Avon Walk for Breast Cancer

At the end of October, I finally did the long walk I've been prepping for - the 2-day Avon Walk for Breast Cancer in Charlotte, NC. Although my physical journey was slightly shorter than the planned 39.3 miles (I fell victim to low blood sugar late Saturday afternoon, a few miles short of the end point for the day), the emotional journey made up for it. But first, a few statistics from the months leading up to the walk:

• 5 months of training
• $2275 raised with the help of my family and friends
• 3 pairs of running shoes for training
• 10-13 pounds lost since last fall
• 1 clean baseline mammogram (and the ability to say "mammogram" without blushing)

And a few stats from the walk itself:

• 35 miles walked (including a 1/2 mile detour when we followed a crowd that missed a turn sign)
• 4 threatened blisters (3 headed off by moleskin)
• 78,417 steps (clocked with the free pedometer given out at Event Eve)
• 14.5 hours of walking
• $2.3 million raised
• 1200 walkers

But enough of the quantitative! This walk was a much-needed opportunity to do something big and meaningful, and it has had a profound effect on both me and uncounted strangers. During the walk, I was touched by the spirit of the survivors, the dedication and fortitude of the other walkers, the selflessness and unflagging good spirits of the crew members, and the promise in the eyes of the donation recipients. The training hours leading up to the walk strengthened my friendship with my friend K, and the walk itself gave me a rare opportunity for extended conversation with my sister-in-law.

I've also been touched by the generosity and good hearts of my friends and family. Many of them opened up their wallets to donate, enabling me to raise more than the "necessary" amount for the walk. The Avon Foundation awarded $750,000 to local organizations at the closing ceremonies, and the rest will go to support ongoing grants in the areas of awareness and education, screening and diagnosis, access to treatment, support services, and scientific research.

Equally important, tons of people supported me emotionally by asking about my training, patiently listening to my training reports, asking their friends to donate, providing entertainment during my walks, and coming out to cheer us on during the big walk itself.

Best of all, this is not the end! The donations will continue to help people in need for months to come, I'm still walking on the weekends, and I have tentative plans to do another breast cancer walk next fall. Walk on!

Eulogy for the Living, Part 1 (Donald R. Witt)

Much of my father's life has been devoted to keeping my mother warm. His gifts to my mother over the years have included sweaters, slippers, a remote starter for her car to warm it up on cold mornings, a heated towel rack, and, my personal favorite, a homemade heated toilet seat during the early years of their marriage when they lived in a mobile home. If you know my mother, you know how appropriate these gifts are.

This is typical of how my father shows he cares. He pays attention and takes care of his family without verbalizing his feelings much, but it always came through clearly. When he did verbalize, though... One of my treasured possessions is a letter he wrote me in my first weeks of college to tell me how empty the house (well, my room, I guess, since my brother and mother were still home) seemed with me gone. I also treasure the book Butterfly Kisses and Bittersweet Tears, a set of father-daughter stories in which he underlined meaningful passages.

Although he doesn't say it often, his big heart is apparent. He has spent about 20 years worth of his limited vacation time driving to Appalachia to improve people's homes. He also adopted (although my old friend Andrew would say "abducted") and loved the neighbor's neglected dog-like cat, Pooch.

Dad and I shared a joy in cars. Mom always said that proof of his love for me, his firstborn, was that he gave up his two-seater Porsche for something that would hold a baby seat. He waited almost two decades before indulging himself that way again. After buying the Alfa Romeo, he very generously let me drive it on a regular basis (the only one in the school!), and he almost never complained that the tank was always empty when we swapped.

I wasn't able to take a car to college (something I selfishly whined about way too much), but it led to one of the best discoveries of my life. Dad was often the one to drive me to and from Charlottesville for school breaks. On one occasion, he accompanied me to a Friday evening beer and music festival, and I had to leave him talking to my friends while I went to the restroom. I hurried, feeling guilty about leaving him on his own, and returned to find him talking easily with my friends. He hadn't been uncomfortable at all. He drove me back to Roanoke that night, sharing stories about his college days (taking the train to Manhattan from college at night and coming back in the morning, "borrowing" trays from the dining hall to go sledding), and I came to the startling and pleasant realization that if I'd known him in college, we might have been friends.

A realization that took much longer and didn't come in a flash was that we could be friends anyway. I admire his dedication to the things he considers important and share many of his interests (or at least appreciate his dedication). We share a love of wine and music and a dedication to our work. Like me, he likes to read (he gravitates toward Christian history books). He loves to sing, has a playful streak that often comes out as goofiness with his grandchildren, and has been a long-time dedicated servant to Windsor Hill United Methodist, his church home of nearly 40 years. He has a strong sense of civic duty, lending his talents to the county planning commission and creating recreational trails to improve the lives of his fellow Roanokers.

Like the best friends, he lets me when I ought to be doing things differently. (He shares this characteristic with my brother.) When I'm done being mad about my will being thwarted, I grudgingly become grateful because it's always for my own good. His advice is generally good, though often bolder and riskier than what makes me comfortable. (I try to remember his advice that doing what makes me uncomfortable expands my "comfort zone.")

I consider myself very lucky that my father is someone I like and admire, and I started writing this "living eulogy" a few months ago, for no better reason than that I was in a "writing mood." It seemed appropriate to finish it today, on the 66th anniversary of his birth, to show my love for him. Happy birthday, Dad!

Plus, I'm too late to send a card.

Cross-post from my Avon Walk for Breast Cancer page:

I’ve committed to participating in the Avon Walk for Breast Cancer in Charlotte, NC at the end of October. It’s a big commitment - a marathon and a half of walking in two days and a minimum donation commitment of $1800 - but it is a worthy cause.

I'm doing this for love.

Love fpr my family who've experienced the fear of being diagnosed with this disease and gone through sometimes painful, sometimes simply inconvenient, treatments. The survivors: my mother, my aunt who was recently diagnosed, my sister-in-law's mother. And the ones who lost the battle, particularly my paternal grandmother, whom I never met because treatment wasn't as advanced in the 1960s.

Love for my friend who underwent a double mastectomy and has become a valuable mentor for other people going through the experience.

Love for my friends who have struggled with fear and uncertainty after finding a mysterious lump.

Love for my sister-in-law Heather, who's agreed to walk this journey with me.

Love and hope for my niece, Emma, that breast cancer will be a less likely prospect in her thirties than it is in mine.

Love for all the people to whom I send this, both men and women, who have been affected by breast cancer without me even knowing it.

The money I raise will be used to provide access to care, fund educational programs, and accelerate research into new treatments and potential cures.

How You Can Help

Ask me about my training. I'll need all the motivation I can get to work up to the necessary distance. Your questions, concern, and interest are a powerful motivator! So is the embarrassment that would accompany having to confess having slacked off on training. :) So ask me about it.

You can also donate.

