- Published on
When I was an HR consultant, time was money. It's still currency, but traded only for something worthwhile, otherwise greedily hoarded. As I was reminded this weekend when reading the back of a book called Still Life at 80, with age comes clarity. But one of my big questions has always been: When does clarity seep over into rigidity?
Small decisions can have long term consequences. An injury was my reason for shortening gym workouts from an hour to half an hour, but is this the new normal? Out of curiosity and enthusiasm, I used to say yes to so many things. But when invited to join a neighborhood group recently, all I could envision was the soapboxing that happens at all public meetings, and took a pass. Does this mean I'll never again be involved in civic life? Or that I've learned it's not a good fit for me. Clarity or rigidity?
Back in the Stone Age, I went to a small all-girls boarding school as a day student. I don't remember our first meeting, or how Sandy and I became friends at an awkward age when you judge people only on which music they listen to and what clothes they wear. She came from a world so different than mine. Her mother wore red lipstick and went to The City to get a dose of culture. They used cream in their freshly ground coffee and whipped butter on their Zabar's bialys. Sandy had a beautiful sleigh bed with satin sheets, she wore only designer jeans, and maybe colored her hair, even in high school. From my perspective of painfully awkward European parents, younger noisy siblings and embarrassing Levi's with an upside down label because they were seconds, her life was a fairytale and I liked nothing more than escaping into it. She was also someone who was pensive and not swayed by tides.
We spent a lot of time together; at school in class, hanging around, on the tennis team, weekends too. Likely I'd only relent to going to my house in order to get high unsupervised up on the third floor, where a most magic breeze would suck the smoke out. We talked openly with each other about things we struggled wit, having similar desires to sort out this life thing. When she got her retro beige BMW 2002, we went on road trips and I remember her saying "We've got a full tank of gas and a full pack of cigarettes, we can go anywhere."
We remained friends after college, taking a trip to Rio together where we got matching dresses and learned to love Caipirinhas. Then as we moved into lives in different states, eventually had families, we stayed connected, but not in touch.
This past weekend, I went to visit her in Rhinebeck, NY. From the minute we met at the Garden Cafe, time stood still. Or maybe it went backwards, but it was also very much in the present. We might not have been sitting in the smoking chair in Bronxville, NY, but nothing had changed; we talked and talked and talked. We acknowledged that while our mothers were different in appearance and interests, their personalities and overbearing influence on us was similar. On the drive home, I realized that while she may be deliberate and tidy while I'm seat of the pants and messy, we see parts of life similarly. Time and all the life that has happened changed nothing there.
All that idle time sitting in the smoking chair way back when? It at least in part built this friendship we've unearthed. Alright, maybe I'll join the neighborhood group. And keep watching Yes Man every few years to keep me on the right side...
Small decisions can have long term consequences. An injury was my reason for shortening gym workouts from an hour to half an hour, but is this the new normal? Out of curiosity and enthusiasm, I used to say yes to so many things. But when invited to join a neighborhood group recently, all I could envision was the soapboxing that happens at all public meetings, and took a pass. Does this mean I'll never again be involved in civic life? Or that I've learned it's not a good fit for me. Clarity or rigidity?
Back in the Stone Age, I went to a small all-girls boarding school as a day student. I don't remember our first meeting, or how Sandy and I became friends at an awkward age when you judge people only on which music they listen to and what clothes they wear. She came from a world so different than mine. Her mother wore red lipstick and went to The City to get a dose of culture. They used cream in their freshly ground coffee and whipped butter on their Zabar's bialys. Sandy had a beautiful sleigh bed with satin sheets, she wore only designer jeans, and maybe colored her hair, even in high school. From my perspective of painfully awkward European parents, younger noisy siblings and embarrassing Levi's with an upside down label because they were seconds, her life was a fairytale and I liked nothing more than escaping into it. She was also someone who was pensive and not swayed by tides.
We spent a lot of time together; at school in class, hanging around, on the tennis team, weekends too. Likely I'd only relent to going to my house in order to get high unsupervised up on the third floor, where a most magic breeze would suck the smoke out. We talked openly with each other about things we struggled wit, having similar desires to sort out this life thing. When she got her retro beige BMW 2002, we went on road trips and I remember her saying "We've got a full tank of gas and a full pack of cigarettes, we can go anywhere."
We remained friends after college, taking a trip to Rio together where we got matching dresses and learned to love Caipirinhas. Then as we moved into lives in different states, eventually had families, we stayed connected, but not in touch.
This past weekend, I went to visit her in Rhinebeck, NY. From the minute we met at the Garden Cafe, time stood still. Or maybe it went backwards, but it was also very much in the present. We might not have been sitting in the smoking chair in Bronxville, NY, but nothing had changed; we talked and talked and talked. We acknowledged that while our mothers were different in appearance and interests, their personalities and overbearing influence on us was similar. On the drive home, I realized that while she may be deliberate and tidy while I'm seat of the pants and messy, we see parts of life similarly. Time and all the life that has happened changed nothing there.
All that idle time sitting in the smoking chair way back when? It at least in part built this friendship we've unearthed. Alright, maybe I'll join the neighborhood group. And keep watching Yes Man every few years to keep me on the right side...
- Published on
There are many things I love about the friend I was to spend the day with, one being that when I picked her up for our circuitous drive back to LA, she had a solid food plan and little else. So it was off to Shields Date Farm, which I can't say I expected to be across from a strip mall, but hey, it's Southern California.
Her date shake was sweet and thick, the items on offer dates, date cookies, date crystals, date butter, date sugar and grapefruits. Because I didn't want to make you unnecessarily jealous in the last post, I didn't mention the abundance of citrus trees at Adult Camp. Every day we'd pick grapefruit and oranges and have ourselves a nice big glass of fresh squeezed something or other, and one of the ladies made Palomas in the evening So, after having an unending supply every day, seeing shriveled up grapefruits at tourist prices seemed the equivalent of partially burned coal for sale in a Newcastle gift shop.
Entering Joshua Tree National Park from the south, to start in the Sonoran Desert and drive north to the Mojave, we stopped to pay our fare. The kind man delicately asked if any of us were 62 or over, leading to my first senior citizen bargain, when I scored a $20 pass that allows entry to any national park for one year! I could have gone for an $80 lifetime membership, but knew the likelihood of me holding on to one card for a lifetime was less than nil. I'll admit, it was a shock that he targeted me for what I am, an almost senior, as I'm not quite ready to identify myself that way. Fortunately, the hangtag didn't fit on the rearview mirror, but that emblazoned word SENIOR was still painfully easy for anyone with young eyes to see. I anticipate many battles being waged between bargain brain and pride brain.
We drove, we stopped. We began a biblical sort of walk straight into the desert with no water and no food, but after a minute and a half, turned back at my urging. We had just learned that rattlesnakes hide in bushes and strike unsuspecting creatures, so that every hole in the sand we saw, and there were many, looked like a rattlesnake apartment building. Once my imagination gets going, there's really no turning things around.
One summer when working at Tanglewood when I lived on Friar Tuck Drive in Sherwood Forest, a dark and slithery place, someone gave me snake avoidance training. Apparently snakes can't hear, but they react to ground vibrations, so I'd stomp hard from my car, across the lawn and up the wooden stairs to our house on stilts, only to find mouse shit in the silverware drawer, but that's for some reason not as worrying to me. This prior combat training made it possible for us to take a walk in the Cactus Garden, which was crowded enough that other people were doing the stomping for me.
In this garden, there were various helpful things for visitors - defined paths through the cacti, a sign explaining that everything in nature has a purpose except chollas, which are incredibly painful if you get stuck by one, and a little metal box on the ground that was covered with stickers and had a wire attached to it with a pair of pliers. As we watched instagram moments being staged, we heard a woman's blood curdling wail that didn't end. Well of course I thought snake. But as we drew closer, we saw a 20-something girl with two separate balls of these prickers stuck to her hand. She was inconsolable, though her friends tried hard. We mentioned the pliers and when we left, saw her availing herself of them, no less comfortable.
We left the park and were peckish, so decided to try our luck at La Copine, hoping to score walk-in seats. Though located in the desolate community of Yucca Flats, scattered with mobile homes, adult video stores and a Dollar General, one needs to make reservations months in advance to lunch here. Sure enough, there in this arid landscape was a room full of perfectly groomed casual LA people eating many varieties of cute vegetables. No room for us, unfortunately.
I was hungry enough to eat my own hand, or some super hot Doritos from the 7-11, but was saved when my food buddy calmed me down enough to guid us across the road, to a honky tonk sort of place where we sat outside, chatted and watched the world go by, enjoying a fine pizza and salad.
LA traffic is real. The trauma is too fresh to relive just now.
We were separating in LA, she going to Beverly Hills, me to Santa Monica, both staying with Korean friends, so arranged to meet for dinner at Soowon Galbi in Korea Town the next night. Things started to go awry when we realized we hadn't changed the one clock we were relying on for a time to leave. Rushing to this gritty and colorful neighborhood, my friend had trouble parking her shiny fancy car, making me happy for my nondescript VW Golf that few would want. We made an interesting, new friend at dinner and enjoyed japchae and black cod in some kind of kimchiish sauce. Upon leaving, we hit a deep pothole and immediately had a flat tire. Still in a crappy neighborhood, we pulled into the Rite Aid/Burger King parking lot to think about our future. After multiple back and forth calls with the emergency service people, we divined that some cars, including hers, have tires that can be driven on when flat, so after sitting around for ages in the car, got home without incident.
