Category Archives: Travel Musings

An Open Letter to My Eyeballs

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Dear eyeballs,

We’ve been together for a little over three decades now. You played nice for the first half of those years, but about the mid-way point you decided that you weren’t going to put the full effort in any more.  I am not sure exactly when this choice was made, but it became glaringly obvious when I was in 10th grade and decided to take drivers’ ed.  To get my permit for the class, the DMV required that I take a vision test.  You failed me in that moment!  Apparently, not being able to read the gigantic letters on the first line was a problem for the ever-pleasant women who run the permit department.

Letting me down at that moment was a huge disappointment.  What is more important to a fifteen year old than getting a driver’s license and gaining a semblance of freedom?  (Okay, in my family that meant getting to drive the couple of miles to Marsing for milk or hauling my little brother to innumerable baseball practices.  It wasn’t exactly the total anarchy I had hoped for, but at least the Ford Taurus had a radio that would play Clay Walker at levels that I now realize NO country music should be played at.)

With your DMV failure, while initially seeming like a huge obstacle to overcome, I did gain one thing- a new fashion accessory.  Thanks to you, eyeballs, I spent the next three years of high school rocking a rainbow of colored contacts.  Being naturally light blue, I could easily change you up to nearly anything I wanted.  I think at one point I had four different contact containers on the bathroom counter, each with a different color of contact inside.  While the emerald ones were a stunning jewel-green, by far my favorites were the violet ones.  They by no means represented an eye color found anywhere in nature, but, they were amazing!  My pasty white skin made an excellent backdrop for those pansy purple contacts.  For that, I thank you!

The fact that you decided to not work up to your full potential, thereby forcing me into contacts (I have always refused to give in to wearing glasses- you may wish to make my life nerdier, but I have always attempted resistance!), has, at times, led to some problems.  There was the time in Oregon, while on vacation, that I lost a single contact.  The trip was a bit of a last minute deal and I hadn’t packed spare contacts.  I was miserable as we explored the Rouge River, me with one of you squeezed shut the entire time, totally throwing off my depth perception, causing me to trip over boulders that were closer than they appeared.  Or what about the time we  got a lovely case of pink-eye from my darling middle school students- do you remember being stuck to the contact like super glue?  I woke up in the middle of the night, knowing instantly from the swollen, eye-gunk feel of you that conjunctivitis and I would be taking a sick day together.  Since I wore thirty day contacts, that meant prying you open and fishing around until you finally released your eye-booger grip on my contact. That was not one of your more shining moments.

So, eyeballs of mine, you may have had the last fifteen years to slack off, and I hope you have enjoyed it, because your couch potato days are coming to an end. Next week you will be forced back to work.  A nice little laser, we’ll call him LASIK, is going to come for a visit, to force you back into shape, making you once again work the way you were intended.  Your long summer vacation is almost over, so enjoy the next couple of days. A week from now you will no longer be relying on contacts or glasses to do your job for you.

No more slacking. No more contact mishaps. No more unglamorous glasses. You, me and LASIK have a date.  Be ready, the laser is picking you up at 7:30 in the morning.

Sincerely,

Michelle

Are You Ready for Some Football?

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The quickly creeping up end of October also means Thad’s birthday is just around the corner. Since he is slightly traumatized from his childhood days of birthday gifts wrapped in black and orange and filled with miniature candy bars, I figured I had better not get him anything with cute pumpkins or witches on it. I thought about adorable bat-covered goods, but decided a winged gift of another kind was more in order- tickets to the Eagles/Redskins game. Long a fan of the Philly team, this was the perfect opportunity for him to see them in person with just a jaunt up the blue line.

This was not Thad’s first Eagles game (he and Jeremy went to one in Seattle a few years ago, during which Shannon and I opted to partake of the downtown shopping opportunities instead), but it was mine. I have watched countless hours of pigskin frolicking on TV over the years, but this was my first live NFL experience.

The game itself was a success.  The Eagles had several interceptions and enough points to come out on top as the final seconds of the game ticked away. Although the game was at FedEx field, home of the Washington Redskins (how is this an appropriate mascot?!?), I was surprised by the large number of Eagles fans in attendance.  It was the makings of a massive flock to say the least! Our seats were in a section that was pretty even as far as red and green jerseys, so it seemed like every big play garnered both a standing ovation and a groan of despair.

Out of all the experiences at an NFL stadium, I was most astounded by the noise levels! When we watch football on TV, the announcers are always yammering on about the “12th Man” and its impact on the game. I guess I always assumed they were full of bologna and just liked to hear the sound of their own voices, but after sitting through it, I think they may actually know what they are talking about. The Redskins fans sitting directly in front of us were next to a column that had a metal grating around it.  The lovely man, whom I nicknamed “Kicky” for obvious reasons, took every possible opportunity to stand up and slam the heck out of that grate with his foot. That poor hunk of metal endured abuse when the defense needed to take a stand, when the offense made a fabulous play or just whenever Kicky felt some pent up rage. There was A LOT of that.