Thank you in advance!

Surprises in the CSA

It's hand-me-down CSA box time again!

CSA is community-supported agriculture and refers to a large set of programs that vary in the details but generally revolve around a household buying a subscription to a local farm. The farm puts together a box of produce every week, and depending on the farm, you have more or less control over what you get. With some programs you get what you get, with others you can add items to a "don't ever send" list or swap out one item for another each week.

I've been intrigued by the idea for a while but haven't ever pulled the trigger, partly because I enjoy the browsing at the local farmer's market so much.

My hand-me-down CSA box is gifted to me by a traveling coworker who's out of town yet again - lucky me! He knows I love cooking, and I've been fortunate enough to receive his produce while he's gone. I suspect he could just as easily cancel for the week, so I'm very grateful that he and his wife have chosen to share the bounty.

While he's out of town, his wife forwards me the announcement of the box contents. It's always exciting to see what they're planning to drop off and start searching for recipes to make the best use of the ingredients (epicurious.com, eatingwell.com). The best thing, however, is that they always include something that isn't on the list. A pot of cilantro to plant in the garden one week, green beans the next. It's unpredictable and fun (in the geeky way that I think cooking is fun)!

This week, I ended up with the anticipated potatoes, kale, Golden Delicious apples, and butternut squash, but I also received an eggplant and some kind of peppers.

Tonight: soup with pork, kale, tomatoes, and smoked paprika/red pepper/onion/garlic to season. Yum!

Days Seven through Nine: Bangkok Temples

The remaining two and a half days at the resort were fabulously relaxing and not at all productive (which was my goal!). I read almost non-stop, chatted with my new cooking friend L at the pool, roamed the beach, took photos and managed another visit to the spa before flying back to Bangkok.

I had two days in Bangkok before heading home. Saturday was "temple day." On my last visit, I didn't make it to Wat Arun, the Temple of the Dawn, so that was definitely on my list. The grounds of the temple were filled with schoolchildren, saffron-robed monks (who were somewhat incongruously carrying digital cameras), and tourists getting their pictures taken in the rented garb of traditional Thai dancers.

I climbed the incredibly steep sides of the temple, hauling myself up the 14-inch risers using the railing and dodging the tourists coming down the narrow Up stairs. From the temple's heights, I could see across the Chao Praya River to the Grand Palace, my favorite place in Bangkok. I could make out the tiled and gilded roofs, but I had to venture onto the river taxi and into the massive complex to see my favorite sights: the gold towers and painted giants, mirrored mosaics and golden statues, stone dogs and gilded murals.

The palace is incredibly ornate, in a style that anywhere else might seem tacky, but since it's Thailand, it's fabulous and exotic and wonderful. I spent hours absorbing the details.

As I was leaving the palace, I was ambushed by a schoolgirl who asked me a ton of personal questions in fractured English. She was observed by an older woman, probably her teacher. I sat down on the sidewalk with the girl and tried to communicate with simple sentences, sound effects, and hand gestures that I love Fourth of July because of the fireworks. Some schoolgirl in Thailand also knows my name and age, my father's name, that I don't have children, and my favorite color is red. I made sure to say I was from America because nobody in Thailand got it when I said "United States."

That night I listened to a jazz singer in the top-floor 360 degree lounge and started to think of home.

Day Six: Scheduled Activities (for real)

Today I really did have a schedule to keep. I woke at 6 again (well, really, I woke at 3:30 and forced myself to go to sleep again until 6), had breakfast, and then eagerly showed up at Moo's Kitchen for my cooking class. Unlike the last class, which was composed of couples from all over the world, with boyfriends/husbands who'd clearly been dragged in and didn't care about cooking, this class was composed of four women who were all native English-speakers and liked both cooking and Thai food.

We set off for the market, where we lingered, asking a billion questions of our chef, Su. She explained how to select the best pieces of fruit and how to prepare morning glory (saute' the greens with butter and garlic). She showed us how to flake coconut (I got to take a whirl at the giant spinning drill bit and escaped with all digits intact), how to press for coconut milk, and how to tell the fresh fish (clear eyes, not cloudy). We watched the catfish squirm when she touched them. We inspected the plate of salted cockroaches, ready for eating, but we all passed when offered a sample. Hot basil and sweet basil; longan; pineapple; all kinds of fish, prawns, and squid; coconuts; large bowls of curry paste; aubergines ranging from the familiar long and purple to green and pea-sized; beautiful pink dragonfruit...

Eventually we picked out the ingredients for class and headed back to the hotel to start cooking. Four dishes: seasonal salad (greens, mushrooms, baby corn, prawns), tom kha gai with a coconut milk base, pressed that day at the market. Minced pork with deep fried hot basil, and pad thai. The pad thai was like none I'd ever seen. We had to cook a “crepe" of egg - large, round, and thin. We piled the pad thai on, folded it up, and then used another plate to flip it so the folded ends were underneath. We cut an "X" on the new top and folded back the edges to reveal the pad thai, with the prawns on top. It looked beautiful.

One of the women in the class is the only other solo female traveler I've met here. She intended to come with her boyfriend to celebrate her 40th birthday, but things fell apart. She's here because she decided she wouldn’t let him ruin her vacation plans. We’ve been hanging out at the pool and are getting dolled up for the nice restaurant tomorrow night.

I over to my spa appointment for my scrub, wrap, and free 30 minute massage. They warned me at the beginning that some people are allergic. Although I'm allergic to almost nothing, I became paranoid and fretted over every tiny discomfort. After rubbing me with a salt scrub, they spread a seaweed wrap on me and folded me up in a human-sized piece of wax paper. They tucked the ends in at the bottom as if I were a giant burrito, then left me on a heated table. I relaxed for about 5 minutes after the masseuse left, then my nose started itching. My hands were wrapped at my sides, so there was no scratching. Especially since every move I made was amplified by the wax paper! "Endure, endure, endure," I thought, trying to stay strong until it was over.

Finally, the Thai woman returned and unwrapped me, and I was able to shower off all the seaweed. The final 30-minute massage was lovely and erased the memory of the previous discomfort (except for the parts I think were funny).

I signed up for another spa package, a facial and massage, on Friday morning, then headed home to sit on my balcony with the mosquito coil and type this up. Tired and satisfied, I headed off to sleep.

Day Five: Scheduled Activities (ha)

I awoke early, partly due to jetlag, partly due to my alarm, and partly due to one or more pesky mosquitoes. I had the brilliant idea last night of leaving my balcony door cracked for fresh air and to hear the billion frogs in the pond below my room. Despite the heavy drawn curtains, several mosquitos (or maybe just one) got in and buzzed around my head while I was trying to sleep. Since most of my body was covered by the sheet/comforter, they bit the only available surface, my face. :( I now have 4-5 attractive red spots on my face (fortunately not itchy).

