Perfection

Sitting on the porch of our cabin, facing the ocean, we ate breakfast and sipped mimosas while the chickens ran toward us, hoping for handouts. The hens and roosters milled around the flower beds surrounding the porch, pecking at insects or other spots they suspected might be food. The bravest, a black hen, came up on the porch, the better to catch crumbs that might fall on the deck.

Ben looked at me slyly, and turned to the fine-feathered rooster below him and said, “Cock!” He looked back at me impishly. “Cock!” he said again, more confidently. “And Carly” our female shepherd “is a bitch!” he added, chuckling.

“Oh, we’re 13 years old again,” I remarked, unable to keep from laughing. For a man who bellows four-letter words on the golf course, often using the same f-word as a noun, verb, adjective and adverb in the same sentence, he seemed to delight in the naughtiness of a couple of common nouns.

I could see pure joy in his face. He and I were having a perfect morning. I rose early and walked into town to find croissants for lunch sandwiches and a latte to drink on the beach. I returned to our cabin on the ocean at the Waimea Plantation Cottages on the west side of Kauai, and watched the sun rise over the morning clouds and the waves break on the red-sand beach. I sat out by the beach on an Adirondack chair with a book, a study in the anthropology of religion, and found it delightfully interesting, even though it had been close to incomprehensible in my exhaustion of the night before.

Ben returned from his morning run, waxing enthusiastically about his discovery of a pedestrian suspension bridge over the river and how the river ran down to the ocean to our beach, providing a perfect running path. Out on the porch, we opened a bottle of champagne and a carton of orange juice, broke open a package of blueberry muffins and shared a banana.

We were about as happy as two grouchy middle-aged, over-educated people – especially two as different as we are – can be together. For the moment at least.

Readers of this blog may often wonder “where’s the enjoyment?” Why do I travel so much and find so little joy in it? Why do I rent a $700 a night ocean-front room at the Grand Hyatt Kauai, and complain about the noise, the costs, the food, the kids, the loud adults, the leaf-blowing machines? Why not stay home?

The truth is, I am a perfectionist. I’m not perfect, I just want to be. And I want everyone and everything else to be, too. And if something isn’t perfect, then the whole kit and kaboodle can go to hell. Well, almost. Fact is, I can have a great time on a sunny day on the golf course in spite of my horrific score. I can enjoy a day at the pool with a few clouds. I can enjoy a meal at a nice restaurant even if the wine is overpriced.

But, paying $700 a night for a room at the Hyatt doesn’t ensure happiness. Indeed, it just buys you the opportunity to spend more money on overpriced services. A massage that costs $200, a buffet breakfast for $30 per person, a 2-ounce mimosa for $9. And, it doesn’t assure peace. We are surrounded by noise: noisy kids splashing around in the ostensibly adult pool; parents arguing with their children below our lanai at 6 a.m.; leaf-blowers replacing brooms on the pathways between our room and breakfast. The room loses its luxury patina once it is strewn with wet swimming trunks, wet golf clubs, dirty clothes, towels, extra pillows (does anyone really need eight pillows on the bed?) and half-consumed bottles of wine and cans of beer. We’re not really slobs, but we’re trying to live our lives in 350 square feet of space for five days.

But, a place like Waimea Plantation Cottages – with its ocean setting, its quiet (unsafe for swimming) black beach, its beautiful and tranquil grounds and roomy period cottages – harbors the potential for joy. Joy and peace.

So, here is the joy in traveling: finding a place that’s just perfect. Or perfect enough.

Vacations with Ben

Sometimes vacations with Ben seem like a long string of meals. Go for a walk, but be back in time for breakfast. Lie by the pool until it’s time for lunch. Take a nap, walk on the beach, pass the time until we dress for dinner.

Ben likes his vacations simple. They are the vacations of a working urbanite who puts in long hours, leaving for the office before daylight and returning home after sunset. They don’t strain the imagination; they don’t demand heightened senses of awareness in strange surroundings. They are filled with golf, swimming pools and dining rooms. They are perfect for a man who has plenty of excitement at work: deadlines, breaking news stories, difficult sources, complaining readers.

It took me a long time to get used to this kind of vacationing. My family didn’t do vacations much, and certainly not vacations in high-end hotels with fancy restaurants and more than one pool. I remember two or three vacations as a kid: a camping trip to Wisconsin, about six hours away from our Iowa home; one to the Lake of the Ozarks, to a cabin on the lake with the sound of waves breaking outside the windows, a sound that kept me awake all night. I think there might have been another one, but I’m not sure it wasn’t the same as the Ozarks trip.

Ben’s family didn’t go to expensive hotels, either, but he does remember the anticipation of driving into the parking lot of Howard Johnsons or Holiday Inns on family vacations, the anticipation of a hotel pool and vending machines. He remembers driving to the family cabin in Northern Wisconsin and spending hours in a fishing boat on the lake, relaxing, far from the hectic world of the Chicago advertising agencies where his father worked. I understand why his father wanted peace and quiet, and why Ben does too. (And then, there was his mother, whom I invited to go on a cruise to Alaska with me shortly after his father died. “Why would I want to go somewhere I haven’t been before?” she asked, absolutely seriously.)

I’ve learned to accept these laid back vacations – even enjoy them – because they aren’t the only vacations I take. My own sense of the perfect vacation has no origin I can put a finger on: it probably was the simple result of wanting to get out of a small town in Iowa, and go as far away as humanly possible. I travel with my friends to places that Ben wouldn’t find relaxing: Mexico, Peru, Guatemala, Ecuador, Bolivia. They are full of suspense and surprise. Occasionally, they require cunning: we get ourselves into a fix and have to put our wits together to get out of it.

When Janet, my favorite traveling companion, and I travel together, mealtimes are often unwelcome necessities. We put them off as long as possible. The food is usually poor and bland, and I don’t have enough fingers to count the times I have come home with campylobacter or salmonella poisoning from eating abroad. Janet comes home with respiratory distress; I come home with intestinal parasites.

This is not to say that I don’t like to eat when I’m on vacation with Ben. I eat way too much. I love food. I weigh at least 20 pounds more than I should because of it. But, sometimes, after a week on vacation with my husband, I start to dread mealtimes. I’m not hungry. Still, I can’t skip them, because they are the only excitement of the day – the only moments of discovery and sensory stimulation.

