The Cat's Meow

It “was the cat’s meow” that drove me crazy on the hour and 25 minute flight from El Paso to San Antonio. Throw in the crying baby and the guy behind me snoring through his siesta, and I was ready to jump out at 10,000 feet. This recent flight was the first ever where someone had a kitten onboard.

I have flown on a few where the traveler had a very pampered small dog, noticeable by the elaborate carrier, the well-groomed pooch and well-dressed owner, and the rhinestone collar—on the dog!  Several times I have even sat near someone traveling with a seriously disciplined service animal, but in each case the animals were quiet as a mouse. Yikes, a mouse. I am so glad the kitten didn’t see a mouse—that could have been pandemonium.

Poor kitten. It obviously had never been around so many people, and it could not have known its owner long, if at all. He wasn’t exactly reassuring the little creature. In my writer’s mind, I figured he was taking it as a gift to someone, and was maybe attached to the soon to be owner, but certainly not to the kitten.

Later at the airport while I was waiting for a connecting flight I saw him “catless,” and I figured he had made the delivery. Not once on the flight had he attempted to sooth the little guy in the bright yellow carrier as the meows got louder with every mile in the air. I had hoped that the rhythm of the engine would put the kitten to sleep as it did its temporary owner or at least drown out the cat’s meow and obvious consternation, but this just was not to be.

Actually, I am a “cat person,” although it has been many years since I had one as a pet. Nowadays, my schedule doesn’t even work for a cat, so that tells you something about how hectic life really is—I mean a cat is pretty self-sufficient!

Anyway, another interesting flight to add to my list. Did I tell you about the time on a Southwest Airlines flight, where the seats face each other, I sat directly across from a transvestite who loved to share his/her/its life’s experiences??? Oh, now that was the real “cat’s meow.”

Traveling

Settings are the easiest for me to describe in my books because I try to weave in places I have actually visited and studied. Using them in my writing allows me to mentally visit them again and again and relive my experiences. Hopefully, you are traveling with me in both Keeping Faith and Promises Kept.

The most difficult part is deciding which places to incorporate into the chapters of my novels and how the characters will relate to going there or living in a particular setting. East Texas and New England were naturals because I lived in the former for all my formative years and have traveled many times to the latter.

The places in between cause me the most deliberation. Of course, who could argue with Italy? It is a gorgeous place with boundless history and intrigue. It was so easy to write about which, of course, made Carmella and Stefano easy as well. But so was Austria and Switzerland… and the list goes on.

I am so fortunate to be able to travel to so many wonderfully interesting and beautiful places. I admit to a bit of wanderlust. I have the book, 1,000 Places to See Before I Die sitting on my desk as inspiration, but I promise not to make you pack your bags for all those. I will, however, introduce a few new destinations in book three.

So, where is your favorite vacation spot, your dream trip or the best place you have ever visited? Take a minute to describe it in the comment section. After all, the readers like to hear from others besides just me. Maybe you can suggest a scene for my next book!!

Friend Helen & Keeping Faith

I am blessed to have met people from all over the world, and many I continue to correspond with on a regular basis. I love hearing from them in emails or on Facebook. Somehow, just hearing from them brings back the memories of the trip where we met, and I am able to re-live that experience and the mutual fun times. Of course, it is also nice when they send me a photo, holding a copy of my book. Not only is it great to know the book is in a faraway place, but that my friend has read it and shared that experience as well.

I met Helen (in the photo) and her husband Paul on a sixteen day trip to England, Ireland, Wales, and Scotland three or four years ago—I lose count of the time these days. Together with their friends, Ann and Dewayne, who all hail from Prince Edward Island, Canada, we saw places like Stratford on Avon, the Ring of Kerry, Oxford, the great cities of London, Edinburgh and Dublin, and the list goes on. That’s the trip where I kissed the Blarney Stone (and just knew I was going to fall backwards 200 feet—hey, it’s not easy kissing that stone!) and tasted Haggis, the nastiest stuff I have ever set my teeth into. But since it is supposedly the national dish of Scotland, I forced a bite of the dish made from “sheep pluck,” which is, in essence, heart, liver and lungs minced with onions, spices, and oatmeal. It took a lot of wine to wash that down.

Actually, the wine is how we all became friends, along with Rachel and Duke who are from Illinois, but winter at South Padre Island. We raised our glasses many times on that Great Britain and Ireland excursion, and I am so glad we had that opportunity. Thanks for the memories, Helen, and for reading the book!!

I miss my parents the most when I travel, because I know how they would have liked to hear of my adventures. I hadn’t traveled a great deal when they both died, but when I did it was an equal adventure for them. They couldn’t wait for my calls and for me to relate what I had done each day.