The other consequence of leaving the door open was a dessicated leaf-looking thing on my floor the next morning, which on closer examination turned out to be a frog. I herded him out the door with the in-room dining menu before heading off to breakfast.

My intent was to wake early, eat breakfast, and go for a training walk on the beach. Ah, the best-laid plans... As I sat at breakfast, the heaven opened for another downpour, so I was “stuck.” I checked email, read my book, and eventually it cleared up around 10:30. I walked the beach as far as the airport (2 miles? 3 max) and turned around. Between the heat and the uneven surface, I felt like virtuous even though the walk wasn’t as far as my normal training walks.

Unfortunately, this trip isn't doing much for my training schedule. I asked my hotel about walking in Bangkok - there seemed to be a straight-shot route between one of the Skytrain stations and the Grand Palace/water taxi back to the hotel. The concierge strongly discouraged it, saying it was too far. I tried to explain that I was used to walking 10 miles or more on the weekends and distance wasn't an issue and asked if it was safe. At that point, it became an issue of navigation. It may look like a straight shot, but it didn't seem that way when you were on the streets, they explained, and I might end up in an area without English speakers. Frustrated, I headed out from the hotel determined to ignore their advice. Then I realized they were right..

Bangkok is not a pedestrian-friendly city. Every intersection involves multiple skyways and lots of stairs. I ended up headed in the wrong direction shortly after exiting the train section, did the equivalent of 20 minutes on the Stairmaster between searching for Jim Thompson's house, the right shade of eyeshadow, and the road to the Grand Palace. At that point, I forgave the concierge his insistence that I shouldn’t walk.

After my beach walk in Phuket, I spent an hour or so at the pool reading, then exited the resort and bought dinner at a tiny place on the beach. I came home exhausted from my taxing day (ha!) and fell asleep shortly after.

Day Four: Getting Reacquainted

Monday morning, I ate at the breakfast buffet, followed by reading in the beanbag chair again (no storm), then left for the airport. I flew an hour on a mostly empty plane to Phuket, a lovely island off the western coast of Thailand that is best known for being devastated by the Boxing Day tsunami in 2004.

In preparation for my trip, I watched "Tsunami: The Aftermath," an HBO miniseries based on the tsunami and its after-effects. The movie was a tear-jerker without going for cheap sentiment. Sophie Okonedo, who was fantastic in Hotel Rwanda, plays a woman whose daughter is lost in the wave. She struggles with anger at her husband for failing to protect the girl and then tries to claim another, probably orphaned, little girl. The other stories are told from the perspective of a photojournalist (Tim Roth), the British ambassador, and an aid worker (Toni Collette) trying to meet all the unfillable needs. A unknown Thai actor plays a resort employee who sees the big developers appropriate his village's land while the residents debate from the hills whether it's safe to return. The movie gave me a much better appreciation for the tragedy that struck here not that long ago.

You'd never guess it, to see this resort. The last time I was here (2007), things still looked like they rebuilding, but today, there's little evidence to be found. The resort is both lush and austere, a combination of massive tropical plants (some with leaves nearly as big as me) and concrete and metal structures, in homage to the area's history as a tin mine. The tin mine theme is carried out in the smallest details, from the nut-like ashtray on one of my two (!!) balconies, to the bolt-like toilet paper holder. The lucite tissue holder has screws embedded in the lid, and the hand towels and washcloths are presented on a stand shaped like another bolt. The bathroom floor is a smooth, cool cement.

Those of you who heard me talk about my accommodations before the trip may realize that I'm not in the room I planned. I originally booked the Plantation Villa, which was supposed to have a private courtyard in front with lounge chairs, an umbrella, and a bathtub. On the rear side of the bedroom, the web site showed an outdoor shower. It sounded like heaven.

When I arrived, however, the previous guest hadn't checked out, so I sat in the lobby, sipping a ginger drink and reading Atlas Shrugged. (I finished American Pastoral.) Eventually they offered me an upgraded room as an apology for the wait, but I had my heart set on that outdoor shower. Still, an upgrade is an upgrade, so I asked to see both before I made my decision. Wise choice.

The Plantation Villa was not what I expected. With lush vegetation all around, there was no sun to be had in the courtyard and the courtyard was open on one side to a pond in which the resort’s nicest restaurant is situated. Not the site for private sunbathing that I’d envisioned. The shower was indoors, and the bathtub, while it was outside, was in the back, enclosed and breezeless. I asked to see the other room.

The door to the other room opens into the bedroom, with a king size bed set at an angle, and a seating area that opens onto a balcony with a daybed, two chairs, and a table. One wall is completely mirrored, which makes the already large set of rooms look palatial. To the left is a broad doorway that opens into the bathroom, which is fully as large as the bedroom: a large, cement-floored shower with a glass wall on one side and open on another. A counter that stretches almost the length of the room, with two sinks. A toilet in a private room beyond the shower. Best of all, a large claw-foot bathtub in front of a glass door to the second balcony. I accepted that room immediately.

My first day at the resort consisted of an hour or two sitting at my favorite pool and taking lots of pictures of my room. I roamed the resort and discovered that I missed out on a lot the first time I was here.

Rebar was one of the "new" discoveries, where I had dinner that night. It's a second-story bar with rough-hewn plank floors, tons of wood-framed glass windows that can be pivoted based on the weather, big leather chairs, trace/club music, and views overlooking a garden area on one side. I ordered calamari and salmon sashimi for dinner, both of which were excellent. I consider myself somewhat of a salmon sushi aficionado, and this was on par with the salmon I've had anywhere - tender, good flavor, yum.


Halfway through dinner, there was a massive downpour. I could hear the raining hitting the roof and could see it out the garden side, but I was snug and comfortable in my big leather chair, with my book and my glass of wine. I read until the rain let up, then went home and tucked myself into bed.

Not a bad first day.

Day Three: You Can't Go Back

I woke extra early, hoping to beat the August heat, and undoubtedly a victim of jetlag. I descended 28 floors to the breakfast buffet, eagerly anticipating the breakfast soup station from my last visit - choose your noodles, wait for the noodle master to cook them in broth, then add your condiments - fried garlic bits, green onions, tofu, etc. But there was no soup station. The rest of the buffet was good, but I'd been so looking forward to the soup...

I had also been looking forward to some shopping in the Narita (Tokyo) Airport the day before. I have almost finished both compacts of my favorite eyeshadow, which I've unsuccessfully tried to replicate with both drug- and department store brands. However, Shiseido apparently doesn't make my favorite colors anymore. After visiting four duty-frees in the airport and a Shiseido store in a Bangkok mall (a mall!!), I gave up.

I've realized that one advantage of traveling to unfamiliar places is that you have few expectations that won't be met.

