Countdown To Machu Picchu

We are several weeks away from our trip to Peru and already I’m doubting my ability to:

1-Hike four days and three nights from Cuzco to Machu Picchu,

2-Survive mosquitoes on the Amazon,

3-Have the “mystical experience” I think I’ll have.

Why do I play these minds games?  I’m an intrepid traveler and have always been relaxed and enjoyed whatever comes my way during trip (including AK47’s pointed at my in Nigeria). I can sit still for hours with airport delays and come away with new friends.  I’ve eaten boiled grub worms in China and found to be “ok, but a little salty.”

I’m in great physical shape; I have all the necessary shots; I have a friends and an experience team of travelers… so, I need to prepare mentally.

Ok Then, Just Write

I remember being scared to say out loud, “I want to be a writer.”

That’s not entirely true. I declared to my mother when I was 11 that I wanted to be a journalist for National Geographic Magazine. Her immediate response was,”Well then you’ll always be lonely.” I guess back then the thinking was still that restrictive for girls; maybe it still is. That deflating comment came from a very progressive mother, and it stung for decades.

It took me until age 40, yes 40, before I could declare to my husband and two closest, lifelong best friends that “I want to be a writer.” Seventeen years later, I’m still primarily writing in my journal. I tweet for my public professional persona. I submitted one short story once to one publication. They printed it, paid me, and the editor wrote me a note thanking me for sharing such a touching story.

I blog, sometimes.

More and more though I hear the deep voice of myself wonder”Why?” Why do I fight what my soul wants?

At this stage in life it doesn’t even matter if people like my writing. It’s more about my need to do what I was put here to do.

Write. Just write.

 

Megabus? Me? Why, yes!

I first heard about Megabus being available in the United States from a woman in Texas who I assessed, based upon her expensive jewelry and clothes, and, yes, big hair, would never ride a bus or any form of public transportation.

She was slightly embarrassed to admit to our group of equally coiffed women about to board a cruise ship to Mexico (I was the last minute invitee to round out the group) that she had enjoyed her ride on the Megabus from San Antonio to Galveston “and it only cost $36 USD roundtrip!”  We were all intrigued.

Texas is a large state and driving  between major cities–Dallas, Houston, San Antonio, Austin, El Paso, Galveston–will take anywhere for four to twelve hours.  Yes, twelve hours and you are still in Texas.  The state has two time zones after all. Air travel isn’t cheap and security is a hassle for many.  But a bus?!

The Megabus adventuress assured us the double deck coach was clean, people were quiet and “they weren’t as poor as you thought they’d be.” (cringe) I vowed to take the Megabus from Dallas to Houston and back next time I wanted to see my lifelong friend, Cally.

I realized I wasn’t going to Houston as often as I’d like because my car was old, I become sleepy when I drive the 241 miles between the cities, the flight is too expensive and, well, I just didn’t enjoy the hassle. I logged on to Megabus.com to see my options.

I was stunned.  Megabus travels extensively not only throughout the US, but Canada and Europe. Who knew?  I booked my roundtrip from Dallas to Houston for less than $50.  Had my friends in Houston been willing to  pick me up from the downtown stop at 1 am, my roundtrip cost would have been $4. Yes, $4.

There are two Megabus stops in Dallas.  The one I chose was downtown at the local public  transportation bus transfer center. Passengers had already started lining up on the sidewalk when I arrived.There was just a small Magabus sign and a couple of attendants with Magabus shirts.  You are allowed one bag to check and carry-ons that will fit under your seat.  Everyone seemed to follow this rule, unlike airplane travelers who insist carrying half their belongings and are indignant when the flight attendants make them “gate check.”

A family in front of me had one too many bags.  there was a moments confusion about what they were going to to when the man in front of them offered to put one on their smaller bags into his large suitcase, thus avoiding an extra charge for anyone.  An easy solution.  Everyone was happy and we all boarded the bus slowly and quietly.

The bus was clean.  The rest room is a port-a-let, but, it, too, was clean.

We arrived in Houston in the same amount of time it would have taken me had I driven my own car, about four hours. The driver asked if we all remained seated until our bags were taken off—and we did it!  We stayed seated.  There was no jostling and grabbing bags to be first to de-board like on an airplane. Peaceful.

My return trip was just as pleasant.

http://www.megabus.com

Everyone Bought a New Face This Summer

There are more than 3.3 billion facelift procedures in the US at a cost of $10.1 billion annually, so I should not be surprised when I run into yet another person I don’t recognize because she (or he) is wearing a new face. Clearly Obama is right and the US economy has recovered because more “regular” people have the money available to return from vacation with a new face.

I’m not talking about the botox fix that freezes out the exclamation point between the eye brows or the fillers that plump up the “parentheses” around the mouth. I’m referring to not recognizing the person who just greeted me at the market with a hug and a conversation of familiarity.

I’ve read a few stories on the psychological adjustments those with new faces encounter when they look in the mirror, but what about us who have to look at these “new” people every time we are around them? It’s unsettling. Interestingly, though not surprising, it seems to be attractive people who buy another attractive face.  So I’m looking a beautiful face, but not the one I knew before.