I realize now they were living that part of their lives through me, and enjoying what they were never really able to do. They did travel in the States, Mexico and Canada, but never ventured further than that. I get my “go” gene from my dad who would have taken off to lands unknown, but mother was most comfortable at home.  Dad always dreamed of going to see the Holy Land; Mother couldn’t imagine being on an airplane that long, (actually she hated flying anywhere) and when they were finally financially able to go, they were past the age where they would attempt it.

It’s just as well. I know now that Mother would have hijacked the plane after the first four hours and demanded the pilot land somewhere, anywhere fast, so she could get on the first bus home.

No, they were best at home, waiting for my calls, anticipating what my next place would be, living vicariously through me. And that’s okay because I never travel that they are not on my mind. I take pictures of the scenery and think of them. I eat a new dish in a foreign country and know Daddy would not have agreed that it was good—after all it wasn’t “Momma’s cooking. I drag my bags behind me looking for someone who speaks English to tell me the right direction to go, and know that would have made them uncomfortable.

But, I thank them for giving me a sense of adventure, of courage to go to new places and see new things, most of the time as an independent traveler. And I know they are watching over me when I veer off my path.

Hope To See a Few Windmills

Today I leave for Europe, first to serve as chair of a quality assurance review (accreditation visit) for a Department of Defense international school in Brunssum, The Netherlands, and then to play a few days in Amsterdam and the surrounding area. The school serves children of the Joint Command NATO forces which include a representative group from the United States, Canada, Germany, and the United Kingdom.

I fly into Dusseldorf, Germany, and will be picked up by a colleague who will be serving as my vice chair. We will then drive about an hour and a half to Brunssum which is located in the southern part of what used to be called Holland. From what I have read, it promises to be a pretty drive, and we will have time to stop along the way if we choose.

On Monday, we will meet with the commander and other officials, and then late in the day, meet members of the school team who join us from different Department of Defense schools throughout Europe. I always enjoy meeting these educators who have led extremely interesting lives, often living in many different parts of the world.

The next three days, I’ll be quite busy in the school, evaluating its programs and processes, talking to administrators, teachers, students, and parents and reviewing all matter of paperwork, etc. I’ll also spend time in classrooms.

Then, I’m off to play. I’ll either leave for Amsterdam Thursday afternoon or early Friday morning. Although I have been there before, it has been eight years. The last time I was there I had an incredible opportunity to see the Floriada, which is a gigantic international floral festival held only once every ten years.

For acres and acres, there are flowers growing representing different nations, all beautifully landscaping the hills and valleys that surround lakes and ponds. I will miss the tulips this trip, but there will be plenty of other things to see; hopefully a few windmills. I loved the canal last trip so I know I will take another boat ride.

One day I plan to visit The Hague on the North Sea, home of the International Criminal Court and the de facto judicial capital of the United Nations.

After a short visit, I’ll probably catch the train to Delft, known for its blue porcelain that is synonymous with The Netherlands. At this point, “play plans” are not carved in stone, because I always get good suggestions when I meet people in the schools. These recommendations often cause me to change my mind anyway, so who knows? I only know I will fly out of Amsterdam to come back home, but the in between is still in limbo, therefore, watch for blogs and I’ll keep you posted.

I arrived in Ruidoso, New Mexico on November 20, after several stops and hotel stays along the way. After all, it is a 16 hour trip, so no need to rush. I know it seems crazy to go west to cold country for the winter when others are traveling south to stay warm, but every now and then I like the change, and the way the mountains, trees and potential for snow add to the holiday excitement. The little village here is decorated for the Christmas season (and I do not apologize for calling it that—whoever “invented” political correctness should be burned with a yuletide log).

The twinkling lights hanging along the storefronts in mid-town look just like a holiday card, and the people bustling around the shops remind me of those described in the traditional carols playing on the radios inside the stores. It is, indeed, a magical time, and although I love South Padre, the palm trees just can’t compete this time of year with the tall pines and junipers. It just smells like Christmas here. Of course, when the temperature is 19 degrees in the morning, it definitely feels like Christmas.

Ski Apache is open, and ski racks on top of SUVs are as common a sight as fishing poles hanging out of pick-up truck beds at the island. The drive up the mountain is scary, especially if the snow refreezes over night. Even with the newly added guard rails, it is a treacherous 12 mile drive. But it doesn’t stop the die hard skiers and snow boarders. In my younger years I forged up there and skied a few times. These days, I opt for a hot toddy and a good book in front of my fireplace. Skiing is hard work, and there are not enough hot tubs to make me less sore the next day. Been there, done that, and glad to have the memories, which include landing in a snow drift and running over an old man, not to mention falling off the lift when the operator yelled jump.

They had to stop the whole lift just to keep the chair from taking off the top of my head.  And I had lessons!! Think what might what have happened if I had tried this without ski school. As you know from reading earlier blogs, lessons don’t necessarily “take” with me. But I love a winter wonderland, and I’m happy to be here to celebrate the season. So close your eyes and think snow!