Yesterday was such a day. Today was too. The difference between the two is that the sun finally came out today, and finally, Hawaii looked like the Hawaii of postcards. We lay by the pool, ordering beers and screwdrivers, slipping into the water whenever we got too warm. We read. We talked a little. At some point, we agreed it was time for lunch. Now, I am reading and writing while Ben takes a nap.

Tonight, we will have dinner at Dardano’s a restaurant in the Grand Hyatt Kauai, where we are staying, and it will be excellent. I will fall asleep shortly after dinner, comatose with the carbohydrates of pasta and wine. Somewhere in the middle of the night, I will wake up, thanks to the red wine, and take a couple of Advils to go back to sleep.

Later this week, I will return to Seattle tan and rested, and Ben, I hope, will too.

Rain, limitless rain

Poipu Bay, Kauai

Yesterday, standing over my ball on the 16th tee at Poipu Bay, I pulled my driver back and felt the wind whipping the club head back and forth.

“Quit it!” I yelled to whoever was in charge of the wind. “Just quit it!” I have trouble enough hitting the ball square anyway, I certainly didn’t need the extra challenge of squaring up a wobbly club head.

By this point, I should have realized it didn’t really matter. Only Tiger Woods can score well playing in the conditions we faced. There wasn’t one pleasant moment. Under heavy gray clouds all day, our conditions varied from driving downpours that came at us horizontally, to lazy downpours that felt a like a heavy-duty rain shower in a bathroom, to wind gusts that made it difficult to stand still. The rain poured off the bill of my Ben Miller Invitational Golf Tournament hat, and after the first hole, there was no chance of keeping the club grips dry. My Goretex rain pants totally failed, and my Goretex coat was as wet inside as it was outside. I got diaper rash on my butt from sitting in the puddle that formed on the golf cart seat.

We have always come to Hawaii in November or December. That’s when Ben’s vacation time seems to finally build up to the point he can take a week off. And, right before Christmas, the resorts and roads are at their quietest, anticipating the holiday onslaught of tourists with kids. One year, our vacation started before Christmas and included Christmas eve and day. The first few days of the trip were pleasant and quiet, but then the children came, invading the pools and restaurants, and our trip went to hell.
Now, we plan to get here and home before the holidays, ensuring ourselves a little peace.

However, after this trip, we may reconsider our December choice. Since we got here, it’s been rainy, windy and gray. We have this weather at home; we don’t have to fly six and a half hours to see rain.

But stuck here now, we’re trying to make the best of it. We arrived on Wednesday night, and teed off at Poipu Bay at 10:00 on Thursday. The day was blustery, and we had a few sprinkles. But we had rain coats and it wasn’t bad … until the 18th hole. Then, the deluge started – the one that hasn’t stopped since – and we were miserably soaked by the time we finished the par 5. Ben and I both got a 9 on the hole, we’re not great golfers under adversity.

Actually, we’re not great golfers under any conditions. But, we’re trying, and we’ve lately devoted all of our joint vacations to finding beautiful places to swing clubs, drink a little beer, drive the cart, and, in Ben’s case, swear a bit. We’ve played in Puerto Rico, California, on the Big Island, here on Kauai, in Couer d’Alene and all over Washington. It’s a great way for a couple – especially one that seems to have few other hobbies in common – to spend time together and play.

One time in Couer d’Alene, we faced similar conditions – driving rain and fierce winds – but because it was also about 50 degrees out, I was able to convince Ben to stop playing after nine holes. Yesterday, as we tackled the coursse for the second day, Ben insisted we continue. It might be raining, but it’s a warm rain.

So, down the fairways we went yesterday, and down went our games. It rained so hard that by the time we were on the 15th hole, we decided the casual water rule pretty much covered the entire golf course, and if we didn’t like our lie, we could move the ball to a drier one (if one could be found). It didn’t help our scores much, but it relieved us from having to try to hit balls out of mud puddles.

By the time we reached the clubhouse, there wasn’t one dry spot on us or our clubs. We ran to the car, threw our wet gear and clubs in the trunk and rushed to the hotel for a shower. I brought my clubs into the room, so I could dry them off later, and stripped off my soaked clothes. It seems paradoxical that a shower can feel good after getting soaked in an 18-hole downpour, but it did. After a room service lunch, a glass of wine and a nap, I felt whole again.

Today, we rose to more gray skies, and the heavy rain showers continue. We aren’t playing golf in it, though, so we’ve had a chance to just sit back and marvel and the amount of water that can fall from the sky. I had a massage, and the rain came down so hard, the masseuse had to close the windows of the massage room. (The massage, by the way, was terrific, though very pricey at about $200 after tip.) We snuck over to the golf pro shop to take advantage of the 35%-off sale (off of everything, not just “selected merchandise”), and managed to get there and back between deluges.

Now, Ben is watching Wisconsin play basketball on the room TV. I’m sitting out on the deck of our room, which faces the ocean, and watching the seemingly limitless rainfall. It makes me homesick for our weather in Seattle, and that’s saying something.

Wintery Winter Park

Winter Park, December 3, 2007

I have spent three days in Janet’s house, and I have to wonder: How do these walls stay up with all the stuff she has hung on them? I’ve told Janet this before, so she won’t be insulted.

I really love her little condo – actually not so much the condo itself, but the decor. It wouldn’t be my choice of a place to live, but she’s got the decorating sense of a quilter, which she is. She puts together textures and colors – also cultures and locales – in the random, eclectic way a quilter combines fabrics of different textures and designs. The only thing that restricts the combinations is the fit – and even that is negotiable. The effect is the colorful and fun of barely controlled chaos.

What I’m really jealous of is her loft, which she has devoted to her quilting projects. It’s an entire room that doesn’t have to accommodate any other uses or humans. What luxury!

When I arrived on Friday afternoon, we had a celebratory glass of wine – a nice Rhone blend, and then took off for lunch at Fontenot’s, a Cajun restaurant, for gumbo (for me) and fish and chips (for her). The gumbo was decent, but nothing to write home about. Then, we visited the wine tasting room of a friend of hers, where Janet left some wine-themed throw pillows that she hopes to sell at the tasting room. I liked them so much I bought three myself.

