A Traveling Warrior Returns with a Story

I have a guest post today from my friend and fellow book club member Tom. Here you see him proudly holding two tickets to the upcoming Chargers-Patriots game in Gillette Stadium.

Gail,

I was one of the fans who joined the Chargers officially sanctioned travel agency trip to Indy. My package included a game ticket, a Saturday night bar gathering at Jillian's featuring local media
notables (Hank Bauer, Jim Laslavic, Josh Lewin), the Road Warrior himself, George Pernicano and even team doctor David Chao. Two hours of food and drink and fellowship with a room full of frenzied football fans.

Fine!

After the booster boasting by the media men one fan was given the mike. A big man, Jim is his name, he slowly stood up and proceeded to tell us that he has six season tickets, lives in Alaska, flies to San Diego at the beginning of the season and attends all games here and away. And as a gesture of Alaskan spirit he bought spirits for everyone in the room. Later he told me the tab came to $530. Jim has ordered a special edition Dodge Charger with somewhere around 450 hp. It will be in blue & gold, of course.

At the table next to me a fellow named Jaime sat with his wife and five children. The youngest was 89 months old and all were going to the game. Jaime hails from Riverside. He's going to Gillette Stadium too. I'm still in awe of that guy.

After the win on Sunday we regrouped in the lobby of the Omni hotel and met even more Boltheads who were there on their own. Words cannot describe the gathering. Words are too quiet. Words are only part of song. Words don't hurt your cheeks after hours of grinning while drinking.

I've got my tickets today for the Gillette game. Jim and Jaime are the first two of many I just gotta be with again.

Tom
I took this shaky shot with raised cell phone as we exited the RCA Dome Sunday after it hosted its Colts last stand and our Chargers' next step. It conveys the specter and the energy of the event. Not a good photo for a classy blog but one worth sharing with ardent Boltheads!

A Matter of Pride

Well, we’ve got them right where we want them. Yes, the Chargers beat the Colts yesterday 28-24, a rematch from earlier in the season. That one the Chargers also won, but no one gave the Bolts credit. It was simply, Manning had a bad day (6 picks) and Vinatieri missed a game-winning chip shot (true, he did). However, there was a reason Manning had a bad day: the Chargers have a good defensive line and an incredible pass defender named Antonio Cromartie. (He led the league in interceptions even though he wasn’t a starter from the beginning.) Cromartie has 4 Manning picks this season, one yesterday and three in that first contest.

Manning didn’t really have a bad game yesterday (402 yards passing), but, again the defense came up with the big plays (1^st and goal on the nine and the Chargers keep the Colts from scoring).

Yesterday and today I have reveled in the non-stop replays: Cromartie’s interception run back for a TD—oops! called back by a dubious holding call—it’s nonetheless a beautiful run. Legedu Naanee’s gobbled yards in the crucial game-winning drive. Billy Volek’s gutsy performance as backup QB in the game-winning drive. Darren Sproles’ short reception turned into a 56-yard TD flash in Rivers’ last play of the day. Mike Turner, replacing Tomlinson in the second half, churning out the yards. Mike Scifres’ incredible punt from the end-zone that put Manning and company on their own 30 to start the final bid for points. Rivers’ perfect pass to Chambers for a TD. Jackson’s 10-foot hops for an incredible pull down in the end zone (another perfect pass from Rivers) for a TD. An offensive line that gave Rivers and Volek time and no sacks. Merriman, my buddy, grabbing at Manning’s heals all afternoon.

Yes, we’ve got them right where we want them. You see, the Patriots are expected to roll over the Chargers just like they did in week 2 of the season (that score was 38-14 Pats). Good. Let them think that. No sympathy for the cry-babies who want to see a Manning-Brady showdown. I’m looking for a Rivers-Manning showdown—Eli, that is. And, that’s when we show Archie how thankful we are for the snub.

