Category Archives: travel

Roommate Roulette

books, etc., funny things, health, humor, television, travel, , , ,

When I spent time in a skilled nursing facility recently, I quickly learned that one didn’t find a compatible roommate. The choice was up to the whims of the powers that be. It could turn out either good or less-than-good. (My insurance company would only spring for a double room, so there was no chance of a private one, except on the occasion when my roommate happened to move out. But I digress.)

All-in-all, my experiences varied from okay to excellent. My first roommate was Norma, who was quiet and inoffensive, but unfortunately addicted to the TV show Gunsmoke, which she watched all day long. I suppose I could have raised an objection, but I was determined to keep the peace and, after all, I could hardly inflict on her eight-plus hours of cooking shows and Star Trek reruns. Norma was released to go home, however, and I had the room all to myself, my chefs, and my aliens.

The next time I returned to the facility, my roommate was Brenda, a woman with a large family who created quite a commotion when they all visited at once, though that was not often. When it happened, I retreated to Pandora and my earbuds (a must for any stay in such a facility).

I was moved to another room when Brenda developed an infection and had to be isolated. (Since we were then across the hall from each other, our Physical Therapist arranged for us to have weight-lifting sessions in our doorways so we could see each other and chat. Sometimes, Shirley, the lady next door to Brenda, joined in as well, and we all chatted while doing curls. But I digress again.)

My best roommate, however, was my third one, Darlene. She didn’t care for TV and had only a few visitors. Among her other ailments, she had PTSD, so she preferred to keep the curtain between us pulled and wouldn’t be distracted by comings and goings in the hall.

The curtain proved no impediment to our growing friendship, however. We started bonding over our shared love of murder mysteries and true crime books. Naturally, the subject of Jack the Ripper came up. (As it does.)

“When we were in England, my husband and I took the Jack the Ripper walking tour,” I shared.

“Oh!” Darlene exclaimed. “I’ve always wanted to go on that.”

“It was a foggy, drizzly evening—very atmospheric. And we booked our walk when Donald Rumbelow was guiding it.”

She recognized the name immediately. “Donald Rumbelow! I’ve read his book on Jack the Ripper! He’s the best!”

“That’s why we chose a tour when he was leading. We also went to 221B Baker St. and saw the Sherlock Holmes Museum. It was a small, narrow building sandwiched between two others. Every floor had displays related to his famous cases. The top floor held a toilet with a blue Delft-like design in the bowl. It looked much too pretty to use. Even if you could make it up all six flights to get there.”

“You’ve been to the places I’ve always wanted to go and done the things I’ve dreamed of doing! Tell me more!” We were off and running on travelers’ tales.

After that, we dissected our favorite mystery series and recommended them to each other. We talked about holidays and favorite foods and family and pets. We spoke of exes and jobs and rated the nurses and aides. We cheered each other on about the distance we’d walked during physical therapy.

And we talked politics. I had been reluctant to share my political views with anyone at the facility, knowing how divisive, not to say explosive, such talk can be. But once again, Darlene and I were completely in sync. We despaired of the state our country is in and blamed the same people for it. When neither one of us could sleep, we talked well into the wee hours of the morning.

Darlene had a birthday while we were both residents, and she shared it with me. Literally. We each ate half of the yummy carrot cake with cream cheese frosting that her family brought her. She reveled vicariously in the little anniversary dinner that Dan arranged for me, which featured sushi, electric candlelight, mood music, and ginger ale in champagne glasses. Dan brought Darlene a case of Diet Cokes and a box of plasticware that her arthritic hands could manage at mealtime. (The aides often forgot.) She let me watch Practical Magic on her DVD player and I ordered her a copy of Fletch when she told me how much she liked it.

I’m out of the facility now, but Darlene is in for the long term. Today, we’re going to stop by and surprise her with a box of the cheese-and-peanut-butter crackers she can’t resist. I can’t wait to see her face light up.

Saint Dan

etc., family, funny things, humor, travel, , ,

Once upon a time (as all good fairytales begin), a coworker of mine started referring to my husband as “Saint Dan.” I regularly told tales of how he treated me with love, understanding, humor, and sensitivity. (This was not in the immediate runup to our marriage (during which we had been disgustingly romantic, to the extent that our friends claimed they needed a jolt of insulin when we were around), but after we had been married for years. But I digress.)