The only thing I can compare the stadium noise level to is an experience from a good many years back.  When I was in the sixth grade, like all tweens of the time (keeping in mind that this was before the term tween even existed), New Kids on the Block were just about the greatest things going.  I skated around the cement roller rink in Nampa innumerable times to catchy tunes like “Hanging Tough” and “The Right Stuff.” NKOTB posters covered the walls of the bedroom I shared with my older sister, Melyssa, and our cassette tape organizers always gave them top billing. The winter of that opening year of middle school, my Aunt Laurie decided to get my sister and I the most coveted gift for girls our age- tickets to the upcoming concert!  Not only did she get us tickets, but they were second row, floor seat tickets!!!  Melyssa and I couldn’t wait for the day of the concert to come and after an interminable wait, it arrived.  We were bundled off to the big city of Boise for our first live concert. After fending off the pleas of middle aged women wanting to buy our seats, we were there, front and center.  I remember little of the concert itself, but I do recall that the music was so loud that I could really only hear it by plugging my ears.  I think my little sixth grade self lost a bit of hearing that evening!  Although it probably wasn’t as bad as my memory recalls it, I remember the noise being excruciating.

New Kids on the Block and FedEx Field- more in common than one would imagine!

Game and noise level aside, there was one other thing that must be mentioned- the restrooms.  Like at most large events, there was always a line in the ladies’ bathroom.  The stadium had enough stalls though to keep things moving at a fairly decent clip.  The problem arose once the waiting was over.  The bathroom I went in had probably fifteen stalls in a row, but it quickly became clear that only maybe four of them were equipped with an all-important necessity- toilet paper!  At this point, the banter between red jerseys and green jerseys quickly stopped and a solution made everyone members of the same team.  A TP bucket brigade was formed!  The folks with paper in their stalls began tearing of sections and passing it under the stalls.  Each person passed it on until it reached the end, with another handful following it.  As the passing was happening, the women still in line figured out what was going on and took matters into their own hands as well. When I stepped out of my stall, having been both a participant and a beneficiary of the brigade, I noticed that all of the ladies in line had paper towels in hand.  (Paper towels are never a first choice, but there are worse options.) What an odd little happening in the middle of this crowded stadium…

Once the game came to an end, I gladly bid farewell to ol’ Kicky and silently wished him a sore foot in the morning.  We made our way back to the Metro and crammed in to a corner of a blue line train for the forty-five minute ride back to Crystal City.  Thad’s birthday gift ended up being a success- the Eagles came out with a win and he wasn’t inundated with orange and black covered knick-knacks!

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Gourd Sculpting and Arachnid Treats

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As many of you might know, Halloween is my least favorite of all holidays.  The aversion actually stems from several different routes, but the two major ones are my utter enmity towards the color orange and a high level of discomfort around costumed things.

On the costumed things tangent, let me demonstrate my issues with a short story:  A few years ago (okay, it was pre-Peace Corps, so more than just a few) Thad and I took a mini-vacation to Las Vegas with a few friends. Our group included Jeremy and Justin, two of his friends from high school, and Shannon, my best friend and fellow middle school teacher. After wandering the entire length of the Strip, several times, the day was drawing to a close, but there was one Vegas site that was high on a few people’s “Must See” lists- the Star Trek bar. Now, while this was not on a desirable side trip for me, I had hauled the entire group to the Excalibur so that I could get period pictures as a princess!  I owed them all an uncomplaining trip to nerd-dom. To be fair, the bar itself was pretty cool.  There were all these fancy, futuristic machines that poured drinks and lots of shiny and sparkly cocktail choices.  All was going well- for a short time.  Soon after we arrived, as Shannon and I sat giggling at the other bar patrons, suddenly a costumed creature appeared in front of us.  (I am still unsure if it was male or female.) As I have little Star Trek knowledge (other than trying to emulate Geordi LeForge by wearing my banana clips over my eyes) I didn’t know what character this things was supposed to be, but it was creeping me out.  S/he asked questions about where we were from and what we were doing, but all seemed to be aimed directly at me. After giving short, terse answers, I tried to look engrossed on whatever was playing on the TV at the time. The creature walked away, but soon it appeared again. (I later learned that my lovely husband was beckoning it over when I wasn’t looking.) Shannon, being nearly as filled with the heebie-jeebies as I was, agreed to skedaddle with me.  We quickly made plans to meet the others outside the hotel when they had finished their sci-fi concoctions and we made our hasty exit.  The only problem?  Apparently the costumed things are allowed to roam freely!  I figured if we got out of the bar itself, we would be safe, but no such luck.  Whatever this thing was continued to follow us through the hotel.  We had no choice but to beeline it for the closest building exit.  While we waited in the hotel’s driveway in Las Vegas’ slightly uncomfortable gazillion degree weather, we came to the conclusion that melting into the pavement like ice cream cones at a state fair was a better option that being tailed by whatever costumed creatures lurked in the comfort of the air conditioning.