Which makes me realize how dependent I am on emotions expressed through facial movements  during a conversation.  Aren’t we all actually? The frown to say “I’m unhappy” or the lift of a brow to show skepticism.  Gone is the joy of a face crinkled in an all consuming smile of joy.

I find it difficult to know if someone is really understanding what I’m saying when her face simply doesn’t change the entire conversation.  It does feel like I’m talking to a robot (or to someone who just doesn’t care).

Remember the late artist, Georgia O’Keefe, or the late actress, Jessica Tandy? Women who let their faces express a life-time of living through layer upon layer of crevices.  Even Brad Pitt and Leonardo DiCaprio have recognized they have to allow some wrinkles in order to credibly show emotion on screen. 

I understand the frustration in looking older than you feel (me) or in being stunned to see an angry person staring back in the mirror (when you’re not angry), but I think the price is too much.  It’s becoming too hard to “feel” a conversation when your face is frozen in a purchased look.  Let’s enjoy our wrinkles, especially the memories that made them.

 

 

Stranger in Her Backyard

Maris wasn’t a light sleeper, but her ear would catch unusual sounds in the house at night and wake her for investigation.  Her husband of twenty-seven years literally slept through lightning striking the tree outside their open window once, so she knew, if there was ever a noise, she would have to look around the house on her own.

So when she woke to the sound of running water, she lay still in her bed, listening over the hum  of the ceiling fan, to determine the source.  Her first thought was to wonder if it was Sunday or Thursday, her automatic sprinkler days.

” No. No, that’s not it because it’s Saturday… Unless my timer has screwed up.

“That sounds like the water faucet just outside our bedroom window.”

Without thinking, she reached out and touched the spot next to her where her cat always slept. He wasn’t there. She rolled around to look toward the bedroom window where she saw him sitting on the edge of the sill, staring at something outside. His head was slowly moving back and forth, following motion outside the window.

Maris got out of bed and tip – toed to the window, hoping to peek out the sliver of a gap in the curtain made by her cat’s body.  No luck. She leaned forward so her head was at the same level as her cat’s. Still no luck in having the right angle needed to see what was going on.

The water shut off. She froze.

“Did he see me? Why do I think he is a he? It could be a woman. Would that make a difference? Why am I thinking all this right now?”

Maris walked to the den, which also had a view of the backyard. She peeked around the corner, but saw no person and nothing unusual. The house was quiet again. She thought about doing something else to see what was going on, but, for some odd reason, decided not to. So she went back to sleep.

The next morning she looked to see if the backyard faucet hose was off its holder or looked disturbed.  It was slightly jumbled, “but it always is,” she thought.

It happened again three nights later.

The sound of running water. Her cat in the window watching something. This time though, Maris decided she would pull the curtain back far enough to see who was out there. Again, she thought about waking her husband but knew he would simply say, “What do you want me to do?”

“What if, like a horror movie, his face is right outside the window and he’s waiting for me? I have to know what’s going on.” That was Maris’ approach to life, always curious, fearless in that curiosity.

She peeked through the curtain to see a bearded man, bare-chested, scrubbing his shirt under the running water.  He was very thin, gaunt. Maybe only 150 pounds on his 6’4″ body. His collar bones jutted out like sticks.

His boots and socks were sitting off to the side.  The socks appeared to be laid out to dry. The heels of the boots were worn almost flat. His tan workman’s pants were cinched tight with a brown belt blackened by use. A small backpack was sitting nearby on the grass.

He laid his shirt out on the hedges then turned to the faucet and started washing his face, neck, chest, underarms… He was meticulous in how he cleaned each part of his body. He cleaned his fingernails by running one nail under the other until all were clean. Or, at least, Maris assumed they were clean.

The moon was full and bright.  The natural light and the fact that he was only about four feet from her window made it easy for her to see that his skin was tanned mahogany, his hair was touching his shoulders and parted in the middle, his beard was full and hung mid-length at his neck, he stood very straight and appeared “refined, cultured, dignified… how to describe it?” wondered Maris.

He turned off the water and sat on the grass beside his drying clothes. Knees tucked under his chin.  He closed his eyes and seemed to fall asleep immediately.

She stepped away from the curtain.

“Who does he think he is coming into my backyard?” Maris tried to be angry and offended, but wasn’t.  “I need to lock the gates.”

“But why?” said another voice. “What has he done, but use a little water to clean himself?”

Her cat stepped away from the curtain and looked up at Maris as if to say, “Let’s go back to sleep.”  Bootsey jumped on the bed and started cleaning himself.  Maris peeked out the window. The man and all his belongings were gone. Disappeared.  It was just moments before that he looked like he was sleeping and now he was gone. “Is he a ghost? Or an angel? Or a test?”

Maris had a theory that anytime she encountered something that needed care it was a test by God to see what kind of person she was.  How did she respond when something, or someone, in front of her needed help.  It could be as simple as picking up trash to nodding “hello” to  homeless people, or giving them food.

“Food. I bet he’s hungry.  He certainly looks hungry. But is he coming back?”