Some of Dan’s displays of love seemed to my friends to be extravagant. For instance, when I went on a business trip, he left little notes of love and encouragement in my belongings—not just in my suitcase or pockets, but everywhere. There was even a note under the cap of my deodorant. (There was also a piece of paper with a few cat hairs taped to it, to remind me that the cat loved me too. But I digress again.) My travel roommate was somewhere between impressed and unbelieving. And possibly nauseated.

Another example is the story of how Dan once walked upstairs behind me and said, “Those jeans are loose on you. You should get a new pair.” “I hope you turned right around and gave him a big kiss,” my coworker said. Given the difficulty of turning around and bending over to kiss on the stairs, I waited until we were both at the top.

Dan is also great at giving presents. When he was in charge of the budget (It’s my responsibility now. We have different ways of approaching it that appall each other, so we take turns. But I digress in the middle of what I was going to say.), he used to follow me around at stores and conventions, making note of anything I expressed an interest in, then going back later and buying it for me. Once he noticed that I liked a certain dress, managed to slip away, buy it, and hide it in the trunk of the car before I noticed he was gone. Another time he bought me an amber carving of a rabbit that took him months to pay off, so I had forgotten all about it by the time he gave it to me.

He has a sense of humor, too. Sometimes he even gives me a perfect straight line. Once, the movie Gunga Din was coming on and he innocently asked me, “Honey, do you like Kipling?” I almost choked to death as I gasped out, “I don’t know. I’ve never kipled.” He can pick up on a straight line, too. Another time, we went to a Japanese restaurant for our anniversary. I complimented him on how well he was using chopsticks for the first time. “Jan,” he said, “I’m a compulsive overeater. If I had to learn to eat with my elbows, I would.”

Of course, Dan is far from perfect. Once I had to say to him, “Please don’t use power tools after I’ve gone to bed.” (It was one of those things you never expect to hear yourself saying, then one day there you are. But I digress some more.) And he’s not good with directions. When I draw him a map to somewhere (he can’t use a GPS), I have to draw another map on how to get back (he can’t reverse directions either).

(As I was writing this, it occurred to me that there might be an actual Saint Dan. A quick visit with Mr. Wikipedia revealed a few possibilities, the most likely of which seemed (to me) to be St. Daniel of Padua, feast day January 3rd. Possibly of Jewish lineage, he was martyred by being dragged behind a horse. He is called on by women whose husbands are away at war and is often depicted carrying a towel, which might make him the patron saint of Douglas Adams fans. So now that’s something we all know. And I have digressed pedantically for the last time this week. See you next Sunday for more stunningly useless info and digressions!)

The Horse I Rode In On

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It all started with a vulgar radio ad and turned into an adventure. ([sultry female voice: I wanna ride!])

I really hated the ads, but the premise was intriguing—a weekend horseback camping trip, complete with guide. So Dan and I gathered up Sheila and Harold—another couple who had an interest in horses—and signed up.

(All this was in the days before I abused my back by riding an Arabian horse bareback. The first time I annoyed it was when I had to carry wood up two flights of stairs or freeze to death. But I digress.)

Anyway, we met Larry, our guide, who showed up with four horses and all manner of camping equipment. He set up two tents for us and even found a way to connect my husband’s CPAP machine to power. Then we went out on the trail.

I didn’t have any trouble managing my horse at that point. But Sheila couldn’t get her horse to giddy-up no matter how she kicked, shook the reins, and verbally encouraged it along. It remained stubborn. (Later in life, Sheila and Harold bought horses of their own. Sheila even taught her horse dressage. But I digress again.)

The woods we rode through were as scenic as could be. There were trees that provided cool shade in the heat of the summer day. Unfortunately, Dan’s horse made a game of bumping into tree trunks and whacking his knees. The horses proceeded at a walk or a trot and occasionally broke into a canter. Frankly, I preferred the walk and the canter. The walk gave me time to look around and the canter was exhilarating and didn’t involve bumping up and down quite as much as the bruising trot.