I planned to go to the Chatuchak weekend market that Sunday. Since it didn't open until 10, I had a few hours to kill after my 6AM breakfast. I headed up to the 4th floor pool - a hotel employee told me that they'd added sand and palm trees, and that sounded like something to see! The place was deserted at 6:30 in the morning except for a lone dedicated hotel employee sweeping the floor, and the views over the river were stunning.

I love the pool setup. The "beach" is to the left as you walk in and is faced on one side by pairs of lounge chairs separated by walls of greenery and by cushioned platforms on the other. If you walk straight ahead toward the river, you reach the infinity pool: a lap area on the hotel side and then a semicircle of lounge chairs facing the river. The lounge chairs are all sunk into about 4 inches of water, and there's a beautiful jasmine tree in the center of the pool. Since there was rain coming down (it's rainy season in Thailand), I stayed under cover and settled myself into a surprisingly comfortable beanbag chair with American Pastoral.

The rain came down harder and harder, the wind picked up, and I wrapped up in pool towels to protect myself from the downpour. I read for about 2 hours before heading out for the Skytrain and the market.

My favorite thing about the Skytrain: signs requesting that you give up your seat for monks. Second favorite thing about the Skytrain: it's efficient and easy to navigate.

I wandered the Chatuchak Market for several hours, getting progressively hotter, sweatier, and grumpier. I found the gifts I wanted, lusted over some gorgeous oragami-type lamps that I wouldn't know how to get home, and tried unsuccessfully to work up the courage to enter one of the very busy and very Thai restaurants. By mid-afternoon, I was not only hot, wet, and grumpy, but my back and feet hurt. I'd been accosted by people who made a pretense of being helpful and then tried to persuade me to go to a store even though I told them I was trying to find a local museum. I was longing for a bit of familarity and something that wasn't a challenge, and I did the unthinkable:

I ate my first dinner in Thiland at the Outback Steakhouse.

I've never understood people who traveled all the way around the world to do something they could easily do at home. But that day, I understood the draw of the McDonald's, the Starbucks, and the Outback Steakhouse.

In my defense, I've been craving a steak and baked potato for several weeks, but really I just longed for someplace that looked familiar, where I'd recognize things on the menu, and I could be pretty sure the waiter/waitress would be fluent in English. It succeeded on all counts, and I did order a Thai beer to go with the steak.

Thai food and the islands tomorrow.

Days One and Two: One Night in Bangkok

Finally, vacation!

After reaching the front of the international economy line at Dulles, the airline employee informed me that I could use my Premier Executive status to use a shorter line and wait in the Red Carpet Club. Now that's useful knowledge! The club was right next to my gate, so I edged in, feeling like an imposter, and spent the next 20 minutes alternately arguing with family members on the phone and drowning my stress in free mimosas. Well, one free mimosa. Still, cheers for the Red Carpet Club.

Twenty-four hours of traveling later, including the International Date Line, I arrived in Bangkok late Saturday night. My decision to get an airport transfer was a wise one - it's wonderful to have someone waiting for you at the airport, even if it's not anybody you know. The driver made some small talk and then fell silent. For a while I just relaxed in the back seat, but then traffic backed up (at 11PM!) and we saw several trucks that seemed to be dragging flaming iron grids. I asked the driver what that was, and there was dead silence. I waited a few moments, thinking he'd answer or ask me to repeat myself. The silence stretched thinner and thinner as I slowly realized that he wasn't going to acknowledge the question at all. We sat in dead silence until we reached the hotel.

After a full day traveling in economy, my hotel room felt like heaven. A king-size bed, a view of the Chao Praya River, a plate of mango, a Singha, and a great big bathtub to wash off the travel grime. Finally, I stretched out completely flat and fell into a deep sleep.

Welcome to Bangkok.

Free Time

I remember a time in what feels like the distant past when I had a good amount of free time. I took leisurely lunches and chatted in the kitchen with coworkers; I stayed in good contact with my friends. I spent mornings either exercising or roaming the neighborhood with my camera. I played trivia in the evenings or went out to dinner or worked on a present for my nephew's quickly-approaching first birthday. I've always reveled in unstructured time and found enjoyable ways to fill it.

Lately I haven't had much free time. A large part of this is by choice. I signed up for the Avon Walk for Breast Cancer, committing to multiple-hour training walks every weekend day between June and October. I've followed my normal annual policy of scheduling multiple different birthday celebrations with different groups of friends in an admittedly narcissistic tribute to myself. I happily accepted a friend's produce delivery while he's out of town, which means I'm cooking more than normal. These are all good things! And then there's work.

Now I have a big chunk of free time approaching, and I'm a little anxious about the adjustment. How easily can I go from 100 mph to 5 mph for over a week? Will I revel in it? Will I get bored? Will I have deep thoughts? Will I start blogging regularly?

T-4 days and counting.

Green Smells

I've come to the realization that I like green smells:

• mint
• eucalyptus
• lime
• basil
• pine/juniper
• cut grass

Pink, purple, other colored smells aren't nearly as appealing.

Why I Don't Write

I've been feeling a little guilty about neglecting my blog for the past few months. I have a million excuses:

• Insecurity - Who cares about my walking program, my excitement over cooking healthy with fresh produce from the local farmers' markets, my upcoming vacation (yet another vacation!)?
• Laziness - I've been seduced by the social networking option of throwing out a single thought with no deep analysis. No need to develop a thesis - write 140 characters and see if anyone comments!
• Narcissism - I need to have an imaginary audience when I write, and that audience has been tough to conjure lately.
• Intimidation - I have some friends who are great blog writers and seem to be able to effortlessly toss off a meaningful blog post almost daily. Reading them makes me wonder who can keep up!
  

However, I've been thinking about getting back to the blog, perhaps because anything seems more appealing than my current work deadlines. I keep telling myself that it doesn't have to be meaningful. Topics like "Embracing Your Inner Geek" are worth exploring!

I'm approaching the end of a release and hope to resume the blog postings then, if not before. I think most of my three loyal readers know what's going on in my life, but I like the thought of the blog as historical record, and the historical record currently has a big gap.

To good intentions...

Sonic Boom

Earthquakes were everywhere earlier this month: the tragedy in Italy, an earthquake shortly after in Anchorage, and friends who heard a "sonic boom" in Orange County on the same day as the Alaska earthquake.

Before all this happened, I picked up a book that's been sitting on my shelf for months, A Crack in the Edge of the World: America and the Great California Earthquake of 1906 by Simon Winchester. Much of the story is grim. There's a ripple effect where geological disturbance in one area is often followed by geological disturbance in another, and the human toll can be devastating. He presented dire evidence of escalating seismic tension in Yellowstone, which is theoretically due for a massive blow-out.

Naturally, tourists have flocked to Yellowstone in even greater droves since those scientific findings hit the press. We have a morbid fascination with disasters, to the point that we're sometimes willing to flirt with them ourselves. We've all rubbernecked at car wrecks and watched countless hours of 9/11 footage, and I'm sure I'm not the only one who would be tempted to peek out of the storm cellar to see a tornado. One of the minor disappointments of my years in California was that I didn't experience (or notice) an earthquake.