Deb and I have been friends for a long time, and have quite a history together. There's the time we went on a road trip when we didn't phone in one night and our families were convinced we had been arrested in Alabama for possession of weed (not the case, we never got caught), that crazy week in Cozumel, some memorable nights on Newbury Street, a New Years Eve at the Chuck Wagon in Wayne, Maine and lots of laughs in the Penthouse Bar at the Huntley in Santa Monica. So while we're both old and boring and don't really drink anymore, we went back and had a happy hour or two before coming home exhausted from being out two nights in a row!
Do you ever just feel like you are absolutely 100% at the right place at the right time? Thi coffee shop, I could stay there all day and just can't wait to sit there every morning to watch the show. It might be because the room is mostly white, which makes everyone more colorful, but by later in my stay in Santa Monica, I'd actually given up on bringing my notebook to write, which never happens. A little backstory on the vibe there. The cashiers and baristas each wear their uber coolness, including the perhaps 75+ year old Central American man who makes the prettiest coffees, and I did at first get a somewhat frosty reception while seeing they chatted up others. That on my last day there, I got "I'm sorry, I don't recall your name" was a big win, prompting me to contemplate changing my return ticket to Boston.
On my last day there, I scored a prime seat, sitting next to a man I'd seen before who was somewhat untidy looking, perhaps in his 80's, with lots of folded pieces of paper on his table that he diligently wrote on, in pencil. While he didn't ask me if I'd found Jesus, he did ask me if I liked this coffee shop and said it had the spirit of Jesus in it. Now, it's an interesting place, this coffee shop, but more because it's somewhere people who live in $10M houses in carefully chosen tattered clothes or skateboard sneakers or trucker hats go for their coffee runs, not because their hands are calloused from carrying too many buckets of water to folks who need it (not that the two are mutually exclusive). On my neighbor went, making references to the Bible with everything he or I mentioned, though interestingly, not when I told him I was from Boston, which left him speechless. I get it.
So, yeah, back in the Baystate, but the sun's shining, I've talked to my girl, am chatting with a friend soon, have paddle lined up for later today and I'm off to join Saturday. Have a nice weekend, all.
Her date shake was sweet and thick, the items on offer dates, date cookies, date crystals, date butter, date sugar and grapefruits. Because I didn't want to make you unnecessarily jealous in the last post, I didn't mention the abundance of citrus trees at Adult Camp. Every day we'd pick grapefruit and oranges and have ourselves a nice big glass of fresh squeezed something or other, and one of the ladies made Palomas in the evening So, after having an unending supply every day, seeing shriveled up grapefruits at tourist prices seemed the equivalent of partially burned coal for sale in a Newcastle gift shop.
Entering Joshua Tree National Park from the south, to start in the Sonoran Desert and drive north to the Mojave, we stopped to pay our fare. The kind man delicately asked if any of us were 62 or over, leading to my first senior citizen bargain, when I scored a $20 pass that allows entry to any national park for one year! I could have gone for an $80 lifetime membership, but knew the likelihood of me holding on to one card for a lifetime was less than nil. I'll admit, it was a shock that he targeted me for what I am, an almost senior, as I'm not quite ready to identify myself that way. Fortunately, the hangtag didn't fit on the rearview mirror, but that emblazoned word SENIOR was still painfully easy for anyone with young eyes to see. I anticipate many battles being waged between bargain brain and pride brain.
We drove, we stopped. We began a biblical sort of walk straight into the desert with no water and no food, but after a minute and a half, turned back at my urging. We had just learned that rattlesnakes hide in bushes and strike unsuspecting creatures, so that every hole in the sand we saw, and there were many, looked like a rattlesnake apartment building. Once my imagination gets going, there's really no turning things around.
One summer when working at Tanglewood when I lived on Friar Tuck Drive in Sherwood Forest, a dark and slithery place, someone gave me snake avoidance training. Apparently snakes can't hear, but they react to ground vibrations, so I'd stomp hard from my car, across the lawn and up the wooden stairs to our house on stilts, only to find mouse shit in the silverware drawer, but that's for some reason not as worrying to me. This prior combat training made it possible for us to take a walk in the Cactus Garden, which was crowded enough that other people were doing the stomping for me.
In this garden, there were various helpful things for visitors - defined paths through the cacti, a sign explaining that everything in nature has a purpose except chollas, which are incredibly painful if you get stuck by one, and a little metal box on the ground that was covered with stickers and had a wire attached to it with a pair of pliers. As we watched instagram moments being staged, we heard a woman's blood curdling wail that didn't end. Well of course I thought snake. But as we drew closer, we saw a 20-something girl with two separate balls of these prickers stuck to her hand. She was inconsolable, though her friends tried hard. We mentioned the pliers and when we left, saw her availing herself of them, no less comfortable.
We left the park and were peckish, so decided to try our luck at La Copine, hoping to score walk-in seats. Though located in the desolate community of Yucca Flats, scattered with mobile homes, adult video stores and a Dollar General, one needs to make reservations months in advance to lunch here. Sure enough, there in this arid landscape was a room full of perfectly groomed casual LA people eating many varieties of cute vegetables. No room for us, unfortunately.
I was hungry enough to eat my own hand, or some super hot Doritos from the 7-11, but was saved when my food buddy calmed me down enough to guid us across the road, to a honky tonk sort of place where we sat outside, chatted and watched the world go by, enjoying a fine pizza and salad.
LA traffic is real. The trauma is too fresh to relive just now.
We were separating in LA, she going to Beverly Hills, me to Santa Monica, both staying with Korean friends, so arranged to meet for dinner at Soowon Galbi in Korea Town the next night. Things started to go awry when we realized we hadn't changed the one clock we were relying on for a time to leave. Rushing to this gritty and colorful neighborhood, my friend had trouble parking her shiny fancy car, making me happy for my nondescript VW Golf that few would want. We made an interesting, new friend at dinner and enjoyed japchae and black cod in some kind of kimchiish sauce. Upon leaving, we hit a deep pothole and immediately had a flat tire. Still in a crappy neighborhood, we pulled into the Rite Aid/Burger King parking lot to think about our future. After multiple back and forth calls with the emergency service people, we divined that some cars, including hers, have tires that can be driven on when flat, so after sitting around for ages in the car, got home without incident.
Deb and I have been friends for a long time, and have quite a history together. There's the time we went on a road trip when we didn't phone in one night and our families were convinced we had been arrested in Alabama for possession of weed (not the case, we never got caught), that crazy week in Cozumel, some memorable nights on Newbury Street, a New Years Eve at the Chuck Wagon in Wayne, Maine and lots of laughs in the Penthouse Bar at the Huntley in Santa Monica. So while we're both old and boring and don't really drink anymore, we went back and had a happy hour or two before coming home exhausted from being out two nights in a row!
Do you ever just feel like you are absolutely 100% at the right place at the right time? Thi coffee shop, I could stay there all day and just can't wait to sit there every morning to watch the show. It might be because the room is mostly white, which makes everyone more colorful, but by later in my stay in Santa Monica, I'd actually given up on bringing my notebook to write, which never happens. A little backstory on the vibe there. The cashiers and baristas each wear their uber coolness, including the perhaps 75+ year old Central American man who makes the prettiest coffees, and I did at first get a somewhat frosty reception while seeing they chatted up others. That on my last day there, I got "I'm sorry, I don't recall your name" was a big win, prompting me to contemplate changing my return ticket to Boston.
On my last day there, I scored a prime seat, sitting next to a man I'd seen before who was somewhat untidy looking, perhaps in his 80's, with lots of folded pieces of paper on his table that he diligently wrote on, in pencil. While he didn't ask me if I'd found Jesus, he did ask me if I liked this coffee shop and said it had the spirit of Jesus in it. Now, it's an interesting place, this coffee shop, but more because it's somewhere people who live in $10M houses in carefully chosen tattered clothes or skateboard sneakers or trucker hats go for their coffee runs, not because their hands are calloused from carrying too many buckets of water to folks who need it (not that the two are mutually exclusive). On my neighbor went, making references to the Bible with everything he or I mentioned, though interestingly, not when I told him I was from Boston, which left him speechless. I get it.
So, yeah, back in the Baystate, but the sun's shining, I've talked to my girl, am chatting with a friend soon, have paddle lined up for later today and I'm off to join Saturday. Have a nice weekend, all.
- Published on
Beside myself with excitement about traveling by train through the desert, after being called crazy for taking public transport, I arrived at Union Station, a museum-like building that is meticulously maintained. I needed sunglasses to look at the floors, they were so shiny. Unlike our Amtrak, this branch of the trains is inexpensive, doesn't smell like Egg McMuffin or urine, and has windows that allow you to see the scenery. I'd had wistful feelings flying over the desert the week prior, so returning in person engaged all my senses powerfully, prompting me to listen to the most evocative and perfectly paired theme song from Breaking Bad as the landscape transitioned from grassy green to the washed out sage and and beige.
Starved, I trolled the sidewalk in my too hot black clothes, annoyingly noisy wheelie, straw hat and backpack with tennis racquet, landing at a Greek restaurant on Palm Canyon Drive. Listening to my neighbors (above), my ears perked up when I heard:
"What was. your favorite food in Portugal?"
I visualized charred sardines, potatoes with parsley, a wonderful salad. Maybe some Vinho Verde.
A pause, apologetically
"McDonalds?"
As it was my second year visiting Sandra, I was steeling myself for Adult Camp, worried about my various low-key ailments. Lucky for us, this year she didn't make us bike to a hike after playing tennis and pickle. I think the camper to counselor ratio wasn't right, so we got away with only racquets in various iterations. as participants and spectators, though she did get me to do 20 minutes of yoga.