Since we planned to go to the spa the next day, and I had left home without thinking to buy a bathing suit, we checked at BJammin’ – a sportswear shop that specializes in beach and ski wear. Maybe the word “specializes” doesn’t make any sense in that context. But, in any case, I found a suit that fit, and quickly concluded that no one – no one but Paris Hilton, perhaps – should try on a swim suit in the middle of winter, when pasty-white cellulite looks its worst. Yuck! A little suntan on those upper thighs would help some – maybe not a lot, but some!

We returned home, opened a bottle of wine to celebrate my new job (I’m starting a new one Dec. 17) and watched Sea of Love on cable. We’re such wild and crazy girls!

Snowshoeing up Elk Creek the next day was spectacular. We got about 6 inches of perfect powder Friday night, and I was thankful I’d rented an SUV for the trip. We made fresh tracks with the Highlander back to the trailhead, and from there, created sloppier first tracks with our snowshoes.

The tree branches and the trail were decorated with fluffy caps of fresh snow. It was clear, sunny and – hey! What happened to the oxygen around here!? I quickly realized that I had come from sea level to about 9900 feet above sea level in two days, and I had some serious oxygen deprivation. But, Janet was patient, I got over my embarrassment of huffing like a life-long smoker, and we made our destination and turned around. Coming back was more of a downhill slope and I began to feel a little more competent. It had been a long time since I snowshoed, but I quickly rediscovered it truly is just like walking. Funny walking, but walking.

We had dinner at a nice restaurant, Untamed Grill, with a bottle of wine (a malbec). I would recommend it if you’re really hungry and don’t mind spending at least $25 a person. I had great prime rib and Janet had a tasty, but perhaps too complicated, dish of beef medallions on couscous cakes with brie and a fine, tasty sauce. We both voted for the prime rib, and split our dishes. No dessert necessary.

On Sunday, I pulled my back trying to help Sam – her ancient, sweet black lab – up on the bed, after he faltered about half-on, half-off. I spent the rest of the day on the couch, leaning against hot pads and ice packs and watching the NFL. Not a great way to spend a nice sunny day in Winter Park. I always seem to hurt myself – or at least something related to my spine – when I visit Janet. We had dinner at Mama Falzitto’s, an Italian place that I highly recommend. Lots of food for the money, and the cobbler dessert was wonderful.

I returned to Seattle on Monday. Alaska boarded the flight early, in anticipation of trying to beat some of the bad weather in Seattle, but then we sat on the tarmac for an hour in Denver while the mechanics dealt with some mechanical issues. The flight was very bumby coming into Seattle, thanks to the Pineapple Express – the flow of Hawaii winter storms, which bring warm weather and monsoons to the Northwest every December.

I nearly got frostbite Monday morning, as I scraped ice off my windows. I had forgotten how cold temperatures below zero feel.

All in all, it was a great trip, most notably for getting to see Gina, Jenny and Janet. I’m very lucky to have such great friends and nieces.

Colorado Visiting

Winter Park, CO, November 29-December 1

I lived in Denver for more than 10 years. Ben and I moved there back in 1990, when I was thinking it would be my last hometown. White peaks on the horizon beckoned us to ski and snowboard in the winter. Purple peaks on the horizon called us to hike and backpack. The Broncos, Avalanche, Nuggets and Rockies kept Ben entertained. Technology, computer storage and dot-com companies gave us an Internet boom rush in the late 90s.

We lived in the Washington Park neighborhood, and we knew our neighbors well. We sat on our front porch with the dogs in the evening, drinking beer and watching the parade of people drawn to the Old South Gaylord shopping district's bars and restaurants. I worked at home for the first five years, then drove south on I-25 to the Tech Center for three years to work at a mining company and northwest to downtown to work at a public relations firm for a couple more.

But at some point, I got itchy feet. I have attachment issues that I blame on my long stint in an incubator after my pre-mature birth. I can’t stay anywhere very long. I don’t make many close friends, and those that I do make, I keep at a safe distance. So, after 10 years in one place, I started to feel like I’d been there long enough. I thought I recognized every face I saw on the 16th Street Mall. I grew tired of our house. The local authorities refused to let us build an addition on the back that would have preserved the garden landscaping we had installed on the south side of the house and would have preserved our north-side neighbor’s sun. I’ll never understand their objectives; they were actually encouraging pop-tops with their rules.

A job offer in Seattle was my ticket out. I’ll probably never move back.

But visiting is something else. Thanks mainly to the great friends I still have in Colorado, I usually have a fine time here, and usually don’t have time to see everyone I want to see or do everything I want to do.

When I arrived last Wednesday afternoon to a frozen city with an icy frosting of left-over snow, I drove straight to Argonaut Liquors on Colfax to stock up on wine offerings to pass out over the week. I remembered the store for having a big wine selection, and it still does.

At the cozy house of my friend Gina, we relaxed and shared some wine before heading out in the cold to dinner at Panzano Restaurant on 17th St. in the Capitol Hill neighborhood. I remembered it for its good pizza, but I decided to try the lasagna. Bad choice. A layer of dry, crumbly ground beef on the bottom was topped by some sticky layers of lasagna noodles, which was smothered with a grossly sweet marinara sauce. There was no cheese. Lasagna without ricotta or mozzarella or parmesan cheese! This was the laziest and poorest presentation of one of my favorite dishes I’ve ever had. Thankfully, the plate of big, fat, buttery breadsticks sated my hunger so I wasn’t totally disappointed.

On Thursday morning, Gina and I ran some errands – I had to send a FedEx package, she needed to pick up some rocks for her new landscaping, and we picked up eight of her dress jackets, which she had altered at the tailor’s shop. I bought some presents and a clock for our Palm Springs house at a great gardening store called Birdsall’s, where Gina once tested her patience for retail work.

We ate Mexican food at a restaurant along South Broadway. I ordered in Spanish, always looking for a chance to practice. However, the waitress was apparently embarrassed that she didn’t speak Spanish, so she didn’t bother to tell me. Therefore, although I ordered chile verde with flour tortillas, I received chile rellenos with corn tortillas. It wasn’t until we were eating that I overheard her talking with her daughter on the phone and to the cook in the kitchen – all in English.