But I digress…

Without Mom’s backyard pumpkin patch to wander through and pick my own pumpkins from, I was constrained to choosing from the supermarket’s meager selection.  Knowing that I had to haul my pick home on the bus, all colossal and prodigious pumpkins were quickly taken out of the running to be this year’s Halloween star. After sorting the short, fat pumpkins from the tall, long ones, I proceeded to turn the lucky top picks in full circles to get a view from each angle.  (I use a similar process in December with Christmas trees.  Thad loves going along on these excursions!) As the culling process proceeded, I finally narrowed the field down to two.  One had a better color to it, but it was a bit small, so he (I always refer to my pumpkins as male)earned himself the runner-up spot. The tiara and sash went to a rather rotund gourd that had a great tilt to him, making the perfect canvas for my jack o’lantern. (Note to Shopper’s Supermarket: Do something about your harvest display located near the pumpkins. Those bales of straw are not hay, they are straw.  There is a huge difference. And  three bales does not a haystack make!)

With our gourd safely back home, it was time to finish getting ready for the carving party. (Yes, the pronoun “our” is correct.  Thad and I decided to share one pumpkin.  We would split the fun.  He would clean the guts out and I would carve.  Fair deal!!)  I soon finished decorating my spider cake- arachnids from Oreos (!) and got the house picked up and extra chairs hauled in from the patio.

John and Erin showed up, right on time, with apple cider, a couple more pumpkins and a carving kit.  It was time to get to it!

After covering the table with newspapers we had collected from the “free paper” boxes nearby, it carving commenced. Erin, our resident artist, carved an intricate design of bats flying around a sliver of moon, edged with clear marbles for stars. John, after painstakingly cleaning his pumpkin and sorting the seeds, carved his jack o’lantern in about three minutes flat. My effort fell somewhere in between the two with a clownish-faced Halloween friend.

Without the terror of costumed creatures lurking about, our evening of carving pumpkins and munching on spider cake made the thought of Halloween just a little easier to swallow. Celebrating pre-Halloween is the future of the holiday for me!

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Ode to the Fresh Prince

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Now this is a story all about how
My 3-day weekend got me right out of town
And I liked to take a minute just sit right there
And tell you how I spent the weekend in Pennsylvania’s care.

In West Philadelphia for Columbus Day
On the hunt for stamps is where I spent most of my days
Chillin out, maxin, relaxing all cool,
Staying at a Sheraton with Wi-Fi but no pool.
A few years back a couple of guys  were up to some good
Started making trouble in the neighborhood
With a Continental Congress their grievances they aired                                                                                                                                   And soon Hancock said, “I’ll sign big. I ain’t scared!”

I jumped on the SEPTA when it came near
Dream of new stamps afresh
And adventure coming nearer
If anything I could say that this town was swell
but I thought nah, forget it
yo on to the Liberty Bell!

I hopped off the train feeling super great
I yelled to Thad Ross “Yo the king was such a hater!”
I looked at Independence Hall, I was finally there
To witness history in this famous square.

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Radioactive Bananas

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As Thad continues, on a daily basis, to unravel the intricacies of Mandarin Chinese, occasionally making his teachers cringe with pronouncements such as “The puppy must depend on the bitch,” I have also occasionally ventured into the buildings that comprise FSI (the Foreign Service Institute). I can’t speak for generations of spouses before me, but one thing that the Foreign Service is really doing well now is making sure that the accompanying family members of the officers are well-educated.  They have an entire department set up for this purpose alone.  Through these offices, I have been able to sign-up for and attend an array of classes, including ones on what life is “really” like in the Foreign Service and one all about the details of the various allowances the government has set aside for diplomatic officers, but doesn’t necessarily hand out unless they are requested.  Good information to have in my back pocket.

My time of casually attending these classes is quickly drawing to a close though, as the last day of October is not only my least favorite holiday in the whole world, but also the start to my scheduled Chinese classes. (Seriously- I preferred getting smacked with a cow stomach blown up like a balloon during Carnival when I lived in the Dominican Republic to the abundance of costumed teenagers standing at my door looking for a candy handout and the ubiquitous “sexy” anything and everything. For women the country-over, this seems to be a holiday designed to let out any latent street-walker leanings.  As a side note- little trick-or-treaters are fabulous and cute!)

A couple of weeks and a huge list of possible classes to attend don’t mesh well, so I quickly signed up for the ones that I could squeeze into my remaining time.  Information gleaned off of building-mates in the elevator and other spouses lead me to believe that the one “must-have” class was the Security Overseas Seminar.  It is designed to be a two day course covering basic security concerns for posts worldwide.  It sounded important.  It sounded practical.  It sounded interesting.  I signed up.

It was all of those things and more.  It was terrifying.  It was paranoia-creating. It should be renamed “101 Ways to Die in the Foreign Service,” although I am not sure this would draw the same clientele that the current, mundane “Security Overseas Seminar” does.  (The course is required for all diplomats, so Thad does get the pleasure of attendance at some point this winter.)

Rather than going into great detail about all of the sessions and the possibilities for harm that await us abroad, I have compiled a short list of things I learned over my two days of attendance.

***In case of situation where decontamination is necessary, my clothes will be cut off of me by trained staff. I will then be soaped down in an effort to get all contamination off my body.  Contamination tends to cling to hair.  I will be given a sponge and told to take care of these areas myself.  If I do not do a sufficient job, I will be given a second chance.  If again this cleaning is not adequate, the staff will instruct me to take a wide stance and look at the sky (apparently this minimizes embarrassment) while they do the job for me. This is good to know.  I will make sure my first two attempts are quite thorough!