Kauai Bridge Etiquette

Perhaps nothing symbolizes the laid-back atmosphere of Kauai more than its many single-lane bridges along the road heading west out of Hanalei to road’s end. The road ends at Ke’e Beach and the famed Kalalau Trailhead. Driving this rural, curvy road that sometimes hugs the coast and sometimes affords lofty views high upon the bluff, you learn patience and you learn to take your time. Kauai is the most unhurried of the four main Hawaiian Islands. If you insist on living life at mainland pace, you’ll miss the point. And this brings me to the single-lane bridges.

The two-lane road simply collapses into a single lane at numerous bridges. Here’s what you do.

First, you’re hopefully not driving more than 25 or 30 miles per hour. As you approach the bridge, if there are no cars approaching from the other direction, you’re free to go. Once you’re on the bridge, any opposing traffic will (there’s really no choice here) wait for you to cross.

If a car is already on the bridge coming towards you, you wait behind the point that the road becomes a single lane. This is where the etiquette part kicks in. Drivers are not expected to alternate—that would slow things and produce confusion. Instead, cars considered in the flow are expected to cross with the lead car. Perhaps 3 or 5 cars will go. When this number starts to grow large, a polite Kauaian will defer to the opposing traffic and become first in line for the next crossing. Now, as you wait, you see that there indeed is an end to the stream of automobiles advancing over the bridge. After the last one passes, you can cross. While you were waiting, chances are others have lined up behind you. They too have become part of the flow and will cross with you.

Much of the time, the entire line of waiting cars will proceed across the bridge. If a straggling car now approaches the bridge, there is an obvious break in the flow. A polite driver will recognize this and stop so that the opposing traffic, still waiting, can proceed.

Amazingly enough, this works pretty well, but with 6 or 7 bridges, you can see how your travel time the last 6 miles of the highway is slow. And that’s partially the point. If you can’t slow down your pace and take your turn, well, politely speaking, you should just probably stay at a resort in the airport city of Lihue. But for those who want to see the end of the world, one-lane bridges are a great introduction to island life.

Hiking to Hanakapiai Falls in Kauai

The Kalalau Trail on the north shore of Kauai (Hawaii) is a hiker's dream. Backpacking is required to complete the entire 11-mile (one way) hike, but day hikers also have several choices. Our goal was the 4-mile trek to Hanakapiai Falls, a challenging 8-mile roundtrip hike in good conditions. In rainy December, it becomes a treacherous slip and slide of chocolate ooze. Still, the vistas on the first 2-mile leg along the legendary Na Pali Coast are phenomenal.

We started at the end of the road at Ke'e Beach, the trailhead for the Kalalau Trail. The path climbs steeply for a mile, then descends a mile to Hanakapiai Beach. Just before reaching the rocks and sands of the beach, numerous signs warn against swimming in the dangerous rip currents and urge you to notice tidal wave warnings or receding water.

The trail to Hanakapiai Falls then follows the Hanakapiai (what else?) Stream up the valley, crossing the stream numerous times. My boots were soaked because I forded the stream by walking through the water; there were no other possible crossings.
We were rewarded with a gorgeous 300-foot waterfall and swimming hole. The mist of the falls and the mist of the rain made a surreal atmosphere. Or, perhaps in the haze of an oxygen-deprived brain I let my mind wander.
The return trip was made difficult because my muscles didn't like going down. Each step taxed my poor knees. Still, I live for this hike.

Christmas Cactus for the Holidays

Every year my Christmas Cactus blooms in time for the holidays and every year I marvel at its timeliness.

Merry Christmas, Everyone.

Peter Sprague on Guitar

Take six minutes from your busy, hectic lives and listen to the wonderful musical magic that Peter creates in the following video. This link was just sent to me by a friend. The recording was made when "Peter was around 20." Enjoy.

Then, treat yourself to a Christmas Eve Concert (free) at L’Auberge Hotel in Del Mar (just north of San Diego, California) from 1-4 pm (December 24th). A yearly event with Peter Sprague, "it’s a soulful, fun, free, gathering of local community, friends, family with outrageous music since Peter invites about 20 different professional, hot musicians to sit in."

