuHc6DKXQ0kLgi-75bQT51NNwEXYsYmIJSnKP55EQWv5JgQfgKPGjznx50qru/s1600/P2090130.JPG"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnjcmU6ndJwRpVsXs-_gEO2Ni0Y6pQQcPS-lckA3rKicOAhUgq6KiIhvu0snHPWFyE58Dz59tHYj8pqVSWuHc6DKXQ0kLgi-75bQT51NNwEXYsYmIJSnKP55EQWv5JgQfgKPGjznx50qru/s320/P2090130.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5572795927207282274" border="0" /></a>A big, wide, strong trunk wrapped over my head – as though I was a large banana. Was this elephant for happy or mad? Hard to tell but the staff quickly disentangled me and led our elephant away. I was left with snud across my neck, back and arm. I wouldn’t trade it for anything!<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-_9d6TFDVHp7nIc51kyLugORaW5nDNCsv5gr_giZgbDNc7z_PWTIWAlJIT_lhHnw_PvWn2371_1ch5qkqjR8NiNuGCEHhgL5pcrfJoRgEUlglQklOiQaHkGCiYKs3LVmJpTJOP28cxryj/s1600/P2090129.JPG"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-_9d6TFDVHp7nIc51kyLugORaW5nDNCsv5gr_giZgbDNc7z_PWTIWAlJIT_lhHnw_PvWn2371_1ch5qkqjR8NiNuGCEHhgL5pcrfJoRgEUlglQklOiQaHkGCiYKs3LVmJpTJOP28cxryj/s320/P2090129.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5572795780507072978" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />After our lunch of rice and melon under a bamboo hut we were back in the truck to our next event – hiking to a waterfall. In another dusty parking lot we set off at a breakneck pace – or the twenty-somethings did. Me, Mike and a couple from Great Britain – the only other middle aged people – took a more leisurely pace, took photos and were subsequently left behind. No problem.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjddtwy4qGcHUPs0p-BZD57koUOnYo7V8xkvMUhjBiUntXoBfGdBlxnqvmYN2Mflec8IgEnKVO6QaUtNa9tkanELHcudL51o15ZVhswlpVMQJuSl_UTx7_6JAUOkLZXR_Hp-edsjxm-pmlN/s1600/P2090139.JPG"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 150px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjddtwy4qGcHUPs0p-BZD57koUOnYo7V8xkvMUhjBiUntXoBfGdBlxnqvmYN2Mflec8IgEnKVO6QaUtNa9tkanELHcudL51o15ZVhswlpVMQJuSl_UTx7_6JAUOkLZXR_Hp-edsjxm-pmlN/s200/P2090139.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5572796723100902562" border="0" /></a><br />The trail led through the jungle-covered hills. Huge trees towered against clear blue sky in the fresh air. The trail soon became rocky as it ran alongside a small boulder-strewn stream. <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_kZoZfzMFxCYGju8CTLkdHImdpLy8D8WzXvhEpyQL9sRBD1DnRprXl0h_KmF7C9Qb0why0erZj-kqfp3kLnGL96haXLm3MTijM8I064YmIRWTbXb4_f_s-YrYr1FF_GHsTPxQrrfDkcOM/s1600/P2090151.JPG"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_kZoZfzMFxCYGju8CTLkdHImdpLy8D8WzXvhEpyQL9sRBD1DnRprXl0h_KmF7C9Qb0why0erZj-kqfp3kLnGL96haXLm3MTijM8I064YmIRWTbXb4_f_s-YrYr1FF_GHsTPxQrrfDkcOM/s320/P2090151.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5572797136556299026" border="0" /></a>Banana trees covered the hillside; teak trees with their plate-size leaves grew straight and tall; bamboo four-stories tall bent over the trail like a green sunlit canopy. In some places the trail crossed streams so that we picked our way across big and small stones. Other times bamboo ladders lay horizontal across rocks and streams making for a precarious but fun balancing act. After an hour we came to the waterfall and all the others lounging on rocks by the falls. It was beautiful and cool with the sound of the falls. It reminded us of our smaller waterfall in Cotignac minus the bamboo and bananas.<br /><br />Always looking for opportunities to sell to tourists,<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuRiOJcgVxPFATW-DLlrLZV50CNV5MAPH99Ds9CbF5y2ATiOAa-UEMxttPOOXjJO9Mouuzn_FkEDjitn8abZFfSKOJ2BauOpcHFQDrJ05kFf3cvX2d5vW1NHzc5yW1G47EgXoVdiWrS6ev/s1600/P2090168.JPG"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuRiOJcgVxPFATW-DLlrLZV50CNV5MAPH99Ds9CbF5y2ATiOAa-UEMxttPOOXjJO9Mouuzn_FkEDjitn8abZFfSKOJ2BauOpcHFQDrJ05kFf3cvX2d5vW1NHzc5yW1G47EgXoVdiWrS6ev/s320/P2090168.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5572798888082581730" border="0" /></a> two women – one very old – were selling cool drinks to the dusty crowd. The old woman, skin leathery from decades in the sun, her head wrapped in fabric, was entrancing with her sparkling eyes and distant gaze. These were the eyes of my grandmother, but set in the high check-bone face of this Thai woman. Through our guide, I told her that she reminded me of my grandmother. I hope it touched her as it did me.<br /><br />After our walk back, we were off for the white water rafting. <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_t9m5WAUlEotnzhgLi4WIakQQ1eMMkR_eFGKp4ToebPUKOdHKzkS8Yvw6CspdIW_xw54vjzTOwh8urkfi9z4H5maQGjgxVg1_Z1QA4sNj1_JYVhczs166OlQ8Dxhof1C6pHGLHIPhSwRZ/s1600/P2090176.JPG"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_t9m5WAUlEotnzhgLi4WIakQQ1eMMkR_eFGKp4ToebPUKOdHKzkS8Yvw6CspdIW_xw54vjzTOwh8urkfi9z4H5maQGjgxVg1_Z1QA4sNj1_JYVhczs166OlQ8Dxhof1C6pHGLHIPhSwRZ/s320/P2090176.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5572797869527964674" border="0" /></a>I was already weary and not excited. Without shoes but with life jackets and helmets, we boarded our raft with our guide. The river was filled with rounded boulders as the water swooshed around. It was a thrilling ride that refreshed and revived me. Between rapids we enjoyed the scenery of hills, huts, and trees. As we neared the end, the river became wide and shallow. A mother with her naked baby played. <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlRvVB9qNL3g986iGHVmhWyOQenqpOB3ytqL8RlwniZnh4hof3yMaaoWp9HTdS8tOT2AALQkK4cRwbYnuVwEEyTfrUQhr2Oqy24C8vrktN1B2VE1BfqEuBXhqH6G1Z6wkF3IQjEq-KhAh_/s1600/P2090156.JPG"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlRvVB9qNL3g986iGHVmhWyOQenqpOB3ytqL8RlwniZnh4hof3yMaaoWp9HTdS8tOT2AALQkK4cRwbYnuVwEEyTfrUQhr2Oqy24C8vrktN1B2VE1BfqEuBXhqH6G1Z6wkF3IQjEq-KhAh_/s320/P2090156.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5572798144672780658" border="0" /></a>They baby lay in the shallow water kicking its feet with a naked butt popping up. So cute.<br /><br />The last experience of the day was bamboo rafting. Five people on a bamboo raft is not a good plan. We floated – sort of – with the raft submerged just below the surface. Any shifting weight caused it to tip slowly side-to-side. We were completely soaked. The guide explained, “No wet, no fun!” We scrambled to shore, changed clothes and started the hour+ drive home.<br /><br />We were exhausted and caked with layers of life – truck exhaust, snud, and dust cemented to our bodies with river water. The end of a perfect day.<br /><br />I’ll gladly snuggle into the folds of this magic carpet and let it take me back to Chiang Mai anytime.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9qEApz_tq65IEh_CqFonNrSetMVv7tpa2BBJZbYN08wsBTXTk89vjCYHTvhq5FP9jB06VEbK-w-MCtyGqLD-knxTHk1E5Q8vNZYHbdcs7Rh0kgHebePMpRpGKoyl1DG8BSxtXkyW_v6ej/s1600/P2090195.JPG"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9qEApz_tq65IEh_CqFonNrSetMVv7tpa2BBJZbYN08wsBTXTk89vjCYHTvhq5FP9jB06VEbK-w-MCtyGqLD-knxTHk1E5Q8vNZYHbdcs7Rh0kgHebePMpRpGKoyl1DG8BSxtXkyW_v6ej/s400/P2090195.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5572798443751104978" border="0" /></a>Shelley's Roadmap to Engineer Your Dreamhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00327937042376941865noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1112334948488380299.post-43012250628795012302011-02-11T03:09:00.034-05:002011-02-11T04:29:31.928-05:00Here a Monk, There a Monk<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHvwZLuBQKk0dssoDwHTXmRohk2iGErpqV64Q-IDsJGskMB36K3eeYbJeCTU1wc0gkPt6kmQYIaDoqsb-tR5JhQ2IxvKUwpeeRZJcUOO7sU5_s1B3qwjmPk6f80yUjGQjzLkbYlFDac9Zy/s1600/P2080026.JPG"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHvwZLuBQKk0dssoDwHTXmRohk2iGErpqV64Q-IDsJGskMB36K3eeYbJeCTU1wc0gkPt6kmQYIaDoqsb-tR5JhQ2IxvKUwpeeRZJcUOO7sU5_s1B3qwjmPk6f80yUjGQjzLkbYlFDac9Zy/s400/P2080026.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5572348246832730418" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBB-L4Lf_PR-HkqBheFr5tIJOz5Bx0yiJ2vFW56RI96MlslKnl4_EGI69f2uCqcyDSp8acvlMxHyUEY99T8oyxoMHcnIs336_QppowEhPrwDU6mXSSclYHaMQr6g0qBq5xhTnyO13SKoco/s1600/P2080045.JPG"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBB-L4Lf_PR-HkqBheFr5tIJOz5Bx0yiJ2vFW56RI96MlslKnl4_EGI69f2uCqcyDSp8acvlMxHyUEY99T8oyxoMHcnIs336_QppowEhPrwDU6mXSSclYHaMQr6g0qBq5xhTnyO13SKoco/s320/P2080045.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5571704956593351058" border="0" /></a>Thailand is a Buddhist country comprising 95% of the population but only a fraction who practice strictly. In our short visit we’ve seen countless temples (there are 30,000 in Thailand) elaborately decorated and plentiful with images of Buddha, all smiling and serene. Mike and I were both unprepared for the prevalence of the monks. For some reason, we expected them to be tucked away so that we would have only fleeting glimpses. <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtrrl6V9C_Fko_9359FmptmhOCbCTJRJK4_JrZH3g8y6uqGjbj19TzAXgN4SQYmrNTssztLH0yj3lJ-_BBWS_2GOB47GM41U1WZtER-rmWHp9ijLIhXci_OdsbXnAOHZQTTqdljTfFrh7W/s1600/P2040180.JPG"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtrrl6V9C_Fko_9359FmptmhOCbCTJRJK4_JrZH3g8y6uqGjbj19TzAXgN4SQYmrNTssztLH0yj3lJ-_BBWS_2GOB47GM41U1WZtER-rmWHp9ijLIhXci_OdsbXnAOHZQTTqdljTfFrh7W/s200/P2040180.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5571705391602496770" border="0" /></a> We couldn’t have been more wrong.<br /><br />Everywhere there are orange robes against tan skin and bald heads. Some robes are bright orange with yellow sashes and others are burnt orange (University of Texas orange). We were told that some monks live in the forest and their robes are brown. We’ve seen small boys to old men, stooped and small.<br /><br />It was explained that practicing Buddhists have five rules to follow:<br />1. No killing<br />2. No stealing<br />3. No adultery<br />4. No lying<br />5. No alcohol<br />The monks, however, have 227 rules.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxVv2egosUyQHR_Onz-uSexRmRkkuY9489w6BjzyAqftw9cCpPM1hyphenhyphenbl-mBDLM7H5y5Nm8Zj1Cj7ztQON-92YI7InLcXAIEvs0U87oUA7xKWJbiCu6fZDTFbhuUgDqD7uOSpgJ_FktVLGQ/s1600/P2080012.JPG"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxVv2egosUyQHR_Onz-uSexRmRkkuY9489w6BjzyAqftw9cCpPM1hyphenhyphenbl-mBDLM7H5y5Nm8Zj1Cj7ztQON-92YI7InLcXAIEvs0U87oUA7xKWJbiCu6fZDTFbhuUgDqD7uOSpgJ_FktVLGQ/s320/P2080012.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5571706341993236338" border="0" /></a>We, of course, saw monks at the temples and along the streets collecting their daily alms in the early morning (donations are their only way of surviving). In the temples, they offered blessings to small groups of barefoot, kneeling people by dipping a small, round wicker brush (like a round whisk) into water and sprinkling the people. Mike and I went to the large temple, Doi Suthep, on the hilltop in Chiang Mai and had the opportunity to be blessed by a monk who was sitting cross-legged in a chair. Afterward, with a donation, he tied a simple white yarn around the wrist of those blessed. <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8Zcmk2Nn90TRiwg3smR13t1TAFjZK5H5euJPIIkRrsfH_R8emRLyy8i_-rZ3EAgDX-mFdzlkIPIjsQYwe4O6iWBRnUX2Xa3E9BGf9t7yFB62ji9ZXWxM34JW76Kl6no_FLstO3i38IyoT/s1600/P2080022.JPG"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 150px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8Zcmk2Nn90TRiwg3smR13t1TAFjZK5H5euJPIIkRrsfH_R8emRLyy8i_-rZ3EAgDX-mFdzlkIPIjsQYwe4O6iWBRnUX2Xa3E9BGf9t7yFB62ji9ZXWxM34JW76Kl6no_FLstO3i38IyoT/s200/P2080022.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5571706600698796386" border="0" /></a> I was passed over to a helper as monks are not allowed to touch a woman (one of the 227 rules). He did, however, tie Mike’s string. It was a very nice experience, although, I have to say, we were on the front row and got drenched. That little brush holds a lot of water.<br /><br />It’s an odd feeling to be a forbidden object. One of our tour guides shoved me to one side as a group of monks passed explaining that I needed to give them plenty of room as they should not even brush up against a woman. Sure enough, I was walking along a narrow street behind two tiny Thai women. The women were browsing the inevitable row of vendors. Suddenly, they squished themselves over to one side – odd, I thought – and then I saw the oncoming monk. After he passed, far to our left, they moved over and continued their browsing.<br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsjjGIBMQR6UQNcu8eQhStM6_XoRMKrHNjgezmAIcNvQoprhxhha02PJN_kND5wyBYrNp_a22AviJNCZ5HBjy7G2oTJL2nSCnJtkL77sh1TYnFnOi3i7FV3fcWOjGDtA0yXc5dYt3dHxYk/s1600/P2080017.JPG"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsjjGIBMQR6UQNcu8eQhStM6_XoRMKrHNjgezmAIcNvQoprhxhha02PJN_kND5wyBYrNp_a22AviJNCZ5HBjy7G2oTJL2nSCnJtkL77sh1TYnFnOi3i7FV3fcWOjGDtA0yXc5dYt3dHxYk/s320/P2080017.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5571707137391708386" border="0" /></a><br />This is only one of the many ways that we’ve seen for people to offer their offerings or pay their respects. Many times people bring a white or pink lotus flower, other light small yellow candles or pots of burning oil. One can buy a small, gold bell, write your name on the clapper and hang it in the temple. There are packages of materials to buy for the monks. Some contain food, a few orange marigolds, and even toilet paper. We also saw people selling bags of fish and small cages of tiny birds outside the temples. People buy them to set free representing their troubles swimming or flying away. <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4SiayV-JVRLhJ9z-KtwFLUZ6d9hEjMpS2JCbPeijrlS6yxUTsFhuYv7ZObrVz17qJn6_p8k6iv1odhaxbPD18xjRgwZCnA4JnLLKJ7tsKIhTEFnELYjTc2wjETPXNlLiZT1Bs0VceYMQr/s1600/P2050033.JPG"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4SiayV-JVRLhJ9z-KtwFLUZ6d9hEjMpS2JCbPeijrlS6yxUTsFhuYv7ZObrVz17qJn6_p8k6iv1odhaxbPD18xjRgwZCnA4JnLLKJ7tsKIhTEFnELYjTc2wjETPXNlLiZT1Bs0VceYMQr/s200/P2050033.