Four days later, again before Saturday morning sunrise, Maris woke to the sound of running water and her cat sitting in the window sill, watching. Maris didn’t bother getting out of bed. She knew what she was going to do.

On Monday night, after her husband had fallen asleep, Maris filled a water bottle and put fresh bread and bananas in a zip lock bag.  She sat these items in a basket next to the water faucet outside her window.

On cue, before dawn Tuesday, she woke to hear the running water, saw Bootsey in the window watching, but decided to return to her sleep rather than getting up.  “Let him have his privacy.”

In the morning she checked the basket outside.  The food and water bottle were gone. The basket remained.

Maris sat food and drink out every Monday and Friday night for the next six weeks.  And every Tuesday and Saturday morning before dawn, she heard the water running outside. She added Ensure (“That’ll give him more nutrition”) and sandwiches to the basket.  She only used soft food because she assumed his teeth were bad and he wouldn’t be able to chew well.

When the first cool breeze of the fall came, Maris added a sock cap, scarf and socks to the basket.  She didn’t look out the window anymore when she heard the water.  She’d just look at Bootsey watching the Stranger and then return to her sleep.

Then it stopped.

One Saturday morning she woke on cue, but heard no running water.  Bootsey was asleep beside her. She couldn’t go back to sleep and just laid in bed until sunrise. While her husband still slept, Maris went into the backyard.

The food and drink were gone. In the basket was a note that said, “Thanks.”

Maris smiled. She knew he was gone. She’d passed the test.

New York City Hotel “Find” -Club Quarters Midtown

Just three blocks from the neon chaos of Times Square, this quaint, elegant, neatly appointed, Euro-style boutique hotel located on the prestigious address of 45th between 5th Avenue and the Avenue of the Americas.

It’s a delightful and very reasonably priced “find” in the heart of Manhattan and I wonder how I’ve missed it before.

Fewer than 200 rooms scattered over six floors, its tiny elevator and small hallways could cause concern that the rooms are cramped.  They aren’t.  The rooms are comfortably sized with small, but functional bathrooms.  The decor is relaxed modern.

The lobby is inviting and has a spacious bar with conversation-encouraging seating.  The restaurant, “Restaurant Patrick,” is owned and operated by award-winning chef, Patrick Wilson.  His wife joins him on the weekends from their home in Connecticut. The “American Cuisine with International Flair”  menu is limited, but delicious.

The staff is still refining their front desk processes, but any flinch in service is easily overlooked by their pleasant personalities.

The name, Club Quarters Midtown-Times Square, sounds more stiff  and business-like than its warm, cozy reality.

Survived First Cruise

I’m a liar.

I have always said I would “never take a cruise.” Then I did.

I blame my lifelong best friend who happens to also be one on the top sales people in her profession. There’s a reason for that; she can convince you to do something you really don’t want to do. Like a cruise.

I joke I’m just thankful my friend doesn’t try to have me do something illegal, illicit or immoral. I’m not weak, she’s just that good.

Taking a cruise ship that spews waste into the ocean and is eleven stories of gluttony is pretty bad. I’m convinced if you made every one lose weight to reach a normal weight you could fill a second ship with the leftovers.  Do you really need a discount pass so you can have fifteen alcoholic drinks a day? Or the pass that allows you to pump your kids with unlimited sodas? Yikes!

So how did I enjoy myself?

I decided I was going to enjoy the trip.  Once I said, “Yes, I’ll go,” I decided I was just going to “go with the flow” (within some parameters).

I went with my best friend and we traveled with four other women she knew from work. We had three sets of close friends, but enjoyed each other enough to easily rotate various combinations of who was doing what with whom.

We didn’t always  stick together.

We participated in a few activities on the ship, but selected carefully.

We took naps.

We had our own private balcony for quiet escape.

We found the “quiet deck” on the ship to be near others reading and napping but not interacting with them.  Isolation in community.

Our one excursion was to a private island where we did nothing but watch the waves.

I was mesmerized by the ocean and saddened to know it needs more care. Aware I wasn’t helping by being on a ship.

Would I cruise again? No.

I would, however, like to sail on a boat large enough to be out to sea for a few days. Hear nothing but the waves.  No night lights except the stars and moon. Silence.

Next time.

 

 

That Moon Still Catches Me

Yes, all of us on earth “look up and wonder at the same moon,” but it still thrills me to know that we do.

I stare at that shine in the night and imagine people in different parts of the world and wonder what they are thinking right now as they, too, look at the moon. And what did those on the other side of the night where its now morning think when they saw the craters that look like a face.  Or does everyone think it looks like a face? A man? What are the traditions around the world?

People living in places that  may be very different from my home…a city, a field, a jungle, a mountain, war ravaged terrain, lush garden… I imagine they have that same feeling inside. The one that catches us off guard and reminds us we’re just one here together on this planet.  We really do all look up and “wonder at the same moon.”

And I believe in that surprising moment we share a longing to connect together.

Sometimes that’s when I ask the moon beams to thread us together.  Remind. Just one. Together. All here. Same planet. People. Sharing feelings.Love.