Indian Wells has a fair claim to being called Tennis Paradise. The weather is sublime (it's a dry heat), the view of the snow covered peaks in the distance breathtaking, the shrimp ceviche in passion fruit a far cry from the hot dogs at Newport, and the access to the pros exciting. I spent the first day planted at the practice courts right up close and personal. Tiafoe, Azarenka, Blinkova (my new favorite), Svitolina (she looks like someone you'd see on the T but her athleticism comes close to that of her husband), Keys, Dolehide (my old favorite. I call her the female Alcaraz) Tsitsipas and probably more I've forgotten. Their drives are so hard, and with each strike, get harder, lower, faster. I was entranced by the way they hunkered down into a shot, repeating it over and over until it was right, the way they helped each other, kidded around, or in one case, suffered visibly under the judgmental criticism of a coach/father. The look on this player's face as he turned to his father after acing his practice partner was heartbreaking, reminding me of a toddler waiting excitedly for an M&M earned for peeing in the toilet. He got nothing.
Already lucky to be surrounded by such great people, I then met up with my Tuesday Paddle girls, minus two who were still on the east coast who will hopefully come next year (you too, Nancy). Of the four of us who met up, one had hightailed it out west in January and another had a partial knee replacement (yes, we're getting to that age), so we hadn't been together for many moons. As usual, I did what I could to avoid talking current events with two of them who are particularly well-informed. We ended up getting them together with Sandra's Adult Camp participants and played some things.
When walking around in the early morning light of La Quinta, I yearned to have a house there and got to thinking about my propensity for always wanting to move to wherever the most recent place is. I guess the good news is that I go to good places but wondered why this cycle keep repeating, and I'm vehement about it. Really, I couldn't see living in the desert, but it tugged on me, this vista, these colors.
Some people like security, I like new, I like to have my views shaken up and reconfigured, and going to new places allows that to happen. and that's a feeling I want replicated, so I guess there's some part of me that believes that I can "move" to it, which of course is unrealistic as I would at some point get used to wherever it is and have to get back to work and some kind of routine which I need to keep things together, but which bores me out of my skull.
Starved, I trolled the sidewalk in my too hot black clothes, annoyingly noisy wheelie, straw hat and backpack with tennis racquet, landing at a Greek restaurant on Palm Canyon Drive. Listening to my neighbors (above), my ears perked up when I heard:
"What was. your favorite food in Portugal?"
I visualized charred sardines, potatoes with parsley, a wonderful salad. Maybe some Vinho Verde.
A pause, apologetically
"McDonalds?"
As it was my second year visiting Sandra, I was steeling myself for Adult Camp, worried about my various low-key ailments. Lucky for us, this year she didn't make us bike to a hike after playing tennis and pickle. I think the camper to counselor ratio wasn't right, so we got away with only racquets in various iterations. as participants and spectators, though she did get me to do 20 minutes of yoga.
Indian Wells has a fair claim to being called Tennis Paradise. The weather is sublime (it's a dry heat), the view of the snow covered peaks in the distance breathtaking, the shrimp ceviche in passion fruit a far cry from the hot dogs at Newport, and the access to the pros exciting. I spent the first day planted at the practice courts right up close and personal. Tiafoe, Azarenka, Blinkova (my new favorite), Svitolina (she looks like someone you'd see on the T but her athleticism comes close to that of her husband), Keys, Dolehide (my old favorite. I call her the female Alcaraz) Tsitsipas and probably more I've forgotten. Their drives are so hard, and with each strike, get harder, lower, faster. I was entranced by the way they hunkered down into a shot, repeating it over and over until it was right, the way they helped each other, kidded around, or in one case, suffered visibly under the judgmental criticism of a coach/father. The look on this player's face as he turned to his father after acing his practice partner was heartbreaking, reminding me of a toddler waiting excitedly for an M&M earned for peeing in the toilet. He got nothing.
Already lucky to be surrounded by such great people, I then met up with my Tuesday Paddle girls, minus two who were still on the east coast who will hopefully come next year (you too, Nancy). Of the four of us who met up, one had hightailed it out west in January and another had a partial knee replacement (yes, we're getting to that age), so we hadn't been together for many moons. As usual, I did what I could to avoid talking current events with two of them who are particularly well-informed. We ended up getting them together with Sandra's Adult Camp participants and played some things.
When walking around in the early morning light of La Quinta, I yearned to have a house there and got to thinking about my propensity for always wanting to move to wherever the most recent place is. I guess the good news is that I go to good places but wondered why this cycle keep repeating, and I'm vehement about it. Really, I couldn't see living in the desert, but it tugged on me, this vista, these colors.
Some people like security, I like new, I like to have my views shaken up and reconfigured, and going to new places allows that to happen. and that's a feeling I want replicated, so I guess there's some part of me that believes that I can "move" to it, which of course is unrealistic as I would at some point get used to wherever it is and have to get back to work and some kind of routine which I need to keep things together, but which bores me out of my skull.
- Published on
When I visit Deb, the same theme song plays involuntarily over and over in my head. It's been pretty consistent over the last 30 years. Turns out, Albert, it actually does rain in California, perhaps I should be summoned when the droughts come.
There was the California desert trip, the time I used all my creativity, patience and energy to convince a certain family member that a school vacation week in the sun would be a good thing for us. It snowed and the wind howled And that wasn't the half of what made it an awkward week. As we were scheduled to arrive from Boston to LAX at 2 am, I had made a reservation at the Airport Hilton. When we got there, we discovered that I had made it for the wrong night and because it was Chinese New Year, there were no rooms available. At the time, pre priceline, the only option was to convince the car rental people that we needed the car early, so off we went to Palm Springs, me driving as penance and Nat doing a yeoman's job keeping me awake, avoiding further inconvenience or injury to the family. But as there are occasionally with my mistakes, there was a gift, waking up in the hotel parking lot, with the sun coming up behind the palm trees, a picture and feeling I’m unlikely to forget. I creaped out of the car, careful not to wake my sleeping family, and went exploring with my camera.
This time, I opted for public transport from LAX, allowing for more and different viewing. I got to the train and bus lot where there were many signs to read and decisions to be made. As I was starved, the fruit seller tempted me, but wanted to begin the over an hour long bus ride sooner rather than later, so proceeded to the fare/ticket dispenser and guessed at how much value I wanted to put on my card ($10, turns out it was only $1..20) and what type of pass I was to get. I was deliberating about whether or not it was a good idea to travel through Compton when I saw I could take the Big Blue Bus number 3 straight to Santa Monica. There was one driving by and I waved for them to stop, but the bus continued on. A kind woman told me not to worry, they come often.
So I decided to tackle my hunger, marching over to the fruit vendor and opting for pineapple and orange with hand gestures and nods, oh it looked so good. I asked him if he took cash and he, not a big speaker of English, indicated no. I said card? He nodded. On he went with me looking behind my shoulder every 15 seconds to see if the next Big Blue was coming. It was a joy to take in his beautiful knife skills and the pride he showed for his creation. Like Rufus, the store clerk in Love Actually, he kept challenging my impatience with additional options: hot sauce, a beautiful flourish, salt, no, Tajin, yes, of course, and lime, which took a while to convey and for me to understand, well yes, of course. By this time, he was marginally irritated that I didn't speak Spanish, my bad, as you know if you've read my past writing. On he went with his work, he wanted to add more, and I made a hand gesture like, no, good, thanks, ready to run, which I could tell confused him. When I went to pay with my card, he indicated no, apple pay, no, cash only. I only had $5 for an $8 serving of deliciousness and he was kind enough to let me slide, though I'm committed to looping back when I leave to make up the difference. OK, and perhaps get another order.
As I was leaving the fruit vendor with more things than I should have been carrying at the same time, there came around a Big Blue, and I again waved to the driver. She cheerily waved back and continued on. What world am I living in? So, I went to the stop and waited, eventually it happened.
I haven't seen Debbie since our memorable march along Hadrian's Wall, but as it is with old friends, we fell into our patterns in about 5 minutes Last night I went out to get us ice cream, because I love walking up and down Montana, so that we could lie on the couch and watch The Swimmers, which was beautiful but painful to watch, with her dog that is recovering from sepsis.
Debbie didn't used to drink caffeine, so I developed a morning ritual of, with my notebook and camera, going out early and finding a perch at Primo Passo, which, aside from having sublime coffee, has great outdoor tables and the best of people watching. After being there 10 minutes and listening to the exchanges, I was reminded that almost everyone in Santa Monica is a transplant, resulting in a warmth and appreciation vibe, as in we've found our way to the Pacific, flip flops and palm trees. Within a few minutes, I heard what I'm guessing was an Indian dialect, Russian, Italian and a very strong midwestern accent
I see a fish taco in my future. And maybe some pop tennis at Venice Beach.
There was the California desert trip, the time I used all my creativity, patience and energy to convince a certain family member that a school vacation week in the sun would be a good thing for us. It snowed and the wind howled And that wasn't the half of what made it an awkward week. As we were scheduled to arrive from Boston to LAX at 2 am, I had made a reservation at the Airport Hilton. When we got there, we discovered that I had made it for the wrong night and because it was Chinese New Year, there were no rooms available. At the time, pre priceline, the only option was to convince the car rental people that we needed the car early, so off we went to Palm Springs, me driving as penance and Nat doing a yeoman's job keeping me awake, avoiding further inconvenience or injury to the family. But as there are occasionally with my mistakes, there was a gift, waking up in the hotel parking lot, with the sun coming up behind the palm trees, a picture and feeling I’m unlikely to forget. I creaped out of the car, careful not to wake my sleeping family, and went exploring with my camera.