We rode deep into the woods and then the nature, which was all around us, called. Dan had no problems with this (aside from getting down off his horse) and neither did Harold, but Sheila and I had to pee al fresco. (Fortunately, this was a skill I acquired in my youth on backpacking trips. I knew enough to carry tissues and avoid poison ivy. This is one of the only times I can truly be said to have had penis envy. But I digress some more.)

When we returned to camp in the evening, we learned that Larry was also our cook and an old hand at producing good meals over a wood fire. Not to say gourmet meals. This was before glamping was a thing.

Larry also rustled up a fine breakfast as we crawled out of our tents. We ached not just from the (admittedly) less-than-strenuous riding, but also from sleeping on thin tarps that only emphasized the pebbles beneath. We were all more interested in having several cups of very good coffee than getting back on the horses. This, of course, would cause a recurrence of the peeing problem later in the day.

Around the campfire that night, Larry told us how he had started his business and how other campers spent the whole time galloping their horses from one end of a field to the other and back again. No marauding trees or recalcitrant steeds for them.

The next day, we were back to our regular lives and jobs. There were some mementos of our experience. Dan had bashed-up knees. And you should have seen my inner thighs. (Well, no, you shouldn’t.)

While it was a memorable experience, we seriously doubted that we would be repeat customers. We were just too candy-ass. All in all, the adventure was like the Tower of Terror ride at DisneyWorld. It’s not that the horseback adventure was terrifying. It’s just that I’m glad I went on it once, but I’d hesitate to try it again, especially since my back won’t let me.

Good Ol’ St. Pat

cooking, etc., food, holidays, travel, , , ,

By some bizarre circumstance, I’m able to post this on both Sunday, as I usually do, and St. Patrick’s Day. Here’s a list of what I’m not going to write about: green beer, four-leaf clovers, or shamrocks (those were practically the only visuals I saw when I was looking for an image to go with this post.) I will not be writing about St. Patrick and how he was really a Roman and chased the snakes out of Ireland. I’m not going to write about the Fighting Irish of Notre Dame.

No, I’m going to talk about Irish food. The picture you see here is shepherd’s pie, meat and vegetables and gravy topped with mashed potatoes. It’s so good that it’s made its way into our food repertoire. Except that traditional shepherd’s pie is made with lamb. We make it with beef, which technically makes it a cottage pie, and often with mushrooms. Then we sprinkle cheese on top and run it under the broiler because cheese.

(Actually, I had shepherd’s pie a number of years ago in a restaurant in Michigan. They didn’t serve it in the traditional way. They made three scoops of it on a plate, which looked disturbingly like triple breasts. But I digress.)

When Dan and I went to Ireland a couple of years ago, I told him not to expect the lousy cuisine that Ireland and England are said to produce. I knew better. Ireland, after all, is surrounded by water and has lakes and many a river running through it as well. I knew we were in for some good seafood.

We had fish and chips pretty often, supplemented with beautiful, succulent pink salmon, either fresh or smoked (which is also called lox around here). But the best seafood I had was a luscious, juicy, huge bowl of mussels I had in a small place in the seaside town of Dingle.

Irish breakfasts are amazing, too. They feature bacon, sausage, eggs, potatoes, beans, soda bread or toast, broiled tomatoes, mushrooms, and white or black pudding. Sometimes scones with jam and clotted cream (which I always thought sounded gross, but is really like Irish cream churned to near but not quite butter. But I digress again).

Nor do the drinks suck. There’s Irish breakfast tea (which I forgot to mention when I described breakfast), darker and heartier than English breakfast tea. Then there’s beer. Dan drank Guinness, which is served warm. I don’t care much for warm beer, so I learned that if you want cold beer, you have to ask for a pint of lager, which is what I did.

There’s also Irish coffee made in the traditional manner, with Irish whiskey, sugar, and real whipped cream on top. (I’ve found that if you ask for Irish coffee in an American bar, what you sometimes get is coffee with Bailey’s Irish Cream in it, which is not the same at all. (If I can get a real Irish coffee in a restaurant (I’ve learned to ask first how they make it), I sometimes have one for dessert. But I digress some more.) When we toured the Tullamore Dew distillery, we had the real thing.

So, what are we doing for St. Patrick’s Day (besides avoiding Irish bars where college students end up vomiting green beer in the gutter, I mean). Well, I think I’ll ask Dan to make a shepherd’s pie, then kick back with some Guinness for him and Harp Lager for me and listen to some Irish music or watch The Commitments. Wear Guinness and Sean’s Bar t-shirts. Maybe look at the photos from our trip.