I was very proud, therefore, to experience an earthquake almost a year ago here in my non-earthquake-prone home, far from the San Andreas Fault. During a period of strange working hours, I was "working from home" and napping mid-day when I was suddenly roused by a loud noise. I leapt up, heart hammering, thinking a truck had run into the brick wall of my house, and ran outside. Nothing. No truck, no damage, no more noise.

I put it out of my mind until later than day when a friend told me there were rumors of a minor earthquake in my area. The timing fit, but my friend was skeptical when I said I'd felt such a small earthquake. But why else would I wake up? What was the noise I heard? I've been indignant about his skepticism for months now, and am always satisfied to gather more support for my earthquake experience. Winchester reported that people far away from the massive 1906 San Francisco earthquake heard loud noises similar to what I heard, and I don't think the "sonic boom" in Orange County shortly after an Alaska earthquake was a coincidence. In addition, the U.S. Geological Survey web site displayed reports of earthquake experiences from other people in my area that day.

So there, Skeptic!

God on YouTube

The Washington, DC Catholic church has started advertising on YouTube, trying to "reach people where they are" and convince them to come back to church.

Advertising and religion seem like strange bedfellows to me, but I can understand why the Catholic Church might see it as a necessity. According to a recent article I read, about 10 percent of American adults describe themselves as ex-Catholics. The article also claimed that if Ex-Catholicism were its own religion, it would be one of the nation's largest religious groups.

Apparently, ex-Catholics have become a target market for growing (Protestant) churches, and there's a small industry developing around people seeking the right church. I recently came across a site for "secret shoppers" where undercover agents rate churches on their message, service, friendliness toward newcomers, and a variety of other aspects. I don't recall reading anything about the quality of the coffee afterward, but I wouldn't be surprised!

Exploring the Neighborhood

I love working from home. Now that it's spring and starting to feel like it, I can throw the windows open and enjoy the fresh air. I can make the interminable and innumerable conference calls pleasant by either making the kitchen counters spotless or by standing on my deck with the cordless phone and catching some rays.

There's a downside - it's much harder to make the separation between work and the rest of life when you don't have that commuting boundary. But that same blending of work and everything else occasionally works in the other direction too.

Tuesdays are usually a little rough: an 11PM meeting Monday night and then a 7AM meeting Tuesday morning. By lunch this Tuesday, I needed a break, so I laced up the walking shoes and headed out with my iPod and camera.

Walking around on foot and in the daytime, I get a very different view of my neighborhood than I do whizzing past in my car. The man with a stroller in the nearby gardens. The woman grading papers on a park bench. The women volunteering their time to plant and protect seedlings. The couple having coffee. And my favorite, the guy promoting his new pizza restaurant by tossing pizza crust in the parking lot.

As I wander, I imagine these people's lives. What would it be like to have important things to do out and about in the world (instead of in an office) during daylight hours? What would it be like to have nothing particularly important to do during daylight hours? What would it be like to live in the cute little house surrounded by parklands, with big windows upstairs and a little red grill tucked onto the patio in the back?

I may not be able to answer most of those questions, but my pizza dinner that night was amazing.

Be a New Orleanian

Sometimes I feel very sheltered in my professional 9-to-5 (or -8!) world. I spend most of my day talking to people in my industry, many of them white Americans, and because I like them, I often socialize with them in the evenings.

This little world feels constricting at times, which is probably why I so frequently grab my passport and head abroad. I thrive on the differences between "there" and "here." (Aside: My recently-conceived definition of an "ugly American" is someone who leaves home and wants everything to be the same somewhere else. What a waste of time, money, and passport ink!)

I was recently reminded that you don't need a passport to find something new. In New Orleans, I was humbled and inspired by our hostess. She spoke easily of her friend the crack-addicted, call-girl-frequenting oil rig worker-cum-bouncer who lived with them for a while and took their dog on daily jaunts throughout the French Quarter. She told us about her bridesmaid, a woman who couldn't finish high school because of drugs and family issues but now owns a successful bar just off Bourbon Street. Our hostess had us in stitches reflecting on how she saw herself in an Ann Taylor-wearing, brunette transvestite with a similar name. She has the gift of acknowledging people's differences without sounding mean-spirited or judgmental.

This openness and easy acceptance of people and their foibles, regardless of profession, race, age, or education, seemed to be typical of the people we met in New Orleans. They say love is blind, but maybe what's really true is that it has its eyes wide open and accepts all traits in a person, not just the positive ones.

Although the stickers and T-shirts were created for a different purpose, I'm inspired to be more accepting, less judgmental, and just plain kinder when I see the motto, "Be a New Orleanian...wherever you are."

Rest

Every morning I swear I'm going to get more sleep, and yet here I am at 1 AM.

I have even more incentive to go to bed than normal. The bed I've been talking about about for 3 years arrived this afternoon. (I always seem to mull over large purchases for a year or more before surprising everyone who's bored by the topic and actually doing it.) I've added fresh sheets, not quite as warm as flannel but as soft... Soon I'll crawl in and pull the sheets up to my chin and drift off into blessed sleep.

In the meantime, I'm keyed up over things that can't or won't be addressed tonight. I need to let it go for a few hours.

P.S. Yes, I do realize that I've already dropped my picture-a-day effort.

St. Patrick's Day Parade, Part II

St. Patrick's Day last week was anticlimactic, since we'd already celebrated the holiday several times by Tuesday. We celebrated for the second time on Saturday (the 14th), the day the Irish Channel parade petered out around our friends' house.

We woke early(-ish) and trekked off to a stranger's house for breakfast burritos. We sat in a darkened, candle-lit living room under a chandelier hung with green garters and white lace panties with shamrocks and tried to make ourselves heard over the snuffling of the host's dog (how do they sleep at night?). The bits and pieces I could hear were odd: "prison rodeo," "inmates compete," "poker chip glued to a bull's forehead," "surely the infirmary is preferable," ...

All the while, the rain came down. On the way home, I stripped off my shoes and rolled my pants. My attention was split between watching for stones on the sidewalk and observing the beginnings of the day's festivities, and I narrowly avoided stepping on a crawfish that had escaped a local barbeque and was making a run for the storm gutter.

The rain tapered off, and far off, the parade started. By the time it looped around to our vantage point, the paraders were drunk, tired, wet, and running out of tchotkes, but we still made out ok. I got enough beads that my neck felt the strain. Green garters, a beer in a green plastic bottle, a felt hat shaped like a beer mug, a stuffed frog, plastic cups,a bag, several cabbages (green and purple), and my favorite, a hot pickle in a plastic pouch.

They do know how to celebrate in New Orleans!