This time, I opted for public transport from LAX, allowing for more and different viewing. I got to the train and bus lot where there were many signs to read and decisions to be made. As I was starved, the fruit seller tempted me, but wanted to begin the over an hour long bus ride sooner rather than later, so proceeded to the fare/ticket dispenser and guessed at how much value I wanted to put on my card ($10, turns out it was only $1..20) and what type of pass I was to get. I was deliberating about whether or not it was a good idea to travel through Compton when I saw I could take the Big Blue Bus number 3 straight to Santa Monica. There was one driving by and I waved for them to stop, but the bus continued on. A kind woman told me not to worry, they come often.
So I decided to tackle my hunger, marching over to the fruit vendor and opting for pineapple and orange with hand gestures and nods, oh it looked so good. I asked him if he took cash and he, not a big speaker of English, indicated no. I said card? He nodded. On he went with me looking behind my shoulder every 15 seconds to see if the next Big Blue was coming. It was a joy to take in his beautiful knife skills and the pride he showed for his creation. Like Rufus, the store clerk in Love Actually, he kept challenging my impatience with additional options: hot sauce, a beautiful flourish, salt, no, Tajin, yes, of course, and lime, which took a while to convey and for me to understand, well yes, of course. By this time, he was marginally irritated that I didn't speak Spanish, my bad, as you know if you've read my past writing. On he went with his work, he wanted to add more, and I made a hand gesture like, no, good, thanks, ready to run, which I could tell confused him. When I went to pay with my card, he indicated no, apple pay, no, cash only. I only had $5 for an $8 serving of deliciousness and he was kind enough to let me slide, though I'm committed to looping back when I leave to make up the difference. OK, and perhaps get another order.
As I was leaving the fruit vendor with more things than I should have been carrying at the same time, there came around a Big Blue, and I again waved to the driver. She cheerily waved back and continued on. What world am I living in? So, I went to the stop and waited, eventually it happened.
I haven't seen Debbie since our memorable march along Hadrian's Wall, but as it is with old friends, we fell into our patterns in about 5 minutes Last night I went out to get us ice cream, because I love walking up and down Montana, so that we could lie on the couch and watch The Swimmers, which was beautiful but painful to watch, with her dog that is recovering from sepsis.
Debbie didn't used to drink caffeine, so I developed a morning ritual of, with my notebook and camera, going out early and finding a perch at Primo Passo, which, aside from having sublime coffee, has great outdoor tables and the best of people watching. After being there 10 minutes and listening to the exchanges, I was reminded that almost everyone in Santa Monica is a transplant, resulting in a warmth and appreciation vibe, as in we've found our way to the Pacific, flip flops and palm trees. Within a few minutes, I heard what I'm guessing was an Indian dialect, Russian, Italian and a very strong midwestern accent
I see a fish taco in my future. And maybe some pop tennis at Venice Beach.
- Published on
As I was making my way across the Powder Point Bridge in Duxbury last weekend, I found myself thinking about ghosts, not the kind in campfire stories, though I do have a few of those to tell you.
While there were many gifted teachers at the Pierce School during our family's time there, my favorite was Mrs. West ("She's the best!") who, despite being new to teaching, calmed we parents who were nervous ninnies about what we perceived as the traumatic transition our children were making from pre-school to kindergarten. She was hands-on, loving, inclusive, ever so patient, had a sense of humor and kept a piece of decomposing pumpkin in a jar that the kids, ok and we parents too, examined daily.
On the Friday afternoon before winter break, she and I were having a chat about plans for the week off. She was headed to Race Brook Lodge, a place I knew after having held a 50th birthday celebration for my then husband, with friends and neighbors convening on a beautiful October weekend. Mrs. West's reason for going was, among others, to visit a friendly ghost who lived in the fireplace of one of the rooms in the main house. She asked if I had met her (I hadn't). When I questioned her further, she shared how she had been able to see ghosts since she was young, and that the only time it was problematic was when she and her husband were house hunting, as it created an extra level of assessment about the ongoing conviviality of additional roommates.
This fresh faced, warm, lover of children who was training for a marathon upended all my unexamined stereotypes of mediums, by never wearing black or purple or feathers. With the sunniest of personalities, as well as being a teacher she had a business providing spiritual guidance, reiki, coaching. Someone I knew who had suddenly and tragically lost her brother asked Mrs. West for help and was able to hear from him directly, gaining peace and closure to what had been a complicated relationship. I was always curious about what she did, but not enough to do anything about it.
Stories of ghosts abounded at Tanglewood, most notably the one at Highwood who would turn the pages of sheet music at the appropriate moment when someone was playing the piano up on the second floor. And then there was the one at Seranak in the front room who didn't like visitors opening the armoire where Serge Koussevitsky's tails still hung. But the ghost closest chose to ignore me.
One particular summer I was sharing a place on East Street in Lenox with two colleagues who were due to arrive a few weeks after me. For the time I was alone, I worked at Tanglewood duirng the day and did whatever it was I did back then in the evening. When Marc, who had rented the place for many summers, arrived, he asked me if I had met the ghost. Nope, but glad I didn't know when I was alone. Later in the summer, a friend came out for work and was to stay in our tiny little guest room that held a twin mattress and little else. Sitting out on a nice summer evening with a bottle of wine, I told her the house was supposedly haunted but that I had seen no evidence, and we reviewed the various Tanglewood stories which we both wrote off as tall tales. But in the middle of that night, I was awoken by my friend who looked like Struwwelpeter. She was holding her pillow in front of her and quiveringly asked if she could sleep in my bed. There had been a small child in her room who was pulling a train back and forth, back and forth, and while it was going on, she received a very bad shock. It was hard to discount her story because of the physical evidence of her hair standing on end. I don't recall if any sleeping happened after that.
Early in our paddle tennis careers, a friend and I were playing a tournament out of Myopia Hunt Club in the northern suburbs of Boston. As happens, matches were spread out to different locations, in this case Essex Country Club and Turner Hill, our first match assigned to the latter. While Myopia and Essex are posh, we found Turner Hill an odd place, with a drive that wound up a hill past the relics of a building that had fallen into disrepair. At the top of the hill, there was a long, regal brick manor house on one side looking down the hill, and on the other, a new, treeless and muddy suburban development of white side by side townhouses that looked out of place next to all the sedate brick. We found the paddle courts, also in a state of disrepair, and as our opponents hadn't arrived yet, headed for the bathroom inside the manor house, which was unlocked and empty, though the lights were on.
As I was sitting in one of the two stalls, a freezing cold breeze went down my back and moved inside my body. I could feel an angry presence in the stall with me, that I wasn't supposed to be there. When I ran out to find my friend, she told me she had had a similar experience. Who know's why, but rather than tear out of there, we somehow got pulled further into the house by a Best of Boston sign, Best Wedding Venue. We admired the great room, appreciated the view and continued along, remarking on the old woodwork and leaded windows. When we got to the far side of the building, there was a beautiful carved oak staircase with a sign saying PRIVATE, which we somehow took as an invitation. Up we went, to find a long hallway with bedrooms on either side, most of the doors open. To the left, the beds were made up and looked ready to receive guests, to the right, there was old furniture piled up, attic style. Beaten upholstered chairs, rusty bed frames, lots of boxes. We began to walk down the corridor, curious, then noticed the sconces on both sides of the passageway, which had little white tags with string hanging from them. The tags were moving around furiously, as though being blown by a strong wind, of which there was none. We both screamed, turned around and ran.
We lost our match quickly and relieved, drove back to Myopia for lunch. There we were told by the locals that oh yes, there's a woman in a wedding dress who roams the halls there. We returned with reticence for our second match, needless to say, we didn't go inside. At some point, I needed to walk back to the car to get something, and while doing so, a white sedan with Florida plates pulled up to me, the driver's side window opened and a woman, perhaps in her mid 80s to 90, had on makeup that made me think she was trying to look like a 20-something city girl, but caked on so thick she looked like at the scary kind of clown, red lipstick that went way beyond her natural lips, eyes that had lots of black around them, and many many wrinkles. She stared at me with eyes a little too wide open, and said "Which way to the Manor House?". I pointed and ran.
Despite these events being real and witnessed by others, I still have an ongoing dialog about whether or not I believe in ghosts, or other presences we can't see. I suppose we are taught to only believe what we can see and touch. But the older I get, the more I am comfortable acknowledging that there is some business going on that we can't touch or see or hear, a spiritual life that may be calling a lot of the shots. But I couldn't say more than that.
Back to bridge in Duxbury next week.
While there were many gifted teachers at the Pierce School during our family's time there, my favorite was Mrs. West ("She's the best!") who, despite being new to teaching, calmed we parents who were nervous ninnies about what we perceived as the traumatic transition our children were making from pre-school to kindergarten. She was hands-on, loving, inclusive, ever so patient, had a sense of humor and kept a piece of decomposing pumpkin in a jar that the kids, ok and we parents too, examined daily.
On the Friday afternoon before winter break, she and I were having a chat about plans for the week off. She was headed to Race Brook Lodge, a place I knew after having held a 50th birthday celebration for my then husband, with friends and neighbors convening on a beautiful October weekend. Mrs. West's reason for going was, among others, to visit a friendly ghost who lived in the fireplace of one of the rooms in the main house. She asked if I had met her (I hadn't). When I questioned her further, she shared how she had been able to see ghosts since she was young, and that the only time it was problematic was when she and her husband were house hunting, as it created an extra level of assessment about the ongoing conviviality of additional roommates.