We’ll do it just for the craic, as they say in Ireland.

Buying the Past

arts and crafts, etc., family, travel, , , , , ,

No, you read that right. It’s buying the past, not burying the past. (Unless you read it wrong, of course. But it’s still buying the past, not burying the past. But I digress.)

Dan and I went on a brief vacay to Gatlinburg this week, and commerce was committed. A wonderful time was had by all, particularly the local merchants. We only had a few days in town, so we had to really focus on where we wanted to shop and what we wanted to get.

Dan is something of a history buff and loves antiques. He collects old bottles and clocks in particular. Once he even brought a large clock (I’d say about two feet by 1 1/2 feet) home from England, packing it in his luggage with clothes wadded up around it. It made it home safely. (What was ironic about it, when we got home, he looked more closely and found that the clock was made in Massachusetts. Somehow, this poor wandering clock had made it from the States to England and back again. But I digress again.)

So, when we got to Gatlinburg, he was all fired up to visit the same antiques shop we went to the last time we were there. Alas, we weren’t staying in the same place, but a number of miles away. Even with GPS, I couldn’t reconstruct how to get back there. I couldn’t even remember the name, except that it had “antiques” in it. We did find another shop, though, and Dan happily puttered around it, coming away with a beautiful cobalt blue decanter set and an old, framed print of an iris. He was satisfied, and I was satisfied that he was satisfied.

Another shop we visited was one of my favorite kinds, a rock and gem shop. Dan likes them, too, but he mostly buys tumbled rocks and carved statues, while I go for semi-precious gemstone jewelry. Dan found a vase carved from diaspore and black onyx, and I got a set of earrings and a necklace made of tanzanite, a very pretty blue mineral, set in silver.

Anyway, Dan’s interest in the past is primarily in the last 100 years or so, while mine is in the millions of years. My tanzanite was formed 585 million years ago, at an estimate, and has been waiting ever since for me to dangle it from my neck and ears. I have plenty of jewelry of similar vintage.

Now that I think about it, so has the diaspore that Dan’s newest vase was carved from. (Been around millions of years, that is. A carved diaspore vase is heavy and would both give me kyphosis and rip my earlobes off. But I digress yet again.) (Kyphosis = widow’s hump. I was showing off.)

There’s nothing wrong with new things. I have an e-reader and buy digital books all the time. I have a collection of plushies. I have souvenir mugs and shot glasses from wherever we visit. I have a Lego orchid that I’m still putting together. Dan has power tools and hand tools. He has kitchen gadgets like an egg cooker. He has modern glass and ceramics. We both have t-shirts that commemorate various people and events. (Our latest is a Jimmy Buffett and the Coral Reefers t-shirt.)

And we don’t forget about the future, either. The time we’ve spent at science fiction conventions has resulted in the acquisition of glass sculptures blown as we watched, prints such as the one of a cactus taking off into space, and posters of the covers of sf novels. NASA juice glasses (past and future for that).

But, in many ways, our hearts belong in the past. Not the rest of us, of course. Dan and I would both be functionally blind without glasses, and I would likely have been burned as a witch. Maybe Dan, too. Plus, there would be smallpox and bubonic plague to contend with. No, I think we’ll stay in the present and buy our pieces of the past. Safer that way.

Travels With Mom

etc., family, travel, , ,

jan1 001“Oh, I could never travel with my mother!” I’ve heard this from many people when I tell them about the trips my Mom and I took together.

We traveled to Myrtle Beach.

We traveled to Wisconsin.

We traveled to Indianapolis.

We traveled to Ireland.

We traveled to Rio de Janeiro.

(I think the picture here is in Rio because I have cankles. Long flights give me cankles. Could be Ireland, though. I had cankles there too. But I digress.)

The trip to Rio was actually our first. I came over to my mom’s house one day and she said, “Guess where I’m going? Rio!”

“Rio, Brazil?” I asked.

“I guess so,” she said.

She wanted to take one of us girls with her and thought that, since my sister was older, she should get the first chance. My sister was unwilling to go through what she saw as the incredible hassle of acquiring a passport. I already had a passport, which was not that much trouble to get, so my sister ceded me the first opportunity. She took the next one.