On the occasion of the one hundredth post

On the occasion of the One Hundredth Post
I’m thinking of fall leaves.
It’s December—normally our trees are bare.
But these leaves cling stubbornly on.
They wait for the cold to float them down.
Screaming color, they mark the season
with red, yellow, orange, and brown.

Searching for the NFL in all the wrong places

I wouldn’t call myself a sports fanatic, but the enthusiasm my husband holds for football and baseball leaks out and infects me. So I pay more attention to the NFL than I might otherwise.

Tonight’s game is being touted as one of the premiere match ups of the season with old man Favre against the youngster Romo. Both teams are 10-1 and it’s likely they’ll also meet in the post season.

Of particular interest is that the game is being broadcast on the NFL network, a for-pay offering that may or may not be something you get in your house. (We actually have a 30-day trial subscription that we opted for on Thanksgiving.)

If you don’t get the NFL network, you might try going to your favorite Sports Bar. On the road in Virginia, Paul did some pre-game sleuthing yesterday to find an appropriate viewing venue. (Reminiscent, perhaps, of our NFL-playoff-sports-bar search last January in London.)

Sports Bar #1
Paul: “Hey, will you be showing the Packers/Cowboy game tomorrow night?”
Sports Bar #1 Greeter: “Sure, look at all our TVs.” (Waves hands around.) “Of course.”
Paul: “So you guys get the NFL network?”
Sports Bar #1 Greeter: “The NFL what? What’s that?”
Paul: “Can I talk to the manager?”
Sports Bar #1 Manager: “The NFL what? What’s that?”

Sports Bar #2
Paul: “Hey, will you be showing the Packers/Cowboy game tomorrow night?”
Sports Bar #2 Manager (by-passing the Greeter): “Absolutely. I’m a Cowboy fan. I’m going to be watching it myself.” (Proudly.)
Paul: “Great, I’ll see you tomorrow then.”
Sports Bar #2 Manager: “Just to let you know. Karaoke starts at 9:00.”
Paul: “But the game starts at 8:15—wha?”
Sports Bar #2 Manager (shrugs): “Our customers expect karaoke on Thursday nights.”

Sports Bar #3
Paul: “Hey will you be showing the Packers/Cowboy game tomorrow night?”
Sports Bar #3 [ . . . and the search goes on . . . ]

Sometimes you can jes' pick 'em

No, not the weekly football pool.

No, not your guitar.

Then, what? Why, a particularly spectacular sunset!

No, you can’t always tell ahead of time, but when clouds are whisping about, throwing threads of fancy in the sky, you’ve got a shot (or two). These were all taken the same evening (Tuesday).

Above we see the glorious globe stealing the show at Beacon’s in Leucadia.

But when the sun is gone, the clouds take over and illuminate the sky. The water provides the reflection. The mix provides the magic.

Skies like this must have inspired Monet. I can see why he spent weeks studying light at sunset and at sunrise. Here's a few more of the same in my flickr set.

The Intertidal Zone

Today's full moon and low tide produced yards and yards of normally submerged beach, giving dozens of Thanksgiving weekend beachcombers plenty of sand between their toes.
Sandpipers scavenge for their meal in the low tide sand.
Tan-colored cliffs reflect in tidal pools formed by strips of rock in the intertidal zone.

Bitter Sweet

The child was not yet three. Her Daddy put her in one of those child pack carrier contraptions. He picked her up and put her on his back. The dog was an unusual mix, maybe shepherd and terrier, maybe something else as well. This little menagerie went for a walk to the beach on that hot July day.

“No!” cried the Daddy in dismay as he saw the train approaching. The dog could not hear.

Only two returned to the house.

“What’s wrong?” cried the Mommy. “Where’s the dog?”

The little girl answered, “The dog hit the train.”