***Radiation is a daily part of life. Our TVs and microwaves give off radiation. We all travel and get doses of radiation from the airport.  People should not freak out each time FOX News goes on a 24-hour news cycle binge about cellphone radiation.  Even bananas contain radiation.  How many bananas would I need to eat to be harmed by it?  ALL of them!

***In case of an evacuation, I should always have a “Go-Bag” ready. This should be packed with basic items such as a change of clothes, some non-perishable snack items, and copies of important documents, as well as some American cash. We did not have one of these in Peace Corps and when we were told we were being evacuated post-earthquake, we had just a few minutes to grab what we would need for an indefinite stay away from our post. In that time of uncertainty, I grabbed my all-important stuffed monster, Zugly, that I have had since I was in about the second grade and somehow my Cleveland  Browns shirt, a lovely “gift” from friends at home,  made it into the backpack as well. (For those of you not aware, I HATE the Cleveland Browns.  The reasons why are long and a little complicated, but to sum it up, I can’t handle the fact that a team named the Browns uses orange as their main color and that they have a set of outfits that make them look just like a bunch of Tootsie Rolls when they don them.) If I remember correctly, Thad’s backpack carried the laptop, but also a crucial addition of Doritos that we had recently acquired from outside of town.  A pre-planned Go-Bag is probably a good thing for the Ross family!

***Many posts are extremely cold. I may not jerry-rig a brick with a heating element to create my own personal foot-warmer.  Apparently, the heat from this will be enjoyed by the fire inspection staff from Washington DC and once they are properly warmed, they will unplug it and take it away from me. (Yes, it happened.  Yes, the instructor had the brick with him.)

***When I move into my new home, if it is an apartment building, I should often take the stairs. This is not only good for my health. Knowing who lives (yes, you read that correctly!) in my stairwell and making acquaintances with these people can be to my advantage.  Good to know!

Is this an exhaustive list of what I learned at SOS this last week?  Nope, but it does give a taste of what the class is like. I now know where the best places to be in case of a possible bomb are (it naturally boils down to “as far away as possible”) and how to circumvent questions that seem to be a bit too inquisitive about embassy life (“Why did you ask me that?” apparently shuts things down pretty quickly).

With that under my belt, I’ve got just a bit of time off and then I’ll be joining Thad in his attempt to curtail the inadvertent swearing in Mandarin!

 

 

What is Black and Blue and Belongs in My Sock Drawer?

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Blue and black.  The most obvious Jeopardy reply would be, “What are the colors of the many random bruises on Michelle’s pasty skin?”  In nearly all cases, this would win you full points and hopefully put you in a comfortable lead going in to Final Jeopardy.  But, with any luck you did not take this chance to go with a true Daily Double, because your digital score bar would be reading all zeros.  Today’s correct reply is, “What colors of passports do Thad and Michelle possess?”

With a Wednesday afternoon off from Chinese studies, Thad decided it was time to shuttle on down to Main State and turn in our requests for our diplomatic passports. While there are several steps to this process, they seemed fairly straight-forward; we had the required documents in my super cute purple and pink paisley Vera Bradley knock-off bag and Thad and his classmate, Ian, who was going with us, were properly suited up for a visit to Main State. Time to roll. (Okay, less rolling and more waiting patiently for the next shuttle to leave FSI, take a tour through the Rosslyn area and finally arrive downtown DC.  Either way, we were on the move.)

Once arriving at the Department of State building, Thad and Ian walked hassle-free in the front door.  I, on the other hand, as a mere spouse, had to go through an odd little addition onto the building, show my Virginia Drivers’ license–for those of you not paying attention, I am now an official VA driver, as it my ticket to motorcycling madness– have my bag scanned and go through the X-ray machine.  (Side note: Since I’ve been in DC, I have gone through the X-ray scanner more times than I had, in total, up to this point of my life. I have to go through it each time I go to FSI, each time we go to Main State, plus on my several trips to the airport this summer. I am beginning to think that this may not be so good for the ol’ cells!)

Once I made it past the extremely friendly guards (no sarcasm there at all- seriously- they were quite congratulatory on my being there to get my diplomatic passport, as if I had actually contributed anything to this endeavor!) , Thad and Ian were waiting patiently inside the building.  Our first stop was to get passport photos taken.  I guess I expected this step to take a bit of time, but we walked in and were whisked to the photo room before we had even finished signing in on the all-recording clipboard. With no time to primp or prepare, onto the stool I went with slightly crooked necklace and a bit of crazy- humidity hair, but at least I remembered at the last second to convert my current four-eye status back into just two!  (LASIK countdown is at four weeks, so it is glasses for me for the next month. If I was hesitant about the procedure before, I am totally on board now, just so I can stop wearing these awful spectacles!)