Midway through the afternoon, I headed south to Colorado Springs to visit with my niece and her 10-month-old baby, Marshall, whom I had yet to see. I loaded up on meatloaf and five sides (including everyone’s favorite – creamed spinach) at Boston Market and drove more than a dozen miles east and north of the city to the suburban development where she is renting a home. It was dark by the time I got through the nasty, slow snarl of construction-menaced traffic to her neighborhood, and therefore, spent about a half hour lost and unable to read the street signs in the dark. Finally, after a frantic phone call – interrupted by signal interruptions – I reached the house to find Jenny and Marshall waiting at the door for me.

Jenny is my oldest brother’s daughter, and she recently took a job as a public defender. We look a slight bit alike. Marshall is quite possibly the best and most beautiful baby in the world, as her father will tell you. With a shock of curly brown hair and a perpetual smile, she sat on the floor happily trading toys and saliva with Jenny’s two dogs, Zoey and Swindle. The dogs play gently with Marshall, and he is not afraid of their big tongues or Swindle’s wagging tail.

Once Marland got home from work bearing a gift of zinfandel for dinner, he and I sat down and ate. Then while Marland watched Marshall, it was Jenny’s turn. I managed to make dinner last through both of these sittings.

The night passed quickly, and I found myself back on the road by 7 a.m. It took no time to find a Starbucks in the neighborhood Safeway, but thanks to some 13-year-olds’ need for blended foo-foo drinks at 7 in the morning, it took nearly 20 minutes to get my latte. Once on the road, I took I-25 to US 85 north to C-470. From there I zipped around the south and west sides of Denver, caught I-70 west without running into a bit of rush-hour traffic. This trip is much easier than I expected it to be at that time of day.

I reached my friend Janet’s condo outside of Winter Park long before noon. A snow storm was approaching, it’s heavy grey clouds just starting to spill over the mountain peaks, but I got there first.

Renting a car? A cautionary note from friends

Here's a note from a friend I met in Cabo, a good thing to remember when renting a car, wherever you are:

"We had our first major incident in Cabo when returning our rental car on Saturday. They charged us for some scratches on our car to the tune of $150 that were definitely there when we rented the car. Unfortunately for us, the copy of the agreement that I signed did not show the scratches as none of the carbon went through. Upon reviewing the original, the area was marked; however, they claimed that it was a different set of "new" scratches. When the clerk called me a "liar", I nearly decked him, but I got my wits about me, told him to itemize everything on the bill, and made it clear that they would never see a dime as I'm convinced that Citibank will support our claim. So, what's the moral of the story and something you may want to share with all of your traveling friends. Use your cell phone or digital camera every time you rent a car, and take thorough pictures of the vehicle before you leave the agency. We actually did that in Austria a few years ago because we had to leave the car in a parking space early in the morning when no one manned the rental car booth, and I wanted proof later (that I didn't need) if they claimed we did damage to the car."

Damiana

The mystery liquor in my margarita at Shut Up Frank's bar in Todos Santos was Damiana. See this link for more information: http://www.loscabosguide.com/mexicandrinks/damiana.htm.

La Vuelta

Home, Seattle, WA November 11, 2007

Ah, sleeping at home is so good. Ben next to me, giving off body heat and an occasional snort. Carly lying across my legs, snoring from a deep, uncomplicated sleep that I will never achieve, home or not. The mattress familiar and my little foam pillow cradling my bulging cervical disc just right. Even the traffic roaring behind us on Aurora soothing in its familiarity.

I got home last night about 11, after Ben arrived at the airport with a tiny Jaguar convertible to get me. It took a lot of shoving and rearranging to get my golf bag into the back seat in such a way that we could get the top to close against the 40-degree night air. I held my driver between my legs, and shrunk back in my seat as far from the passenger side airbag as I possibly could, given the fact that my seat was so far forward I could barely get my legs in the car. But we arrived home safely and by the time we got inside the door to greet Carly, I was over my anger at my husband’s impossibly silly idea to come to get me in a tiny review car instead of the nice, comfy – if old and dirty – Explorer.

The 13-hour trip home was uneventful, mostly. The driver, who had agreed to take me from the Posada to the airport for 800 pesos, tried to strong-arm me into paying 1000 pesos when we got there. I angrily retorted – struggling loudly with being angry in Spanish – that we had agreed it would be the same price as the ride he had sold me from the airport to La Posada six days earlier. If he’d been cruel and had stopped a mile or two short of the airport before trying his extortion, he might have gotten by with it. I would have had no choice. But, once I was at the airport door, I could just hand him the four 200-peso bills I had set aside for him, and walk away. Not much he could do.

The man sitting next to me on the flight to L.A. wore his noise-canceling head phones most of the way – no music, just the filter – allowing me to ignore him and work on a book review I’m writing. His name was Randy, he told me near the end of the flight, when he dropped the ear cuffs to chat. He is a jet mechanic for FedEx at Boston Logan, hence his concern with his hearing. He had been sailing in the Gulf of Baja with a former boss who is now a friend.

My seatmate on the flight to Seattle pissed me off by talking loudly (is there any other way?) in a combination of a language I couldn’t identify and staccato English into his cell phone for about 15 minutes until we pushed back from the gate. I never talked to him, nor he to me. We ate our chicken Caesar salads (my second in as many flights) in silence. I read the Travel + Leisure magazine I’d picked up in LAX, and blazed through the airline magazine’s crossword puzzle. It seemed vaguely familiar. Had I done it before?

I am looking back on the trip with some sadness. I didn’t have as much fun as I should have for the money I spent. I made a bad choice in a hotel so far off the beaten path. I didn’t play any golf, even though I lugged my clubs all the way down and back. I didn’t accomplish much adventure shopping, returning with only a piece of jewelry and two table runners. Ben commented that I didn’t even get much of a suntan, although he helpfully noted the raccoon eyes I acquired from my big sunglasses. Ah, the joys of returning home to those who love you unconditionally.

Next time, and there will certainly be another trip soon, I will not go until I have a reliable buddy to go with me – Ben or someone else. And, I will think twice before I again choose serenity over access.