Lost Things

This weekend I lost a St. Patrick's Day earring and a comfortable illusion. Tonight, however, I'm reminded that there are much worse things to lose. Your life, like the soldiers I wrote about earlier. Or your son, as in The Changeling.

If you haven't seen it, The Changeling is the story of a mother whose kidnapped son is returned by the police many months later. The mother insists from the start that the boy is not her son, but the police, under intense media pressure, insist that they've solved the case. I haven't seen the rest and wouldn't want to spoil the ending, but the premise is heartbreaking.

Not as heartbreaking, however, as the story I heard recently on "This American Life" on NPR. Bobby Dunbar was another small boy who disappeared (in 1912) and was later "found" in the company of a drifter. Media reports of his reunion with the Dunbars varied. The article quotes were well-chosen for effect - the ones where the parents immediately recognized the child read like puff pieces, whereas the serious, news-like articles represented the parents' hesitation.

Tragically, another woman, Julia Anderson, stepped forward to claim the child. An unwed mother with several children by several fathers and without strong moral standing in the community, she lost her court case, and the boy was raised by the Dunbars. Imagine the agony of knowing where your kidnapped son is and not being able to take him home.

The tragedy is still echoing almost a century later. A Dunbar descendant found the old articles and began doing her own research. Against her family's wishes, she conducted DNA tests on her father and his putative cousin that proved Bobby Dunbar wasn't a Dunbar (and probably was Julia Anderson's son). Much of her family has disowned her.

Comparatively, I can't complain.

The Beltway Denuded

The original title for this post was "The Rape of the Beltway," but that seemed too strong. Not by much, though.

One of the things I've always loved about my area is how green it is. I've spent a fair amount of time looking out the window while flying into major airports, and my home airport is one of the "greenest." Instead of houses or strip malls or cloverleafs (a punny nod to St. Patrick's Day week), I'd see thousands of trees.

Now there's a massive road construction project under way to widen the roads and build toll lanes. This project involves massive clear-cutting. I cry for the trees and the environment, and I keep feeling lost in the changed landscape. Supposedly this will benefit us all in the long run, but at what cost?

Thank You

The local NPR station did a piece today on the people who meet the bodies of returning soldiers and carry them off the plane at Dover. Memorable comments included quotes about the respect inherent in remaining visibly emotionless, the power of the moment in which the soldier is returned to American soil, and the weight discrepancy between the caskets ("transfer cases") that contain entire bodies and those that don't. One man talked about knowing that a fellow Marine, a fallen Marine, would not be upset about his fate.

I cannot imagine joining the armed forces or accepting the possibility of death in the course of a day's work, but that makes me appreciate the sacrifice so much more. Sometimes understanding is unnecessary.

Thank you to all our servicemen and -women.

St. Patrick's Day Parade, Part I

I watched a St. Patrick's Day parade last night in the company of old friends and new. Two girlfriends and I are in New Orleans for a long weekend of food, talk, lots of walking, and St. Patrick's Day. We're staying with two long-time residents, friends of my friend, fitting into their lives and schedules as if I'd known them for years as well.

We arrived at a small bar just off Bourbon Street, all dressed in kelly green, and mingled with the regulars standing on the street. New Orleans doesn't have open container laws like most places, and there were shamrock-shaped tabletops bolted to the tops of the old horse hitching posts in front of the bar.

There was A.S., a New Orleans cop who retired 13 years ago. He shared the story of arresting the mayor's girlfriend for failure to adhere to the laws about displaying merchandise on Bourbon Street. He was very proud that the chief of police backed him up and that law and order triumphed over political maneuverings on that occasion. He built the bar inside and the shamrock tabletops.

There was H., the subject of several posts on a friend's blog, an oil rig worker, bouncer at a goth bar, crack addict, and dog walker extraordinaire.

There was A.N., the woman wearing the exact same dress as me. "We can't stand anywhere near her," I whispered to my friends. Shortly after, I was sucked into the openness and friendliness that is New Orleans near St. Patrick's Day (and maybe year-round). "Nice dress," I told her. We started to bond over the good deal we'd both gotten on the dress, then "Angie!!" I hear from my friend. It turns out she's someone we'd been talking about at lunch, a friend of our hostess. We ended up having pictures taken together in our matching dresses.

We talked. We drank. Best of all, we people-watched.

My favorite moment was when a drunk woman leapt atop one of the hitching posts and then launched herself onto a light post, dangling for a moment and then dropping to watch her boyfriend's clumsy attempts to do the same in the fading light. We watched with bated breath, expecting disaster at any moment. "Nothing good happens after 2AM," stated the drunk girl next to us, also waiting for someone to get impaled. "What time is it?" 6:54PM, honey. Time for you to go home.

And time for us to go home too, almost. But not until after the parade. Horse-drawn carriages with revelers throwing beads, people in large green hats, musicians with brass instruments and drums, and more men in kilts than I'd ever seen handing out fake roses in exchange for a kiss on the cheek. We all collected beads without having to "pay" for them, then, tired and happy and finally understanding the appeal of New Orleans, we headed home.

Missing the Deadline

Considering the time of day and the fact that I need to pack for a trip, it's looking less and less likely that I'm going to take/post a photo tonight.

I spent almost the entire day working on export documents for our legal department. How would you illustrate that anyway?

Although I haven't taken any pictures, I have spent plenty of time thinking about photography today. We've formed a coterie of would-be photographers at work who exchange tips in the hallway about things like step-down filters, 430EX vs. 580EX flashes, and remote shutter activation. A few of us enrolled in a composition seminar in a few weeks. Perhaps you'll see improvement in May's postings!

Good Books and Bad: An Update on The List

It's been a while since I've posted an update on my efforts on The List. I'm not making a concerted effort anymore to read books that other people think I "should have" read, but I do try to throw one in to the mix every now and then. On the original list, I've improved my score from 9 to 32 of the "best" novels ever. My best score (69 out of 100) is currently on the list with admittedly less caché than the Modern Library.

My recent favorites from The List have been surprising. Ayn Rand's The Fountainhead was much better than I'd been led to expect by fellow college students who were forced to read it for literature classes. The starkly beautiful descriptions of the modernist buildings that Howard Roark poured his soul into, his strict code of unconventional ethics, and his antagonistic but passionate love affair...they all captivated me, and I was sorry to see the novel end after 800+ pages.

The other book that fascinated me was Things Fall Apart by Chinua Achebe. Although I've read several novels set in Africa, they've been written by American or European authors as an outsider looking in. This novel is written by a Nigerian, which leads to wonderful perspective shift as the author touches on gender and familial relationships, Nigerian folk tales, power dynamics, and religion. Everything seems completely natural and foreign at the same time.

The Washington Post recently carried a review of a book that will probably not go on my "must read" list. I followed the link from an acquaintance, who thought it sounded fascinating. And the plot was - it's the true story of an 18th century heiress who was tricked into marrying someone who then beat and abused her. She did the unthinkable (for the times) and divorced him.