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5572344340249211410" border="0" /></a> There is a lot of concern about the spirit world. Each home has a small house on a pole in the backyard. That is the house for the spirits of ancestors. Each day an offering of water, food, incense or flowers is made to keep the spirits happy. As we drove along the highway outside of the city, we passed outdoor centers with plants and pots and these colorful little houses. It was like a Garden Ridge Pottery for spirit houses.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDMhYlh63xEU0_b1sZjg2PWiuFehpXLNlDSkX8B9XsMOdXYS1RimCdXO9fN6HdXAPwhNs62YN2NPG99GS7usHjBehDFpCcUn0Wp1bH92MAYUFRs7a8yiy1PMIX6Uc1mzfMWbiLAD60qBG9/s1600/P2080015.JPG"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 150px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDMhYlh63xEU0_b1sZjg2PWiuFehpXLNlDSkX8B9XsMOdXYS1RimCdXO9fN6HdXAPwhNs62YN2NPG99GS7usHjBehDFpCcUn0Wp1bH92MAYUFRs7a8yiy1PMIX6Uc1mzfMWbiLAD60qBG9/s200/P2080015.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5572342696179836626" border="0" /></a> We also saw people sitting in the temples shaking containers of sticks. Our guide had me try it. The round cylinder holds many plastic sticks with numbers. I shook the container until one stick - only one - fell out. It was an 11. We went to the side where small papers gave information for each number. For me, my "desires are accomplished." That sounds right. Whatever the offering to be made in the temples, the people bring it or buy it just outside. They remove their shoes before entering so that shoes are piled outside, walk across the cool, smooth entrance and step inside to the soft carpeted interior. They quietly kneel in front of the Buddha image, bow and deliver their offering.<br /><br />We saw this play out at temple after temple.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3VhXlmSbcVg6xhUFN62iU1bY2V1FnKTagEA1iaE-ljjqAVS9f-sZMY3yRels0iqS_1Y1vONzyslc5yZnnaZ1Oc4XJeffznstbidRaK9eaPlm1UEJL0uAxSQLi7DWCdWwzxMsWnhchVtZu/s1600/P2110041.JPG"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3VhXlmSbcVg6xhUFN62iU1bY2V1FnKTagEA1iaE-ljjqAVS9f-sZMY3yRels0iqS_1Y1vONzyslc5yZnnaZ1Oc4XJeffznstbidRaK9eaPlm1UEJL0uAxSQLi7DWCdWwzxMsWnhchVtZu/s200/P2110041.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5572361388579598178" border="0" /></a> For some reason, at the temple Doi Suthep the offerings were particularly compelling. <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJgziJ5YYF0c0Ob0qUpYAFQXtXQG3dCAF8wfhmBObE_RiBQ74ixOyi674gonCpeGEiudVEL1rSJYBYcWdyxXFOnMRessbO-oKlmDq2bGTtSwU2t2Gr89KEYKJpWaVrH4_g6gtL_egI_T_e/s1600/P2070011.JPG"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJgziJ5YYF0c0Ob0qUpYAFQXtXQG3dCAF8wfhmBObE_RiBQ74ixOyi674gonCpeGEiudVEL1rSJYBYcWdyxXFOnMRessbO-oKlmDq2bGTtSwU2t2Gr89KEYKJpWaVrH4_g6gtL_egI_T_e/s320/P2070011.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5572343124226937842" border="0" /></a>I was struck by the atmosphere of reverence that pervaded the temple grounds even in the midst of clueless tourists, inappropriately dressed, staring and snapping photos. Imagine trying to conduct a church service with camera-totting tourists wandering about.<br /><br />But for all the devotion, it was startling to see monks in the street, walking about, doing regular things and even sight seeing. <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-7OxczV5ZrNXw5VUtRXEe7PUWO2anMUsZlh8U9sSOiY6MFWtsV10lFGLF84fLOb2a-uqo5ka2vsPtOJXZmBgxNam8Omhody28RAuGnvf_RhjfjLMbmhMns0i1rlAYk9Uqsu0ryQ_xashu/s1600/P2070013.JPG"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-7OxczV5ZrNXw5VUtRXEe7PUWO2anMUsZlh8U9sSOiY6MFWtsV10lFGLF84fLOb2a-uqo5ka2vsPtOJXZmBgxNam8Omhody28RAuGnvf_RhjfjLMbmhMns0i1rlAYk9Uqsu0ryQ_xashu/s200/P2070013.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5572343269552775970" border="0" /></a>We chuckled at a group of four young monks who posed for their photo with the guard at the Grand Palace. The monks we saw live in small rooms surrounding many of the temples. Their laundry, orange robes, hangs outside drying like large orange blankets. But it’s the little activities so common for us that seem out of place for them. We watched a monk line up to use the ATM. Another was talking on his cell phone. A group of 10-12 year old boys in their orange and yellow robes browsed the aisles of a convenience store puzzling over chips and candy. <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfqt8D8O_Rdj4NB2_tcGr8l7_0G-0BJR6sP3rr6TtqhK4vAiSNqEZbvcZyuKhsZr2dm2llxbX7sHTDPQceVKna2sL5jON2RpeBi31awgDx1gwgiAgnOsr60ImdEbe0XMWh0wuS0QXmq4OV/s1600/P2040190.JPG"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfqt8D8O_Rdj4NB2_tcGr8l7_0G-0BJR6sP3rr6TtqhK4vAiSNqEZbvcZyuKhsZr2dm2llxbX7sHTDPQceVKna2sL5jON2RpeBi31awgDx1gwgiAgnOsr60ImdEbe0XMWh0wuS0QXmq4OV/s320/P2040190.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5572347447045455058" border="0" /></a> A monk on our flight from Chiang Mai to Bangkok scrambled along with everyone else to retrieve his bag from the overhead bin.<br /><br />One of the experiences I wanted to have in Thailand was to participate in a Buddhist meditation session. There is a temple in Bangkok that conducts three sessions a day in English. We located it just across from the Grand Palace and I made plans to return for the 7-10AM session. Dressed all in white, I took the boat with the local workers early in the morning while it was still dark outside. <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgP2Lig2f5VTWzs9z783N51Om3rPZkDjSAohc_eFndfMU1SxM2miaW9M4t03QsaFuV8lDPTd1atHrPYt4u26Mvsu4Bi44YAsqb4925MnNTLWwLzokwwjRCfGR6BiGUZAXSJ9yz97iv65YCe/s1600/P2080018.JPG"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgP2Lig2f5VTWzs9z783N51Om3rPZkDjSAohc_eFndfMU1SxM2miaW9M4t03QsaFuV8lDPTd1atHrPYt4u26Mvsu4Bi44YAsqb4925MnNTLWwLzokwwjRCfGR6BiGUZAXSJ9yz97iv65YCe/s320/P2080018.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5572344790871145794" border="0" /></a>No one was at the center except a young woman cleaning the floor, so I sat outside and waited with my shoes neatly in the rack. As I waited, I watched the monks returning from collecting their alms. Old men, middle-aged men and gangly teenagers with feet still too big for their bodies walked past holding their alms bowls and carrying bags of provisions that had been given to them. Some had two bags; others had six. Eventually, a kindly monk turned into the center and invited me inside. I was apparently the only one that morning. I suppose meditating at 7AM is not a top tourist attraction. I signed in and waited for the “master.” Soon young women emerged from the back in long dresses of palest lavender. They were well versed in the ceremony. They grabbed a cushion, so I grabbed a cushion. They sat on the floor, so I sat on the floor.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-EPIyu2856BHSw0QjO9dXBa2xd4y-99qKKQNjE9_-BgxjKtoCMCXpAJZx-SyEfEH0LOGSDBUXHT4BeX0oZPMmwVe6U3ICHJYheNkp7_qdb73J7kFCUuQtzEkj5__j7VajgvAQJOoeVYd1/s1600/P2080016.JPG"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 150px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-EPIyu2856BHSw0QjO9dXBa2xd4y-99qKKQNjE9_-BgxjKtoCMCXpAJZx-SyEfEH0LOGSDBUXHT4BeX0oZPMmwVe6U3ICHJYheNkp7_qdb73J7kFCUuQtzEkj5__j7VajgvAQJOoeVYd1/s200/P2080016.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5572346005402772226" border="0" /></a> An old monk with a smiling face arrived and stood on the raised platform along with the other men (men and women were separated). He chatted with the women and was apparently telling jokes as he had everyone laughing. After the stand-up routine, he sat in the front with a crackling microphone and everyone started chanting and bowing to touch their foreheads to the floor. I followed as best I could. Then they all stood and started walking very slowly across the floor. I copied and wondered if this was the process for the next three hours. I had the door in sight.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfIv8kHAi6AuHeB7es1tVO5Hd3YHVlKUlu9_LmRBKsikAkrWRYyWonA1K6_d2LiJf1ePCX0iNHgvkzjJ_yjYXyEc8Xedyi3LMTN9-YbaGG7H1UyGxZ5Oxf92YNNyw6cRtCYlMbBDf0GxXw/s1600/P2080009.JPG"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfIv8kHAi6AuHeB7es1tVO5Hd3YHVlKUlu9_LmRBKsikAkrWRYyWonA1K6_d2LiJf1ePCX0iNHgvkzjJ_yjYXyEc8Xedyi3LMTN9-YbaGG7H1UyGxZ5Oxf92YNNyw6cRtCYlMbBDf0GxXw/s200/P2080009.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5572348669130423442" border="0" /></a>About then I noticed another monk sitting at the information desk. He motioned to me to sit with him. We welcomed me to the session and told me about Vipassana or Insight Meditation – meditating to simply acknowledge what is happening in the body or mind in that moment. Frankly, he startled me. Having been coached to stay away from the monks, he was not what I expected. He was maybe a few years older than I and had sparkling eyes and freckles across his nose. He looked me directly in the eye with an unwavering gaze. <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglnA9jEZz8EZRP320c4dKehYIoi2bwJXHVX2xWxdzYeMMAVo7i3jWZlJehqvdLLFUXkigVIi_w7Y0fWwTCApp9JbPlRlnEHs9HD7GXkpP8PXOaZ3i8Jp5uqXMRygA0hzGbclvQbzI0lCeE/s1600/P2080044.JPG"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglnA9jEZz8EZRP320c4dKehYIoi2bwJXHVX2xWxdzYeMMAVo7i3jWZlJehqvdLLFUXkigVIi_w7Y0fWwTCApp9JbPlRlnEHs9HD7GXkpP8PXOaZ3i8Jp5uqXMRygA0hzGbclvQbzI0lCeE/s320/P2080044.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5572345082720479186" border="0" /></a>I had trouble maintaining eye contact feeling somehow that it was forbidden, but he never faltered. He led me to another room while the others continued their walking. Our room was long and narrow with white tile walls and a grey tiled floor. A pile of cushions sat at one end with a simple, metal, folding table at the other holding the image of Buddha. Three fans provided the only cooling in the room on a sticky, humid morning.<br /><br />First was walking meditation. All I needed to do was maintain focus on my body as I slowly walked, stood, turned and repeated– over and over. He chanted for me, “Right foot, left foot, right foot, left foot, standing, standing, turning, turning, turning, right foot, left foot,…..” His voice was soft and comforting. After several passes he had me continue saying the words to myself. Nothing could be so simple and yet when he stopped chanting I felt that the training wheels had been removed.<br /><br />After a little walking meditation, he instructed me on the seated meditation. <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYPT1LLocPHG-hLj4WJ4AyURTS0Q9Eu9G504TPQ0HrOomUWkKPJSoDoSSaivUsLGzxf3o6UhBk0PHW6dXqc5Q3u-fm_3T01OnxDHxyeJvmOG6p0nk-DKgoqtQYPiV14XTbHoxMQ1FJCZT3/s1600/P2080021.JPG"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYPT1LLocPHG-hLj4WJ4AyURTS0Q9Eu9G504TPQ0HrOomUWkKPJSoDoSSaivUsLGzxf3o6UhBk0PHW6dXqc5Q3u-fm_3T01OnxDHxyeJvmOG6p0nk-DKgoqtQYPiV14XTbHoxMQ1FJCZT3/s200/P2080021.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5572345542515316226" border="0" /></a>The principle was the same except say, “Rising, falling, rising, falling” with every breath. And if my foot went to sleep I was to focus my attention on it until “it passes.” Hmmmm. He showed me how to get onto the mat, sit and fold my hands with intention. Here was the first problem. My legs are not flexible enough to sit in a yoga pose like this. He rallied and had me pile up several more cushions until it was more like a chair. There we sat – rising, falling. He told me to continue with 30 minutes seated and 30 minutes walking. And he left.<br /><br />I sat as comfortably as possible and focused on breathing. The only sound was the whir of the fans and an occasional bell or barking dog. I don’t know how long I sat before I lost touch with my foot. I tried focusing on it, but wasn’t willing to wait it out. Shaking and stomping brought it back around. I was thankful to be the only one in the room.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLe4g1lBQkcXEca2inzmooeFZ_2ZcW_-qtdG_DrOlTErErAiOxiuQ-ksomy0PEMSZnzQIsLu198k2l1unR8Tx_Y-Km7X2xcHRb8iwwoZ4xXH1AXMSVIP_Xp1tvrq8s49BKLEOCPLi9e1Wg/s1600/P2050116.JPG"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLe4g1lBQkcXEca2inzmooeFZ_2ZcW_-qtdG_DrOlTErErAiOxiuQ-ksomy0PEMSZnzQIsLu198k2l1unR8Tx_Y-Km7X2xcHRb8iwwoZ4xXH1AXMSVIP_Xp1tvrq8s49BKLEOCPLi9e1Wg/s320/P2050116.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5572346511567317154" border="0" /></a>You’d think it would be easier to focus while walking and talking to yourself and yet I still found myself thinking about things – wondering what time it was, what Mike was doing, realizing that I might be hungry. On one pass I noticed the table at the end of the room. The metal feet had been wrapped in orange fabric. I wondered how many bare toes had bumped it. Ouch! But then I zoned out and could only feel my feet. It’s amazing how much feeling is in the bottom of your foot. I felt the heel touch the cool surface first, the ball and the side with the toes – each one of them – following. I could feel the gaps between the tiles as I progressed slowly. It was good. It was peaceful. And it was a glimpse.<br /><br />With one more seated meditation the time was up. I can’t say that it flew by but it didn’t feel like three hours either. I thanked the kind monk, left a donation, retrieved my shoes and left to meet Mike. As I walked out of the temple complex, I could still feel the bottoms of my feet. <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhpAJOQQta67cuIBRMts8x9hQ0mNsKEEW194PNpq6NV5pMPzdbUxRAzO98cTVAGjPHLUDSToY1Ps7QAuK1H9UagIfqlLKw-n_eOPjTV9kfCL3KwPC6j03XZ005h6ShHjC8iRrBk_4-MPAb/s1600/P2050120.JPG"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhpAJOQQta67cuIBRMts8x9hQ0mNsKEEW194PNpq6NV5pMPzdbUxRAzO98cTVAGjPHLUDSToY1Ps7QAuK1H9UagIfqlLKw-n_eOPjTV9kfCL3KwPC6j03XZ005h6ShHjC8iRrBk_4-MPAb/s320/P2050120.