This fresh faced, warm, lover of children who was training for a marathon upended all my unexamined stereotypes of mediums, by never wearing black or purple or feathers. With the sunniest of personalities, as well as being a teacher she had a business providing spiritual guidance, reiki, coaching. Someone I knew who had suddenly and tragically lost her brother asked Mrs. West for help and was able to hear from him directly, gaining peace and closure to what had been a complicated relationship. I was always curious about what she did, but not enough to do anything about it.
Stories of ghosts abounded at Tanglewood, most notably the one at Highwood who would turn the pages of sheet music at the appropriate moment when someone was playing the piano up on the second floor. And then there was the one at Seranak in the front room who didn't like visitors opening the armoire where Serge Koussevitsky's tails still hung. But the ghost closest chose to ignore me.
One particular summer I was sharing a place on East Street in Lenox with two colleagues who were due to arrive a few weeks after me. For the time I was alone, I worked at Tanglewood duirng the day and did whatever it was I did back then in the evening. When Marc, who had rented the place for many summers, arrived, he asked me if I had met the ghost. Nope, but glad I didn't know when I was alone. Later in the summer, a friend came out for work and was to stay in our tiny little guest room that held a twin mattress and little else. Sitting out on a nice summer evening with a bottle of wine, I told her the house was supposedly haunted but that I had seen no evidence, and we reviewed the various Tanglewood stories which we both wrote off as tall tales. But in the middle of that night, I was awoken by my friend who looked like Struwwelpeter. She was holding her pillow in front of her and quiveringly asked if she could sleep in my bed. There had been a small child in her room who was pulling a train back and forth, back and forth, and while it was going on, she received a very bad shock. It was hard to discount her story because of the physical evidence of her hair standing on end. I don't recall if any sleeping happened after that.
Early in our paddle tennis careers, a friend and I were playing a tournament out of Myopia Hunt Club in the northern suburbs of Boston. As happens, matches were spread out to different locations, in this case Essex Country Club and Turner Hill, our first match assigned to the latter. While Myopia and Essex are posh, we found Turner Hill an odd place, with a drive that wound up a hill past the relics of a building that had fallen into disrepair. At the top of the hill, there was a long, regal brick manor house on one side looking down the hill, and on the other, a new, treeless and muddy suburban development of white side by side townhouses that looked out of place next to all the sedate brick. We found the paddle courts, also in a state of disrepair, and as our opponents hadn't arrived yet, headed for the bathroom inside the manor house, which was unlocked and empty, though the lights were on.
As I was sitting in one of the two stalls, a freezing cold breeze went down my back and moved inside my body. I could feel an angry presence in the stall with me, that I wasn't supposed to be there. When I ran out to find my friend, she told me she had had a similar experience. Who know's why, but rather than tear out of there, we somehow got pulled further into the house by a Best of Boston sign, Best Wedding Venue. We admired the great room, appreciated the view and continued along, remarking on the old woodwork and leaded windows. When we got to the far side of the building, there was a beautiful carved oak staircase with a sign saying PRIVATE, which we somehow took as an invitation. Up we went, to find a long hallway with bedrooms on either side, most of the doors open. To the left, the beds were made up and looked ready to receive guests, to the right, there was old furniture piled up, attic style. Beaten upholstered chairs, rusty bed frames, lots of boxes. We began to walk down the corridor, curious, then noticed the sconces on both sides of the passageway, which had little white tags with string hanging from them. The tags were moving around furiously, as though being blown by a strong wind, of which there was none. We both screamed, turned around and ran.
We lost our match quickly and relieved, drove back to Myopia for lunch. There we were told by the locals that oh yes, there's a woman in a wedding dress who roams the halls there. We returned with reticence for our second match, needless to say, we didn't go inside. At some point, I needed to walk back to the car to get something, and while doing so, a white sedan with Florida plates pulled up to me, the driver's side window opened and a woman, perhaps in her mid 80s to 90, had on makeup that made me think she was trying to look like a 20-something city girl, but caked on so thick she looked like at the scary kind of clown, red lipstick that went way beyond her natural lips, eyes that had lots of black around them, and many many wrinkles. She stared at me with eyes a little too wide open, and said "Which way to the Manor House?". I pointed and ran.
Despite these events being real and witnessed by others, I still have an ongoing dialog about whether or not I believe in ghosts, or other presences we can't see. I suppose we are taught to only believe what we can see and touch. But the older I get, the more I am comfortable acknowledging that there is some business going on that we can't touch or see or hear, a spiritual life that may be calling a lot of the shots. But I couldn't say more than that.
Back to bridge in Duxbury next week.
- Published on
This is the second part of last week's post.
So there I was, wandering across Powder Point Bridge in Duxbury, tryiing to find a new vantage point for yet another photograph of this most scenic place, which brought back thoughts of past visits, which made me think about ghosts. But a different kind, from this life, from a time that was but is no more, but is somehow still lurking around
Eons ago, when my parents moved our family to Bronxville, NY, my mother developed an unlikely friendship with some neighbors who were descendants of Mr. Mayflower himself, John Alden. It's hard to imagine what drew Mrs. Clapp and her two daughters, Priscilla and Clara, to our peripatetic and unusual family. Mrs. Clapp, who was not very mobile, became my mother's seamstress, and we'd go over there for fittings and tea. My brother or I would be asked to make the snacks, which were saltines with thin slices of cheddar, melted on a toaster oven tray so dirty that even my mother got wigged out. We were sometimes given small, heavy, blue glasses full of cranberry juice, an exotic treat.
Mrs. Clapp ruled with an iron fist, perhaps ensuring that instead of marrying, her daughters would remain in service to her. She had a cabinet of trinkets from her travels in China and "Persia" that she'd allow us to take out, but not play with, on a rainy days. Her daughter Clara, whom we called Kit, had been a WASP during WW2, testing planes, and later had what we perceived as a serious job at the Carnegie, which she always pronounced Car-nay-gee, Institute. She could best be described as a sober New Englander. Priscilla, by contrast, lived in a Tennessee Williams play, an aged belle passed over but still waiting for that a gentleman caller to leave his card, she was at the ready. With the bluest of eyes she would smoke her cigarette out of the very side of her mouth so as not to disturb the lipstick she wore even with her gardening clothes. Her accent mirrored that of a fifties movie star, she chose form fitting jeans to Kit's baggies and excelled at Ikebana and flower arrangements that could include violin bows, for which she won prizes from garden clubs. They were both excellent gardeners and could fix anything.
The. Clapp family had a compound on Abrams Hill in Duxbury. Mrs. Clapp and her sister each had a house, as did a cousin. Then there were other smaller places scattered around that were also in the family. One of them was a Sears Catalog kit house purchased in the twenties, that was expected to last 20 years or so. It was down the hill from Mrs. Clapp's, almost right on the the inlet's glass-like water and the marshes that had moods, changing color by the day. In the distance, there was a view of the bridge, Blakeman's, the sparkles of sun bouncing off cars in the parking lot and further north towards Marshfield, a duck blind. The house had a small garden with a hammock which as kids we fought over, a dock with a raft, two bedrooms, a bathroom, kitchen, small common room and porch. It was called Triangle because it completed a birds eye triangle with Mrs. Clapp and her sister's houses.
Their family had been traveling up to Duxbury from NY every summer since the daughters were children, which they were far from. One summer, they invited us to stay at Triangle for a few weeks. There was something enchanting about staying in a place that wasn't much bigger than a doll house, with access to so many wonderful things. We fell in love and returned for many summers. I found reassurance walking down the path from the car to the cabin for the first time each season, noting no changes, nor were there any inside the cabin; the paisley tea cups, the corn salt and pepper shakers, cajun spices, depression era green glass plates procured at the dump, longhorns over the fireplace and the chalkboard on the porch that always said "Welcome, Asphars". And of course the smell of salty cabin.
While the high points as children might have been swimming to the island, sitting in the hammock, going to the beach or putting money in the juke box at Papa Gino's, our interests and activities shifted over time. Cousins from England collaborated in an al fresco performance of Lucy Riccardo doing her Vitameatavegamin commercial , tennis became a thing, swimming, chats on the wall, more beach, walks to the exciting new French pastry shop, ice cream at FarFar's.
My siblings and I continued to be invited to Triangle as we became independent, together and with friends. By that time, Mrs. Clapp had died and the daughters were in their late seventies or even early eighties. Kit was still climbing ladders, but we'd arrange to be there either at the beginning or end of the summer to help her put in or take out the porch screens. Staying in the cabin, we'd play hard, eat hard and party hard. So many baguettes, relentless all day exercise, brilliant meals and wine, card games and deep, well-deserved sleep. They were times shaped by significant others, some of whom are no longer around.
Still later, it was a lily pad for my parents, who had just lost their newly renovated apartment to a fire that my father with dementia had set when he forgot about some soup on the stove. We talked through scenarios, sequencing and pacing. Another time, I found a kitchen table I had to have and asked this guy Hank, who had a truck, if he'd "help me get it home". After a few days at Triangle, we got it home.
Through it all, I developed a nice relationship with Kit, who would meet me at the MFA for lunch before her Friday Symphony concerts. Every time I'd go back to see her or stay at Triangle, I'd walk around and say something similar to a formal goodbye when leaving, knowing she was getting on and that I may never be back. Eventually that came to pass and now Triangle is no longer.
But Duxbury is and when my mom moved to an independent living place there, Nat and I began a ritual of going down to visit her on a Saturday or Sunday, taking her on trips to Snug Harbor either to look at the boats or for lunch in the sun. Nat and I would often do our own thing before or after; play tennis, walk and take photographs of the bridge, kick rocks, eat ice cream, jump off the other bridge with the current. After my mom decamped for Vermont and Nat left for the lowlands, it was with a friend that I visited, going on beautiful long walks to Saquish with her dog. She has now moved away, sigh.
