Seattle to Quito, Ecuador

February 19, 2017: Today is Election Day in Ecuador! And it is no less divisive than our own has been. Our driver let us know that it may be an interesting day in old town Quito tomorrow. Well, I always enjoy coming home with a lively story or two.

We arrived at night, so I don’t have a sense of the landscape or scenery. What I do know is that there are are palm trees. It is hilly. Beautiful doors line the ancient streets. And I learned that EcuadorIan roses are world renowned. If the roses that greeted us in the lobby of our Inn are representatIve of their beauty, their reputation is well-deserved.

Early wake up call to explore Quito, so it’s time for lights out …

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Bullseye

January 15, 2017: My son was thirteen when Bullseye found him on the porch. It was a cold, fall day, and Justin had locked himself out of the house. Skinny and skittish, Bullseye sidled up to my boy, as he sat waiting for me to come home. “We’ll get him fed,” I said, “but he’s not our cat.” As the days got colder, I softened. “We’ll let him come in from the cold,” I said, “but he’s not our cat.” Then, “We’ll take him to the vet. Get him checked out. Give him his shots.” And softly, “But, he’s not our cat.” Finally, “This is Bullseye. He is our cat.”

Bullseye never really warmed up to anyone but my son. He would stiff-arm anyone that tried to hold him. He’d brush up against you, and then quickly dart away. But Justin could hug him and kiss the top of his head. He could scratch his ears and stroke his soft fur. He never left his side.

There were many years in between then and now, when Justin was not entirely lovable. As his mom, I loved him fiercely, while Bullseye loved him gently. At the times where he needed that the most.

Bullseye died yesterday, nestled in the crook of his boy’s arm. I stood holding Justin, his body quaking with grief, and the years melted away. So many memories! Bullseye stood sentinel over Justin through twenty years of angst and laughter, hardship and growth. When Justin was in a car accident at nineteen, he was bed-bound for six months. But he was not alone. He was never alone.

Justin spent a great deal of time over the last year nursing his old partner. He loved him well. But it was time to go, and it was a peaceful journey over that rainbow bridge. Farewell, dear Bullseye. Thanks for looking after my boy.

Little Blue Pills

August 18, 2016: United States Postal Service PSA: do not, under any circumstances, open mail or packages that are left in your mailbox, without thoroughly examining the recipient name.

To save money, I get my prescriptions by mail order. I received one yesterday, which was a little puzzling, since they typically let you know they’re coming, and I hadn’t received a notification. Hmm. Must have gone to my SPAM folder. Multi-tasking, while on the phone with my mom, I opened my mail. Oh. The. Horrors. The prescription was delivered to the wrong address. And I can’t unsee what was in that benign-looking white envelope. Viagra. My elderly, white-haired, sometimes terse, always tidy neighbor with the much younger German girlfriend has been getting BUSY.

Had this happened with any other piece of mail or package, I would have immediately hand-delivered it with a profuse apology for mistakenly opening the package. Instead, in the darkness of night, I left it on the doorstep. I’ll never look at him quite the same way again. But hey … you GO, neighbor.

Little stinker

July 23, 2016: My niece and I are off hiking this weekend. I thought it would be a great opportunity to teach her about important things you should carry on such endeavors. I got my pack ready. Later, I lifted it, and it was significantly heavier than the last time I picked it up. Checked it out, and it had been loaded with rocks. So while I was working on teaching Izzy about the ten essentials, she was working on teaching me about “super cool stuff you collect”. And sneak in to your Aunt’s pack. Little stinker. I adore her.

Girl, you’ve gotta learn to paddle

May 30, 2016: Today was a good, good day. Kermit the Kayak had a story before she ever dipped her bow in a lake. Before she ever forged a path through a sea of lily pad islands.

I have a goal to step foot on every continent before I’m sixty years old, and I’m not interested in a civilized cruise or all-inclusive resort. South America next year will make continent number five. I’ll be hiking and kayaking through the Galapagos Islands on a trip rated “moderate to difficult”. For whatever reason, I’m drawn to that. And fearful of that. Like I have been so many times before.

“Girl, you’ve gotta learn to paddle”, I think.