After that, we took turns traveling with our mother. My sister accompanied her on domestic trips (including a cruise to Hawaii), and I went on the international ones, along with a few here in the States. Occasionally, Mom would take both of us on a short trip to a nearby state, but these were not nearly as much fun.

I understand why some people would not enjoy traveling with their mothers, but I had no such problem. I once had an awful trip to and from San Francisco with my mother-in-law, but that was because of canceled flights, rerouting, and lightning visible outside the plane window. It was the trip from hell. To hell. Changing in hell. With a layover in hell. None of that was due to my mother-in-law, however.

There were certain aspects of traveling with my mother that I found especially engaging. One was her willingness to try new things. New foods, new beverages, new means of travel, new destinations – new experiences in general. She didn’t always like them, but by God, she tried them. She took a sip of her caipirinha, made a face, and handed it to me. (So did several other ladies on the trip. I got soused, but not so much that I couldn’t translate their local money for them. There had been major inflation and three different issues of bills. But I digress again.)

Another was Mom’s sheer delight in whatever was happening. One time in Rio we had to get up early for a tour and didn’t have time to go to the buffet, so we ordered in breakfast. When it came, my mother started exclaiming over the tiny pots of jam and the carafe of hot chocolate – how cute and convenient they were.

“Mom, haven’t you ever had room service before?” I asked. She had not. I had traveled on business and was quite used to the service, but it was all new to her.

She also didn’t mind that I arranged things, and took over planning for some of our free time on the tours. Of course, I factored in her likes and dislikes and made sure to work in the scenic tours or landmarks she particularly wanted to see. But if I wanted to start a shopping expedition in the local gem shops or thought spending a few hours on the beach would be nice, that was fine with her.

We also had similar tastes in scheduling. Neither of us was able to fit in with the Brazilian custom of having dinner after 9 p.m. By that time, we were both ready to settle in for the evening and get ready for bed after a long day of running around and sightseeing. And if my activities proved too strenuous or lengthy for her, I would find a cafe where we could stop and have a cold drink, rest our feet, and relax until we were both ready to carry on. (Later on, when I was in San Francisco with my friend Kathy, she did the same for me. But I digress some more.)

I also liked the guided tours Mom booked through AAA. While they did allow some free time for individually chosen activities, for the most part, they provided a bus, a driver, a tour guide, scenic and historic destinations, and times and places to eat. I know this is considered a drawback by many people. But it was much easier on both of us to have these details already arranged. I was not ready to handle the details of renting a car, driving a car in an unfamiliar location, planning an itinerary, dealing with the luggage, making hotel or bed and breakfast reservations, and all the other details that the tour company took such good care of. Mom was adventuresome, but not a seasoned traveler, and I was more than willing to let someone else do the heavy lifting – literally (suitcases) and figuratively. It left more time and attention for enjoying ourselves.

Sometimes Mom’s innocence was touching. In Ireland, we stayed a couple of nights in a bed and breakfast. Mom never quite got the idea that, although we were staying in someone’s home, it was a business arrangement. When we left, she gave the proprietors the world’s ugliest hand-crocheted pillow, waved at them, and promised, “I’ll write!”

Even the domestic trips were fun. In Wisconsin, we bought assorted local cheeses and the bus driver had a cooler to pack them so the whole bus didn’t smell like garlic cheddar. In Myrtle Beach, Mom wanted to fish off the pier. She caught one fish, at most five inches long, but her smile was wide and her eyes were bright. She let another fisher on the pier have her prize catch – after I took a picture of her with it.

Eventually, Mom’s health declined and she wasn’t able to travel anymore. She told me once that when she was a little girl, she used to watch the planes fly over and think that she would never get to go on one to some exotic place.

I’m so glad I was with her when she finally did.

Bye-Bye Nose! Bye-Bye Ear!

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I’m lucky that I still have an ear and a nose, without which my face would look unfinished. Or Cubist. It’s not because I had necrotizing fasciitis. (I’m ghostwriting a book right now about necrotizing fasciitis, leprosy, and other dreaded diseases, which is actually right up my alley as a devoted fan of Monsters Inside Me and Mystery Diagnosis. But I digress.)