Not five minutes later, Thad, Ian and I were handed envelopes with four passport-sized photographs in them and it was off to stop number two.  The halls of Main State would make the Minotaur weep.  Labyrinth is an understatement.  After being escorted in the right direction by a friendly fellow headed our way, we walked confidently into the office that said friendly fellow pointed out.  Only problem?  Our friendly fellow was off a few doors.  Our second entrance, while filled with a bit more humility, was into the correct department.  To the passport window we sallied, ready to turn our photos into travel documents.  At the window, we were greeted by a no-nonsense woman, who I am sure has her hands full with the daily parade of first-tour junior diplomatic officers, many who while thinking they have life figured out, are often just confused kids beneath their puffed up egos.

This dear woman promptly asked us for our passport applications.  After glancing at one another, a quick and quiet conference, we blushingly replied that we didn’t have applications.  With what can only be described as a sigh of resignation, our helper woman responded with, “Wait.  I’ll come out there.”  I guess we were her problem children for the day.

Out from behind her window she came, directing us to a wall covered in an array of official looking documents. After grilling us with a series of questions about our current passports and their statuses, we were each handed the correct application (being told that if we hadn’t answered her questions correctly, she would have to start all over with us) we were sent to a table to fill them out.

The application itself was just a routine set of questions about name, address, personal passports, etc.  It didn’t take long until we were back in front of that window, feeling a bit like middle schoolers waiting to be allowed to go to lunch. Thad and I were up first.  We handed her our applications, passports, photos and his travel orders.  She promptly looked at his orders and told him he needed copies of a different set, which we happened to have in the ever-prepared bag of cuteness.  As he scurried off to make copies to give her, Ian boldly stepped up to the window.

Glancing over Ian’s paperwork, the woman behind the glass gave a single nod, which we interpreted to mean he followed directions precisely.  The smart thing, at this point, would have been for Ian to smile, thank her and walk away, meeting Thad and I in the lobby shortly.  But, no . Ian, more than politely, asked her if she would notify him when his passport was ready to be picked up.  With a snort/chortle, she quickly questioned him as to whether he thought she looked like she had time to call him and a hundred of his friends each day to let them know their passports were complete. Then, under her breath, she continued with a mini-tirade about how even if she did, they wouldn’t come any way. Ian, ever-smiling, agreed that she probably didn’t have time to do that and he would just swing by the office and check in a few weeks.

It was at this moment that Thad arrived back with our copies.  In no time our documents were accepted and before I could warn Thad about asking, he presented the same query- when would we be notified to pick up our passports?  Oh no!  With a giggle, I turned and quickly headed for the reception area of the department.  I was not going to be there for the answer.  (Luckily, he got a quick response, shorter than Ian’s and we were out of there.)

The best part about this whole process was that woman.  She was as polite and helpful as is possible, but I don’t know that I’ve ever met someone who can couple that with such a no-nonsense attitude.  I really wanted to suggest to this woman that she become a middle school teacher!  She would be amazing at keeping sixth graders from randomly wandering the classroom, seventh graders from passing notes filled with gossip and heart-dotted I’s and eighth graders focused on Poe and Dickens rather than upcoming dances and football games.

Our day at State ended with a jaunt down to the cafeteria, where I managed NOT to make an ungodly racket returning my lunch tray to the upright bin.  (My last visit was not so successful in that department,  but that story is for another time!) Soon, blue and black passports will be resting neatly in my sock drawer, waiting for April and the next adventure to begin.

3 States + 3 Provinces / 12 Days = 0 Moose

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The giant glowing ball in the sky is rising later and setting earlier.  The swimming pool is closed. Cardigans are being sported over lightweight blouses.  Sandals are giving way to closed-toe shoes. These are the unmistakable signs that summer is drawing to a close.  What is a temporarily retired teacher to do with her fall when there are no lesson to plan, students to teach,  papers to grade, or sporting events to attend?  While there are an array of possible answers to that question (some better than others!), this temporarily retired teacher chose to go on a New England road trip with her permanently retired parents.

Since Thad is still busy toiling away at the business of learning Chinese (which currently consists of five hours of instructor-led time in the classroom, study time at FSI between courses and then several hours of homework each night) I figured I may as well use the time to see a bit of the Northeast rather than just the high rise apartment buildings that are Crystal City.

After meeting the parental units in Manchester, NH,  (I much prefer my ninety minute puddle-hopper flight to their eight hour air-trek from Idaho) we embarked on a whirlwind tour of three states and three Canadian provinces. There were sights to be seen, attractions to behold, quirkiness to encounter and many, many places to get off the planned track for the day.

One of our first stops included a visit to Lenny, the life-sized chocolate moose found in Scarborough, Maine.  Lenny was the first of innumerable moose we encountered on our trip.  There were chocolate moose, of course, metal moose, stuffed moose, moose heads, moose prints, moose mugs, moose shirts, moose pencils, moose calendars, moose bags and nearly any other moose memorabilia one could ever possibly desire.  From Maine on into Canada, anywhere that had a handful of trees and a marshy area filled its stores with moose-mobilia.  They dotted their roadsides with bright yellow warning signs, designated crossing areas for the giant mammals and erected miles upon miles (or kilometers upon kilometers, depending on which side of the border the madness was on) of moose fences.  Now, like most travelers, I figured that with so much build-up and hype, there had to be a real moose sighting in my future.  I could not have been more wrong!  After seeing both realistic and cartoon pictures of moose plastered on everything from afghans to yo-yos (nope, no “z” items!), I have come to the conclusion that moose are just a figment of the cold, northeastern imagination.