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5572347982201603378" border="0" /></a> They were extra sensitive as I felt the cushion of my shoes under me. The rest of me, however, was still in a daze and overly sensitive to the noise and bustle of the street. I had to sit for awhile before we could continue with our day….another temple.<br /><br />As for the life of the monks, I wish I understood more and maybe I’ll learn more in time. For now, the monks here, there and everywhere will remain an inspiration and a mystery.Shelley's Roadmap to Engineer Your Dreamhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00327937042376941865noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1112334948488380299.post-5388677372793175252011-02-07T11:25:00.045-05:002011-02-08T09:38:58.323-05:00Bangkok Sights and Massages<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1JZfDdtDvys_Jap3MTSQHSbDBJhctziO4n7C7SngUutUGhWbFsGj7I_1p2qfk3HPtQPTSHycpo5Mnky5Q9JTeqSU8ypkbHL4DJ0IeFn6jI42WLz7TVbEMeuRzVVA-4UPoe_Uj5QBUtfN_/s1600/P2040216.JPG"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1JZfDdtDvys_Jap3MTSQHSbDBJhctziO4n7C7SngUutUGhWbFsGj7I_1p2qfk3HPtQPTSHycpo5Mnky5Q9JTeqSU8ypkbHL4DJ0IeFn6jI42WLz7TVbEMeuRzVVA-4UPoe_Uj5QBUtfN_/s400/P2040216.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5571309828398384818" border="0" /></a><br /><br />A little sightseeing followed by a massage: That’s the prescription for our first few days in Bangkok after the turmoil in Egypt. What a pleasant change of pace – not to mention wearing shorts and sandals in February! Bangkok is like no place I’ve been before – exotic, beautiful, and more than a little chaotic.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgO_EKchBJ-xS1T3yWiuv7t6tC5Mc22wlQLokkig-EJUKWq2Cb-Lcd9sjqwgk0TqFRMmqmJ53scChX59rK3w8TjxGU0etkEM5gM9hIj02Rfq0bze1C4XorQ753TVT-e6aO0BeUZygvSqOKt/s1600/P2020078.JPG"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgO_EKchBJ-xS1T3yWiuv7t6tC5Mc22wlQLokkig-EJUKWq2Cb-Lcd9sjqwgk0TqFRMmqmJ53scChX59rK3w8TjxGU0etkEM5gM9hIj02Rfq0bze1C4XorQ753TVT-e6aO0BeUZygvSqOKt/s200/P2020078.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5570988191207946050" border="0" /></a>We’re in a lovely hotel, Shangri-la, overlooking the Chao Phraya River. Maggie booked it for us with her knowledge of the area. The entrance was graced with two large, red elephants; a big improvement over the tanks. <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVGcG30ZVKCZ3T-Q0A5u5itQbDW3m_0LtVhi_FZaoWHeSzfpdpd6ryVXSIfnvGULCCifN2kzgNcmMj8HS0Idc3iVrI2EeYmO7hrCV_knTUFc74wNEhz3yu4Lc0PHlxhStjDxDKfUIBFaRM/s1600/P2020146.JPG"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVGcG30ZVKCZ3T-Q0A5u5itQbDW3m_0LtVhi_FZaoWHeSzfpdpd6ryVXSIfnvGULCCifN2kzgNcmMj8HS0Idc3iVrI2EeYmO7hrCV_knTUFc74wNEhz3yu4Lc0PHlxhStjDxDKfUIBFaRM/s320/P2020146.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5570987896407469010" border="0" /></a>I couldn’t help but emit a little yelp of joy when we walked into the spacious room and saw the view. That was quickly followed by breakfast outside in the warmth which was quickly followed by a luxurious shower. We hadn’t slept much in the last two nights and the shower refreshed and gave us the energy to continue the day.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyStEuKvYxI7m84gli8eGhizm7OCLK4rDMhNyBb2MoIdac2xhNJqGU_57R9m-KxtFhOh5SdyLBT2KPmqOtjPSm_ipD6w7Lz4pTSU4yr-zbs3eH0-lBMzOwkAiIGAlzq7mP4vTypL_pokb9/s1600/P2020135.JPG"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyStEuKvYxI7m84gli8eGhizm7OCLK4rDMhNyBb2MoIdac2xhNJqGU_57R9m-KxtFhOh5SdyLBT2KPmqOtjPSm_ipD6w7Lz4pTSU4yr-zbs3eH0-lBMzOwkAiIGAlzq7mP4vTypL_pokb9/s200/P2020135.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5570989377295917666" border="0" /></a>As it happened, we arrived on the first day of the three day Chinese New Year celebration. So we headed by boat to Chinatown to stay awake and recover from jet lag. Chinatown is a helter-skelter area of Bangkok. Narrow alleys cut between the car-packed, exhaust-filled streets and every inch is lined with vendors. I have no idea what they were selling – most things were unrecognizable to our eyes. We identified dozens of types of dried fish, bags of puffed fried things, pickled cabbage, nuts, fruits (many types that we didn’t recognize), mushrooms, and so much more. <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhA-BZxn02QfIPIgaVvJkl_bk3zLWoEbcQUIbQmle5sTnvcF82KrHSAnm80n3H3S_AS8z1xH9lSgMrZgbSQjwKGmxje_zpyybF1AZRWihshoAoMQURwiM4sdvSIvarPZm1rxsonwq2GIB5/s1600/P2020092.JPG"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhA-BZxn02QfIPIgaVvJkl_bk3zLWoEbcQUIbQmle5sTnvcF82KrHSAnm80n3H3S_AS8z1xH9lSgMrZgbSQjwKGmxje_zpyybF1AZRWihshoAoMQURwiM4sdvSIvarPZm1rxsonwq2GIB5/s320/P2020092.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5570989594563947202" border="0" /></a>I tried a couple of items that looked reasonably safe – some meatball thing on a stick, a chicken skewer, and a sweet, sticky rice thingy cooked inside a piece of bamboo. But the odors are what I’ll remember – pungent and sweet smells of hot oil, peppers and unknown spices, sugar from sweets cooking on hot stoves, and incense mixed with exhaust made for a most unusual aroma. Many of the shops had family shrines set up for the New Year celebration. All the shrines had similar ingredients – several types of food like Peking duck and fruit, yellow marigolds strung together, incense burning in front, and folded gold paper things like wreaths. <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigwONd_sBkBvoiY05C9DSIPxNMhuvFCRdBVfp9ORWgXZd_TFQ5iT466bYhGaNBapHGfW0snRBoaoEvjIA7JW-MEDx3hhRgMT_hvzvEElLtp_JPUCizWENNTrW-BqeGPvGHCmmQcRBe6BXo/s1600/P2020093.JPG"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigwONd_sBkBvoiY05C9DSIPxNMhuvFCRdBVfp9ORWgXZd_TFQ5iT466bYhGaNBapHGfW0snRBoaoEvjIA7JW-MEDx3hhRgMT_hvzvEElLtp_JPUCizWENNTrW-BqeGPvGHCmmQcRBe6BXo/s200/P2020093.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5570989862312274498" border="0" /></a>We started to pick one up of the wreaths and they came running with, “No, no, no!” Oops. So sorry. We learned later that this was an offering to their ancestors. After burning the incense, the family would be allowed to eat the food as a feast.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhU7iPyhGor-BwVa5g6O8OXAJQ6uQO0xlUXxAMRXxyRZsgQwbzHbRLuzl6Ox6ndXqKdcqNzQrTZQXS4qYAZhwXnoaA3fxKqFH3nsEyyG1FczlhhPo1MPon2RAA8xguiaTsIgxD3EOSAKm0I/s1600/P2020147.JPG"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhU7iPyhGor-BwVa5g6O8OXAJQ6uQO0xlUXxAMRXxyRZsgQwbzHbRLuzl6Ox6ndXqKdcqNzQrTZQXS4qYAZhwXnoaA3fxKqFH3nsEyyG1FczlhhPo1MPon2RAA8xguiaTsIgxD3EOSAKm0I/s200/P2020147.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5570990449606065010" border="0" /></a>On our way back, we walked past a small massage shop advertising Thai foot massage. The price was about $12 – yes, $12. We both relaxed while cute Thai girls massaged, rubbed and poked our feet. It was heaven! And that’s how the pattern started…..take in some sights and have a massage.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivW8mTFU8SFEejuQFQjsbSxwgDqZRFkAz8jheMDnAy7PwdvUWPDTBPWOaEBOwroUSzYPNcdXYzpoAqcg7dyKU8MQWQ1_GpVVEC7J2QFIUbwHccMs6UHHycEhgIuQCWNZbqm8fBKZ1UENpr/s1600/P2030012.JPG"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivW8mTFU8SFEejuQFQjsbSxwgDqZRFkAz8jheMDnAy7PwdvUWPDTBPWOaEBOwroUSzYPNcdXYzpoAqcg7dyKU8MQWQ1_GpVVEC7J2QFIUbwHccMs6UHHycEhgIuQCWNZbqm8fBKZ1UENpr/s320/P2030012.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5570994687099455634" border="0" /></a>The next day was Chinese New Year – the Year of the Rabbit which represents inspiration and family. The hotel hosted a traditional Chinese ceremony and dance. We had front row seats … behind the government dignitaries, of course. Tiny men in elaborate costumes portrayed the lion awakening and searching for cabbage (I never knew lions liked cabbage). The dignitaries performed the “awakening” by painting the lion’s eye lids and tying pink bows on their heads. <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLryRFk4g9h7vmf65LhT8qG9Vm4_p_XfuOUEx0Ph9osCGH2cOKDUnsBWklby592-OKEzjbUd0eqauFL_JrybZc4lkOZhfksCacb2Dv8ipBPZVCo6-T8OVO0-U3dNjGncoASawQQHFGPCY0/s1600/P2030010.JPG"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLryRFk4g9h7vmf65LhT8qG9Vm4_p_XfuOUEx0Ph9osCGH2cOKDUnsBWklby592-OKEzjbUd0eqauFL_JrybZc4lkOZhfksCacb2Dv8ipBPZVCo6-T8OVO0-U3dNjGncoASawQQHFGPCY0/s200/P2030010.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5571264676868113426" border="0" /></a>Everyone was entranced by the spectacle of color and noise – beating drums and clanging cymbals. Noise is important for driving away evil spirits. After the dancing, long strings of fireworks in the trees were set off adding even more noise. There were no evil spirits for blocks!<br /><br /><object width="425" height="344"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/TUzfr3r0MO0?hl=en&fs=1"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/TUzfr3r0MO0?hl=en&fs=1" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="425" height="344"></embed></object><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIjIXMMtYRwSFrTUOqv-vSvUt2YFMlagg9xypPO1onu2pXcCMr38fZrzfOCriOli-GiMqKqXehtImB5KiLK-zKfgil1rFhstdWMYvJpluCaJpKPSifem_XFqn42CwVxbIPy9UrrzxGZ5mY/s1600/P2030094.JPG"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIjIXMMtYRwSFrTUOqv-vSvUt2YFMlagg9xypPO1onu2pXcCMr38fZrzfOCriOli-GiMqKqXehtImB5KiLK-zKfgil1rFhstdWMYvJpluCaJpKPSifem_XFqn42CwVxbIPy9UrrzxGZ5mY/s320/P2030094.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5571266967965367186" border="0" /></a>We took a boat to the Grand Palace the next day and were sucked into a scam about the palace being closed in order to get us into a tuk-tuk. A tuk-tuk is like a motorized rickshaw that wheels through the heavy traffic jostling between cars and buses. It cost us a grand total of $2 for three hours of touring. It may have been a scam, but it worked out fine. First stop was the Golden Mount. This was the highest point in the city but now skyscrapers are everywhere offering better views. The Golden Mount contains a Buddha image – the first of many we would see. <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhc5zZvtZm4zcfQ8HUUbqgKx0MM2W_Rb8C-Bg-CM9J5dl2flukjrLLDeoaB2GzTNvUWtHX6OVQmbjK_eWEpUPys7ianqJ9yf-PdmQffX9sixYV5aH6ckCOLF9u5zqJvcjvFLKNwx6Ij7WIi/s1600/P2030096.JPG"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhc5zZvtZm4zcfQ8HUUbqgKx0MM2W_Rb8C-Bg-CM9J5dl2flukjrLLDeoaB2GzTNvUWtHX6OVQmbjK_eWEpUPys7ianqJ9yf-PdmQffX9sixYV5aH6ckCOLF9u5zqJvcjvFLKNwx6Ij7WIi/s200/P2030096.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5571267159314051170" border="0" /></a>After climbing the stairs we gonged the gong and rang the bells before entering the chamber with the image of the Buddha. Local people were everywhere. Paying respect to the Buddha is part of the New Year’s celebration. At the Golden Mount, monks in orange were saying prayers (we think) over small groups of people and then sprinkling them with a small broom dipped in water. Others were carefully holding a small piece of white paper that contained and even smaller (1 cm square) of gold foil. <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8S_HPdcyvhgyER_mjfcRxDDs-VfG3HNk_XeeYOeu0A5B4XJJ7nihKUDMjIEmSiJLi0G_Zi_67hRq8QrU4koXtE8F6-0O9ew2EJ9UK_dse6E_HwggzzQZzAxj8NN4PtwAnQt-a6etWsBcX/s1600/P2030103.JPG"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8S_HPdcyvhgyER_mjfcRxDDs-VfG3HNk_XeeYOeu0A5B4XJJ7nihKUDMjIEmSiJLi0G_Zi_67hRq8QrU4koXtE8F6-0O9ew2EJ9UK_dse6E_HwggzzQZzAxj8NN4PtwAnQt-a6etWsBcX/s320/P2030103.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5571267706836710962" border="0" /></a>People would kneel in front of the Buddha and carefully place the gold square on the statute. Consequently, the statue was covered with tiny scraps of paper. It looked like the Buddha was made of paper mache. Others were burning sticks of incense, hanging small bells, or stringing banners of paper money like pendants. <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKLcJOiezl7Oc0zK-S2Lcjc1b-XxG08Z1_4nwNoc9fxhZ37snN1YWP-vxYqZQxKMQgWqji_p7enu9MPnZYU_v99G8fpeliMNsM9oTu_pJR9xt_FjVq5BjIpYIyD_qkebwQzbAwtlaaVuZ2/s1600/P2030099.JPG"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 150px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKLcJOiezl7Oc0zK-S2Lcjc1b-XxG08Z1_4nwNoc9fxhZ37snN1YWP-vxYqZQxKMQgWqji_p7enu9MPnZYU_v99G8fpeliMNsM9oTu_pJR9xt_FjVq5BjIpYIyD_qkebwQzbAwtlaaVuZ2/s200/P2030099.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5571268062217273426" border="0" /></a>All were different types of offerings to the Buddha and we would see more in coming days. After stops at more temples, we were back on the boat headed home – sticky with sweat and weary. Mike headed for the sauna at the hotel and I headed back to the massage shop for a full body massage (an extravagant $35).<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh60ZkQbjgAVLPeegntFiUZWTB8qfscjW4g1aTiFnhuWGBxHbyaP7KtBi3S4h69In3tH3YerDrIrKSEHZAqmcpm3jAq3TEl-oOCV02JRmjeV3U-aijBHaVbg_wj8_no21WSjujkaR08ZXsR/s1600/P2040150.JPG"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh60ZkQbjgAVLPeegntFiUZWTB8qfscjW4g1aTiFnhuWGBxHbyaP7KtBi3S4h69In3tH3YerDrIrKSEHZAqmcpm3jAq3TEl-oOCV02JRmjeV3U-aijBHaVbg_wj8_no21WSjujkaR08ZXsR/s200/P2040150.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5571305749803769122" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXWYgZNVO-1uRtzn3YizLgthjqBJn7JxKDNUVNhdhcXudUzIa5uNL-r4x-23bfwvuJmA7LQKU3JDSGnGtXHqg6O100R-dEqmlEPG7eSETfX-egt4ShvyQRaNN110sLqEPsoBXXORZScf1R/s1600/P2040152.JPG"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXWYgZNVO-1uRtzn3YizLgthjqBJn7JxKDNUVNhdhcXudUzIa5uNL-r4x-23bfwvuJmA7LQKU3JDSGnGtXHqg6O100R-dEqmlEPG7eSETfX-egt4ShvyQRaNN110sLqEPsoBXXORZScf1R/s320/P2040152.