You know by now that I am a traveling fool, and no matter how far the flight or how long the delay, I continue to return to the airport for more abuse. But recently, I actually turned down a trip—to Saudi Arabia. I said “no” after considerable internal strife.

On one hand, I would like to see Riyadh and Jeddah where the schools I was asked to evaluate are located, but two weeks in the desert just seemed like an eternity. Actually, I did my research and less than 100,000 non-Muslim visitors are allowed in a year so that makes it tempting to be among the few. But further study left me with doubts, and the cons quickly mounted up against the pros. First, as you know, women are not held in great esteem in the kingdom, as it is referred to, so I would probably smart off to the wrong person or wander off into a forbidden area and be flogged on the first day.

Second, the rules require even visiting women to comply to some degree with their rules of proper attire. Although I wouldn’t be required to wear an abaya, a long black gown, I would have to wear long dresses rather than pant suits or dress suits with modest skirts and jackets that I am accustomed to wearing as professional dress. That, along with the fact that no wine is allowed in the kingdom, pushed me over the edge. I can live without the wine (well maybe), but I refuse to wear long dresses and in many cases a scarf for two weeks in 110-plus degree weather.

Third, a taxi driver is not allowed to drive a woman who is not accompanied by a man to any destination. This would greatly inhibit my shopping. All in all, this appeared to be one country just not meant for me. And it is too bad, because I would have loved to see the schools and meet the people, and just think of the blogs I could have written…..

But I did accept an invitation for the first part of March to chair schools in the neighboring United Arab Emirates which will give me the opportunity to see Dubai and other cities along the Persian Gulf. Everything I have read leads me to think this will be a great experience, and although this area is steeped in its Islamic culture and rules, they are somewhat more relaxed, especially for visitors.

These will not be my first Islamic schools, so I am familiar with the constraints, etc. I will first be visiting a private school in Al Ain, known as the Garden City, located on the Gulf of Oman adjacent the Oman border, so there is a good chance we will be allowed into Oman as well since the school leaders and owners always take us on wonderful tours and social events.

On the fifth day I will travel about an hour and a half to another private school in Sharjah, which overlooks the Persian Gulf, about ten miles from Dubai. My plans include several days in Dubai, and maybe a short trip to Abu Dhabi, after the school reviews are complete.

So prepare for photos of more camels and who knows what else in early spring.

Cindy in Quito

As you know I am home now, but looking back on my recent trip I realized I never really said much about Quito, Ecuador, which I enjoyed and found quite interesting. I understand now that Ecuador is not exactly on everyone’s “must see” list and many folks can’t actually pinpoint it on the map.

Thank goodness for “My Weekly Reader!” Remember that little newspaper that we referred to in the 60’s for all the geography our elementary teachers thought we would ever need?? If you don’t, you just aren’t old enough or you weren’t paying attention in class.

One reason I am acutely aware of Ecuador’s lack of geographical prominence is from my conversation with the credit card representative. As always before a trip, I called to tell the company where I would be using my charge card, and the gentleman on the other end of the phone asked is that “Eq—–?” I quickly spelled the country and then there was a long pause. I knew that he was having trouble processing where this little country might be, so I added, “in South America.” “Oh, that Ecuador!” he replied.

My first order of business in the city was, of course, shopping, which is something I am quite astute at doing wherever I go. And bargain shopping at the markets is especially fun to me. Unfortunately, I think now that all the indigenous people in Latin America have gotten together and decided to make the same items. After being in a number of these markets in various countries, I found it difficult to find anything “new” to purchase, but nonetheless, I shopped until I managed to find a few souvenirs. These purchases of various sizes and degrees of fragility always seem like such a good idea until I start packing to return home!

The next day I took a city tour which included the colonial old town and other cultural highlights. In every Latin American city, this means churches (lots of churches), the Plaza of Independence, the Presidential Palace, often the catacombs as we saw here, and various museums. But the part I was most interested in seeing was the Mitad del Mundo, better known to us as the Middle of the World or where the equator marks the exact center of the earth at zero degrees latitude. Located about 16 miles north of Ecuador, the Middle of the World Monument/ Museum, is the most visited site in the country. Of course, everyone visiting that day, including me, had to have photos taken standing with one foot in the northern hemisphere and one in the southern.

Then, it was off to more shopping in the market around the monument and a short break at one of the open air cafes, popular because the weather in Ecuador, due to its proximity to the equator, is always mild and really very comfortable. Nights are cool, and day time temps quite pleasant. The sun, however, can sneak up on unassuming folks, so Panama hats are sold around every corner. Ecuadorians claim that authentic Panama hats are made here, but I never confirmed that, nor did I buy one. There were enough silly looking people wearing them without me joining them.