While the moose-lessness of the trip was a disappointment, all was not lost.  Not lost all the time anyway.  There may have been a few navigational mishaps at times.  If a map says to take Route 2, and as the front-seat guide, I see a road that is labeled Route 2, I am going to suggest that we take it.  As Dad followed said route into Halifax, I thought we were on the right track.  The signs said “Route 2 Inbound” so I thought all was good.  And it was, for a bit.  Then, as we continued to follow the signs, it seemed as though we were making too many turns to the left.  How many left turns before we are going back the way we came?  Thinking little of it, I continued to excitedly point out the next sign, keeping us firmly on good ol’ Route 2.  Soon my wonderful signs were reading “Route 2 Outbound.”  Perfect!  That means we have headed through the city are about to emerge on the far side, just as we had planned. The ridiculousness of the whole situation become entirely clear though, when as we drove down a rather narrow street, we recognized not only the Taco Bell/KFC combination store that we had earlier considered stopped at to get lunch, but also the cart-dwelling folks hanging around outside!  Route 2 had taken us on a lovely loop tour of downtown Halifax, Nova Scotia.

After finally escaping the grasp of Route 2, our trip up the coast did garner us some great sightseeing. Peggy’s Cove is a great little stop where the waves crash up over gigantic rocks.  I was a bit concerned by the signs stating that tourists had died by getting too close to the massive waves, but then as I looked around at my fellow visitors, I realized for many of the tour bus groups, sudden heart failure or hip fractures were a more likely cause of concern for their octogenarian clientele.

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Prince Edward Island was a beautiful place to spend a few days.  It has been years since I imagined its landscape through the pages of Anne of Green Gables, but it every bit the storybook setting I had imagined.  Not only was the island filled with verdant fields and idyllic villages, but the white-washed churches each seemed to be made for nothing but beautiful countryside weddings.

Once back in the US, Boston and the surrounding area was our destination.  A visit to Salem was necessary, as The Crucible was read in my classroom on more than one occasion.  I had to laugh at the disparity of what is happening in that town.  The shops and museums all rely heavily on witch-themed tourism, so they give their visitors what they are looking for.  We saw more than one person dressed in full witch-garb, a variety of shops offering palm readings, tarot card readings and aura pictures and every type of mystical medallion possible.  On the other hand, a short walk across the main plaza, sits the National Park Service building, which is doing its utmost to show Salem as more than just the horrors of 1692.  Their entire building is dedicated to the maritime and military history of the town.  It is obvious that the town has a richer past than what it is known for, but try as the Park Service might, it is still the witches that lure in the tourists.

Rounding out our visit to the Northeast, Mom decided that she wanted to take a short jaunt out to Plymouth Rock.  Edward family legend has it that several of our ancestors were on the Mayflower in 1620 when it docked on the shores of what would eventually become Massachusetts. While the Pilgrims’ journey across the Atlantic Ocean lasted sixty-six days and was arduous to say the least, it isn’t much hyperbole to say that our trek to the rock was only slightly less painful.  I have to say that the Pilgrims may have faced unknown dangers at sea, but we faced a similarly difficult challenge- red lights!  After setting the handy-dandy GPS for the famous chunk of stone, we embarked on this one last side trip.  Our downfall was the GPS setting- never go with “shortest distance.”  Our route ended up taking us through small town after small town, each one with terribly timed street lights, meaning we hit nearly every red light from Salem to Plymouth!  Seriously. While we did not have massive waves to contend with nor did we face the possibility of being thrown overboard  and drowned, we did spend many a passing minute wondering if the small towns of Massachusetts had ever considered hiring a city planning engineer.  What we thought would be a quick trip to see Plymouth Rock morphed into a journey of epic proportions that finally required the procurement of several Hostess cupcakes if we were going to complete it successfully.

With our trip time drawing to an end, it was time to make our way back to Manchester, our alpha and omega. Bags were repacked and dirty clothes shoved to the bottom in the hopes that TSA wouldn’t decide to rifle through our carry-ons. How do I sum up a fall vacation that checked twelve days off of the calendar, spanned six states/provinces and ranged from picturesque landscapes of the Canadian countryside to downtown, modern Boston?  Easily.  No moose!

Motorcycle Mayhem

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“Squeeze in the clutch, find the friction zone and roll forward with the bike, letting the engine do all of the work. “  Seven out of eight beginning motorcycle riding class participants followed those instructions with success.   The eighth?  She ended up under a dropped motorcycle, trying to ease her bruised ego and rear end while the instructor pulled a slightly dented, 300 pound Honda Rebel off of her and back into a standing position. Thankful for the full-helmet that shielded the tears of frustration that threatened to overflow, rider number eight dusted off her new boots, gave a thumbs up to her classmate and took a deep breath, more determined than ever to get the motorcycle riding endorsement added to her driver’s license.