What I realized the other day when crossing the bridge is that some places lose their lustre when the person you associate them with is no longer, their ghosts lingering on and taking all the fun and mystery out of the place. But somehow Duxbury keeps on reinventing itself, perhaps because it's so beautiful, it's compelling to return. It's somehow possible to hold the history with the new in a most satisfying way.
The day was beautiful, fun, uplifting and helped me clarify a lot of things. The clouds and light were perfect and I got a new vista of the bridge! I recommend it for a most wondrful walk.
So there I was, wandering across Powder Point Bridge in Duxbury, tryiing to find a new vantage point for yet another photograph of this most scenic place, which brought back thoughts of past visits, which made me think about ghosts. But a different kind, from this life, from a time that was but is no more, but is somehow still lurking around
Eons ago, when my parents moved our family to Bronxville, NY, my mother developed an unlikely friendship with some neighbors who were descendants of Mr. Mayflower himself, John Alden. It's hard to imagine what drew Mrs. Clapp and her two daughters, Priscilla and Clara, to our peripatetic and unusual family. Mrs. Clapp, who was not very mobile, became my mother's seamstress, and we'd go over there for fittings and tea. My brother or I would be asked to make the snacks, which were saltines with thin slices of cheddar, melted on a toaster oven tray so dirty that even my mother got wigged out. We were sometimes given small, heavy, blue glasses full of cranberry juice, an exotic treat.
Mrs. Clapp ruled with an iron fist, perhaps ensuring that instead of marrying, her daughters would remain in service to her. She had a cabinet of trinkets from her travels in China and "Persia" that she'd allow us to take out, but not play with, on a rainy days. Her daughter Clara, whom we called Kit, had been a WASP during WW2, testing planes, and later had what we perceived as a serious job at the Carnegie, which she always pronounced Car-nay-gee, Institute. She could best be described as a sober New Englander. Priscilla, by contrast, lived in a Tennessee Williams play, an aged belle passed over but still waiting for that a gentleman caller to leave his card, she was at the ready. With the bluest of eyes she would smoke her cigarette out of the very side of her mouth so as not to disturb the lipstick she wore even with her gardening clothes. Her accent mirrored that of a fifties movie star, she chose form fitting jeans to Kit's baggies and excelled at Ikebana and flower arrangements that could include violin bows, for which she won prizes from garden clubs. They were both excellent gardeners and could fix anything.
The. Clapp family had a compound on Abrams Hill in Duxbury. Mrs. Clapp and her sister each had a house, as did a cousin. Then there were other smaller places scattered around that were also in the family. One of them was a Sears Catalog kit house purchased in the twenties, that was expected to last 20 years or so. It was down the hill from Mrs. Clapp's, almost right on the the inlet's glass-like water and the marshes that had moods, changing color by the day. In the distance, there was a view of the bridge, Blakeman's, the sparkles of sun bouncing off cars in the parking lot and further north towards Marshfield, a duck blind. The house had a small garden with a hammock which as kids we fought over, a dock with a raft, two bedrooms, a bathroom, kitchen, small common room and porch. It was called Triangle because it completed a birds eye triangle with Mrs. Clapp and her sister's houses.
Their family had been traveling up to Duxbury from NY every summer since the daughters were children, which they were far from. One summer, they invited us to stay at Triangle for a few weeks. There was something enchanting about staying in a place that wasn't much bigger than a doll house, with access to so many wonderful things. We fell in love and returned for many summers. I found reassurance walking down the path from the car to the cabin for the first time each season, noting no changes, nor were there any inside the cabin; the paisley tea cups, the corn salt and pepper shakers, cajun spices, depression era green glass plates procured at the dump, longhorns over the fireplace and the chalkboard on the porch that always said "Welcome, Asphars". And of course the smell of salty cabin.
While the high points as children might have been swimming to the island, sitting in the hammock, going to the beach or putting money in the juke box at Papa Gino's, our interests and activities shifted over time. Cousins from England collaborated in an al fresco performance of Lucy Riccardo doing her Vitameatavegamin commercial , tennis became a thing, swimming, chats on the wall, more beach, walks to the exciting new French pastry shop, ice cream at FarFar's.
My siblings and I continued to be invited to Triangle as we became independent, together and with friends. By that time, Mrs. Clapp had died and the daughters were in their late seventies or even early eighties. Kit was still climbing ladders, but we'd arrange to be there either at the beginning or end of the summer to help her put in or take out the porch screens. Staying in the cabin, we'd play hard, eat hard and party hard. So many baguettes, relentless all day exercise, brilliant meals and wine, card games and deep, well-deserved sleep. They were times shaped by significant others, some of whom are no longer around.
Still later, it was a lily pad for my parents, who had just lost their newly renovated apartment to a fire that my father with dementia had set when he forgot about some soup on the stove. We talked through scenarios, sequencing and pacing. Another time, I found a kitchen table I had to have and asked this guy Hank, who had a truck, if he'd "help me get it home". After a few days at Triangle, we got it home.
Through it all, I developed a nice relationship with Kit, who would meet me at the MFA for lunch before her Friday Symphony concerts. Every time I'd go back to see her or stay at Triangle, I'd walk around and say something similar to a formal goodbye when leaving, knowing she was getting on and that I may never be back. Eventually that came to pass and now Triangle is no longer.
But Duxbury is and when my mom moved to an independent living place there, Nat and I began a ritual of going down to visit her on a Saturday or Sunday, taking her on trips to Snug Harbor either to look at the boats or for lunch in the sun. Nat and I would often do our own thing before or after; play tennis, walk and take photographs of the bridge, kick rocks, eat ice cream, jump off the other bridge with the current. After my mom decamped for Vermont and Nat left for the lowlands, it was with a friend that I visited, going on beautiful long walks to Saquish with her dog. She has now moved away, sigh.
What I realized the other day when crossing the bridge is that some places lose their lustre when the person you associate them with is no longer, their ghosts lingering on and taking all the fun and mystery out of the place. But somehow Duxbury keeps on reinventing itself, perhaps because it's so beautiful, it's compelling to return. It's somehow possible to hold the history with the new in a most satisfying way.
The day was beautiful, fun, uplifting and helped me clarify a lot of things. The clouds and light were perfect and I got a new vista of the bridge! I recommend it for a most wondrful walk.
- Published on
The Google proved a better advisor than Mr. Bad News at Vail, bringing us to the Shrine Ridge Trail, east of Vail. Our car climbed steadily up a 2- mile bumpy chalk and red clay road, reaching a parking lot that had plenty of spaces, with folks just arriving and others leaving. There was a strong breeze and as often up in these mountain regions, mean looking clouds lurking about.
Now, I may have underplayed the altitude sickness I got after our first rookie hike, but let me tell you I was sick as a dog (why a dog? are they sick a lot?); headache, dizzy, light and sound sensitive and with nausea bad enough that I didn't want to eat, which has happened never before, not even when i delivered my beautiful child. But there was no way I was going to pass up a hike known for its views and August wildflowers, even if the summit was 11,800 feet. I just needed to figure out how to get to the top and be well enough to drive back to Denver for our redeye.
It turns out the answer is to walk so slowly that you get passed by ants. I shuffled along, barely lifting my feet, stopping way too many times to take photographs of flowers, including blue bells, lady slippers, daisies, delphiniums (yes!), lupines and some unidentified bright red and bluey purple flowers. After a while, I realized that even bending down to take a photograph was exhausting. The Mountain Goat laughed at my lack of speed, listen below. No respect for their elders, these kids.
It was a giggly delirium that set in, harkening back to the gentle times at that Babson Alpha Kappa Frat party where I tried whippets. Squeaky voice and loopy mind. On we went, enjoying every minute in our own weird way. At one point, I came to a rock, and didn't know if I had the strength to go around it or over it. That made us laugh, which only made me weaker. Occasionally, people would come in the opposite direction and I'd make like I was fine and walk faster, then need to take a break to recover. Egos are really dumb sometimes... But I was worried they'd think there was something very wrong with me and call the paramedics.
But there's nothing wrong with walking slowly when it's a beautiful day and the scenery is unlike anything you've ever seen before. Copper Mountain straight ahead and plenty of others in every direction, some with ski slopes, others just quietly judging us, maybe even snickering. We hung at the summit for a bit, then did some math and realized we needed to get a move on if we were going to go to jam dinner in Boulder in, which in retrospect, wasn't worth it.
Yet another trip for the books with my most favorite travel companion. Takeaway? That 2-5 days recommended for altitude acclimatization really should be observed for this old body.
Now, I may have underplayed the altitude sickness I got after our first rookie hike, but let me tell you I was sick as a dog (why a dog? are they sick a lot?); headache, dizzy, light and sound sensitive and with nausea bad enough that I didn't want to eat, which has happened never before, not even when i delivered my beautiful child. But there was no way I was going to pass up a hike known for its views and August wildflowers, even if the summit was 11,800 feet. I just needed to figure out how to get to the top and be well enough to drive back to Denver for our redeye.
It turns out the answer is to walk so slowly that you get passed by ants. I shuffled along, barely lifting my feet, stopping way too many times to take photographs of flowers, including blue bells, lady slippers, daisies, delphiniums (yes!), lupines and some unidentified bright red and bluey purple flowers. After a while, I realized that even bending down to take a photograph was exhausting. The Mountain Goat laughed at my lack of speed, listen below. No respect for their elders, these kids.