Seven hours after leaving the hotel, I returned for a long bubble bath, followed by a delicious tenderloin ( especially good after seeing some of the stuff they were selling on the streets) at the Hacienda, located in the Marriott where the members of the visiting accreditation team were staying. Since this was the real purpose of the trip, the next three days were comprised of work, evaluating the Academia Cotopaxi, named after the highest volcano in Ecuador, rising majestically in the Andes near Quito.

Although I say work, it is always a great experience because I have the opportunity to meet teachers who have taught in various places all over the world. The student population is also composed of interesting young people from diverse backgrounds and ethnicities, a high percentage being children of diplomats or international business executives. Others are local students who hope to attend universities in the States and then return to their native country.

And so another trip has ended, with a country added to my journal, new friends and acquaintances to correspond with on occasion, and more memories to carry with me. Maybe someday I can visit the other places where the equator “divides the world,” but for right now, I’m content with this one.

As I mentioned in an earlier blog, “Behind the Curtain” the downside of traveling is always the getting there and returning. It hasn’t always been so bad. I can remember when I first started flying how exciting it was, but believe me the charm of it all has long passed. Part of the problem lies with me, I know, because I always take too many clothes, resulting in much too heavy luggage and a couple of carry-ons that if measured would never make the cut. The other problem is that I am usually seated in the back, crammed in next to some extra large person with bad breath.

Fortunately on my trip to Quito, I was upgraded to business class on both the outbound and inbound flights, which made it much more pleasurable, except for a few glitches. The first problem arose about mid-way into the trip when I got up to stretch and go to the restroom—a major bad timing decision. As I opened the door to exit the bathroom, a rather elderly man lay sprawled in the aisle preventing me from moving any further. I stood helplessly, looking down at him as the flight attendant began asking for a doctor on the plane.

Another woman who I assumed was his wife or daughter crowded in next to me. Although I am very proud to have a Ph.D., I have enough sense to never use the title “Dr.” on an airplane ticket for just this reason. How embarrassing it would be to be asked and have to say, “Duh, I’m not that kind of doctor,” which began my thinking about how attendants know if someone is a real physician.  I didn’t see them check any credentials or ask questions of the man who answered the call for a doctor. He just appeared from somewhere in the middle of the airplane in his dirty, worn trousers and dingy shirt and proceeded to look as confused as the old man lying on the floor.

The attendant brought oxygen and helped the “doctor” apply the mask. By this time, the attendant began asking the woman standing next to me questions about the older gentleman’s medical history and prescriptions.  She just kept saying, “He has prostate problems” over and over. I wanted to say, “Lady, I don’t think that’s the problem, but since I am not that kind of doctor and really didn’t know, I kept really quiet—which wasn’t easy.

How I wanted to disappear back to my seat, but as long as he was “prostrate,” I couldn’t. Finally, I mustered the courage to ask her if she was his wife and she nodded yes, quickly adding in a more frustrated than worried tone, “And he needs to be okay because we are traveling in the Galapagos for the next two weeks.” Again, I was silent, but couldn’t help but think maybe she should have thought about that when she married the ole codger who was at least 25 years older than her.

After about 30 minutes of standing in the very area where the captain warns passengers not to “congregate,” I was able to squeeze by as the attendants lifted the sick man to the jump seat. Moving quickly and in darkness, I didn’t see the two pillows in the floor and couldn’t catch myself as my foot tangled and I went hurling forward—making the second person to be on the airplane floor in less than an hour. But I was instantly up and in my seat! Within ten minutes the old man was back in his place across the aisle, snoring blissfully as I rubbed my throbbing knee.

The return trip was less eventful although I arrived at the airport at 4:30 a.m. only to be told the plane had not arrived the night before due to fog and that we would be leaving much later—2:15 p.m. I arrived home at 11:45 that night. I love flying!!!!

Today is my last day in The Galapagos, and I am seeing one more island before I clean up at the Hotel Red Booby and go the “journey” back to the Baltra airport. Although many people, after arriving by air, explore the islands strictly by boat, I opted to stay at the hotel and take day trips. Cruising single is an expensive venture and especially here. The Galapagos Islands were once an adventure for only the wealthy, and although that is not the case now, it remains expensive because of its remoteness and costs associated with building an infrastructure, along with the fact that most food and supplies have to be brought in by plane.

This little village, Puerto Ayora, reminds me of old outposts in rural parts of Mexico where one is careful to eat only at the suggested restaurants, drink only bottled water, and walk cautiously on the cobbled-stone pavers which comprise any street that is not dirt. The locals are friendly, and like in every other Latin country, night life is active and noisy. Souvenir shops are plentiful and prices can be negotiated, but not very much. It appears the vendors stick together, and besides I have seen all the “I LOVE BOOBYS” t-shirts that I care to view, and I can’t think of a single person to buy one for although I have a number of male friends who would admit to the slogan, but are too old for the shirt!