In sadness, the Mommy and Daddy buried the dog in the soft sand near the lagoon. They gave her the special bandana that she sometimes wore, her collar and tags, placing them gently by her side, and her tennis ball, her lovely, favorite tennis ball. They cried and said goodbye.

Less than a week later, the phone rang. It was the lab.

“I’m pregnant,” said the Mommy and she cried softly with joy for the new life, with regret for the recent loss.

Does it make it hurt less when you’ve lost a friend to gain a new life? They call it bitter sweet.

Cabo San Lucas

At the very tip of the Baja Peninsula lies lovely Cabo San Lucas and Lands End, the famous rock formations that divide the Pacific Ocean from the Sea of Cortés (also known as the Gulf of California). We come here every other year, a short two-hour flight that whisks us away from the fog and the cold of San Diego in November to the summer-like temperatures of Cabo.

Sunny though it may be, we work really hard at staying out of the sun with hats, shade umbrellas, and cool but covering-up clothing.

The best part is taking someone who has never seen the charms of this locale; the worst part is noticing all of the unbridled building and construction that takes away the pueblo and puts in the resort.

The Places In Between

by Rory Stewart

Sometimes a book is a good read because the author has an incredible imagination and spins a story that draws you in and keeps you captive. Other times, a book is a good read because the story it tells is true. It opens your eyes to a new and different world. The Places In Between is such a book.

Imagine walking in the dead of winter from Herat to Kabul in Afghanistan. As it turns out, there’s more than one route. One is longer and circumvents the mountains. The second is more direct, but requires traversing the mountains, climbing over passes that reach 13,000 feet elevation.

Imagine taking this trek and surviving and not getting frostbite. Advice from the Security Service (a scary duo who interviewed the author at the onset) is simply put:

You are the first tourist in Afghanistan. It is mid-winter—there are three meters of snow on the high passes, there are wolves, and this is a war. You will die, I can guarantee. Do you want to die?

Aah, but Rory Stewart is not your run-of-the-mill Scotsman. Indeed, he is used to living and traveling all over the world, working in diplomatic positions for the British Empire for much of his career. He is an Eton and Oxford-educated prodigal son, a historian in the most all-encompassing sense of the word. So, it is like a treasure find to read Rory Stewart’s account.

Not only does he describe what he is seeing, putting the people he meets in context of the land and the culture, but in an historical context as well. And sometimes, we discover, that not much as changed in a thousand years. The places that Rory Stewart visits—the places in between—are hidden from the world. No one covers them in the mainstream media, the newspapers, or journals. If not for Mr. Stewart, these places would not exist to us.

In addition to surviving the elements, Rory Stewart must also deal with a shifting political climate, where even the locals are not sure who their friends and enemies really are.

It is January, 2002, and the “coalition invasion” has just unseated the Taliban. Mr. Stewart gets unasked-for armed escorts and letters of introduction. The escorts are sometimes helpful and sometimes a hindrance. The letters work mostly for the next village alone, and from each village he must obtain letters or escorts anew. Many village leaders are wealthy within their own culture, but not all are literate. Rory Stewart’s language skills, people skills, and raw confidence see him through some tense situations.

Along the way, he acquires and then befriends a worn-out Mastiff dog who becomes his traveling companion and probably saves Rory’s life in a Jack London-type survival vignette.

And through this whole saga, Rory Stewart is carefully neutral on politics, carefully pragmatic I would say. His most political observation is

Most people in this area had not heard of Britain, though they had heard of America. Some had even heard of the World Trade Center, but they had no real concept of what it had been or why the coalition had bombed Afghanistan.

His agenda is historical from the beginning and he continues that work even today, heading a foundation that helps save traditional Afghan arts and architecture, buildings, artifacts, and crafts in Kabul and throughout Afghanistan. The Turquoise Mountain area, one of the place-gems he happened upon in his trek, is the source of his foundation’s name. Rory Stewart currently lives in Kabul.