My potential disfigurement was at the hands (well, not hands, exactly) of two wild animals. How I met them and how I escaped assault on my body parts is the real story here.

My nose almost left me during a journey in a drive-through zoo. (I didn’t know if they still existed until I asked Mr. Google. They do. Whether it’s a good idea, I’ll leave you to decide.)

One day, my husband and I visited the establishment in either Pennsylvania or New Jersey (exactly where it was is lost in the mists of time). The people who ran the place posted warnings about not trying to drive through any animals that blocked your path. They also warned you not to attempt the journey if you had a vinyl roof on your car. The car in front of us did have one and ignored the sign. They were quite alarmed when a troop of monkeys descended on their car. (Yes, a group of monkeys is called a troop. Mr. Google again.) We had an unobstructed view as they learned their lesson. The monkeys ripped holes in the vinyl top. Shredded it, really, which I don’t know if the occupants realized. The troop also pissed down the windshield, which they definitely did notice. From our vantage point, we could even see the look of disgust on the passenger’s face.

Our difficulty came a little later in the self-tour when we encountered a herd (yes, herd) of ostriches. A small herd, but still. They came very near the car, so we had a close-up view. As you can see from the photo, an ostrich close-up is pretty damn ugly. They don’t improve when the only thing separating you from one of them is a pane of glass.

That pane of glass – our car window – was the only thing that saved my face. I got to see one of the ostriches up close and personal. It strolled up to the car and peered curiously inside. I pressed my nose against the glass to see the ostrich better. It wanted to get closer to me, too. It took its hard, horny beak and tried to attack my nose. Peck! Peck! Peck! I could hear it striking the car window, which fortunately withstood the onslaught. Dan didn’t drive on, out of its reach. He was laughing too hard.

My other wild animal encounter came many years before that, when I was particularly young and stupid. It was at a local mall, where an area was set up that had baby animals. They were offering to take photos of customers with a baby animal. Being a cat lover, I chose the baby lion. The photo you see here is the result.

The attendant hefted the lion into my lap. As you can tell, even though it was a youngster, it was still quite heavy. I could barely hold it upright. I smiled like the idiot I was, and they snapped the picture.

Right after the picture was taken, the lion looked over at me, stuck out its huge, rough tongue, and slurped my ear. In less than a second, the attendant swooped in, snatched the lion out of my lap, and put it back in its pen. My theory (and theirs too) was that the lion was taking an exploratory taste test to see if my ear was worth snacking on.

(No, I don’t remember whether the attendant was the infamous Joe Exotic, but I kind of doubt it. I think I would have remembered his remarkable appearance. I do know that they don’t allow this kind of thing anymore, which I didn’t need Mr. Google to ascertain. (I did find out that it was legal until last year when Biden signed a ban.) But I digress again.)

Because of those incidents, I’ve learned my lesson. I have kept my interactions with animals limited to domesticated cats, semi-domesticated dogs, and the occasional garter snake that my husband sometimes catches. The cats, despite being domesticated, have damaged my skin with tooth and claw, though the wounds seldom get infected.

I haven’t lost any actual body parts yet. And I avoid ostriches and lions, not that they roam the countryside in Ohio. But I keep an eagle (sorry not sorry) eye out!

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Winter: A Revelation

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I’ve never been that fond of winter. For one thing, it’s cold. For another, I once lived where it occasionally got down to -30. I lived through the winter storms of 1978. One winter there was so much snow that my car was in the shop for five extra days because the body shop was snowed in. (The damage was caused when someone slid into my car in a parking lot.)

My husband and I occasionally travel in the winter, mostly for visits to relatives. (This led to my worst birthday ever, when my husband swore he’d get home for my birthday. In the evening of that day, my husband called from the middle of nowhere, from a hospital (he wasn’t actually hurt), saying that he had crashed his car. I had to drive to West Virginia to pick him up. Once we traveled to Illinois on Thanksgiving weekend, and the car’s heater went out on the trip back. We had to stop along the way to buy gloves and blankets. But I digress. At length.)

Our travels abroad have included Mexico in the sweltering season and Ireland in the rainy season (insofar as they actually have a separate season for rain). And when we went to Croatia, we went in the off-season, but not one that promised bad weather.