While I would like to claim that this anecdote was one I witnessed and was able to honestly retell in a third-person narrative, sadly, my still sore bum says that a first-person telling is really the more accurate one.

A few months ago, Erin was looking for someone to take a motorcycle riding class with her.  Thad and I had just moved to the DC area and I was dying to get some of my own things going around here.  When she mentioned the class, I thought it sounded like a fun little adventure.  Heck, we are headed to Asia in the spring- the land of two-wheeled transportation!  After finally getting ourselves organized, Erin and I signed up with NOVA to take the three-day course over Labor Day weekend.  As September grew closer, I got a bit more nervous about this very out-of-my-comfort-zone undertaking, but the registration had been submitted and my payment processed, so I was all in!

The first night of the course was just classroom work.  With teachers as parents, school has always been  a second home to me.  Early mornings, evenings, weekends and breaks were spent hanging out in their classrooms as they prepared lessons, graded papers, worked on union issues, helped students and any number of other things.  (So much for the myth that teaching is an 8-3, nine-months of the year job, eh?) Starting this little adventure off behind a desk was perfectly fine by me! After reading the manual, watching the videos and answering seventy-five questions in preparation of the eventual written test, I came away from the evening with some very key information.  First of all, I learned that dogs often like to run at motorcycles.  The book was very clear on the fact that a rider should NEVER kick at the dog.  I am going to chalk that one up in the “good rule for life in general” category.  The other spectacular piece of knowledge that I walked away from class with Thursday night was that carrying a passenger on your bike is just like bobsledding.  Perfect!  As an avid bobsledder, this simile has cleared up all concerns I had about adding 175 pounds to the back of my bike.

With class done, questions answered and a series of acronyms memorized, it was time to get to the heart of the training- the motorcycle riding.  Being raised in Idaho, one might assume that I have at least a bit of background knowledge when it comes to motorcycles, but one would be very, very wrong!  Let’s just say that Saturday’s learning curve was less of a curve and more of a vertical line- headed straight up. My only saving grace was I did know how to drive a standard transmission, so the basics of shifting were already crammed in my cranium.  Some of the points on my learning curve graph included the fact that you have to twists the throttle towards you to make the bike go (in my head, it should be a twist forward, as that IS the direction you want to go!) and while it is best to always use both brakes, the front brake is the stronger, go-to brake (exactly the opposite of riding a bike, where a front –brake only earns the rider a rather nice forehead road rash). Leaving Saturday’s session with a smile on my face counts as a success, as I had serious doubts about who this was all going to turn out within the first ten minutes of the day!

Sunday dawned and I rolled out of bed, much sorer than I had anticipated.  Apparently, a 300-pound bike inflicts a bit more pain than my adrenaline-filled body had registered the day before.  With long-sleeved shirt, gloves and boots donned, it was time to see this exploit through its end. First it was back to the classroom for the written part of the assessment process.  The test consisted of fifty multiple choice questions.  Luckily, I remembered that not kicking the dog was important riding advice, as it came up on the exam.  Ten minutes later, Erin and I, having both glided through the questions, sat waiting for the real challenge of the day to begin.

Our riding day started with the dreaded box- basically a painted square in which the rider has to make a giant, tight turn in each direction.  It was an evil way for the instructors to start the day, by far being the hardest skill we would work on all weekend long.  After a few more hours of new techniques and practice and several gallons of fluid lost to the heat radiating of the pavement,  the dreaded skills-test was upon us.  The test consisted of four skill-sets that each had to be checked off, one rider at a time.  The assessment works much like a golf game- at the end, you want to have the least number of points.  A score of twenty-one is a failing score, so anything lower is considered acceptable.  As luck would have it, the terrible, horrible, no good, very bad box-skill was the first on the list.  Doing my best Michael Jordan impersonation, with tongue out and a look of total concentration, I nailed the box!  With a bit more confidence going into the rest of the test, I successfully completed each skill section.  Praying for a score of less than twenty-one, I was thrilled with my final total of five points!  That’s right- five!  Those were penalty points because I went to slowly through one of the sections of the test, but I am more than okay with that.  Not only was this score lower than I had anticipated, but Erin and I both had some of the lowest scores in the class!  (The one guy who had been riding for years and just decided to finally take the class so he could legally, who got a score of zero, doesn’t count!)

What does this all mean?  It means that I am now officially allowed to ride motorcycles.  I went to the Alexandria DMV today (that four-hour nightmare is the making of a whole new blog entry) and in seven to ten days will be the proud owner of my motorcycle-endorsed driver’s license from the Commonwealth of Virginia.  While I won’t be hitting the freeways anytime soon, nor am I even sure I ever want to own a bike (scooters- now there is a possibility!), this was a really great opportunity for me.  It has been a long time since I undertook something that was so far out of my comfort zone, but it was great to complete the course and feel like I had really met a huge challenge head-on.

What’s next?  I’m thinking bobsledding!

A Moving Monument

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This weekend is a big weekend here in the DC area, and not just because of the likely appearance of lovely Ms. Irene and her hurricane force winds and torrential rain.  Unless you have been living under a rock, or a giant granite monolith for that matter, you know that Sunday is the official dedication of the Martin Luther King Jr. Memorial in downtown Washington DC.