It was a giggly delirium that set in, harkening back to the gentle times at that Babson Alpha Kappa Frat party where I tried whippets. Squeaky voice and loopy mind. On we went, enjoying every minute in our own weird way. At one point, I came to a rock, and didn't know if I had the strength to go around it or over it. That made us laugh, which only made me weaker. Occasionally, people would come in the opposite direction and I'd make like I was fine and walk faster, then need to take a break to recover. Egos are really dumb sometimes... But I was worried they'd think there was something very wrong with me and call the paramedics.
But there's nothing wrong with walking slowly when it's a beautiful day and the scenery is unlike anything you've ever seen before. Copper Mountain straight ahead and plenty of others in every direction, some with ski slopes, others just quietly judging us, maybe even snickering. We hung at the summit for a bit, then did some math and realized we needed to get a move on if we were going to go to jam dinner in Boulder in, which in retrospect, wasn't worth it.
Yet another trip for the books with my most favorite travel companion. Takeaway? That 2-5 days recommended for altitude acclimatization really should be observed for this old body.
- Published on
Another intention we had was to do the Maroon Bells hike, which we didn't realize is about as popular as the Statue of Liberty cruise in July. Due to PPP, we weren't able to nail a parking spot to said destination, yet were already committed to staying in the general area.
The drive there was again through an insane variety of landscapes from steep and dark mountains to Dr. Seuss looking stone and sand cliffs, to more green rolling hills and then flaxen farmland, flat, flat, flat. I kept on saying "What a fascinating country!". We stopped in the frozen-in-time town of Delta, where there was to be a pickin' in the park that evening, tempting us. There were lots of dualies (pronounced doolies - pickup trucks with extra wheels according to a Texan I know who wears Wranglers and shirts with snaps), and farm hands with hats.
Nat has a great sense for picking hikes and the Lorax Trail Loop in Carbondale was no exception. It wasn't until around 4 that we got there, so we knew it wouldn't be a long one, but were able to grab that time of the day with long shadows and stillness. Down at 5,000 feet, we ran along much of the red clay trail, surrounded by the delicious smells of piñon and sage, grateful to stretch our legs in such a serenely beautiful place.
We had dinner in Aspen that evening. Second Moncler store, Chanel, Prada, Gucci, Valentino, private jets and fat lips. Next.
When arising from our Lysol smelling, overlooking Route 70, motel, I knew putting on the noisy coffee maker would wake the princess, so took off on foot, because Lordy knows I'd driven enough, on the sort of road that has fast food restaurants, gyms and motels. Happening on a drive-thru burger joint, I ventured in to this unlikely destination, and a most friendly and cheerful young lad greeted me, providing caffeine and out of generosity, filling it right up to the brim with a smile. Sometimes it's not how it tastes, but how it's presented. I was most grateful for many things as I headed back down the highway.
Back on the day of the 10-hour drive, it was only when we were on a small and abandoned road that I realized gas was getting low. While the gauge hadn't got to E, it was close, so after some uncomfortable hoping, a rock shop appeared with old-fashioned gas pumps in front of it. We didn't question why the price per gallon wasn't listed, or be bothered that there was no pay at the pump. The store was the most delightful mix of local honey, shiny rocks, fishing gear, t-shirts, key chains, cleaning products, peanuts and Monster drinks. It smelled of rotting meat, and the bathroom of old wooden cabins. The proprietor was sure this city girl would need help filling the tank, but I didn't spill a drop. He thanked us and said to be careful out there. Must be more vigilant about checking gas gauge!
So you'd think, two days later, there would be some iota of memory of the stress-induced searching we had endured, but sadly that was not the case. It was when we were getting close to Vail that I looked down to see a new light on the dashboard, with the marker on the E. I apologized to the car for yelling at it when it beeped at my not using the blinker or came close too close to the edge of the road. I acknowledged I might have been out of line when making it rev a little too hard while passing beer trucks on one lane curvy roads. Then I begged. In return, the car held out until we got to a station where we filled up 12.78 gallons in a 13 gallon tank. We did the math after and determined we had about 6 miles worth of gas left, less than the next exit.
The village of Vail was where we were going to get advice about hiking but instead we saw another Moncler store. We were told that the hiking trail parking lots all fill up at 8am and that if we didn't want to do a technical climb, we'd have to shell out $59 each for the gondola and then hike down or something dumb like that. We hightailed it out of there.
The drive there was again through an insane variety of landscapes from steep and dark mountains to Dr. Seuss looking stone and sand cliffs, to more green rolling hills and then flaxen farmland, flat, flat, flat. I kept on saying "What a fascinating country!". We stopped in the frozen-in-time town of Delta, where there was to be a pickin' in the park that evening, tempting us. There were lots of dualies (pronounced doolies - pickup trucks with extra wheels according to a Texan I know who wears Wranglers and shirts with snaps), and farm hands with hats.
Nat has a great sense for picking hikes and the Lorax Trail Loop in Carbondale was no exception. It wasn't until around 4 that we got there, so we knew it wouldn't be a long one, but were able to grab that time of the day with long shadows and stillness. Down at 5,000 feet, we ran along much of the red clay trail, surrounded by the delicious smells of piñon and sage, grateful to stretch our legs in such a serenely beautiful place.
We had dinner in Aspen that evening. Second Moncler store, Chanel, Prada, Gucci, Valentino, private jets and fat lips. Next.
When arising from our Lysol smelling, overlooking Route 70, motel, I knew putting on the noisy coffee maker would wake the princess, so took off on foot, because Lordy knows I'd driven enough, on the sort of road that has fast food restaurants, gyms and motels. Happening on a drive-thru burger joint, I ventured in to this unlikely destination, and a most friendly and cheerful young lad greeted me, providing caffeine and out of generosity, filling it right up to the brim with a smile. Sometimes it's not how it tastes, but how it's presented. I was most grateful for many things as I headed back down the highway.
Back on the day of the 10-hour drive, it was only when we were on a small and abandoned road that I realized gas was getting low. While the gauge hadn't got to E, it was close, so after some uncomfortable hoping, a rock shop appeared with old-fashioned gas pumps in front of it. We didn't question why the price per gallon wasn't listed, or be bothered that there was no pay at the pump. The store was the most delightful mix of local honey, shiny rocks, fishing gear, t-shirts, key chains, cleaning products, peanuts and Monster drinks. It smelled of rotting meat, and the bathroom of old wooden cabins. The proprietor was sure this city girl would need help filling the tank, but I didn't spill a drop. He thanked us and said to be careful out there. Must be more vigilant about checking gas gauge!
So you'd think, two days later, there would be some iota of memory of the stress-induced searching we had endured, but sadly that was not the case. It was when we were getting close to Vail that I looked down to see a new light on the dashboard, with the marker on the E. I apologized to the car for yelling at it when it beeped at my not using the blinker or came close too close to the edge of the road. I acknowledged I might have been out of line when making it rev a little too hard while passing beer trucks on one lane curvy roads. Then I begged. In return, the car held out until we got to a station where we filled up 12.78 gallons in a 13 gallon tank. We did the math after and determined we had about 6 miles worth of gas left, less than the next exit.
The village of Vail was where we were going to get advice about hiking but instead we saw another Moncler store. We were told that the hiking trail parking lots all fill up at 8am and that if we didn't want to do a technical climb, we'd have to shell out $59 each for the gondola and then hike down or something dumb like that. We hightailed it out of there.
- Published on
Arriving at a new place after dark and then seeing it for the first time the next morning is a present unwrapped. Telluride proved both as dramatic and quaint as its google images, with small, independent and interesting shops, a middle part of main street that held flower boxes and allowed commercial vehicles to park, and minimal traffic. The side roads were even nicer, holding tiny miner's cottages, tidily painted with beautiful gardens and hanging flowers. Behind the town on three sides were not-fooling-around mountains, forming the box canyon and acting as both a natural barrier for the town and contrast in scale.
While there are times that a morning coffee addiction can be a bit of an anchor, in a new place it's also an opportunity for a cultural deep dive. Coffee Cowboy was pulling at me hard, but its location at the bottom of the gondola in a truck wasn't right so I struck out for Bruno with my orange notebook and as it turned out, culturally appropriate messy hairy and unkempt activewear. My silver Birkenstocks may have been on the wrong side of flashy.
As Brandon with a fauxhawk told us, no one is from Telluride (he is from Washington state). In the coffee line, there were a fair amount of second homers, Arcteryx, Stio and On ruling the day. It was easy to tell (or so I imagined) the short-term visitors like me, more likely to be impatiently reading something on their phones while waiting, versus the landed gentry who had been culturally initiated into eschewing phones in favor of being friendly. There was also a contingent of 20's-40's mountain men and women who brought in their own coffee cups, appeared to have slept in their clothes and from their faces, hands, and manner of slow, drawn out speech, likely spent more of their lives well above Telluride's 8754 feet. They tended to know others within the community and moved around the cafe like square dancers changing partners. I guess I wrote in my notebook, but honestly, it was a cover.
While we may not be planners, we do have intentions, one of which was walking in the mountains as much as possible. On our first day, we opted for Bear Creek Falls, a trail that was recommended for us east-coasters who hadn't yet adjusted to the altitude. While the youth skipped up the path like a mountain goat, the old lady huffed and puffed, outraged she couldn't keep up her regular pace, on a trail not nearly as challenging as any tackled in New England. It wandered gently up another 1,000 feet through birch and aspen, at the top bringing us to a dramatic bridal veil waterfall and breathtaking views of the many mountains surrounding the town. I kept thinking that an etching of them should be on some paper currency, they were that majestic. They were also a good reminder of how small our lives are.