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5571269087663084994" border="0" /></a>We finally made it to the Grand Palace the next morning, hired a guide and prepared to enter the palace grounds. But first, we had to be appropriately attired, which we weren't. We were in shorts which is not acceptable. Fortunately, the guides are prepared with skirts and pants. Perfect - well, accept they weren't the most stylish. The ensemble effect was rather unfortunate. There was nothing to do but laugh, put them on, and pose for photos. We entered the grounds to an explosion of color and glitter. The temple was covered in bits of blue, red and gold tiles that gleamed and sparkled in the sun. Roof lines ended with a graceful bird head while a serpent – the protector of the Thai King – wound down the eaves. <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRhOijmYYO88r_lkBQXJrGk1SHOAyjeGHbMrQmnbn_lzaffy5-BDQevZVw0cytRQV9YLgu0l2cKMCNxyN_8nid8tp_0yC1pk2ga3VAwMANsZdaXX3aC-ScCCASDe3X5aaBErHYRGWT7-hp/s1600/P2040146.JPG"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 150px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRhOijmYYO88r_lkBQXJrGk1SHOAyjeGHbMrQmnbn_lzaffy5-BDQevZVw0cytRQV9YLgu0l2cKMCNxyN_8nid8tp_0yC1pk2ga3VAwMANsZdaXX3aC-ScCCASDe3X5aaBErHYRGWT7-hp/s200/P2040146.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5571269611754522210" border="0" /></a>We saw the emerald Buddha (it’s actually jade) which was wearing his winter outfit (he has an outfit for each season – winter, summer and rainy), a cloak of woven gold. Dazzling. We saw the palace which is a shocking contradiction. The building was constructed by King Rama V who traveled in Europe and brought back European architecture. <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzY4JuhWsJp71vZONuoS-jmddPd1SZCZGT2awhIWQq7tRBZ7-SHbis6EwQxKgWy_8t0PysxpWvgwXnEvyqYHeq2B_dNwLRFPLxB-Owg1A1JcDTrhERU6j1zJQDhPOS2mvXo71LiUY7erET/s1600/P2040171.JPG"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzY4JuhWsJp71vZONuoS-jmddPd1SZCZGT2awhIWQq7tRBZ7-SHbis6EwQxKgWy_8t0PysxpWvgwXnEvyqYHeq2B_dNwLRFPLxB-Owg1A1JcDTrhERU6j1zJQDhPOS2mvXo71LiUY7erET/s320/P2040171.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5571304811900182834" border="0" /></a> The first two floors are an understated English design but on top was a multi-colored Thai roof with its swooping, extravagant lines. A pavilion was in front where the King was carried after his coronation. Next to it was a place to tie up the elephants - an elephant hitching post.<br /><br />Our next stop was Wat Po “Wat” means “temple,” and there are “wats” everywhere.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJLz-qnP28BjvHoK6QeggK-_vFOR_8pM5JmQFqH4ga_mgt5EZaOwNVxVGAGoJH4-pjiWy8gth6obfQ56ObHN-bKdwcp4zYGFHnWl_k_rmQ_J5ZyXNU6qubBhHKqsTbXNkfOSIwoWAKGa6h/s1600/P2040228.JPG"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJLz-qnP28BjvHoK6QeggK-_vFOR_8pM5JmQFqH4ga_mgt5EZaOwNVxVGAGoJH4-pjiWy8gth6obfQ56ObHN-bKdwcp4zYGFHnWl_k_rmQ_J5ZyXNU6qubBhHKqsTbXNkfOSIwoWAKGa6h/s200/P2040228.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5571308000497756962" border="0" /></a> Wat Po is famous for the enormous reclining Buddha. Long and gold, he looks peaceful lying with his head on two ornate cushions. We snapped some shots, walked around the complex filled with giant statues sporting a variety of postures and expressions. <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi04zwb9sKkDGTkPT2ayMhYOqLF01xrT0CG1M2ldZnuqzzYlUEgjzQu1LG4-eErKokZH7Mj9Aywwvp7g-ADYoOr80Z9YheI4gCT2CZw0QraHZN6-98l2xNyz9VxXmzRjwy0iGQCOh8sRVUJ/s1600/P2040202.JPG"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi04zwb9sKkDGTkPT2ayMhYOqLF01xrT0CG1M2ldZnuqzzYlUEgjzQu1LG4-eErKokZH7Mj9Aywwvp7g-ADYoOr80Z9YheI4gCT2CZw0QraHZN6-98l2xNyz9VxXmzRjwy0iGQCOh8sRVUJ/s320/P2040202.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5571308281316676242" border="0" /></a>Tiring from the heat, we caught the boat back to our hotel and yet another massage. This one was a foot and back massage. It was a perfect way to end a day of walking in the heat, humidity and smog.<br /><br />There were tailor shops all around the hotel. Custom-made suits and dresses are a specialty and they were embarrassingly cheap. Mike decided to take advantage of the opportunity and have a coat and trousers made. They gave him a custom-made shirt for the same price. They took measurements and asked for a deposit but we were short some of the cash and had to run over to the hotel.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhviAHBxHjVkPXreN_O1kebnPKjFgmNdZQBZ4DC1-TfZwF4zWEKmJJwfi2ihvmf3OenNBly-d5s0VHby1Xp530pOUEO9l2kJuVFhPzDpl7-f3COcI4ZhB-V-aURw-jpR1_nzphNc_MrpyYD/s1600/P2070003.JPG"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhviAHBxHjVkPXreN_O1kebnPKjFgmNdZQBZ4DC1-TfZwF4zWEKmJJwfi2ihvmf3OenNBly-d5s0VHby1Xp530pOUEO9l2kJuVFhPzDpl7-f3COcI4ZhB-V-aURw-jpR1_nzphNc_MrpyYD/s320/P2070003.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5571308913425501778" border="0" /></a> By the time we got back – 15 minutes – they already had cut out the suit coat and did his first fitting. That was with no deposit and within minutes of the order. Crazy.<br /><br />One thing that is remarkably common in Thailand, Egypt and Turkey is the recognition that goes to Barak Obama. Taxi drivers, tour guides, tuk-tuk drivers and hotel staff ask where we’re from. We tell them that we live in the US near Washington, D.C. “Oh,” they say, “Barak Obama!” “He a good president.” One taxi driver in Bangkok said, “His skin the same color as mine!” The level of recognition and respect that he commands in this part of the world is really extraordinary.<br /><br />While this is a common sentiment, we’ve been struck by the contradictions between Bangkok and Cairo. In Cairo, the appearance of the people, their dark hair and eyes and wielding clubs, presented <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzinrswdpCO5lV5Z12I8oxsF05Fk_vOkehzGgJ9pM5-B53VXXq7alMAiL2WaG2PKPeCVIlCfrtF9GijlZWGTDxWHZfD0Lr3uiRGjg1Jvrno0aQXMEQVLzkr_cedCZJq1JTd5irWNMdlF_5/s1600/P2040174.JPG"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzinrswdpCO5lV5Z12I8oxsF05Fk_vOkehzGgJ9pM5-B53VXXq7alMAiL2WaG2PKPeCVIlCfrtF9GijlZWGTDxWHZfD0Lr3uiRGjg1Jvrno0aQXMEQVLzkr_cedCZJq1JTd5irWNMdlF_5/s200/P2040174.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5571312111104828978" border="0" /></a>an uncomfortable impression and yet they were polite and kind. <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQXVXdwh8iT4LiMJa8Eul_0DYlRCnw-juw6Gm99pAd7uPOa3El7tJcXw0s3ZqGTzdlGmt6Ui1l5iHRZYFci-pUKSX_uaYrZ9At1GsDzmsOKl_jKwlhGZa2MeA2hUdKmQ6EhUiY6XJ8pXOK/s1600/P2040206.JPG"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQXVXdwh8iT4LiMJa8Eul_0DYlRCnw-juw6Gm99pAd7uPOa3El7tJcXw0s3ZqGTzdlGmt6Ui1l5iHRZYFci-pUKSX_uaYrZ9At1GsDzmsOKl_jKwlhGZa2MeA2hUdKmQ6EhUiY6XJ8pXOK/s320/P2040206.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5571310180815996882" border="0" /></a> The Thai people – delicate, diminutive, and graceful - give an impression of graciousness, but put them behind the wheel of any motorized contraption and watch out! I’m not sure whether I felt more threatened by driving by a tank in Giza or crossing the street in Bangkok. Both held equally deadly weapons. Cars and motorcycles zip past with only occasional acknowledgment of a pedestrian. To cross the street, we congregated with others on the curb – preferably locals – and dashed when they dashed. It doesn’t help that the traffic drives on the left side so we had to remember which way to look first.<br /><br />The other contradiction is the image of Thailand as green, peaceful and temple-filled. And it is. However, Bangkok is a hectic city with all the difficulties that accompany large urban areas. <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmklJERl43rUPfZA_Hmsh8B6yJC_bVNKiR8THdpuwGvME1zqMHSdzk0dzmIm8EKfXpKJvceX7I8ly-MeMx7eTpJ-mnBG-PFh-FIcCjrcHw5SR9txMMaLKu5iAeAGt_cwsC5ErlmdX_VijL/s1600/P2040134.JPG"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmklJERl43rUPfZA_Hmsh8B6yJC_bVNKiR8THdpuwGvME1zqMHSdzk0dzmIm8EKfXpKJvceX7I8ly-MeMx7eTpJ-mnBG-PFh-FIcCjrcHw5SR9txMMaLKu5iAeAGt_cwsC5ErlmdX_VijL/s200/P2040134.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5571311282383298050" border="0" /></a>Masses of electrical cables are strung along crowded streets and sidewalks are filled with cart after cart of vendors selling any kind of food you can imagine and many you can’t imagine.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIYQj3k3Scu4FYiKJKMYBN3euK7ghlInH5MSibs8RvdR-B_RFwPKtqR5pD02piluCW7rMjrfqyS9a_s9-aGUPKgQQadjIixuhLYgH_H7yw6HlxDk6Vj9iJCrjm2LrfXRuoE3kGhPT-r60b/s1600/P2040165.JPG"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIYQj3k3Scu4FYiKJKMYBN3euK7ghlInH5MSibs8RvdR-B_RFwPKtqR5pD02piluCW7rMjrfqyS9a_s9-aGUPKgQQadjIixuhLYgH_H7yw6HlxDk6Vj9iJCrjm2LrfXRuoE3kGhPT-r60b/s320/P2040165.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5571313546213395874" border="0" /></a> The streets are packed with traffic – bumper to bumper –and with the air pollution that accompanies it. At major intersections, dozens of motorcycles crowd the front of the queue while their tail pipes spout concentrated smoke. As I ran along these streets to reach the relative peace of a large park, I quickly learned to stand back and inhale as little as possible. The park was a welcome oasis in this huge city. I enjoyed practicing chi gong in the park knowing that no one would wonder what I was doing.<br /><br />There have also been so many small, pleasant things about the Thais. For example, they have a delightful custom of folding their hands and bowing slightly to say just about anything – welcome, thank you, or whatever. <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgL2gKovhkHJFzOO4fKqNrmHrjYyVnRi2bNDcJEJD8K00GaCvLo7J4eFjKMk-6Y1HWwx_4Om-QJx-zKBR5HUBGbiwzvy_fX87WRfAWCdwwsp9kutP0Q6fv_loTlgFmTfVvu3nuROvvIH-xG/s1600/P2050127.JPG"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgL2gKovhkHJFzOO4fKqNrmHrjYyVnRi2bNDcJEJD8K00GaCvLo7J4eFjKMk-6Y1HWwx_4Om-QJx-zKBR5HUBGbiwzvy_fX87WRfAWCdwwsp9kutP0Q6fv_loTlgFmTfVvu3nuROvvIH-xG/s320/P2050127.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5571310614438028530" border="0" /></a> It is charming. And it can be amusing, too. The tiny, young woman who cleans our room nearly dropped an armload of linens in order to fold hands and bow. Mike asked to take her picture and you’d thought she and her co-worked had won the lotto. They were thrilled and said that no one had ever asked for their picture before. It was so cute.<br /><br />While I could do without the air pollution and the noise of the street, I love our introduction to Bangkok and its sparkling color, graceful beauty and Buddhas, and, of course, the massages.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHhEmFTevVlDUfg2aCYyvn2RnlhJzzgUPbl3nnRYtE3YFN5mJiRF8Ust211KupZuUBF-dRu4dU-npQRuZHs4_q4s3_vEKOAYpqyN3nvLVa0lWI6B9ynbesX8VnZ_t4nP9_DvEas0wIYvdi/s1600/P2020115.JPG"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHhEmFTevVlDUfg2aCYyvn2RnlhJzzgUPbl3nnRYtE3YFN5mJiRF8Ust211KupZuUBF-dRu4dU-npQRuZHs4_q4s3_vEKOAYpqyN3nvLVa0lWI6B9ynbesX8VnZ_t4nP9_DvEas0wIYvdi/s400/P2020115.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5570990042363312402" border="0" /></a>Shelley's Roadmap to Engineer Your Dreamhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00327937042376941865noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1112334948488380299.post-53353168372264672262011-02-06T21:35:00.001-05:002011-02-06T21:38:23.973-05:00Cairo<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6AswGSuapczQJKWjRfpxX3MZWbMAL7_Xfr4gblAl-n_-HJS4lWIECMzFbzZb-JrMrxZxCDBDHexHGrFTr_oJXxFQc-ymlg1L3tQqGgUh8qEamiA4hx6vgThFcQAsiCxKiJjZOp_f73SVX/s1600/P1290047.JPG"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6AswGSuapczQJKWjRfpxX3MZWbMAL7_Xfr4gblAl-n_-HJS4lWIECMzFbzZb-JrMrxZxCDBDHexHGrFTr_oJXxFQc-ymlg1L3tQqGgUh8qEamiA4hx6vgThFcQAsiCxKiJjZOp_f73SVX/s400/P1290047.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5569056402985141986" border="0" /></a><br /><br />Who knew? Who knew that Tunisia would spark unrest in peaceful Egypt? Who knew that riots would escalate so quickly in the major Egyptian cities? Who knew that for the first time in my life I would lie in my comfy, well-appointed hotel room and listen to gunfire and shouting while tanks blocked the street in front of the hotel? Who knew we would leave this uncomfortable experience determined to come back as soon as possible?<br /><br />We arrived in Cairo at 3:30PM on January 28 and were met by our guide, Mohamed Ali from Fly Well Travel, the Cairo operator for Egypt Magic, our tour company in the US. Unfortunately, we arrived just as the Egyptian government’s crisis escalated. None of the foreigners were allowed to leave the airport. All the roads in and out were closed. Plus, the cellular network and Internet were taken down to prevent the organizers from organizing. Okay, we thought, we’ll wait a bit and then we’ll be off to our hotel. I mean, really, how long could this persist? It was just a minor inconvenience. Hours later a curfew was declared until 7AM the next morning. <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizCuVcVTOoU4R3rdOHVFXUDo8aamDElDl9YhkiUFSafcOBckhcOjLd9wQY4lR88lKuufRnH_XFnD0dKqk3KpP3xny9IV5ZOScZvNHHpOSGjqVETRGlJw6RkcNK3063glihtsqY-0e6-l_j/s1600/P1290019.JPG"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizCuVcVTOoU4R3rdOHVFXUDo8aamDElDl9YhkiUFSafcOBckhcOjLd9wQY4lR88lKuufRnH_XFnD0dKqk3KpP3xny9IV5ZOScZvNHHpOSGjqVETRGlJw6RkcNK3063glihtsqY-0e6-l_j/s200/P1290019.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5569047122199148482" border="0" /></a> We’d spend our first evening in Egypt at the airport.<br /><br />And so, we sat, and walked, and napped as best we could. Planes continued to land, dumping more people into the airport. Thankfully, the local Egyptians were allowed to leave which kept the airport from being completely filled. It became a study in contrasts. English (American, Australian, and British) voices predominated, but there were many others as well. A Chinese tour group huddled in a corner propped against each other trying to sleep. Sheiks in flowing robes wandered the airport. Women with their heads covered under a hijab held sleepy toddlers. Children ran happily around until they crashed in parents’ laps. All the chairs were filled by those like us who arrived early in the afternoon. Late-comers lay on the floor, leaned against the wall or sprawled wherever there was space.