Hasta luego!

Going Gringo

Todos Santos, BCS, Mexico November 10, 2007

Going Gringo isn’t so bad afterall. When I travel, I try to avoid the Gringo hang-outs. In San Miguel de Allende, where I lived for a month last year, I didn’t step foot in the New Orleans-style bar owned by an American ex-pat until Ben came down. And then, we only went in because we could get free wi-fi. Janet and I cringe when we see large groups of Gringos gathered someplace south of the border, loudly sharing tales that proved their cleverness and worldliness to each other.

But yesterday, I talked with local ex-pat Gringos in Todos Santos, hung out at a bar packed with ex-pats, and had two glasses of wine in a restaurant that only Gringos and Europeans flush with inflated Euros could afford. And, it was a good day. At least I didn’t spend it at the Hotel California.

My new friends, Marshall and Carolyn, bankers from Southern California, gave me a ride into town about noon, after both Carolyn and I had both had a relaxing massage out in the gardens, under a white canopy. Carolyn was in pain with a bulging disc in her lumbar region, but armed with a big, black orthopedic belt to strengthen her back, she was game for a shopping trip into town. I left them on the corner at the Santa Fe Café, where they went to have lunch, and I headed up the street to look at some ceramics I was considering.

I ran into an American sitting at an outdoor café with a Sprite. He told me he had ridden his Harley down from Placerville, California, but had fallen in Northern Baja, which laid him up at a hotel up there for two days. His trip had taken five days instead of three, and he’d missed the chance to cross over to mainland Mexico on the ferry to join a motorcycle festival. He was nursing a swollen right hand, a sore collarbone and a break in a small bone in his foot. He told me about his property in Todos Santos and the friends he made down here. I told him about my dog, my husband, the Posada La Poza and my hopes for landing a job when I got back. I glanced at my watch and realized I’d better get moving.

My ceramics purchases were squelched when the shopkeeper couldn’t find a complete set of blue and white Puebla dishes for me. But we had a nice long discussion about them, which gave me ample opportunity to hear and speak Spanish, and we parted friends in spite of the failed transaction. I stopped to buy a couple of table runners from an ex-pat whose brother I had met in the café here at Posada the day before, and she filled me in about her brother’s new romance. I told the sister that I thought the woman her brother was with seemed like a new girlfriend. I didn’t care for her brother much, but that didn’t stop me from wanting to hear all the details.

Then, I joined Marshall and Carolyn for a glass of wine at the cool garden inside the Santa Fe Café before we headed back out of town. On the highway leading to our turnoff, they convinced me we had to stop at Shut Up Frank’s, an ex-pat bar. The bar supposedly made “the best hamburgers on the block,” one Gringo told me, shouting above his noisy friends who packed the small patio on the street. We stepped inside and sat at the bar, and had what had to be the best margarita on the block: an inspired combination of tequila, fresh lime juice, a Mexican Cointreau and a dash of a peculiar Mexican liquor that I need to investigate further. A local pescadero who had lived some years in the U.S. worked to teach Carolyn some new Spanish words, and Marshall and I talked about golf. By the time we left, the ex-pats had all wandered off, and the streets were packed with what passes for rush hour in Todos Santos. We topped it off with a bottle of wine and dinner at the Posada.

While yesterday wasn’t the “going native” experience I usually try to find when I travel abroad, it seemed oddly appropriate for my last full day in Mexico. After a lonely week on this lonely beach, it was nice to connect with new people, and it reminded me that wherever you go, it's the same story: It's meeting people that makes the discomforts of travel all worthwhile.

Low blood sugar

Posada La Poza, Todos Santos, BCS, November 8, 2007

Okay, I have to tell you: This place sucks.

I have never had such indifferent hosts at a “boutique hotel” and paid so much for the privilege. No offers to help arrange rides to and from this mosquito-ridden swamp at the end of a long, dusty road. No suggestions of where to go or what to do. No recognition that a person without a car might need some assistance in getting to dinner on the night the restaurant is closed. Or even that you might warn her that the restaurant will be closed.

On the website and when you arrive, Juerg and Libusche promise the world, and for $265 a night, they should. But for that price they ought to deliver too. At the pool: “Just ring the bell, and the server will bring you whatever you want.” I rang the bell and no one came. Ever. At the bar, you can sit for hours and never get a drink. “Early-riser” coffee service is promised, but it isn’t set out until after 7:30. That’s early?

At the front desk, I ask: “Is the mission or church downtown open for visitors?”
Answer: “No.”
Hmmmm….. “What else might there be to see in town?”
No answer. Juerg is at the front desk, but doesn’t seem to be listening. I try again.
“Is the cultural center worth seeing?”
Answer: “They have some exhibits.” He turns and walks into the back room.

So here’s what I’d put on the website if I owned this place and wanted to run it like Juerg and Libusche do: “Come if you want. Drive your own car; there’s no other way to get around. And figure out what you want to do before you get here because we’re too busy to be bothered. And, by the way, our kitchen is closed on Thursday nights and the bar is almost never tended. We shut off the wi-fi when we want to. We turn it back on when we want to. If you think you can run the place better, go right ahead. We don’t care.”

Breakfast is served from 8 until 10. This morning I arrived shortly after 8, and Libusche curtly told me I couldn’t sit in the dining room yet. “We aren’t ready.” The tables were set and the lights were on, but dammit, I wasn’t going to sit in there until she was ready for me. So, I sat at the bar while she answered e-mails. Then, the magic moment arrived and I could enter. As far as I could tell, the only difference was it was now 10 minutes after 8 instead of 5 minutes after.

Here’s what I want to say to Libusche and Juerg: Folks, I imagine that it is hard to run a B&B. It’s a 7-day a week (or six-and-a-half, in your case) job, 52 weeks of the year. But you knew that. If you don’t want to do it, sell the place. Find someone who does. Anyone who is paying $265 a night for a hotel room deserves better than you can deliver.

I’ll tell you this: if I ever get out of here, I’ll never come back. But given the level of “service” around here, I may never find a ride out. Perhaps the Hotel California’s motto has moved from its namesake in town to out here: “You can check out, but you can never leave.” Now that would be hell.