Every day, I have a critic on one shoulder, and a champion on the other. The critic is loud. Insistent. “You’re a big girl. You’re no athlete. You can’t. Really … you can’t.” The champion, on the other hand, is so, so quiet. “Just go”, she whispers. “Just go.”

So, I went. First, to REI to ask some questions. Think some. Look on Amazon for a kayak rack for my car. Think some more. Order. Install. Learn how my new boat ought to sit atop its cradle. Think. Learn how to tie the knots that will keep it in place. Take a deep breath. Just go.

I had something to prove today. Not to anyone but my own abrasive critic. Can you get Kermit off the car? Can you get her from the car to the water? Can you get your own damn self in to the kayak without swamping it? Can you get her back ON the car? Can you lift the weight of the kayak over your head? Do you remember all the straps, the hitches, the ratchets, the tension? Do you? Do you?

Yes. Yes, I can. I love my champion. She’s the one to listen to. Just. Go. Hush, harsh critic. Hush …

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Someone I used to know

April 27, 2016: Someone I “used to know” passed away on Monday. I found out about it today. She was 61 … hit by a car while crossing the street, and cared for by the same hospital that saved my son’s life. A 19-year old driver. So foolish and careless, we are at 19. I keep thinking … what do you do with your time if you know you have 61 years? 48? 89? Who do you spend your time with? How do you spend your days? What did I say to Maria the last time I saw her? Would it have been different if I knew it was for the last time? I feel inordinately sad. Rest well, Dancing Heart. Rest well.

Joe’s Bar and Grill people

April 26, 2016: I have very, very vivid dreams. It’s like going to the movies every night, where you don’t know the plot before going in. Last night, I got a full upper-body tattoo with sayings like “My people are Joe’s Bar and Grill people” and other graffiti-like markings. Some even glowed in the dark! I got annoyed with my dad for climbing Mt. Rainier by himself, and I kissed a handsome, inappropriately young man. What a night!

When shit gets real

March 26, 2016: I’m waking up in a makeshift nest next to my sister’s hospital bed for the third morning in a row after she suffered a kidney infection that morphed in to sepsis. The sheets are “crackly”, which is the term the docs keep using to refer to my sister’s lungs. The pillows are plastic, the beeps and whir of machines make sleep elusive, and the tenor of the experience changes as each new shift comes on board.

I’ve spent too many nights in places like this. Watching over my son, my sisters … my family watching over me. Today is a better day. Her kidney function is improving, and her focus now is working those lungs. Yesterday, she experienced equally hilarious and terrifying narcotic-induced hallucinations. Whatever you do, the next time you’re out, don’t order the “crazy fish”. Even though it is very inexpensive.

The below quote is a favorite of mine, and it is so apt. I don’t ever want to sit still. I don’t ever want to take my health for granted. I want to live. Truly, truly live. “…to travel, then, is to do, not only to see… To take a chance, and win; to feel the glow of muscles too long unused; to sleep on the ground at night and find it soft; to eat, not because it is time to eat, but because one’s body is clamoring for food; to drink where every stream and river is pure and cold; to get close to the earth and see the stars–this is travel.” (From the Foreword to “Through Glacier Park,” by Mary Roberts Rinehart.)

Day 4: We just moved rooms (which signifies progress). The new nurse asked Susan what she’d like to be called. For me, that would be Deborah or Deb, for the most part. At this point, Susan is feeling very, very uncomfortable. But without missing a beat, she replies, “Mustang Sally”. I love my family. Funny as hell, even when shit gets real.

Belfast

May 2, 2015: Well, today was nothing, if not one great big adventure. We started out by heading north, to Belfast. We took a black cab tour, which provided a fascinating look at the tumultuous history of the city. Interesting, provocative murals, gates that close off that part of the city every night (still), and the Peace Wall. I need to do some journaling about the experience. It was incredibly moving.

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From there, we headed up to the Giants Causeway, which is a geological wonder. Great big columns of black basalt, jutting up from the sea. The northern coast of Ireland is breathtaking … the Game of Thrones is filmed there, and there are all sorts of interesting ruins.