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIselzM7C69USny-EPkW90g5JIoiIclTq3bezdBP34oRYYV1bCZ9N7pzZyLFb1-y3C0i0hCXyE05sp-YprXh5HtsGZdX86lEBKgk12HrW-Jz3VsxcN_kVxt0T-pujoWsqz6KF52WY6pxJs/s1600/P1280015.JPG"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIselzM7C69USny-EPkW90g5JIoiIclTq3bezdBP34oRYYV1bCZ9N7pzZyLFb1-y3C0i0hCXyE05sp-YprXh5HtsGZdX86lEBKgk12HrW-Jz3VsxcN_kVxt0T-pujoWsqz6KF52WY6pxJs/s320/P1280015.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5569047334242649090" border="0" /></a>Once everyone realized that we would be stuck here for hours, there was a run on the food. The convenience store had a long line of people buying armloads of bottled water. The Burger King was a madhouse. People crammed the counter as employees threw burgers into bags that were passed to grabbing hands. At one point, hot airplane food was distributed, but it went fast and was not enough for everyone. About 4AM, boxed food was given out. While beggars can’t be choosers – cold beef and gravy with cold rice was a bit difficult to choke down in the wee hours of the morning. The amazing thing was that everyone remained patient and in good humor. The airport was filled with Egyptian guides who met their clients and now were stuck with everyone else due to the curfew. Mohamed, like the others, was most worried that we would leave with a bad impression. We assured him that we were fine and understood people’s desire to create a better life. Sometimes that’s messy business. <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYNLddtqsUrhaNTMSaVi98678z7ES8cbEU4gInEGnteKBhDrMfoJnlO-ExQBlSO2dCy1aVGMGrIUke19XhIi8JMAliMjkX6RSkVTTyEDwTSPNl4WFsoIn2H7v7gANDTIwfKRGxKibcHUEc/s1600/P1290024.JPG"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYNLddtqsUrhaNTMSaVi98678z7ES8cbEU4gInEGnteKBhDrMfoJnlO-ExQBlSO2dCy1aVGMGrIUke19XhIi8JMAliMjkX6RSkVTTyEDwTSPNl4WFsoIn2H7v7gANDTIwfKRGxKibcHUEc/s320/P1290024.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5569047660565824546" border="0" /></a>He was intensely interested in showing off his beautiful country to us, and he wasn’t the only one. A lone airport employee, also named Mohamed, worked a coffee stand behind us. He was there all night by himself. He introduced himself as I purchased some juice, and said that he hoped we enjoyed our stay in his country. <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiiLkpjZP_gbTy2YjnzES3F_Z8xsW1vIW2ZysDoJsWTIgXQMDztj4rsQFSHRrG630rUfSoxVpSQa4yDtVsMZkIX5iczD0nl0p2ijb3Nh_bMMRCr1j4uGD3cruZO3jSKZ5ItJ-r6INycVuVD/s1600/P1290034.JPG"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiiLkpjZP_gbTy2YjnzES3F_Z8xsW1vIW2ZysDoJsWTIgXQMDztj4rsQFSHRrG630rUfSoxVpSQa4yDtVsMZkIX5iczD0nl0p2ijb3Nh_bMMRCr1j4uGD3cruZO3jSKZ5ItJ-r6INycVuVD/s200/P1290034.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5569047929694147730" border="0" /></a>Everyone we met was like that. As it turned out, we would not get to see his country except for glimpses of the pyramids and beautiful mosques as we crossed the Nile four times going back and forth to the airport.<br /><br />After napping, me across a couple of chairs and Mike on top of our luggage, we awoke cramped and exhausted. Thankfully, our tour guides transferred us to our hotel early in the morning after the curfew lifted. But – others were staying at a hotel in downtown Cairo and needed to be dropped off. With curtains pulled across the van windows, we were driven through the streets of Cairo (the erratic traffic is another story). <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTi82bwetLYTmWKXK4tvpavBCcSuHevNu3ysFBvNHPyAG75ZC2FUh3U00kspAL19g5LSYMtq4WaRL0yzBAbGRm7GgyOdpvfRqd0KtsdQ8SQkRWb6lcwAsv_HQEzoVOog2Gh7vL1zG9us5x/s1600/P1290043.JPG"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTi82bwetLYTmWKXK4tvpavBCcSuHevNu3ysFBvNHPyAG75ZC2FUh3U00kspAL19g5LSYMtq4WaRL0yzBAbGRm7GgyOdpvfRqd0KtsdQ8SQkRWb6lcwAsv_HQEzoVOog2Gh7vL1zG9us5x/s320/P1290043.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5569049068383331218" border="0" /></a>Mohamed, who himself was exhausted from caring for us all night, was clearly agitated and nervous. We soon understood why. We drove past burned, overturned cars and past lines of tanks. Debris from the previous night’s riots was strewn across the streets. At that moment, an eight-story burning building came into view – windows red with flames. It was the headquarters of the Democratic party – the party of Mubarak’s son. Approaching the others’ hotel, Mohamed, in strict, urgent tones admonished them to get into the hotel and stay there until they were picked up the next morning. After a short, anxious stop at the hotel, we were taken along the Nile, past more burned trucks, to our hotel in Giza – about 45 minutes from downtown. We briefly glimpsed some of the reasons for the unrest. <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQJ5fWtMD-HltKf3-vFKBy0Wy_rQlowekLsV6yDSKDgFirU8D3LiuK2u6AvpdQCTfh28qNcuGQXU8rMJQCCMmN-GrEz7TCfN3sSFjEe_78SWY_bSc5k7ueFZPVAo5RTQpxI8Sz7i3aMYng/s1600/P2010051.JPG"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQJ5fWtMD-HltKf3-vFKBy0Wy_rQlowekLsV6yDSKDgFirU8D3LiuK2u6AvpdQCTfh28qNcuGQXU8rMJQCCMmN-GrEz7TCfN3sSFjEe_78SWY_bSc5k7ueFZPVAo5RTQpxI8Sz7i3aMYng/s200/P2010051.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5569049548727872802" border="0" /></a>The city was littered with garbage; people walked the streets, old cars and the occasional donkey-drawn cart rumbled by half-completed buildings (taxes go up when complete) creating an atmosphere of interest lost. Even our first view of the great pyramids couldn’t compete with this backdrop.<br /><br /><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6HsTToc9n0pvkkViE93joPgqroCeflPOMON7rwylamm90Ha9Gq3Xv2tAnK-JbmzyfJWNbi_RGDW4PEVydgFsm1iTpf8HhmUQIkmXfKgliPd4XX9y25yTOr8xEQmZu6YwslF1hWZR4sZwf/s1600/P1300053.JPG"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6HsTToc9n0pvkkViE93joPgqroCeflPOMON7rwylamm90Ha9Gq3Xv2tAnK-JbmzyfJWNbi_RGDW4PEVydgFsm1iTpf8HhmUQIkmXfKgliPd4XX9y25yTOr8xEQmZu6YwslF1hWZR4sZwf/s320/P1300053.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5569050010695551154" border="0" /></a>As we discovered, our hotel was safe – comparatively. Tanks were parked outside and security gates limited traffic to guests. The hotel was lovely with a pool overlooked by the pyramids which were a short walk away - a walk we would not be taking. Soft music was playing – a stark contrast from tanks and guns (and, on the second afternoon fighter jets roared low overhead). Our rooms had plush beds and a marble shower, a welcome sight. From there, we slept and waited, not allowed to leave the hotel and the pyramids closed. All we could do was sit by the pool, look at the pyramids and try to be calm as we thought about what to do.<br /><br />In the end, the decision was clear – leave Cairo as quickly as possible. Easier said than done as curfews were enacted each afternoon prohibiting all movement, the airport descended into chaos, and Internet service remained curtailed. Thankfully, cell service was reestablished allowing us to text and call. <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiP_B9tOhU1chbxOJEUNTveJ7J6-PSvx9QtufYmoQXovy1oux8MypNYcLah5R7hBkgeHdcMbEGI_r8zt2lY5e_qCWt2dVDwwx_CbNdeb-oUv3bc4tBbHXDSvwooy66yyNOivMLkcKrmaA_k/s1600/P1300060.JPG"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiP_B9tOhU1chbxOJEUNTveJ7J6-PSvx9QtufYmoQXovy1oux8MypNYcLah5R7hBkgeHdcMbEGI_r8zt2lY5e_qCWt2dVDwwx_CbNdeb-oUv3bc4tBbHXDSvwooy66yyNOivMLkcKrmaA_k/s320/P1300060.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5569050307701480690" border="0" /></a> Plus, we had the cavalry on our side in the form of our tour company, Egypt Magic/Fly Well Travel. The staff with their supervisor, Amr Haggag, never left our side, not once, ever. They stayed overnight at the airport and at the hotel – dressed in their suits and ties. Keep in mind, these are local people with families in the affected areas. They left their wives, kids and parents to ensure the safety and comfort of strangers. One young man wiped a tear from his eye as he told of his frightened mother crying to him on the phone. She lived in one of the buildings threatened by looting. Despite these personal hardships, they checked on us several times a day to see if we were okay. Their manager called personally to ensure our satisfaction. We were more than satisfied. We can’t say enough good things about these people and company. <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqvcU7-bZ2UmqvyWh7EyBw6JfGpjTLtVSMb8hiD2fmstImX5y1_oqylYlmeaC3fVwr33oik_n_DMg5rtZrB7W0Lxh0Uwz0WSiM0ir_TGNLqgow_F2m2Kwlq627SbKYaizWEQnyMW5coTOK/s1600/P2010048.JPG"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqvcU7-bZ2UmqvyWh7EyBw6JfGpjTLtVSMb8hiD2fmstImX5y1_oqylYlmeaC3fVwr33oik_n_DMg5rtZrB7W0Lxh0Uwz0WSiM0ir_TGNLqgow_F2m2Kwlq627SbKYaizWEQnyMW5coTOK/s200/P2010048.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5569057159530969762" border="0" /></a>It went beyond good business practice, particularly as we talked to others stuck at the hotel that had not seen their tour company’s representative. Ironically, in talking with Amr, we learned that even though he is in the tourist industry specializing in US and Australian visitors, he has never been to the US because of the difficulty in obtaining a tourist visa. It takes years to get approval. How sad is that? <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijmmG7tJ36o0D2Uy23WrnrAIEQc_j7k4wnK_iWTcRYPjJqb2PeI_rIbobx-_hCYEdmyoeSjG5UW2e828PZbEyZfrJH2TqfIZ41EQNXzwUJpXBMuubp_uZHNThMMD6lg8ykoS_7bGcL10wl/s1600/P1310011.JPG"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijmmG7tJ36o0D2Uy23WrnrAIEQc_j7k4wnK_iWTcRYPjJqb2PeI_rIbobx-_hCYEdmyoeSjG5UW2e828PZbEyZfrJH2TqfIZ41EQNXzwUJpXBMuubp_uZHNThMMD6lg8ykoS_7bGcL10wl/s320/P1310011.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5569051267908488962" border="0" /></a> Here is a young man, getting married this summer, who wants to take his new wife to the US for a visit that would help him provide better service to his American customers but he can’t visit the US. And, in spite of that, he gives his all to ensure our safety and comfort. This is the sort of person who deserves that precious visa.<br /><br />The next day, we started trying to get out. The Fly Well staff, Ahmed, Mohamed and our driver, Hussein, escorted us to the airport for our flight to Bangkok on Egypt Air. On the drive over we had a glimpse of life in Cairo. <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRhJGP9RT1nkk7P1nmGpmzRoXEwzAZzodDwMxly7pq_M3N-x98SOPiCnpi0BDezz881QArrTc6OySmjcoubOJ36yqHBVA2hMUnJbhkTGpCCGk19GlB3TgPTl9byp6TyaWQm7Df3L2gsT4K/s1600/P2010047.JPG"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRhJGP9RT1nkk7P1nmGpmzRoXEwzAZzodDwMxly7pq_M3N-x98SOPiCnpi0BDezz881QArrTc6OySmjcoubOJ36yqHBVA2hMUnJbhkTGpCCGk19GlB3TgPTl9byp6TyaWQm7Df3L2gsT4K/s320/P2010047.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5569051565648357922" border="0" /></a>We passed vendors selling oranges and bananas from their donkey-drawn carts and men on camels. Women in their robes lined up outside tiny markets. I was captivated by the people and their dress particularly the men in long tunics with scarves draped around their neck. They look like central casting’s version of Bedouins.<br /><br /><br />It was smooth sailing on the roadways passing rows of tanks as the curfew kept most cars off the road. Fortunately, tourists were allowed to pass through the streets accompanied by their guides. It was not, however, smooth sailing at the airport. Egypt Air was a mess – and that’s being gracious. At the last minute they decided to cancel all flights departing during the curfew period….or almost all flights. But they didn’t say which ones were going and which ones were not. <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixcX5BtMwTMYoBGpweO3ZHWtGFcSzkqjPKifmmXOaIkCHy2ZJSiOcuYZ-VIStHbmXCpLzt51AqV8VKdsaF8N3xMXsLCMbRMAMO4V_1yftFQGrtyliG56iKxRHbT22HqWawScIJFNqrs3-Z/s1600/P2010054.JPG"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixcX5BtMwTMYoBGpweO3ZHWtGFcSzkqjPKifmmXOaIkCHy2ZJSiOcuYZ-VIStHbmXCpLzt51AqV8VKdsaF8N3xMXsLCMbRMAMO4V_1yftFQGrtyliG56iKxRHbT22HqWawScIJFNqrs3-Z/s320/P2010054.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5569052040515285826" border="0" /></a>All showed “canceled” on the screen even when flights were called for boarding. As we were walking out the door, thinking all flights were canceled, they announced “immediate boarding” for the flight of a couple with us. Their “canceled” flight ended up leaving three hours EARLY! Mohamed literally ran with them through security to the gate and – with his help – they made their flight. We were not so lucky. We waited for hours for any information about the flight and were finally told it was canceled – really. It might go out the next morning. So, at 9:30PM we piled into the van for the drive back to the hotel – in the dark, during the curfew.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKn3yaIV75YxKOaAOZa0PDIEy5Gi7S2UJp2dVqMry1B4R9as-vy81Dw-nadchrrG8QJdMskmPL5MwRIhLZVhLgAObHhz78REYk3rmne2nxf9_dXIWQrr9RDAm7kbewIQ9CMbQOtaXrS57H/s1600/P2010043.JPG"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKn3yaIV75YxKOaAOZa0PDIEy5Gi7S2UJp2dVqMry1B4R9as-vy81Dw-nadchrrG8QJdMskmPL5MwRIhLZVhLgAObHhz78REYk3rmne2nxf9_dXIWQrr9RDAm7kbewIQ9CMbQOtaXrS57H/s320/P2010043.