Pasado La Poza, Todos Santos, BCS, November 9, 2007

Now that my blood sugar is approaching normal, having had breakfast, I should add a little perspective. This is not a place for singles, except those who really need a lot of time alone – like all day and night – to study or read or examine their navel. It is also certainly not a place for those who don’t want to drive in Mexico. Those two things should be made clear on the hotel’s website and in its marketing materials.

Last night, after realizing the restaurant was closed, I ate Cracker Jack and mini-Pringles out of the mini-bar in my room. I hate both. Because the bugs at night are thicker than molasses, I couldn’t go outside, and because the bar and restaurant were closed, my only option was my room. I couldn’t go into town, as there was no way to get there in the dark.

Now, if I want to stay in my room and read a book and eat junk food, I can do that at home. A $265 a night hotel room in Mexico is not the place. But, when I reserved this place, and told Juerg that I would not be driving, he did not say one word about the isolation here. He knew I’d be stuck, but he let me come anyway. I think that is bad guest relations.

And about the service: Although I've had better service a Ramada Inns on the interstate, at times Libusche is okay - she will stop and talk and even offer assistance. Juerg must just have too much to do. I find him obsequious at times, totally rude at others.

There are people who love it here. This morning I met Marshall and Carolyn, two bankers from Southern California who have a home near Cabo San Lucas. They are here for the third time, and say they like to come here for the first two days of every trip to Baja to relax before returning to the craze of Los Cabos. But they drive, of course. They can get into town to get dinner. And there are two of them. They can row out to the beach together and watch whales or simply gape at the huge breakers. They can talk.

Yesterday, I walked into town, looked around, had lunch and walked back. I was going to take a cab back to the hotel, but the driver wanted about $10 to take me the mile and a half, and I decided that was crazy. (Like a $265 room isn’t?) I tried to buy some jewelry, but earrings that should sell for $5 were priced at $20. How do you even begin to bargain from there?

I nearly bought two antique retablos – the hand-painted “muchas gracias” to saints or to Jesus or to the Virgin for miracles that saved lives or horses or whatever – but had to abort the transaction. Here, many things carry the same sign - $ - for both pesos and for dollars. When the peso is 1/10th the value of the dollar, it should be obvious which is intended on the price tag. When it isn’t obvious, something is horrendously overpriced. I thought the retablos were 190 pesos each, but the vendor wanted $190 each! After he had wrapped them up for me and presented me with the bill, all I could do was back out of the store and apologize.

“But they’re antiques,” he said. “Did you think they would be only $19?” Well, yes, I did.

I had a nice massage under a tent on the beach today. It was one thing that has not been overpriced – only $75 for 90 minutes. It was a nice massage, too. I feel much more relaxed. But then, relaxing hasn’t really been the issues here.

No pasa nada

Todos Santos, BCS, November 8, 2007

As I re-read and then post the blog entry below, written last night, I am disgusted with myself. It appears that yesterday morning, I came to the conclusion that there are only two things to do here: golf or nothing. Exploring the mission in town, finding a good desert hike, sitting in a downtown bar practicing Spanish by chatting up some locals – all perfectly good options to both golf and nothing – had escaped my imagination.

Perhaps the frustration with not finding a taxi that could take me back to my hotel on Tuesday strangled my sense of adventure. But, I have now bored myself. I hope to have a more interesting, less self-pitying entry to share with you tomorrow. If not, I should quit this obsession with travel and stay home. Perhaps armchair tourism is my style.

Egads, let’s hope not. On to a more adventurous day!

Todos Santos, BCS, November 7, 2007

Last night, I lay awake unable to sleep and wished I were home. I missed Ben and Carly. I was squirming because I saw two very large bugs in my room – or really one beetle and a large spider – right before going to bed. I was unhappy because my ground-floor location required keeping my sliding glass door closed, even though the room was stuffy and humid. And, the surf was particularly violent last night. In the still of the night, the roar was deafening and I had visions of a huge tsunami crashing into my casita, which sits only 150 yards from the beach and no more than a half-dozen feet above sea level.

As I lay awake, I weighed the possibility packing up this morning, trying to get a seat on the Alaska Airlines flight from La Paz (it only departs on Monday, Wednesday and Saturday), and heading home.

In the middle of the night, the thought of “wasting” three more days with nothing more to do than sit by the pool, walk on the beach, catch up on NYT Book Reviews and read novels wasn’t pleasant. Because of the poor transportation options, I realized I won’t be able to play golf. If I had someone to share the cab ride to the courses down by Los Cabos, it wouldn’t be so bad. We could split the fare, and we could work on finding a ride back together. But alone, it would cost me $200 roundtrip, and the cost of the golf would double that outlay. And who knows if I ever would get back?

If I go home, I thought, there is so much I can do, so much I can get done.

By daylight, my outlook improved. I could see that the surf, while high and noisy, was still no closer than it was the day before. I began to re-examine my options. I’ve already paid for this hotel room, so I wasn’t going to save any money going home early. The sun is going to shine down here for the next three days, for sure. And what exactly do I have to get done back home? What are those urgent items on my “to do” list? And what’s so wrong with not having anything to do? Isn’t that what some people think vacation is all about?

The problem is, I’m just not very good at having nothing to do. I decided to spend the day seeing just how lazy I could be, and seeing if I could figure out how to enjoy that.

No, I couldn’t manage to take a nap, in spite of how little sleep I got last night. I tried, but I couldn’t quit fidgeting. But I passed the day without doing anything that could be considered athletic or productive. I didn’t write postcards or go for a hike. I didn’t learn anything new about Mexican history or Mexican culture. I never even left the hotel grounds.

Instead, I had a leisurely breakfast while checking my e-mails. I read the second half of the Ann Patchett novel I brought. I read two more NYT Book Reviews. I took a picture of the bunch of green coconuts on the tree above my head. I got in the pool – just to get wet and cool off, not to get any exercise. I sat in the sun. I sat in the shade. I had lunch up on the terrace above the bar and scoured the horizon with my binoculars looking for whales. I made small talk with a couple from Denver and Palm Springs whom I didn’t even like. I checked my e-mails again. I had a margarita at the bar and talked to a couple from New York who recently bought a house down here. I had a salad and a glass of wine for dinner. That’s it. And I managed to spend about 14 hours doing all of this nothing.