Initially I was gripped by the drama described in the review, but I soon became distracted by the number of quotes used in the review to describe the plot and the characters. Maybe the reviewer was poking subtle fun at the author by including these trite-sounding phrases. Here's a sample paragraph from the review:

The fabulously wealthy 27-year-old widow was so moved by this act of gallantry that she rushed to the wounded soldier's bedside. Full of emotion, she acquiesced in "her dying hero's request: to marry him before he expired." After all, "what harm could possibly ensue from marrying a poor dying soldier who would shortly make her a widow again?" So married they were two days later, in St. James's Church, Piccadilly, with Stoney being carried in on his "makeshift bed." Mary, who had spent the night before "naked and alone" with her lover George Gray, was startled to note that once the vows were spoken, Stoney made a "rapid recovery" and appeared at the "jubilant levee in his lodgings the following morning" in "a new scarlet uniform."

As I continued to read, however, I began to suspect that the reviewer (I'm deliberately not using his name - look it up if you want) was relying on the quotes to avoid doing his own writing. The clincher was when I read this (by the reviewer, not the author): "His real name, though, was Satan. He was a monster." I don't expect to buy books by either writer.

Knowing that I intended to write about books today, I pulled out the macro filters, my tripod, and both my OED and Webster's for the first photo. I used them again on my way out the door, on one of the white crocuses that popped up the other day. With the macro filters, there's really not much in the picture that ends up on focus. Using "focus stacking," I could increase the depth of field to show more parts in focus, but I don't have the right software for that. Maybe someday.

Reflections

I love the brilliant colors of this candy machine in my mechanic's waiting room! They have a nice setup - free waters and sodas (even apple cider on good days), internet, and Andy at the desk who kept offering to send a few big mechanics to sit on either side of me to warm me up now that the temperature has plummeted again. (It sounds sleazy, but it wasn't.) This is the same guy who gave me advice recently when I called from the road, worried that the lack of power to my cigarette lighter meant my car was about to putter to a halt by the side of the road. (It was just a blown fuse, easily fixed the next day by my dad.)

My car inspection was the social highlight of my day, which started with a 6AM call that was rescheduled to 7AM and ended with another meeting at 11PM. Who decided this globalization stuff was a good idea? Clearly someone who thrives on four hours of sleep a night.

Despite the busy day, I still managed to take few photos. I was frustrated by the reflections in the first one and started puzzling over the solution. A circular polarizing filter (sitting in the bag at home)? Photoshop?

Since I don't have an extra couple hundred dollars to go back to the mechanic anytime soon, I snapped another reflection photo that I can more easily reproduce at the later date with the filter.

At first this was intended as just another reflection photo, but then I read the poster. An Indian/Asian grocery store's going in near my house! Hopefully it will be a good substitute for my dearly departed Whole Foods!

Daylight Savings

It was pitch black when I woke up this morning, thanks to Daylight Savings Time. I'm looking forward to this evening, when perhaps there will still be some light on my drive home (which will hopefully be top down, if this morning was any indication!).

When I walked out the door, I saw that a bunch of white crocuses are coming out. Amazing the difference just 24 hours makes! I decided to make them the subject of today's photo, but it was tough since it was still dark out. The tripod wasn't much use at 2 inches from the ground, so I decided to try for a deliberately blurry, artsy look.

If I'd had more time, I'd try to redo it without the sidewalk in the background, but...

Project 365

I always intend to post to this blog more often, but it's often hard to find the time, the motivation, and something "worth saying" (my biggest hurdle!). I got new inspiration today that addresses at least the second concern.

I attended part of a nature photography expo hosted by local photography clubs. I couldn't imagine devoting Friday evening through late Sunday afternoon to the same activity, but in retrospect, I should have.

The lectures left me wanting to run out and put new principles into practice, but there were barely 30 minutes between lectures, not much time to wander the gardens where the expo was hosted. And there were so many other things to do! I left a trail of drool through the vendor exhibits - macro lenses! sharpening software! exotic tours led by professional photographers! I spent an hour analyzing the members' exhibit, trying to figure out what made each photo work. Although I was tempted to buy several stunning shots, I was equally motivated to try to recreate them.

It was a packed day, but I still wanted more! Surfing the web after I came home, I found something called Project 365. The idea is to take and post one photo per day for a year. Members of the group on Flickr provide each other with positive feedback, encouragement, and ideas for the next day's subject.

I don't have the discipline to do this for an entire year, but I'd like to try it for a bit to see how the blog and photos will inspire one another. If nothing else, I'll have a brief record of my daily life for a week or so. (Perhaps you should prepare yourself now for a lot of office shots.) Today's first shot is a patch of snowdrops from the grounds of the gardens that hosted the photo expo. The second photo is from my yard, the first crocuses poking up to say hello to the recent warm weather.

Man on Wire, redux

Man on Wire is one of those movies that has stuck with me long after watching (see my previous post). The movie and its principal character, Philippe Petit, crop up everywhere. I heard Petit a few weeks ago as a guest on a segment of NPR's quiz show, "Wait Wait...Don't Tell Me!" This morning I heard him in an interview (I even recognized his voice) about his wire-walking. He calls his wire-walking "writing in the sky" and compares it to poetry.

His last big stunt was between two building in NYC for the David Letterman show in 2002. Asked whether he (at the age of 60 now) had retired, he said he'd stop walking in the air when he was no longer able to walk on the ground. 2009 minus 2002... Hmm.

Apparently I'm not the only one who finds herself fascinated by this brash, arrogant, irrepressible man. His film was awarded Best Documentary by the Academy a few weeks ago.

Standards of Service

Recently, I received services from someone who did a decidedly substandard job. He was rude and acted like he was doing us a big favor by performing his basic job functions. He neglected us and refused to meet our basic biological needs. Nevertheless, I tipped slightly over the recommended amount. My friend, equally annoyed, topped my tip by 30%.

This friend consistently tips more than I do, making me feel cheap even when I tip well according to American standards. I've never talked to her about it, but perhaps her philosophy is that she has it and they probably need it, so why not be generous?

That makes the money a charity rather than a tip, in my mind. (Note: This is not intended as a criticism of said friend.) My philosophy is that a tip is a "thank you" for a service provided. I start with what I think is a healthy tip for an adequate job and then adjust based on whether the person added or detracted from my experience.

I reward effort: musicians, jugglers, the "bushman" at Fisherman's Wharf. A recent friendly waitress ("waitron" in South Africa) approached a friend and me outside the restaurant, answered questions about the menu, and then proceeded to do everything in her power to make our dining experience a pleasant one. She went above and beyond, so not only did we give her a generous tip, but we sang her praises to the manager before we left. It was without a doubt the best dining experience of my month-long vacation. That's effort that should be rewarded.