This monument is a beautiful addition to those already in our nation’s capital.  As guests approach the memorial from Independence Avenue, they are greeted by a massive stone wall, representing the “mountain of despair,”  which has its middle cut out and pushed forward into the center of the memorial space.  The middle piece is a physical manifestation of the “stone of hope.”  It is on this slab of granite that Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. is carved in a spectacular fashion.   This nod to his most famous speech, “I Have A Dream” is not necessarily subtle, but it’s obvious reference doesn’t create a feeling of amateurism either.  Many visitors will be coming to this monument after having walked up the National Mall, through the series of monuments that ends with Abraham Lincoln’s, where a tile is set into the steps commemorating that same speech.  People can go from standing on the exact spot where the speech was given to then venturing  across the road and literally stepping into the words of that stirring oration, bringing not only its author, but its message to life.

Once inside the monument, the sides of the walls facing the Tidal Basin are covered with quotes, in chronological order, from MLK Jr.’s lifetime.  Visitors move around the monument in a counter-clockwise direction, working their way through Dr. King’s experiences as a leader of the Civil Rights Movement. This loop passes back by the “stone of hope,” where guests have a chance to really take in the majesty of the thirty-foot statue of Martin Luther King, Jr.  The visage of the statue is one that is both prideful and stern at the same time.  It seems to radiate a sense of pride in how far his fight has come since the early 1960’s, but there is also a feeling that there are battles to still be fought when it comes to people being judged by their character, which they choose and create, rather than on traits with which they are born and have no control over.  It is standing at this grand effigy that is bursting forth from a slab of granite that my favorite allusion to King and what he stood for is quietly played out. King’s sculpture looks out over the Tidal Basin, right into the Jefferson Memorial.  As a major player in the writing of the Declaration of Independence, Jefferson’s words “…all men are created equal” are perfect reflections of what King was trying to accomplish through his works.

While the monument doesn’t official open until Saturday, with the dedication taking place Sunday, I had the magnificent opportunity to go down and volunteer on Tuesday, the preview day.  My volunteer duties were very much like what I did at numerous Red Cross events back in Idaho.  I, along with Earl, my wonderful partner for the day, stood on the sidewalk offering commemorative bookmarks, free water and a chance to rest to the heavy stream of people headed towards the monument from the National Mall. We were there to not only pass out our goodies, but help by providing directions, information and help when needed.  Earl and I started out duties at 8AM and had a really great day together.  It was sunny and warm (I was chastised numerous times by old women who wanted to know why I wasn’t wearing a hat!), but we did our best to great each person headed up towards the monument and welcome them to DC’s newest addition. (It was also wonderful to talk to these same people as they made the return trip.  I loved asking them what they thought after their visit. Out of the hundreds, probably thousands, of people I spoke with on Tuesday, I have to say that well-received is an understatement when it comes to public opinion of the memorial!)  After  hours of sunshine and no lunch, there came a moment when my head started spinning and my initial thought was, “I’m about to pass out!”  Having experienced a rather unpleasant case of heat exhaustion in Cambodia a few summers ago, I thought I recognized the signs.  It took me all of about two seconds to realize that no, this was not heat exhaustion, but another sensation with which I have experience- an earthquake!

My initial awareness of the earthquake was quickly followed by a scan of the area.  I looked up and saw the light post and Washington Monument, both in motion. I looked down and could see the grass smoothly rolling under my tennis shoes.  As I glanced over my shoulder, the previously glass-like Tidal Basin had some lovely whitecap swells on it.  The quake was short, lasting only a matter of seconds.  Even as the quake was taking place, people were still streaming towards the entrance of the memorial.  Some people stopped to look around and to discuss if it fact they had just experienced an earthquake (a first for many long-time DC residents) and then calmly headed back on their way.  As our tent and area seemed undamaged, people nearby not in need of any assistance, Earl and I went right back to handing out bookmarks and chatting with those headed to the memorial.

One of the fabulous parts about working the tent on the main pathway to the memorial was the really great people I got to meet. I was able to speak with a man who walked with Dr. King in Montgomery, another who was in jail with Dr. King in Birmingham and at least a dozen people who were in the crowd on August 28, 1963. I heard women tell stories of participating in the bus boycott in their hometowns and men talk of sit-ins at local businesses. These were suddenly not just chapters of a history textbook being read to me in sophomore history class by Mr. Cooper, but real people, real events, real soldiers in the fight for equality.

Before volunteering at the Martin Luther King, Jr. Monument on Tuesday, I don’t think I had a very good grasp on how important this opening was. I understood that his leadership was invaluable in changing the racial landscape of America; I understood that he was a man who deserved this recognition, but  I think I understood these things strictly in an academic way.  A day in the sun, greeting visitors, talking with people who experienced history in a way I can only imagine brought that understanding into a much more human, realistic realm.  The pride was palpable on Tuesday.  Countless people were in their Sunday best for their first visit to the memorial.  The respect and admiration Dr. King’s leadership, his hard work and his life were unmistakable.   While the earth may have moved me physically on Tuesday, my opportunity to serve at this historic event moved me intellectually and emotionally.

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