I am not yet sure that I enjoyed it. How do you know when there’s so little to remember?

Tomorrow, I’m ratcheting it up a notch. I’m going to walk into town to find some jewelry for Christmas presents and cash for my ride back to La Paz on Saturday and a book about the region. I’m going to walk along the beach if the surf isn’t too high. The other thing I’m going to do … I’m going to have nothing but dessert for dinner. Yes, me, the anti-sweet, protein-loving me. Will wonders ever cease?

Traveling alone

Todos Santos, Baja California Sur, November 6, 2007

When you travel alone, wonderful things can still happen to you. You just have no one to share them with…at least not immediately. Bad things can happen too, but I don’t think those are the ones that make you most lonely.

Today, I was walking along the beach before breakfast, wondering what was causing the water to splash way out in the middle of the ocean, far from where the surf was breaking. Climbing up on a granite rock, I figured it out: whales were jumping up, splashing their tails, and diving down in real-life Pacific Life commercials. As if in a congo line, they swam along the top of the water, heading north, dived down, splashed their tails as if posing for postcard photos and apparently (though I could not see it) dived down and back below the surface to rejoin their joyous pod at the back of the line. The joy, from what I am told, is from the fact that the mating season has begun. Or as my new friends from Italy put it, the “loving season.”

“I’m not sure what is making them frolick is love,” I murmured to my breakfast companions, with the weight of 54 years of cynicism pulling down my vocal chords.

“It’s a rough translation,” laughed Fabrizie, a beautiful, red-haired, freckled Italian, whom I guess is about my age but looked much younger.

I met Fabrizie when I ran back to my room to get my binoculars so I could better spy on the “loving” ritual out on the sea. She joined me on the beach to watch the whales, both of us with cups of “early riser” coffee – the coffee the hotel puts out in the garden for those of us who can’t wait until 8 a.m. for our first caffeine fix. Later, she introduced me to her husband and daughter at breakfast. We talked about the whales and about U.S. politics and economics, and about their trip down from L.A., where the daughter and her new husband have settled recently for his new job with Boston Consulting Group.

Fabrizie and her family gave me ride into Todos Santos shortly before noon, as they headed south for Cabo San Lucas. Given how much they loved the birds and gardens and tranquility of our little beach hotel, I am certain that noisy Cabo, home of the chug-til-you-puke Cabo Wabo, will be a disappointment.

Catching the mating of the whales and meeting my new Italian friends were two of the great things that happened to me today. Another was the offer of a comfortable, air-conditioned ride back to the hotel. But more on that later.

Ten years ago, when Ben and I rode through Todos Santos on a Backroads bicycle trip, the town boasted 900 full-time residents. It was a quiet artists’ and fishing enclave with one decent tourist hotel and one restaurant that was open for dinner. The Hotel California was a rundown, slightly seedy and totally laid-back waystation housed in a crumbling stucco building with a creeky two-story portillo that ran along the main street into the village. Upon request – or more often without prodding – the desk clerk or bartender would plug the jukebox with centavos and play the Eagles’ “Hotel California” over and over. You could buy a muscle shirt that said “you can check out but you can never leave” for five bucks. If you had plenty of pesos –no credit cards accepted – and were in town from 11 to 2 in the middle of the day, you might be lucky enough to find an artisan shop open that would sell you something that bespoke raw talent but little polish.

Realizing what the thriving tourist industry has brought to this town was the worst part of my day. Today, the Hotel California has a fancy new paint job, a fancy front desk, and a huge bar and restaurant suggestive of a Mexican Macroni Grill. A busload of tourists brought in from Cabo had just arrived when I walked along the portillo this noon, and the restaurant was crowded with guayabara-clad retired Yanquis and large women with gigantic costume jewelry. I felt like I’d stumbled across a Tex-Mex restaurant in Oklahoma City.

Dozens of tourist hotels and shops now crowd around the handful of surviving artisan galleries. The shops all sell the same wares – ceramics from Puebla and Guanajuato, painted figurines and cheap knock-off weavings from Oaxaca, and silver jewelry from Taxco. Once upon a time, you could only buy a Bronco’s tee-shirt if you went to Denver and you could only find fine Talavera ceramics in Puebla. Is something of value to regional culture lost when you can’t tell one part of a country from another because all of the once-local crafts (or sports-franchise tee-shirts) have become commoditized across the continent?

There are more jobs in Todos Santos now, and the town’s official population count – well into the thousands - can’t keep up with the in-migration. Local people have more choices and more opportunities. Tourism has brought many things we take for granted in Seattle within reach here – including those things they can now buy at Home Depot and Best Buy. There are more and better doctors in town. (Probably more lawyers, too.) The roads are being improved so that the September rain doesn’t cut Todos Santos off from the flush visitors coming in from La Paz and Los Cabos. It’s not the place it used to be. That is all good. Except for academic anthropologists, aging locals who can’t keep up with rising rents, and nostalgic travelers like me.

Hot and tired of the dusty streets, sticky air and crowded tourist shops, I decided to head back to the hotel only a couple of hours into my visit. Libusche (the owner of my hotel) had told me that I could find a taxi at the pueblo’s main park. But, no taxi was to be found. An old man peddling sugary popcorn from a ped-cart offered to ride off to find me one. But, given the heat and his skinny frame, I couldn’t allow him to burn off energy solving my high-class problems. So, I walked up the street to a prosperous-looking jewelry store and asked if they knew where I could find a taxi.

“Hagame el favor de decirme, donde se peude encontrar un taxi?” I asked.

“There are only three taxis in town,” said a healthy-looking young man, stringing silver pendants on an earring tree at the counter. Nine times out of ten, whenever I ask a question in Spanish at an establishment aimed at Gringos, I am answered in English. I’m practicing my Spanish, they’re practicing their English and everyone is trying to show off a little. “Everybody here has a car already,” he explained. “Where are you trying to go?”

He had never heard of the Posada La Poza, where I am staying, but offered to take me, if I could tell him how to get there. I thanked him, but said that was asking too much. He had a business to run and I couldn’t let him do that. I would just go back and wait at the park for a taxi. Perhaps after lunch and siesta, someone would show up looking for a fare.