My acts of charity are less ambiguous. I donate to organizations, or I donate my time. I liked the attitude of a recent tour guide. Confronted by several beggar boys at a petrol stop, he refused to hand out change. "Next time I come through, you wash my windows or carry groceries, and I'll pay you." His rationale was that if he gave them money for nothing, what's their incentive to ever do more than panhandle?

Reading for Sport

"I am not the sort of man who goes to prostitutes."

So begins The Partisan's Daughter by Louis de Bernières, an unlikely and surprisingly chaste (so far) love story of a middle-aged married man and a young woman he mistakes for a prostitute. I'm enchanted so far. The book is provoking thought, and I'm only on page 24.

I should not be surprised. I was also entranced by other de Bernières book I read shortly after returning from Turkey, Birds Without Wings. My 2+-year old memories are of the story of a mixed Turkish-Greek community during WWI; neighborhood dramas and gentle religious conflict deteriorate into tragedy when the government decides to relocate half the community based on ethnic lines.

Aside: De Bernières also wrote Corelli's Mandolin, which I was reluctant to read (based on my opinion of the movie) until I read his reaction to the movie: "It would be impossible for a parent to be happy about its baby's ears being put on backwards."

Sadly, there are apparently very few Turks who will read any of de Bernières' books. I heard on NPR World tonight that although 88% of Turks are literate, fewer than 1% regularly read. Reasons for this (as presented in the NPR segment) were grim: Turks are "culturally lazy" and prefer other activities to reading, books are too expensive, and the Turkish publishing industry is "unprofessional."

The Ministry of Education has taken on this deficiency as a project. Mosques preach the value of reading (an interesting collaboration between the government and dominant religious institution for a country that's nominally secular). Coffee shops and other gathering places are offering free books, but the books they offer are by Dostoevsky, Tolstoy, Goethe, and Pamuk (a Turkish Nobel winner), none of whom are an easy starting place for people not accustomed to reading for enjoyment.

This is in striking contrast to the U.S., where reading has been elevated to the status of sport with The Morning News' Tournament of Books. Starting in March, sixteen books will face off in brackets, with the winners of each round determined by a panel of reviewers. To keep it interesting, the rules include a provision to bring the readers' favorite back into the running in the fourth round.

My friends have good taste in books. One recommended the tournament to me, and two others gave me contenders for Christmas. I'm not sure I'll make it through all sixteen by March, but I'm sure I'll enjoy trying.

Disclaimers: I may have botched the details of the NPR broadcast since I don't have access to a recording. The de Bernières quote is from Wikipedia, but there wasn't a citation. Also, I am pretty sure that Goethe should have an umlaut (Goëthe) but was not able to find it spelled that way online, so maybe not.

Africa 2008 and 2009 Photobook

View Project at Shutterfly

Almost Done

Over the past two and a half weeks, I've spent days (literally) with the photographic memories of my trip.

I've downloaded all of them to my computer, deleted duplicates, deleted blurry or boring or tilted shots, and classified them into categories from A to Z: airports, birds, camps and Chobe, downtown Cape Town to Twyfelfontein, warthogs, wildebeest, zebras, and Zambia.

The next step was separating the good from the mediocre. Topic by topic, location by location, theme by theme, I uploaded them for my memory book. Occasionally I dipped into the mediocre pictures to tell the right story, and I requested permission to use a few pictures from other people.

I decided which photos could stand alone and which ones would make good collages. I cropped and labeled and wrote descriptions. I spent hours researching bird and antelope names that I could no longer remember. I made the font sizes consistent throughout the book and double-checked my spelling.

The whole exercise has been a great way to relive the trip. I miss the daily variety, the sights and the people, having time to read every day, the hot weather, hiking, and exercising my photographic skills. It has also lent some structure to a month's worth of jumbled memories. Almost as important, it's given me an answer to "How was Africa?"

But now the book is almost complete, the emails with the group are slowing down, and work is picking up. I'm left trying to figure out how to keep the trip alive just a little longer.

I'm Back!

Back after a month of traveling, pitching tents, wearing short sleeves, being surrounded by people 24x7. Back after a month without high heels, the gremlin, or driving. Back after a month of wearing shoes to the shower and carrying toilet paper and a trowel everywhere I go.

I've come home to cold weather and financial cut-backs at work. More importantly, I've come home to a city hopeful about the next four years, to friends and family, and to fast internet connections. It's good to be home.

The Best New Year's Eve Ever

New Year's Eve carries a lot of pressure and fuss. You need the perfect dress, with comfortable but sexy shoes. You need a "good" party to attend. You need the perfect date to kiss at midnight. It needs to be the New Year's Eve to top all New Year's Eves.

I hate it.

This year was different. I wore sandals and dirty clothes that may have smelled a little as my "clean" (clean being a relative term) clothes dried on a line strung between tents. In place of glitzy cocktails in the early part of the evening, I drank wine from a tin cup, served impeccably by a Frenchman who clearly took great pride in serving wine. I had 9 dates, 8 of whom had morphed from strangers into friends over the course of the past 10 days. We expressed awe over the lion, the rhino, and the parade of elephants we'd seen earlier that day.

In place of Dick Clark (no, Ryan Seacrest now, right?), we watched the waterhole. First a mother and child rhinoceros, then three skittish giraffes who took turns carefully maneuvering into a drinking position (rather like a girl trying not to splash her clothes in the wilderness - too much information?). The giraffes left shortly before midnight, and we headed back to our campsite, toasting each other along the way.

How will I top this next year?

Christmas in Namibia

Christmas Day challenged my traditional notions of Christmas. No evergreen tree with lights, no family, not even a hint of chill in the hot Namibian summer.

Instead, I spent sunrise at the top of a sand dune with other tourists wearing Santa hats and ate breakfast in a parking lot. I received Christmas gifts from a good friend, wrapped in a brown paper bag. Along with the rest of the tour members, I received a clip-on koala from a new friend. Over the next few days, those koalas ended up on shirts, backpacks, noses, and our tour vehicle's windshield wipers.

We decorated our tents with balloons inked with Christmas trees and warm messages. In place of a Christmas tree and ornaments, we saw trees festooned with weaver bird nests. Windblown red desert sand covered everything instead of a sprinkling of snow.

I hiked through the desert drinking lukewarm water instead of my grandfather's lethal Christmas punch. I shook fistfuls of sand from my hiking boots instead of wearing big fuzzy slippers. I listened to Christmas carols from a pocket-sized music box instead of singing in church just before midnight. Our Christmas dinner was cooked over a camp stove, and new friends bonded over boxed wine with stories of their traditions at home.

It was a very different Christmas, but it was good.

More Info Available

I decided to try out a new blog site for my current trip; the site has maps and some other travel-specific features. Internet access is patchy here, but if you're interested in seeing what I write when I'm able, go to http://www.travelpod.com/members/ceedubbva.