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5569052270056070402" border="0" /></a>All I can say is thank goodness for Hussein – a retired military colonel who now enjoys showing tourists around his country. Because of the curfew, major roads were blocked by tanks and military personnel so that we had to navigate our way back along city streets and through neighborhoods. These neighborhoods were guarded by citizen groups trying to protect their homes from looters. We stopped at more than 40 of these makeshift check points. It typically went like this: We drove a few yards down a local street until we came across a barricade. The barricade might be a row of soccer-ball sized rocks, an obstacle course of old logs and light poles, or just a group of men wielding bats, clubs, or axes. I will confess that it was unnerving – each of the 40+ times. It was like neighborhood watch with clubs. Mike and I sat quietly in the back trying to look harmless and blond. <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZim24pRnWLqYTUiuA-G4Mc2Y6jzK3XkIOUOLfm3msHn2yKwNZiVrUuXOAeDw-09j5nrKLQRxJ4GO-7Di42UrvJDtx_pvGne2ieX4a5AdYIL5dNUrm6OR-2uprqtzeGhJm1crb0pZn4hOT/s1600/P1310009.JPG"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZim24pRnWLqYTUiuA-G4Mc2Y6jzK3XkIOUOLfm3msHn2yKwNZiVrUuXOAeDw-09j5nrKLQRxJ4GO-7Di42UrvJDtx_pvGne2ieX4a5AdYIL5dNUrm6OR-2uprqtzeGhJm1crb0pZn4hOT/s320/P1310009.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5569053369252239906" border="0" /></a>Hussein rolled down his window, coasted to a stop, and gave a local greeting to the head person. He handed them his military card showing his rank as colonel and his service time of 27 years with the military. Their reaction was immediate. They would salute, step back and wave us through – like magic. But here’s the other thing that quickly became clear– all of these people were polite, gracious and apologetic. They were not violent or vigilantes. They were regular people trying to protect themselves and their families. Many looked at me and Mike and said they were sorry but they had to check our van to ensure their safety. They hoped we understood – which we did – and they welcomed us to their country. I felt like I was in a one-van parade as everyone smiled and waved to us and we waved back. <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkKwR3D0ahJkn1KGwo1rqfN5Kyyi_FWB-d0r3ZrQvgGgY98HK20VmbaGikebAh7oXrJPGHJmPHmwPJ51JiEsfMEQalgg8duWnU2qF9PUlGdtRMSebhNNKN5x51d-GGWAJ8IgQq_1y9UCG_/s1600/P1310040.JPG"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkKwR3D0ahJkn1KGwo1rqfN5Kyyi_FWB-d0r3ZrQvgGgY98HK20VmbaGikebAh7oXrJPGHJmPHmwPJ51JiEsfMEQalgg8duWnU2qF9PUlGdtRMSebhNNKN5x51d-GGWAJ8IgQq_1y9UCG_/s320/P1310040.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5569053734699443714" border="0" /></a>The atmosphere was such a contradiction. On one hand, the anxiety level was palpable and yet there were boys playing, old men sitting around fires drinking coffee while the younger adults watched the road. It was like a block party for the men. It was an odd internal conflict as I simultaneously felt worried and welcomed by the people. It is this contradiction that will be one of the enduring memories I keep of this drive. And it was a long drive. It took 2 ½ hours to make the normally 45 minute trip. We arrived at the hotel at midnight.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMeo7s14Bk3E9gYnc9165xRl52DVf2ntaSp3sGpNTHKw9ODD0ayR7KO3WOXXEmbS4fCznc-HmBt0cPE-OHpHCrybJYeFT9IdBsoznnnMVoDQ8RxT1xHFCSyOFhcAM1H7VGGsmD965z-n4a/s1600/P2010060.JPG"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMeo7s14Bk3E9gYnc9165xRl52DVf2ntaSp3sGpNTHKw9ODD0ayR7KO3WOXXEmbS4fCznc-HmBt0cPE-OHpHCrybJYeFT9IdBsoznnnMVoDQ8RxT1xHFCSyOFhcAM1H7VGGsmD965z-n4a/s320/P2010060.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5569054385145635474" border="0" /></a>And we got to do it all again early the next morning – pulling out of the hotel the minute the curfew was lifted. Once again – chaos reigned at the airport. This time it was packed to overflowing with people and bags. We waited for our flight to be called – but to no avail. The rumor came that our flight was canceled – again – so we went to plan B. The night before, my sister, Alison, found flights for us on Qatar Airlines to Bangkok connecting through Doha. Qatar Airlines operated out of a different terminal with massive auto traffic in between. Fly Well staff were already in the other terminal and they found seats for us on the flight. <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCFnoEQTcfQA11Y0jHuIGiYZ_kQ6H_Py97DiLjk4maMH2craZq6q3f8rcxUmbW40RMWD6cbFMSKdxFpQpL9sdQCwqzzAtNaP3VVWWYsk6NkPmgTC2dXDV-AFkq0OEa3YjPC0XEx6JXweyS/s1600/P2010069.JPG"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCFnoEQTcfQA11Y0jHuIGiYZ_kQ6H_Py97DiLjk4maMH2craZq6q3f8rcxUmbW40RMWD6cbFMSKdxFpQpL9sdQCwqzzAtNaP3VVWWYsk6NkPmgTC2dXDV-AFkq0OEa3YjPC0XEx6JXweyS/s320/P2010069.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5569054652286676674" border="0" /></a>Hussein drove us as close as he could and Mohamed walked us through the streets to the terminal, weaving between traffic. We got the tickets – first class – very expensive – but it was a way out and, as it turned out, having first class seats was the only way we made our connection in Doha. Mohamed led us to the ticketing area and literally shoved our bags over the mobs of people onto the scanning belt, and checked us in. Keep in mind, this sea of people was almost entirely Middle Eastern – flowing robes, women’s heads covered by hajibs, and traditional dress for men of long robes and scarves. We were an anomaly. <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvcKZbehlsBI8LIqJJp4LekiSyqQcgIUHdmgD7uVuL_5_Dda4zn4deMOwuL0jQdUD_V6Z65Yk7IW5SKQUY6WBRqEYiRFoFFx0r2IZBeRu8uH17Sd4m6Q6pFIAwIIZHEviu10-wfrQ1lskF/s1600/P2010072.JPG"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvcKZbehlsBI8LIqJJp4LekiSyqQcgIUHdmgD7uVuL_5_Dda4zn4deMOwuL0jQdUD_V6Z65Yk7IW5SKQUY6WBRqEYiRFoFFx0r2IZBeRu8uH17Sd4m6Q6pFIAwIIZHEviu10-wfrQ1lskF/s320/P2010072.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5569056135413589666" border="0" /></a>We started our journey through the packed terminal to passport control – another sea of people packed together, shoving their way toward a customs official. Gone were the organized, serpentine lines where signs politely advise you to wait behind the red line. Here we faced a mass of people all shoving their way to the booth. Some held hands full of passports that they handed over the top of the booth to the official. Hussein told us to push our way forward and keep pushing. With that, he left us. I was almost emotional watching our knight in shining armor leave. We would not be out of the country without Mohamed, Hussein, Amhed and Amr. They literally kept us safe and got us out. Never have I experienced such effort and dedication.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgq1f94iw_RP6Drfr3wd2yPt4PmSjVi5edfnSBJyRKbkieQsWZ8GMFJaGOxTbJHHLxsgYr0gZ5rk1gFv0oeMfdQTU3Sqx7YKU_hLvnn6EFfOd1h_EQIylJK7uKpADrCOSb9-_RDc1Y7NR51/s1600/P2010062.JPG"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgq1f94iw_RP6Drfr3wd2yPt4PmSjVi5edfnSBJyRKbkieQsWZ8GMFJaGOxTbJHHLxsgYr0gZ5rk1gFv0oeMfdQTU3Sqx7YKU_hLvnn6EFfOd1h_EQIylJK7uKpADrCOSb9-_RDc1Y7NR51/s200/P2010062.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5569055212818790882" border="0" /></a>I should mention that as we sat for hours at the airport, we saw representatives from Great Britain, France, Australia, China, New Zealand, and more. All were working to move their citizens out of Egypt. Notably absent was the US. We never – ever – saw anyone in the terminal from the US State Department. Deplorable.<br /><br />It merits repeating that every single Egyptian we met was kind, polite, gracious and helpful. They were insistent that we feel welcomed to their country, and we did in spite of the circumstances. We were the recipients of numerous simple kindnesses – like the gentlemen who wheeled a chair to me in the airport, or the waiter who quietly asked me to please come back to his country, or the ten-year old boy who smiled through the windows of our bus and shouted, “hello!” in his best English. How sad it is that these people are the ones most impacted by this situation. <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiocO-YefCxypJNTJecNFXMOh5prXmdX6amU3Fp5bOzORqxj7zd3t1VQQV8Xsq28cLWZSkV3P99yfOUAKH_ThBzzBzJxtO-ZSaAwgARyl05VvkZW21o1fz1pcCmiY7jzY7eCPkfcXYnwGeT/s1600/P2010076.JPG"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiocO-YefCxypJNTJecNFXMOh5prXmdX6amU3Fp5bOzORqxj7zd3t1VQQV8Xsq28cLWZSkV3P99yfOUAKH_ThBzzBzJxtO-ZSaAwgARyl05VvkZW21o1fz1pcCmiY7jzY7eCPkfcXYnwGeT/s200/P2010076.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5569055637092082738" border="0" /></a>Service staff at the hotel told us that they make barely enough to live on WITH the tourist industry. As the tourists leave in droves, these kind and polite people are the ones bearing the brunt of the economic impact. While I won’t pretend to grasp the political and social issues facing this country, I will leave with a great respect for the working people and their desire for a better life. We will watch the developments in Egypt with a deeper interest because they deserve a government that is worthy of them. We look forward to returning to see the sights, experience the rich culture, and meet our friends, Amr, Mohamed, Ahmed and Hussein again. In the meantime, we hold them in our thoughts.<br /><br />As the wheels of our Qatar plane left Egyptian soil en route to Doha we exhaled for the first time in three days. <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkctQGFP9RWQBmJPcCTg9twkLpqVlDqSCO_4ruM8xHG2J3oVUTG-m5oGzc7U0f69RrmGZK_rUjivPHwL5teeNTcyrMcJm3Hbykz3pHtgG7eLZxr0cHjaq7qIoi1W9KeyzwcULRjdabekpy/s1600/P2010077.JPG"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkctQGFP9RWQBmJPcCTg9twkLpqVlDqSCO_4ruM8xHG2J3oVUTG-m5oGzc7U0f69RrmGZK_rUjivPHwL5teeNTcyrMcJm3Hbykz3pHtgG7eLZxr0cHjaq7qIoi1W9KeyzwcULRjdabekpy/s320/P2010077.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5569055863037880690" border="0" /></a>Two thoughts crossed my mind:<br />- Unspeakable gratitude for Amr, Mohamed, Hussein and Ahmed, and<br />- Where the heck is Doha?Shelley's Roadmap to Engineer Your Dreamhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00327937042376941865noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1112334948488380299.post-33397804343909706172011-02-03T10:34:00.056-05:002011-02-03T12:22:25.275-05:00Istanbul – A Different World<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqgN6pKG2vUDWcmlcbC7qXQFhyphenhyphenOoNxOldJvEF4hyphenhyphenI2EPWfDqS8GdYeiUyAnek7yx0bXFC5jHHQ0ZdPz0O9yDAklup3uRVv4z1ZefS3nHfQFDU4kuY4PUPwTOFspfjPHYtk6tHx5x3UV9Gt/s1600/P1280003.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5569504304248212546" style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; width: 300px; height: 400px; text-align: center;" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqgN6pKG2vUDWcmlcbC7qXQFhyphenhyphenOoNxOldJvEF4hyphenhyphenI2EPWfDqS8GdYeiUyAnek7yx0bXFC5jHHQ0ZdPz0O9yDAklup3uRVv4z1ZefS3nHfQFDU4kuY4PUPwTOFspfjPHYtk6tHx5x3UV9Gt/s400/P1280003.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpVu_pBH1_X2OOzX0hvS0YvPvmn4wZ1boG64lCaviY8F0pgh3cmFaPGVGBzqTRlc5xv2QdoEAZtK1dBp0L_NOZZHEMLdAzoSFJOfz7BCoplqm3-iEI0KsHtUVAO0G76SQZqpMD6V4YBsPl/s1600/Beach.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5569512215732376546" style="float: left; margin: 0px 10px 10px 0px; width: 200px; height: 150px;" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpVu_pBH1_X2OOzX0hvS0YvPvmn4wZ1boG64lCaviY8F0pgh3cmFaPGVGBzqTRlc5xv2QdoEAZtK1dBp0L_NOZZHEMLdAzoSFJOfz7BCoplqm3-iEI0KsHtUVAO0G76SQZqpMD6V4YBsPl/s200/Beach.JPG" border="0" /></a>After a tearful morning in France, we delivered the car and lifted off from French soil as tears ran down my face.<br />A few hours later, we landed in Istanbul. The uniqueness of Turkey was not immediately apparent as we were driven past large stores, car dealerships and shopping malls that – except for the different letters – might be in the U.S. <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvkD0A4wXB1-DHzC9MrNfzQZ93WlNwyCzyYtXone8xVOcpaO5KGUFJ9Ue6MX_JvwUaW4VR3FXKok9tmU46ezwDFS2UcFfL5-sl9zueMl1hG0Wsxv5maMh4QEDaAjGMbTubcmD_B8mCVYAu/s1600/Car.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5569512495105976002" style="float: right; margin: 0px 0px 10px 10px; width: 320px; height: 240px;" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvkD0A4wXB1-DHzC9MrNfzQZ93WlNwyCzyYtXone8xVOcpaO5KGUFJ9Ue6MX_JvwUaW4VR3FXKok9tmU46ezwDFS2UcFfL5-sl9zueMl1hG0Wsxv5maMh4QEDaAjGMbTubcmD_B8mCVYAu/s320/Car.JPG" border="0" /></a>But the next day, the differences came into view. Around 6AM we woke to the sounds of chanting as the morning’s first call-to-prayers were sung from the mosque across the street. A few hours later we met our guide, Yesim, for a day of exploring the city.<br /><br />Stepping outside into the brisk morning, the atmosphere immediately felt different. Gone were the shuttered, stone buildings with quiet streets. <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqZNplzwdEatZWen93GW5GbdAQy_YvXYj0T492g1WTM_dbFttDei1FKzFeah9FF9LJSmAbSbdug1yHTdCDM-fU-3TAuscsXad4hQRxu3Knyg0T56PfEbD7IESGhyVnU6UIP5CLiZB4L_k8/s1600/P1270093.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5569492772715965266" style="float: right; margin: 0px 0px 10px 10px; width: 200px; height: 150px;" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqZNplzwdEatZWen93GW5GbdAQy_YvXYj0T492g1WTM_dbFttDei1FKzFeah9FF9LJSmAbSbdug1yHTdCDM-fU-3TAuscsXad4hQRxu3Knyg0T56PfEbD7IESGhyVnU6UIP5CLiZB4L_k8/s200/P1270093.JPG" border="0" /></a> Here a bustling, busy energy pulsed. It felt hectic in a semi-organized way even though everything we encountered functioned efficiently. We were in the heart of the old city, dense and tightly packed. Three to five story buildings lined narrow streets with shops stacked one on top of the other sometimes three high. Men busily rolled boxes, delivered luggage, and readied shops for the crush of people on the streets. All around was a whirl of activity.