We had figured without the Dinaric Alps. Our tour included a national park known as Plitvice Lakes. The further our bus went up in the mountains, the colder it became. It began snowing by the time we got there. It was wet snow, the kind that sticks to everything. It looks very pretty when you’re inside and warm and don’t have to go out in it. It’s probably the very best snow for building snowpeople and snow forts – not that I do either anymore.

This photo shows what it was like when our guide took us out to the lakes. That is to say, it was cold. Most of us hadn’t figured on this weather and were bundled up in sweaters and light jackets. Our guide knew better. We followed him to the lakes. Actually, we had two guides. The other one was a small black cat who went ahead of us, trot-trot- trot, all the way to the lakes. (The guide who didn’t have four legs had a habit of saying “Once upon a time” when he talked about the history of the country, which I found charming. But I digress again.)

When we got to the lakes, it was magical. The snow enhanced it, and we forgot about how cold it was. Plitvice Lakes is an interconnected network of lakes, separated by rocky waterfalls. We were just at the right point in the season when the snow was all around, but the waterfalls were rushing with snowmelt. The glistening snow and the tumbling waterfalls were insanely beautiful. The waterfalls were flowing so strongly that some of the wooden walkways between the lakes were not usable and we had to take detours – cautiously. The guide didn’t want to lose any of us and managed not to.

The photo at the left shows one of the areas that the little black cat led us to.

Our visit to Croatia (and Venice, Slovenia, and Montenegro) was wonderfully memorable. (We had a banana split in Split, then split Split before we split our pants. But I digress yet again.) A small black kitten tried to climb into our souvenir bag in Dubrovnik, obviously begging to come home with us. Our stop in Montenegro impressed us so much that we’ve actually discussed retiring there.

I still don’t like winter. All of the things I said about it are still true. But I learned that winter has a beauty all its own.

It took Plitvice Lakes to convince me.

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Vacations That Are and Aren’t

etc., family, holidays, music, television, travel, writing, ,

There are vacations that refresh, and then there are vacations that don’t. There are vacations where that create memories, and then there are vacations that don’t. There are vacations that are, and then there are vacations that aren’t.

My husband and I have had plenty of wonderful vacations, with scads of natural wonder, historic locations, local events, and places to explore. We’ve been to England, Monserrat, Croatia, and most recently Ireland, to name a few. (We also had a great time in Benson, AZ. Why Benson? “Benson, AZ” is the theme song to a sci-fi movie called Dark Star, which only a few people ever saw. What’s there to do there? Exploring caves, star-gazing, and visiting rock shops, among other things. But I digress.) We often returned exhausted rather than refreshed, but we’ve made memories that will last (I hope) until we’re older and grayer.

However, a gentleman of my acquaintance, who prefers not to be named, is on one of the vacations that aren’t.

He’s going to spend eleven days with, let’s say, his beloved ancient aunt and his cousin who live in, let’s say, Colorado. He has done this before, so he knows what he’s getting into.

What he’s getting into is work. Not his normal, paying work, though. His aunt has a long list of chores for him. And when I say chores, I don’t mean washing the car, which his aunt still does herself. I mean re-graveling the driveway. Clearing out a huge attic. Painting the porch. Installing a generator. Fixing the washing machine.

Or all of the above.

It’s like a “stay-cation,” only with airlines involved. And without the sitting on the porch with a drink with fruit and an umbrella in his hand and his feet in a kiddie pool with The Wild Jimbos singing “Let’s Talk Dirty in Hawaiian” playing on an iPod with an auxiliary speaker. He does it because he really, truly loves his aunt. She’s in her 90s and needs the help.

(What he doesn’t really, truly love is her taste in music. And TV shows. And movies. And news. All of which she plays at high volume because she is hard of hearing. Fortunately, he just acquired a tablet that has been loaded with streaming services, radio stations, books, and other media that he can browse to his heart’s content. With earbuds, of course. But I digress. Again.)

At least his cousin is going to do the cooking. Except that the cousin cooks for a week at a time, and they have it every day until it’s all gone. The gentleman of my acquaintance cooks too, but not usually after a day of working in the hot sun. Then, his major concern is rehydration, which will likely include iced tea rather than drinks with fruit and an umbrella.