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We headed back to Dublin, picked up our car and drove to the last hotel of our stay … a castle! It was outside of the city, so a bit of a drive. It had been rainy and windy today, and by the time we made it there, it was nearly 9:30. We schlepped our bags in to the hotel, and the night clerk informed us that there was an unfortunate situation, and the hotel had been overbooked. I’m sure he was hoping for a no-show, rather than the late-arriving, bedraggled, luggage-packing guests that showed up. They had done us the courtesy of booking a Radisson … on them. Wait, what? We’ve prepaid, and we’re being moved from a castle to a RADISSON?! In the heart of Dublin? It’s late, we haven’t had dinner, much less our evening beverage … and since we have an early flight, we’d prefer a hotel close to the airport, thank you very much. So he did that, and offered to google its location for us. We’ll just take an address, please. The GPS will guide us there. Unfortunately, our GPS could not find this particular hotel, so Susan had the clerk program its location. As it turned out, the address he programmed directed us straight in to terminal one at the Dublin international airport. Uh … I think this is very much not right. One call to the hotel, and 43,000 roundabouts later, we were still unable to locate the hotel. But there WAS a Radisson, and we could SEE it. So we called our friend, Nick, to ask him to relocate us to the Radisson. Stat. We were in the parking lot, and if we didn’t hurry, we were certain to miss last call.

Well, Nick couldn’t do that. He had already arranged the other hotel. But he would be most happy to give us directions.

My sister is deadly calm in stressful situations … until she isn’t. Throughout the ordeal, she had been serene and respectful. Then … well … she snapped. “Forget it! Goodbye!!!” And then let out the most blood-curdling scream I had ever heard (before she hung up, of course, so he heard every ear-piercing decibel). She grabbed her purse so we could get our own damn room. “You might want to bring your phone”, I said. “I’m pretty sure they’re going to call you back.”

While she was in checking on rooms, I played with this app that guesses your age based on a picture. Earlier in the day, this delightful app was saying I appeared anywhere from 27 to 36. I took a picture to analyze, and it said I was 90! WTF?! I know this was stressful, but seriously?

So my sister came out from the hotel, having immediately been contacted by the night manager (who I’m sure she thought was bananas), and they could indeed take care of all of our needs.

So between the psychotic break, and me aging 60 years, we could not stop laughing. But we got our room. On them.

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Dublin, Ireland

May 1, 2015: Mayday in Ireland. A celebration of the beginning of spring … protests … a day of diversity … the first day of my birthday month! It’s been interesting being in Ireland at this point in its history. There is a great deal at stake, and I intend to do some research and follow this political storm. Signs are posted everywhere … “We already have civil unions … vote no!” “Discrimination damages lives … Vote yes!” We are past much of this dissension in the U.S. (and certainly in my own mind), but it is alive and well here.

It is a country of contrast, and it’s been fascinating to observe.

This afternoon, we stopped at Waterford on the way to Dublin. It is the oldest city in Ireland, and home of the Waterford Crystal Factory. I initially thought this would be one we might skip, but I’m so glad we didn’t. The artistry and craftsmanship that go in to these pieces defy description. The process of apprenticeship (up to ten years for some trades) takes intense dedication and hard work. I am coming home with two stunning wine glasses that I know I will treasure forever.

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We made our way back to Dublin. My sister was getting impatient with my love of photography, so she headed back to the room while I wandered. I noticed there are a lot of homeless in the area, so I dug out a handful of euros, and stuck them in my pocket. I found one homeless man sleeping, and I tucked a couple of euros where he’d be likely to find them. I spoke with another, fully intending to give him some money, but I felt compelled to talk to him for a bit. It was obvious he was used to being dismissed, so my interest in his story was a little puzzling to him, I think. I asked him enough questions to know he and his sister (aged 14), had run from an abusive home and were on the streets. How much was true, and how much was fabricated, I’ll never know. But the desperation? It’s universal.

I saw a beautifully handcrafted crystal Cinderella coach drawn by fine horses today. It was priced at €40,000 (close to $45,000). I also saw a man with a shabby sleeping bag as his only source of warmth. We live in a crazy, crazy quilt, don’t we? But it’s beautiful. All of it.

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