<br /><br />People jostled along as sidewalks inexplicably narrowed then widened along the narrow, car-packed streets jammed with taxis, tour buses and autos vying for the same slim piece of pavement. <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKyff8iNqxvfRb0cpY0KCg2VpedJFi8JKsZZoYisGzvw2UiWH7RbY5qQhhKkyJ6Mi7c66g_at0_G6c6cjQpFsz0Zc1CuAMmMLAULaKyF_PFveGxnNeFTI7MUrCw_ZPoROIZHZmmaTPhr9w/s1600/P1260156.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5569504699673669810" style="float: right; margin: 0px 0px 10px 10px; width: 200px; height: 150px;" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKyff8iNqxvfRb0cpY0KCg2VpedJFi8JKsZZoYisGzvw2UiWH7RbY5qQhhKkyJ6Mi7c66g_at0_G6c6cjQpFsz0Zc1CuAMmMLAULaKyF_PFveGxnNeFTI7MUrCw_ZPoROIZHZmmaTPhr9w/s200/P1260156.JPG" border="0" /></a> Yesim and her driver escorted us around town in a mid-sized bus with automatic sliding doors. Due to the parking and traffic pressures, our driver would drop us off, circle the block, and come back down the street with the sliding door open for us to jump in as he coasted to a quick stop. He got us everywhere we wanted to visit and we were <em>very</em> thankful to not be driving.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkRciCnca4yQnOu0_-MYcMUybMYpU9mWzcYagaVYpaU0fFMtNgVOpLioBSThUjDnZPvtp4FVTJf6iLVyZB5QL8yDcPvEbDOyrhWSnYJMo1ezQK7acODTIE1aqKKK6Dlju6cXrVMPrNi72X/s1600/P1270101.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5569491222840692770" style="float: left; margin: 0px 10px 10px 0px; width: 200px; height: 150px;" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkRciCnca4yQnOu0_-MYcMUybMYpU9mWzcYagaVYpaU0fFMtNgVOpLioBSThUjDnZPvtp4FVTJf6iLVyZB5QL8yDcPvEbDOyrhWSnYJMo1ezQK7acODTIE1aqKKK6Dlju6cXrVMPrNi72X/s200/P1270101.JPG" border="0" /></a> The people, gracious and polite, also seemed different due to their uniformly dark coloring. The women were fashionably dressed, coiffed and made-up to accentuate their thick, black hair and eyes the color of dark chocolate (I know that color well!). A few women – maybe 25% - kept their hair covered with scarves. The shops seemed to be primarily run by men who waited by the door calling to passersby coaxing them in. It was clearly common practice – but it felt a bit uncomfortable for US sensibilities. Both of us, blond and fair, seemed to be a particularly noticeable target for attention. They took one look at me and start guessing. If I didn’t respond in English, they call after me – German? Scandinavian? <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJ7f9opv20-aYOfhgKDx4QDivLgGRkCSbGdVm8K1Cgt1Nqhvx1-L7hOxyCEVqbj16VokhtE5n2QsacI0PBkifdk0VdJmHotICrzd2KyJohyphenhyphenNBZ9yr4ddUTZZZMWF_hMljdN0Onfl97UAkU/s1600/P1270095.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5569491713275225010" style="float: right; margin: 0px 0px 10px 10px; width: 320px; height: 240px;" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJ7f9opv20-aYOfhgKDx4QDivLgGRkCSbGdVm8K1Cgt1Nqhvx1-L7hOxyCEVqbj16VokhtE5n2QsacI0PBkifdk0VdJmHotICrzd2KyJohyphenhyphenNBZ9yr4ddUTZZZMWF_hMljdN0Onfl97UAkU/s320/P1270095.JPG" border="0" /></a>When we ignored them, they were good natured about it and recovered quickly. As we walked back from a lovely dinner along the waterfront a man tried to get us into <strong>his</strong> restaurant. In one breath he said as we passed, “Excuse me, hello, thank you, bye-bye.” We laughed all the way back!<br /><br />This was our first time to visit a primarily Muslim country. I was entranced by the mosques, and the chanting of prayer times from the tall, slim minarets. The old city, as viewed from across the Golden Horn, is a landscape of minarets spires clustered around the large mosques – so different from the cathedrals to which we’d grown accustomed.<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwvSOBcbTAtvnFs9beoa0j0VLOf7tN4qV97bcmRRsUGpkEyF-clxmkiTRd_s1fkkfWd_pGqJeMPNaqBwn8A2IQhME08DTSyqrszoo-aLIIG8D1F7dXFGQ5MxBHucX5pE4ENFG03tfoS5WE/s1600/P1270098.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5569492163074275714" style="float: left; margin: 0px 10px 10px 0px; width: 320px; height: 240px;" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwvSOBcbTAtvnFs9beoa0j0VLOf7tN4qV97bcmRRsUGpkEyF-clxmkiTRd_s1fkkfWd_pGqJeMPNaqBwn8A2IQhME08DTSyqrszoo-aLIIG8D1F7dXFGQ5MxBHucX5pE4ENFG03tfoS5WE/s320/P1270098.JPG" border="0" /></a> The biggest mosques have a large central dome surrounded by half-domes of decreasing sizes. The complex looks like a mound of bubbles guarded by the spires of the minarets. Inside the complex the mosque becomes a center of activity and life. Schools, hospitals and soup kitchens accompany the mosques.<br /><br />The only functioning mosque that we visited was the Sultanahmet Mosque. The base of the building is surrounded by water faucets for washing before prayers. <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgNobk4Xo7JO7Ww3z6LvkQuFsIuRmhHKLo_hhqxrg82Z5lrku41dWpaR9T1EpWB_euATC-qSHiVPcmuiECWwst_X6RrE7RSlNUUwDeiv0EhPyokyZET0fxsSb7tAqK9PNov8-R1Ffy-HET/s1600/P1260052.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5569493112910435234" style="float: right; margin: 0px 0px 10px 10px; width: 150px; height: 200px;" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgNobk4Xo7JO7Ww3z6LvkQuFsIuRmhHKLo_hhqxrg82Z5lrku41dWpaR9T1EpWB_euATC-qSHiVPcmuiECWwst_X6RrE7RSlNUUwDeiv0EhPyokyZET0fxsSb7tAqK9PNov8-R1Ffy-HET/s200/P1260052.JPG" border="0" /></a><br />Holding a plastic bag with my shoes, we stepped into the mosque. I was overwhelmed by the spaciousness and simplicity. Unlike a European cathedral with its narrow naves and ornate sculptures stacked one on top of the other, the mosque was open with clear views across the entire building with its circle of domes. It felt like being inside a bubble – calming and ethereal, particularly since the interior was covered with predominantly blue tiles (hence the name Blue Mosque). The Moslem religion doesn’t allow ornamentation except for calligraphy (prayers) or floral designs; <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJLKLgO0FHO3rBAbwIRH0Gc_Zjha6DYD_w6lJwujPRSGdcy2hTZSO0va3_dpoRD95d9PngpME_TnOQT1nQcpkQ3M3GJG7QDy3gyF6GkrWJ4wgZld683VnaEM8j8qrLrHvev_8zOvzpx5xV/s1600/P1260055.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5569493411520772354" style="float: left; margin: 0px 10px 10px 0px; width: 320px; height: 240px;" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJLKLgO0FHO3rBAbwIRH0Gc_Zjha6DYD_w6lJwujPRSGdcy2hTZSO0va3_dpoRD95d9PngpME_TnOQT1nQcpkQ3M3GJG7QDy3gyF6GkrWJ4wgZld683VnaEM8j8qrLrHvev_8zOvzpx5xV/s320/P1260055.JPG" border="0" /></a>consequently, the tiles are detailed, winding floral designs. The pattern changes with every wall. What sounds gaudy looks balanced and delicate. And the floor was covered – all of it – with red flowered carpeting with subtle triangular patterns pointing toward Mecca. The design serves as markers for those praying.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbMeMuIlvKzZoHUWRd0tEz-cB0tZbQLPmTlUc10vpP4Z9f6s4StuIQprrJMBPgSDoY3_fEI842TJPvbGNNnRET7aE6JCoU5M5jtT7oCCVIbuTFtFC2bBknEZPP4xgMoWLfFyJbpgxJuZmb/s1600/P1260132.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5569494152142903378" style="float: right; margin: 0px 0px 10px 10px; width: 200px; height: 150px;" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbMeMuIlvKzZoHUWRd0tEz-cB0tZbQLPmTlUc10vpP4Z9f6s4StuIQprrJMBPgSDoY3_fEI842TJPvbGNNnRET7aE6JCoU5M5jtT7oCCVIbuTFtFC2bBknEZPP4xgMoWLfFyJbpgxJuZmb/s200/P1260132.JPG" border="0" /></a>No visit to Istanbul would be complete without a stroll through the Grand Bazaar and the spice market filled with colors, hookahs, samovars, jewelry, saffron, curries, lamps, rugs, Turkish towels, scarves and anything else you can imagine. Oranges and pomegranates are pressed as you watch into refreshing drinks. The air smelled of warm, roasting chestnuts and hot coffee. <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5aQJQhoPYjlp0qGsQGlouacPyO67x2KlyKe7w_g8_8779P1CMg5QTlGCZUPJ19ZNINk6PHKAegIjqEmRkMD1gvNjPukAFWT0zPCYTC0RAjmHOoRv0EyTASB6woyg3LOUglOEdvOzjYnAy/s1600/P1260140.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5569494457169140210" style="float: left; margin: 0px 10px 10px 0px; width: 200px; height: 150px;" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5aQJQhoPYjlp0qGsQGlouacPyO67x2KlyKe7w_g8_8779P1CMg5QTlGCZUPJ19ZNINk6PHKAegIjqEmRkMD1gvNjPukAFWT0zPCYTC0RAjmHOoRv0EyTASB6woyg3LOUglOEdvOzjYnAy/s200/P1260140.JPG" border="0" /></a><br />While the shops were fun, my favorite thing was the guy shuttling Turkish tea to shop keepers. He zipped through the crowds with a silver tray held from chains while tulip shaped glasses of warm tea crowded the tray.<br /><br />Istanbul, unlike most of the other places we visited has a layered history – first as Byzantium, then as Constantinople, and finally as Istanbul. Roman and Ottoman histories interweave in the landscape of religious sites, obelisks and palaces. <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3qqrctXa_Ei2NdTZW65w9lXOFaJ_EBPbJ_N7J6On7utuBCzJCyUWYAkbwL6vp_t9p_7ShojL_kK3L3fhMTw5TXZzcwC-tuhWDTjzNdczzjDRSdQ2R3SqNNP9b0bzTFlM-PWx6t8e8-Iz0/s1600/P1260038.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5569495076050376722" style="float: right; margin: 0px 0px 10px 10px; width: 240px; height: 320px;" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3qqrctXa_Ei2NdTZW65w9lXOFaJ_EBPbJ_N7J6On7utuBCzJCyUWYAkbwL6vp_t9p_7ShojL_kK3L3fhMTw5TXZzcwC-tuhWDTjzNdczzjDRSdQ2R3SqNNP9b0bzTFlM-PWx6t8e8-Iz0/s320/P1260038.JPG" border="0" /></a><br />For example, the old Roman hippodrome – where chariot races were held centuries ago – sits close to the Sultanahmet Mosque. The roads of the modern city occupy the ancient race track but the center space retains the original obelisks. One obelisk clearly looked Egyptian and new. I was right about the Egyptian part, but it was 600 years old – definitely not new. It was brought from Egypt to Istanbul by the Romans as a symbol of their conquest. Apparently, the Romans took obelisks to other locations around the world, too. It was sort of like saying “Cesar was here” at a grand scale.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1_oIpLXMdT9DqC2Lv3fir0UfiEALwlzuXTrWzthty9vgA3240PXAEhVIahIDFPbIUh40cKWvcXQVFgZx3JIplDPS1q7DE-mZHcjVVH1A4KlZwnw3kn7TFMrLNXgTh_aJvXMGckFMYBAz9/s1600/P1260092.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5569495932741799586" style="float: left; margin: 0px 10px 10px 0px; width: 200px; height: 150px;" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1_oIpLXMdT9DqC2Lv3fir0UfiEALwlzuXTrWzthty9vgA3240PXAEhVIahIDFPbIUh40cKWvcXQVFgZx3JIplDPS1q7DE-mZHcjVVH1A4KlZwnw3kn7TFMrLNXgTh_aJvXMGckFMYBAz9/s200/P1260092.JPG" border="0" /></a> A short walk away was the Topkapi Palace the home of the Sultans of the Ottoman Empire. The palace compound sprawled over the point of land next to the Bosphorus – a beautiful spot. Part of the building complex (which housed more than 1500 people) included the Sultan’s harem. The harem is the space where the women lived and what a life it was. <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3VY3OgpXWZ2hZGbv6STKDHltt1e-fMSK8rSzwxIj2Nj-G0RU-qCAg7nyiBCoMA3qBY3SW82zeCqCjmldhIlRY6W7vATCJhe2YViAsJj9OPFQINO8tBZKLW62BRPoWfw4DwODD6DNqh4FN/s1600/P1260073.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5569496211582670146" style="float: right; margin: 0px 0px 10px 10px; width: 320px; height: 240px;" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3VY3OgpXWZ2hZGbv6STKDHltt1e-fMSK8rSzwxIj2Nj-G0RU-qCAg7nyiBCoMA3qBY3SW82zeCqCjmldhIlRY6W7vATCJhe2YViAsJj9OPFQINO8tBZKLW62BRPoWfw4DwODD6DNqh4FN/s320/P1260073.JPG" border="0" /></a>Educated and pampered (including their own huge swimming pool), these women had a world of their own – except when chose by the sultan. The more they were “chosen” the higher their rank in the harem – second only to the official wife. Next to the harem was the chamber where the counsel of leaders from various parts of the empire gathered to discuss official business. The Sultan had a screened door overhead so that he could listen in without being seen. The visitors never knew if he was there or not - sort of a WikiLeaks for the Sultan. <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWZr1ho7FQZdtx9e0hQWAtIZ44vkykLNZPrcXBuXSQtPfEUNrKsD-pleaN1DeC_IbpPhDOEsJ839x-XL70BsFQwen_yLxpGl91Q1Un-fhlNFRwsPuFrqWlFkg2Z6g8tiJI3wigIatiWEe8/s1600/P1260071.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5569496679461024706" style="float: left; margin: 0px 10px 10px 0px; width: 320px; height: 240px;" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWZr1ho7FQZdtx9e0hQWAtIZ44vkykLNZPrcXBuXSQtPfEUNrKsD-pleaN1DeC_IbpPhDOEsJ839x-XL70BsFQwen_yLxpGl91Q1Un-fhlNFRwsPuFrqWlFkg2Z6g8tiJI3wigIatiWEe8/s320/P1260071.JPG" border="0" /></a><br />We saw the treasury of fantastically jeweled stuff – pendants, flasks, jars, ornaments for the Sultan's turban, thrones and swords. Noteworthy was the Topkapi dagger with its jeweled hilt of three golf-ball sized emeralds. And there was an 86 carat Kasikci diamond also to be worn in the Sultan’s turban. I haven’t seen this much gold and jewels since the Vatican.<br /><br />We stopped for lunch inside the Topkapi Palace and enjoyed a traditional meal of lamb, eggplant, grilled meat, and lentil soup. <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjx21wwm_be5oemgkaPcg4fuqHmGWsJB0ELzBP1FWtMKNTHObNjoN1Q_AcDH9touox1dWDDw0SWGykyOOvm4jGwelohJcfm8Ktkziw-toYKRuKd1asUdYn8ZuRN4ghYDyEGkRQiR915N88M/s1600/P1260114.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5569497112640834594" style="float: right; margin: 0px 0px 10px 10px; width: 320px; height: 240px;" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjx21wwm_be5oemgkaPcg4fuqHmGWsJB0ELzBP1FWtMKNTHObNjoN1Q_AcDH9touox1dWDDw0SWGykyOOvm4jGwelohJcfm8Ktkziw-toYKRuKd1asUdYn8ZuRN4ghYDyEGkRQiR915N88M/s320/P1260114.JPG" border="0" /></a> But the highlight was Mike’s coffee reading. After finishing his coffee, Yesim turned the cup upside down in the saucer and allowed it to cool. From the remnants in the bottom and along the sides she told Mike’s fortune. He has at least 5 upcoming trips, there is a deep hurt in his heart, an eagle-like person is in his life, and he’s coming into a great deal of money (his first Social Security check?)