I Have Become One of the Paparazzi

The story: while strolling the beach (Playa Medano) in Cabo San Lucas just to the left of Pueblo Bonito Rose, we stumbled upon the active filming of You Don't Mess With the Zohan, a 2008 Adam Sandler film. He is a Mossad agent who fakes his death so he can re-emerge in New York City as a hair stylist. Here is the video of one small shoot: Adam Sandler doing a push-up on the beach and then, his work finished for the time being, walking off the set.

Shining Through

Joop (pronounced ‘Yoop’, rhymes with ‘soap’) is my uncle. He’s from the Netherlands. He’s opinionated, stubborn, smart, musical, and artistic. He has created lovely oil paintings—works with abstract shapes and colors that tell a story.

His classical music recording collection fills shelves and shelves with CDs and VHS tapes of public television performances. Joop is kind and generous with people he knows and stingy and critical with authoritative figures. That could be left-over from the war. He joined the Dutch underground resistance as a teenager and was captured by the Germans. He escaped, but he was recaptured. Somewhere along the way, they broke his back (literally).

Miraculously, he survived. He emigrated to America. He taught art and art history in high school and met and married my aunt. They retired to the beautiful hills of North Carolina. I was visiting them—well, actually, I was taking care of Joop while my aunt went on a trip to visit her son.

Joop is a big man, but he has become a bit frail. He has a heart condition and diabetes that is controlled through a careful diet. He’s actually doing pretty well, considering all of his health conditions, but he can’t travel. This morning I fix his breakfast and we finish our coffee in preparation for the day.

Joop is a most gracious host and asks me, “Did you sleep well?” His Dutch accent has faded only slightly over the years.

“Wonderful, yes.”

“So, what would you like to do today?” he asks. Joop is the host and I am the guest. He wants to make sure my visit is pleasant.

“Oh,” I said, “I thought we’d drive into Marion, go shopping for some groceries. Later we can drive to the National Park’s Visitor’s center and look at the crafts if you like.”

“Yes, good. They have some wonderful ceramics there. Wonderful. But expensive. It’s really outrageous what they charge.” A pause. “Where’s Laura?”

“She’s visiting Randy. She’ll be home on Friday.” I smile in hopes that my smile will make it okay.

“Oh. That’s a long time.” (He misses her.) He thinks about it for a minute. “Would you like some breakfast?” Always the host.

“No, Joop. I’m fine. I already ate, thanks.” He looks down at his own spent meal and contemplates his breakfast. I get up and clear the plates. We eat in the living room on trays. The TV is on (always PBS), but it’s low. It’s really just background noise. The cat comes in and takes her place next to Joop. The dog growls a warning at me when I move close to take his tray.

Joop watches the television for a few minutes. I return and take my place on the sofa. He’s watching a program about ice skating.

“You know,” he says, “we used to go ice skating on the canals in winter. We would go out for hours. It was so cold. We would have races. I was pretty good. Then my mother would make us hot tea. I loved ice skating.”

His discourse about ice skating morphs into his father’s garden, his mother’s love for tea, and the camaraderie he had with his brothers and sisters. He doesn’t talk about the war and imprisonment, but he has in the past. I want to sit down with him and ask him all about that, but Laura doesn’t approve. She doesn’t want him to relive something that was so painful. So I respect her wishes and never ask him about it. His memory of his childhood is pretty good, though. Somehow, it shines through and becomes alive in his words.

The phone rings and I answer it. Laura is checking in.

“Yes,” I say, “we’re fine. We’ve just finished breakfast. . . Yes, we’re going out for a bit today. . . Okay, we’ll see you Friday.”

I hang up. “That was Laura. She says she’s doing fine with Randy and sends her love.”

“When is she coming back?”

“Friday. We’ll drive to the airport to pick her up.”

“Oh, that’s a long time.” He pauses. “So, what would you like to do today? Do you want some breakfast?”

And after a bit he adds, “Did you sleep well?”

A few years passed and surprisingly, vibrant, bright-eyed Laura succumbed to cancer just two months before Alzheimer's disease took Joop. I miss them both.