What I’m having is the stay-cation. Without the kiddie pool and The Wild Jimbos, though. My husband is also going to be out of town. I have writing assignments at the moment, so I’m pretty sure I can fill up my days with that and a bevy of dancing boys. Well, and binge-watching cooking shows on The Food Network. It won’t be thrilling and memorable (unless the dancing boys turn out to be real rather than imaginary), but it should be relaxing, with no annoying sweat (except for possibly in case of dancing boys, see above).

The peace and quiet will be welcome. I don’t always like my husband’s taste in movies, TV shows, and music either, and he plays them very loudly. (Hearing loss may run in the family.) It’s much easier to write and type without auditory distractions other than the cats meowing for food.

I think, however, that both I and the gentleman of my acquaintance will need a few days to recover from our assorted vacations before we get back to real work. Not that we’re likely to get much of a chance. Ah, well. There’s always the next real vacation for my husband and me to look forward to. Maybe we’ll even go back to Benson.

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Memories From the Closet

etc., fashion, travel, , , ,

My husband and I have traveled quite a bit and everywhere we go, we collect souvenirs – primarily t-shirts, mugs, and shot glasses. The mugs and shot glasses are displayed on shelves and in curio cabinets in our home and occasionally used for their intended purposes. The t-shirts we actually wear.

Not that we can wear all of them. Many were destroyed in the tornado that also destroyed our house, and of the ones that remain, almost all are too small (or actually, we are too large).

I used to have a “beers of the world” t-shirt collection. I had Harp Lager and Guinness from Ireland, Red Stripe from Jamaica, Corona from Mexico, and so on. (Unfortunately, Harp Lager beer is no longer sold in Ireland, so there were no t-shirts available on our most recent visit. I did get a very nice Tullamore Dew t-shirt on our most recent visit, but that’s whiskey, not beer. But I digress.)

While in Ireland, we picked up shirts from the Cliffs of Moher and Sean’s Bar too. We’ve also bought t-shirts commemorating our visits to other cities and scenic locations. We recently resurrected one from Dubrovnik, too tattered by the tornado to wear, plus one from the Gauley River and one from Kartchner Caverns near Benson, AZ.

We also have t-shirts from many of the science fiction conventions we attended, plus ones with images of cats or armadillos, our favorite performers and bands (Pink Floyd, Bela Fleck, Kris Kristofferson, Jimi Hendrix, the Black Book Band), and more than a few with in-jokes or snarky or geeky sayings on them. I even have one with Hemingway’s sound advice: Write Drunk. Edit Sober. And of course one from my alma mater, Cornell.

(I also had a bunch of Banana Republic t-shirts back in the day, which really aren’t travel t-shirts, but along the same lines. My wardrobe used to consist almost exclusively of clothes in khaki, olive drab, sand, and camo, plus assorted other colors that BR featured in their line. I once hyperventilated in a BR store in La Jolla, and once a friend gave me some of their tissue paper, which I used as a backdrop for my bulletin board. I used to drive to the next state over to their outlet store. I pored over their travelogue-catalogs. I never forgave Gap for buying them out. It’s never been the same since. But I digress. At length.)

Why do I need all these t-shirts? Despite my age (and the advice everyone seems to want to give to someone my age), my everyday outfit is a t-shirt and jeans – and I’d rather wear an entertaining shirt than something boring. I wear this “uniform” to go shopping and to my therapist appointments (I have one t-shirt that says “The Light at the End of the Tunnel Is an Oncoming Freight Train.” I used to have one that said “Leave Me Alone. I’m Having a Crisis.”) I’d wear them to work, except that I work at home and wear my even-more-casual pajamas.

T-shirts today aren’t cheap. You can easily pay $30 with shipping. I have two on order now. One is a shirt from the Philadelphia Folk Festival, where my husband and I met. The other one, which Dan doesn’t know about (and he never reads my blog, so he still won’t know until it arrives), commemorates our trip to Montenegro. He had suggested that we replace some of our old shirts with ones featuring all the places we’ve traveled together, and I thought that would be a good place to start. After all, he recently surprised me with a t-shirt featuring Croatia.

Now all we have to do is find ones from Maine, the Leeward Islands, Benson AZ, Laurel Cavern, Carter Caves, Venice, Slovenia, and wherever we go next!

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