<br /><br />While I’m at it, I should mention how different the Turkish food was, too. French patisseries were replaced by shops selling a beautiful array of candies using pistachios, <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-EC2LdScNyx13Qd4IMc5VuZrDjqA71hP4vZWA_f6cTwgbjiVJ60R3xq1k9VSbNzK7b2b4fJYjxU0keIQXoIoolE1S2X4LpInvxSwdem92yBNIVF8YJPMsOjzZoisvdNNzOQ549RJxBZSX/s1600/P1260001.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5569497427490980066" style="float: left; margin: 0px 10px 10px 0px; width: 320px; height: 240px;" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-EC2LdScNyx13Qd4IMc5VuZrDjqA71hP4vZWA_f6cTwgbjiVJ60R3xq1k9VSbNzK7b2b4fJYjxU0keIQXoIoolE1S2X4LpInvxSwdem92yBNIVF8YJPMsOjzZoisvdNNzOQ549RJxBZSX/s320/P1260001.JPG" border="0" /></a>hazelnuts, apricots, filo pastry, helva, and of course, Mike’s favorite, Turkish Delight. Yogurt is also big here so I tried a couple of yogurt drinks like ayran, a yogurt & water drink that looks like 2% milk but tastes like plain yogurt. My favorite was sapel – a hot, thick, yogurt-based drink with a creamy taste and texture. It is served warm and sprinkled with cinnamon. It may be better than hot chocolate!<br /><br />After a busy day of touring in the cold, we decided to try a Turkish bath or hamani at the Cagaloglu Hamani. Men and women have separate areas so Mike and I parted ways. <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh101CWbBtwIp1XrpCoJgXwxlnC2zHphiCptHYCvvpipg05JuYfDS5IuXqnI5eZsx3cndropTPS6Keq12-ElWD5AHaqQ5VGhmuEDdHmktQfeOmFDqAH-XrzIVzixujy9FgXJEO-7CgQsQDN/s1600/P1270091.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5569498446855171874" style="float: right; margin: 0px 0px 10px 10px; width: 200px; height: 150px;" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh101CWbBtwIp1XrpCoJgXwxlnC2zHphiCptHYCvvpipg05JuYfDS5IuXqnI5eZsx3cndropTPS6Keq12-ElWD5AHaqQ5VGhmuEDdHmktQfeOmFDqAH-XrzIVzixujy9FgXJEO-7CgQsQDN/s200/P1270091.JPG" border="0" /></a> I was led by a very large woman to a changing room and given a towel and funky wooden slippers. Wrapped in my towel and precariously perched on my slippers (think wooden clogs with only a thin strap across the toes), Fatima let me to the bath. <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRAH1FXxVeckFUBmfLCbnzZehRI6jqio26Rz6XlgY_fm4NfXHQk1kpZ6zw_Wyg-2BxPUTeJIbY5cLbr3fXGqQwFT9UxDRRxaMkx_oNziyj2RsGOQh8Kx5OfFOfJJolcQtIXh1_3bfULzau/s1600/P1260062.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5569498954039469138" style="float: left; margin: 0px 10px 10px 0px; width: 200px; height: 150px;" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRAH1FXxVeckFUBmfLCbnzZehRI6jqio26Rz6XlgY_fm4NfXHQk1kpZ6zw_Wyg-2BxPUTeJIbY5cLbr3fXGqQwFT9UxDRRxaMkx_oNziyj2RsGOQh8Kx5OfFOfJJolcQtIXh1_3bfULzau/s200/P1260062.JPG" border="0" /></a>It was a large round, domed room – all in marble with columns around the perimeter. It was almost empty. She sat me down by a marble basin with water running into it and showed me that I was to pour water all over myself, and she’d return shortly after my skin warmed.<br />So – there I sat trying not to feel self conscious. I kept pouring warm water all over me and found myself relaxing into the experience. Once I got past thinking about it, it began to feel decadent and luxurious in a forbidden sort of way. Fatima returned, had me lay down on the warm marble and proceeded to loofah my skin all over – and I mean she scoured me! Then she washed my hair and not a washing like at Hudson Fouquet where they are careful to keep water out of your eyes. <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2Lzz1PgOsxXokV-tklaoQY2fkInqnowsqg7EyHZXwIw24oddzAShyeahKi1GbpCbwP6WncmHqu1FUojllgIqwns1SqPyE6Fr9PeorbI76OlqsstwMRwl9zmuBvSde5xFldjN7g1WpQOV3/s1600/P1280009.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5569499930475236674" style="float: left; margin: 0px 10px 10px 0px; width: 320px; height: 240px;" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2Lzz1PgOsxXokV-tklaoQY2fkInqnowsqg7EyHZXwIw24oddzAShyeahKi1GbpCbwP6WncmHqu1FUojllgIqwns1SqPyE6Fr9PeorbI76OlqsstwMRwl9zmuBvSde5xFldjN7g1WpQOV3/s320/P1280009.JPG" border="0" /></a>Here, she suds-ed me up with soap, rubbed it over me face and dumped buckets of warm water over my head. It was so unexpected, I had to laugh with soap running into my mouth. When she finished, I sat some more, pouring water over me before drying off, dressing and returning to Mike. We were warm, calm and relaxed as we walked to dinner. What a delightful experience.<br /><br />Our next day was sunny but still cold. Yesim took us to yet more sites. We saw the Petra Palace Hotel originally built for the Orient Express customers. <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVl26QgnfO51BxdRcnbK8MPfxpJjglwSvebt1uYW4xD0NtcLcB3G_sBXouLxKkgEsCR3ZFZS9CSKn2IlFz-f14Gbwhg5lZnfsVV4eD0I1FFswT-RCmmMO8R2rCyvicLWG9OHblapYQtlhB/s1600/P1270018.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5569500686792799266" style="float: right; margin: 0px 0px 10px 10px; width: 150px; height: 200px;" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVl26QgnfO51BxdRcnbK8MPfxpJjglwSvebt1uYW4xD0NtcLcB3G_sBXouLxKkgEsCR3ZFZS9CSKn2IlFz-f14Gbwhg5lZnfsVV4eD0I1FFswT-RCmmMO8R2rCyvicLWG9OHblapYQtlhB/s200/P1270018.JPG" border="0" /></a>It was recently renovated and is a beautiful hotel.<br /><br />Many of the major monuments here – like the churches – are illustrations of Istanbul’s layers of history like the Kariype Museum otherwise known as the Chora Church.<br />This church was built in the 6th century in the byzantine era. Inside the church is covered in mosaics of incredible detail.<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1Rp6a6t6CKaBAzada8gx8ShPJ7wf0XlcG5Qq9gqJiZGn4eX72TdETWOsiDJXPpmpi73z_yTlCAQLE8uNtMoX_s0DyTRvrdgohh7DC3oVOX53f5vFhsajjP1Qy1Jt5yUeldTDKq-VKOnJG/s1600/P1270026.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5569501203183466258" style="float: left; margin: 0px 10px 10px 0px; width: 240px; height: 320px;" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1Rp6a6t6CKaBAzada8gx8ShPJ7wf0XlcG5Qq9gqJiZGn4eX72TdETWOsiDJXPpmpi73z_yTlCAQLE8uNtMoX_s0DyTRvrdgohh7DC3oVOX53f5vFhsajjP1Qy1Jt5yUeldTDKq-VKOnJG/s320/P1270026.JPG" border="0" /></a> Tiny tiles of glass backed with gold, mini-squares of lapis all worked into scenes from Biblical times. Most of the depictions were of Mary’s history – her birth, childhood, marriage and motherhood. When the Ottoman’s took over, rather than destroying the mosaics, they covered them in plaster, which had the impact of preserving them as they are now.<br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijw8df6a6lVGPgEPnp7fkdDvAw_AViD1UEwaUchx36JVljm7lNm5eW69YVVCSloPnL5xuOONojekOvNEmG5Te_RArnmH92kLeT3BrVWZ4fmk4hVjBhCXB2-ZEJrQwUM9AZ67Netjx0cpbC/s1600/P1270062.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5569501800610141410" style="float: right; margin: 0px 0px 10px 10px; width: 200px; height: 150px;" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijw8df6a6lVGPgEPnp7fkdDvAw_AViD1UEwaUchx36JVljm7lNm5eW69YVVCSloPnL5xuOONojekOvNEmG5Te_RArnmH92kLeT3BrVWZ4fmk4hVjBhCXB2-ZEJrQwUM9AZ67Netjx0cpbC/s200/P1270062.JPG" border="0" /></a><br />The Hagia Sophia (Holy Wisdom) has a similar varied past. Hagia Sophia is a 6th century building also with a large central dome. So large, in fact, that it’s size was not exceeded for 1000 years (that’s not a typo….1,000 years). It started as a Greek Orthodox Church, was converted to a mosque than into a Christian church and is now a museum open to the public so as to protect the building and the art it embodies. <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUd47tKR89luhajqaOTSJBhX9QhsT1EQSL6mx_IzGSlQFTh3a_7BPwlmDB1r0-cgYEGh1SRgjWQAqIQt8RTbOTyQrVxXWV4QioCuhnk07UFBRyPl0vvBRiLHvJtKxBpK7sClY4Svimw7nH/s1600/P1260116.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5569502813242699858" style="float: left; margin: 0px 10px 10px 0px; width: 320px; height: 240px;" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUd47tKR89luhajqaOTSJBhX9QhsT1EQSL6mx_IzGSlQFTh3a_7BPwlmDB1r0-cgYEGh1SRgjWQAqIQt8RTbOTyQrVxXWV4QioCuhnk07UFBRyPl0vvBRiLHvJtKxBpK7sClY4Svimw7nH/s320/P1260116.JPG" border="0" /></a> The space is large and open inside – like the Blue Mosque – with mosaics of Christ and Mary (that’s the Christian history) and Arabic calligraphy (from its mosque heritage). A tidbit - So and so was in Istanbul on a military campaign and died here. He is buried inside the Hagia Sophia – on the second floor. Think about it.<br /><br />Across from the Hagia Sophia is an underground water reservoir. It’s an underground chamber of light and rhythm – column and after column in all directions. <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJ0UTsMckFmj3pyc9TGGSi8KscBzYeIwqwueC8ePBxncbGgtiOG1FzOfjToNUV8jr6xZR-iCqetswS3Ct9E_QxMxfITZuNDQokeG0N8FDkbtRSqdvtK-OdPRRyvWdsO7pSAbCs4g1_UTZf/s1600/P1260122.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5569503134251619826" style="float: right; margin: 0px 0px 10px 10px; width: 200px; height: 150px;" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJ0UTsMckFmj3pyc9TGGSi8KscBzYeIwqwueC8ePBxncbGgtiOG1FzOfjToNUV8jr6xZR-iCqetswS3Ct9E_QxMxfITZuNDQokeG0N8FDkbtRSqdvtK-OdPRRyvWdsO7pSAbCs4g1_UTZf/s200/P1260122.JPG" border="0" /></a> It was constructed of used columns collected from monuments over the world that were rejects from the construction of the Hagia Sophia. An elegant reuse of materials. Two columns stand on used Medusa head sculptures – one sideways and the other upside down – just in case she could still turn workers to stone. You can't be too careful when it comes to Medusa.<br /><br />In Istanbul, it feels like we’re straddling two worlds. On one hand, the rich mosaics of the Cora Church ? represent scenes from the Bible – many of which occur in Turkey. <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0uO2tPcRdTn3N3g7K0S9uI7GvObDfnRpJ9HtSjHyImdh1A88uUcQpE0w_edsxE2Ke9TZIohdxZEodj3CElCAzyxDwXsSwUx10zfEhekPCy6PeB-qw7BS9p_QgAerg8RVmLZj8p8FjUmgE/s1600/P1270077.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5569502111583818594" style="float: left; margin: 0px 10px 10px 0px; width: 240px; height: 320px;" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0uO2tPcRdTn3N3g7K0S9uI7GvObDfnRpJ9HtSjHyImdh1A88uUcQpE0w_edsxE2Ke9TZIohdxZEodj3CElCAzyxDwXsSwUx10zfEhekPCy6PeB-qw7BS9p_QgAerg8RVmLZj8p8FjUmgE/s320/P1270077.JPG" border="0" /></a>Ephesus, for example, is in Turkey as is the town where Mary reportedly lived and is buried. It is, of course, legend, but it is enough of a legend that three Popes have visited the site. I remember in Sunday School, learning about Paul’s letter to the Ephesians. It takes on new life being a short distance from this place immortalized in history. Similarly, European history is entwined here, too. The Ottoman Empire, headquartered in Constantinople, stretched to Austria where we saw some of the history there. Slowly, the vast family relationships are beginning – just beginning – to link together now. Only in Istanbul, though, have we seen the dramatic shifts in cultures over the centuries. All left their marks here and it is fascinating to unpeel the layers.<br /><br />We’ve only had a glimpse of the layers of history in Istanbul but have not begun to appreciate the culture and the diversity of Turkey. That will have to be another visit. For now, all we can say to Istanbul is, “Excuse me, hello, thank you, bye-bye.”<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPypxZofWM-6Yx2Gi2NqqBKmkUp2g_4Xh_ojqfElZ1XAtpMXjU2fVNUU_p2X0VkPCM0TGoBdyf-pMtXeIAvZM8r-gNViTBP_i9Anv-s4zeC7i3q585N2KAFUXi27GP9ZFauS_QGUOacQOO/s1600/P1280007.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5569503784766702770" style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; width: 400px; height: 300px; text-align: center;" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPypxZofWM-6Yx2Gi2NqqBKmkUp2g_4Xh_ojqfElZ1XAtpMXjU2fVNUU_p2X0VkPCM0TGoBdyf-pMtXeIAvZM8r-gNViTBP_i9Anv-s4zeC7i3q585N2KAFUXi27GP9ZFauS_QGUOacQOO/s400/P1280007.JPG" border="0" /></a>Shelley's Roadmap to Engineer Your Dreamhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00327937042376941865noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1112334948488380299.post-81283203114869905972011-02-01T22:45:00.003-05:002011-02-01T22:46:58.066-05:00We're in Bangkok!Hello everyone - Mike and I arrived in Bangkok early this morning after an overnight flight from Cairo. We'll have a blog up very shortly - there's so much to tell. It was quite the experience.<br /><br />We want to thank everyone for their concern. We've heard that many of you have been emailing with each other. That means the world to us and brought us to tears as we were stuck in our hotel in Cairo. There's simply nothing like friendship.<br /><br />ShelleyShelley's Roadmap to Engineer Your Dreamhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00327937042376941865noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1112334948488380299.post-38896901564656853512011-02-01T14:32:00.002-05:002011-02-01T14:38:15.361-05:00Mike and Shelley en route to BangkokHi all -- it's Linnea again. I got word this morning from Shelley that they finally caught a flight out of Cairo earlier today on Qatar Air. They made it to Doha (capital of Qatar) and barely made their connection from there to Bangkok on Qatar Air flight 612. Their flight is scheduled to land in Bangkok at 7 AM local time on February 2nd, which is in about 4 hours from the time that this blog is posted. Hopefully when they get to Bangkok they can get back on online and we can hear firsthand what their last several days have been like!<br /><br />--LinneaShelley's Roadmap to Engineer Your Dreamhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00327937042376941865noreply@blogger.com0