I went back to the park corner and sat up on the crumbling stone wall surrounding the weed-chocked gardens and thought about how prosperity may have arrived, but it hadn’t bolstered enough civic pride or tax receipts to provide for a nicely manicured park or decent sidewalks. My fascination with Third World travel was wilting in the grime, heat and humidity, when the man from the jewelry store pulled up in front of me in a brand-new American-made SUV.

“If you know where the hotel is, I can take you,” he offered again. Thinking quickly that this could be the stupidest thing I had ever done – hopping in the car with a stranger without a license to chauffer and possibly no other way to be traced should he decide to rob me and leave me stranded along some dusty Baja highway – I threw judgment aside, doubled down on my faith in my fellow man, and jumped in. The truck was even air conditioned! I thanked him for the air conditioning, and he looked at me with resignation. What was I expecting? A horse and buggy?

Fifteen minutes later, I asked my benefactor if I could possibly pay him for the ride, but he refused, and I hopped out at my hotel entrance.

Other than that, I have little to report for today’s adventures. I swam a bit in the cool saltwater pool, read half of a new Ann Patchett novel in my hammock, cleaned up for dinner, took a picture of the beautiful red sunset (“red skies at night, sailors delight,” my grandmother used to say), and checked in with my husband by e-mail.

I wish all of you were here, as I am more and more convinced, the older and older I get, that travel is better with friends (or husbands), with whom to share the good and the bad. Perhaps by reading this, you’ll make me feel less alone.

Todos Santos Dia Uno

November 5, 2007

Todos Santos, Baja California Sur, Mexico

The day started well with an on-time trip to the airport (thanks for the ride, Ben) but while sipping my Starbucks in the Alaska Boardroom, I got a call from Deb, who was supposed to meet me there for our flight to Todos Santos. Deb forgot her passport in Yakima. She couldn’t get on the plane, and so I’m going alone.

I am disappointed, of course. The most unfortunate thing about that is – okay, two things – are that it doubles the cost of the cab rides and the hotel room for me, and that I will be picking up a game of golf by myself, always an intimidating experience for a high-handicapper, aka shitty golfer. But, otherwise, I’ll be fine.

I’m staying at the Posada La Poza, which is isolated out on the coast, a mile or so from Todos Santos. I was glad my cab driver from the La Paz airport knew where he was going, as I would have given up on the 15th or 20th turn down the dusty dirt road from town to the coast and I would never have made it.

The owners of this boutique hotel, Juerg and Libusche, are gracious, and I hope they stay on the light side of obsequious. He is Swiss, and she is Czech. She says she speaks seven languages, and I’m not qualified to test her on that, so I’ll take her word for it. His English is better than hers, and from what I could hear, his Spanish is too. I’m sure she excels at Czech.

My room is large and generally pleasant, except for the Botero-like mini-sculpture on the desk, which makes me want to skip dinner for the next five nights. I have my own patio and Jacuzzi outside my room. If it doesn’t cool off considerably, I’m afraid the Jacuzzi will be a waste, but the patio is serene.

From my room, I can hear and feel the pounding Pacific surf, even though the droan of the air conditioning unit behind the building is working hard to drown it out. If I could leave the surf-side door open, it might help, but without any security latch on the screen, I can’t do that.

The grounds, however, are gorgeous. The bookcase is stocked with several books, including a bird guide, as the garden attracts hundreds of hummingbirds and song birds. Without appearing highly groomed, the landscaping is dense enough to create privacy, but random enough to evoke the desert outside of town.

The saltwater pool’s irregular shape and muted color nearly fool you into thinking it’s a lagoon instead of a man-made pool. Across the real lagoon, on the other side of the pool from the hotel, is the beach, which runs two miles south and “almost endlessly” to the north, according to the hotel’s brochure. I’ll have to check that out tomorrow.

I am taking seriously the hotel’s warning to keep away from the ocean and the surf. Ten years ago, when Ben and I were here on a Backroads trip, I happily rushed into the surf with a beer in hand, and was promptly knocked on my ass, losing my beer, my sunglasses and my hat in an ignominious display of Midwestern naivete. I won’t make that mistake again.

Dinner at the restaurant tonight - $20 before tip and taxes – was excellent, and that’s a good thing, as I think I’ll have to eat there every night, given the distance into town and the early sunset (about 5:45). A young couple from Montana, who sat at the table next to me, said they have eaten here every night on their stay and were never disappointed. There’s something nice about being able to have a glass of wine and relax over dinner without worrying about the logistics of getting home – or back to the hotel. Also, I was able to buy a bottle of wine – much less expensive than wine by the glass – and the waitress will cork it and keep it for me to finish over the week.

I saw little of Todos Santos on my way in. But it does seem much bigger than it was when Ben and I rode our bikes through here 10 years ago. People told me it had grown a lot, and that’s apparently true.

Stay tune for my next exciting tale, likely to describe sitting by the pool, catching up on weeks of NYT Book Reviews. It’s bound to mesmerize.

Nodding off, I am happily in Mexico again.

Packing up

So, I'm getting ready to go to Todos Santos for some sun and golf and sitting around talkin'. Deb Holbrook is going with me. She's Diane Gamache's sister. Diane and I met at Expedia, and she's now doing her own thing, managing SOX compliance for small companies. Deb is a dental technician and she lives in Yakima, center of the Yakima wine viticulture area (AVA).

You can find out what we're doing everyday by reading this new Viajesdelacostachica blog, written by me, La Costa Chica, herself. It's easier than writing longhand, you see. And it encourages stream-of-conciousness writing - or uncontrolled regurgitation of unconsequential thoughts - which is the same thing.

I hope that I will get to post many more such viajes blogs over the next year, although the threat of a real job looms. I'd say "ominously looms," but I think that's redundant.

My loving husband promises to read this blog. If anyone else happens to tune in, be sure to post your responses to my blathering. They will doubtlessly be more interesting than this blog itself.

If you want a postcard from my viajes, send it along. I promise to oblige. In fact, then everyone can start sending everyone else postcards, and we won't have time to waste on that silly game of golf anymore.

Hasta luego, amigos!