Because altitude sickness got the better of me in the afternoon, we took advantage of the town's free gondola service going partly up the ski mountain, then down the other side to Mountain Village, a new, more developmentish area with shops, restaurants and more gondolas. We wandered around a bit and saw the first of three Moncler stores in three days.
Both days we took our breakfast at Butcher and Baker, sitting outside and watching the world go by while enjoying killer avocado toast with chili crisp and a home made pop tart likely purchased because of the rainbow sprinkles on top. On our second morning, we had a wiz through the friendly and pretty farmer's market, then saddled up and moved on.
While there are times that a morning coffee addiction can be a bit of an anchor, in a new place it's also an opportunity for a cultural deep dive. Coffee Cowboy was pulling at me hard, but its location at the bottom of the gondola in a truck wasn't right so I struck out for Bruno with my orange notebook and as it turned out, culturally appropriate messy hairy and unkempt activewear. My silver Birkenstocks may have been on the wrong side of flashy.
As Brandon with a fauxhawk told us, no one is from Telluride (he is from Washington state). In the coffee line, there were a fair amount of second homers, Arcteryx, Stio and On ruling the day. It was easy to tell (or so I imagined) the short-term visitors like me, more likely to be impatiently reading something on their phones while waiting, versus the landed gentry who had been culturally initiated into eschewing phones in favor of being friendly. There was also a contingent of 20's-40's mountain men and women who brought in their own coffee cups, appeared to have slept in their clothes and from their faces, hands, and manner of slow, drawn out speech, likely spent more of their lives well above Telluride's 8754 feet. They tended to know others within the community and moved around the cafe like square dancers changing partners. I guess I wrote in my notebook, but honestly, it was a cover.
While we may not be planners, we do have intentions, one of which was walking in the mountains as much as possible. On our first day, we opted for Bear Creek Falls, a trail that was recommended for us east-coasters who hadn't yet adjusted to the altitude. While the youth skipped up the path like a mountain goat, the old lady huffed and puffed, outraged she couldn't keep up her regular pace, on a trail not nearly as challenging as any tackled in New England. It wandered gently up another 1,000 feet through birch and aspen, at the top bringing us to a dramatic bridal veil waterfall and breathtaking views of the many mountains surrounding the town. I kept thinking that an etching of them should be on some paper currency, they were that majestic. They were also a good reminder of how small our lives are.
Because altitude sickness got the better of me in the afternoon, we took advantage of the town's free gondola service going partly up the ski mountain, then down the other side to Mountain Village, a new, more developmentish area with shops, restaurants and more gondolas. We wandered around a bit and saw the first of three Moncler stores in three days.
Both days we took our breakfast at Butcher and Baker, sitting outside and watching the world go by while enjoying killer avocado toast with chili crisp and a home made pop tart likely purchased because of the rainbow sprinkles on top. On our second morning, we had a wiz through the friendly and pretty farmer's market, then saddled up and moved on.
- Published on
It’s funny now, the way we deliberated on whether to take 70 West, then head south, or Route 225 to 25, at 6 hours and 44 minutes or 6 hours and 46 minutes respectively. 70 South to 285 was out of the question at 8 hours and 8 minutes! We chose the shorter, not because we wanted to save two minutes, but because we would likely take the other on our return trip.
Prior to leaving the Mile High City, we did what we do before traveling where there's little fresh food, and supplied up. Mi Pueblo fit the bill and then some, offering a bountiful variety of fresh fruits and vegetables, prepared foods for takeaway and hot meals to eat there. We said yes to all three, hungry and thinking about our future. As Nat enjoyed a breakfast papusa and I appalled fellow diners by eating guacamole with a fork, we watched the Central American families and work teams gathering there to share a meal before their day started, not a word of English spoken. In the parking lot, we noticed the Aurora Public Library in the sort of building usually designated for a car rental company, a flashing open sign and bars on the windows, making us grateful for the edifice and interior we’re lucky enough to have access to.
Having recently had the opportunity to understand how Nat's and my travel style is perceived by others, I've taken to calling us feral. Too much planning brings about a caged feeling, rather we treat visiting a new place as permission to welcome whatever decides to appear in our path. This occasionally leads to "unpredictable events" but for us it's part of the journey. We treat a route to a destination as more of a sketch than a finished drawing.
Our first stop was Bailey, a tiny community you'd be generous to call a town, at the base of mountains on both sides. I can’t tell you why we pulled over, but once we saw the Sasquatch Outpost, which serves as a museum and Sasquatch themed giftshop, we faced the stress of being the only customers head on. No purchases were made, but we learned that town members believe.
Within a few hours, we'd driven through 5 or 6 landscapes, mostly different kinds of mountains ranging from rocky to scraggy to conifer laden to red rock without trees to red rock with trees, a beautiful, rolling valley and a pristine lake. It's really at this lake that the story starts and in order to tell it, I've spent 15 minutes on google maps trying to reconstruct our route and still don't understand how we ended up going the way we did. Be that as it may, we were rolling along when we got to Blue Mesa lake and suddenly, the road was closed. Having no cellular and only one option, we took it, making a left and continuing to head south on the opposite side of the lake with pretty, winding roads, occasional trucks, a few minutes of sleet and very little else. We passed only one turnoff, to the right, but there was a police saw horse across it and worker people, so we continued on, after an hour or so arriving in the charming hamlet of Lake City, which it turns out is something of a dead end when it comes to driving to Telluride. Having already divined that Coloradans were friendly folk, we went old school and asked for directions from a veteran, who kindly explained what we had no way of knowing, that both closed off roads were the result of a crew working on a bridge, allowing passing only from 8:30 to 9:30 in the morning and 4:30 to 5:30 in the afternoon.
As it was almost 4, we retraced our route, heading to the dirt road we'd seen closed off. and got in line with at least 30 tractor trailers, opting to stretch our legs in a nearby piñon forest while we waited. At 4:15, a pilot vehicle with a flashing light led a long stream of mostly trucks coming from the other direction to ours, lasting about 20 minutes. Once they were through, the pilot turned around and led us along straw colored rolling hills, beautiful afternoon sunshine sneaking through angry clouds here and there.
After that, we were on our way, arriving in Telluride more than 10 hours after we began, and shortly after the kitchens were closed. Not being able to face more corn tortillas, refried beans, salsa and guac, we headed to Steamies, the only place open, and marveled at the variety of flavored mayonnaises they offered. Bed and sleep were most welcome.
Prior to leaving the Mile High City, we did what we do before traveling where there's little fresh food, and supplied up. Mi Pueblo fit the bill and then some, offering a bountiful variety of fresh fruits and vegetables, prepared foods for takeaway and hot meals to eat there. We said yes to all three, hungry and thinking about our future. As Nat enjoyed a breakfast papusa and I appalled fellow diners by eating guacamole with a fork, we watched the Central American families and work teams gathering there to share a meal before their day started, not a word of English spoken. In the parking lot, we noticed the Aurora Public Library in the sort of building usually designated for a car rental company, a flashing open sign and bars on the windows, making us grateful for the edifice and interior we’re lucky enough to have access to.
Having recently had the opportunity to understand how Nat's and my travel style is perceived by others, I've taken to calling us feral. Too much planning brings about a caged feeling, rather we treat visiting a new place as permission to welcome whatever decides to appear in our path. This occasionally leads to "unpredictable events" but for us it's part of the journey. We treat a route to a destination as more of a sketch than a finished drawing.
Our first stop was Bailey, a tiny community you'd be generous to call a town, at the base of mountains on both sides. I can’t tell you why we pulled over, but once we saw the Sasquatch Outpost, which serves as a museum and Sasquatch themed giftshop, we faced the stress of being the only customers head on. No purchases were made, but we learned that town members believe.
Within a few hours, we'd driven through 5 or 6 landscapes, mostly different kinds of mountains ranging from rocky to scraggy to conifer laden to red rock without trees to red rock with trees, a beautiful, rolling valley and a pristine lake. It's really at this lake that the story starts and in order to tell it, I've spent 15 minutes on google maps trying to reconstruct our route and still don't understand how we ended up going the way we did. Be that as it may, we were rolling along when we got to Blue Mesa lake and suddenly, the road was closed. Having no cellular and only one option, we took it, making a left and continuing to head south on the opposite side of the lake with pretty, winding roads, occasional trucks, a few minutes of sleet and very little else. We passed only one turnoff, to the right, but there was a police saw horse across it and worker people, so we continued on, after an hour or so arriving in the charming hamlet of Lake City, which it turns out is something of a dead end when it comes to driving to Telluride. Having already divined that Coloradans were friendly folk, we went old school and asked for directions from a veteran, who kindly explained what we had no way of knowing, that both closed off roads were the result of a crew working on a bridge, allowing passing only from 8:30 to 9:30 in the morning and 4:30 to 5:30 in the afternoon.
As it was almost 4, we retraced our route, heading to the dirt road we'd seen closed off. and got in line with at least 30 tractor trailers, opting to stretch our legs in a nearby piñon forest while we waited. At 4:15, a pilot vehicle with a flashing light led a long stream of mostly trucks coming from the other direction to ours, lasting about 20 minutes. Once they were through, the pilot turned around and led us along straw colored rolling hills, beautiful afternoon sunshine sneaking through angry clouds here and there.
After that, we were on our way, arriving in Telluride more than 10 hours after we began, and shortly after the kitchens were closed. Not being able to face more corn tortillas, refried beans, salsa and guac, we headed to Steamies, the only place open, and marveled at the variety of flavored mayonnaises they offered. Bed and sleep were most welcome.