Piece of Cake

Cream cake, Lake Bled, Slovenia

I’ve had my share of cake this year; a trip to Europe: a writer’s conference in Denver; an extended stay in the desert; a visit with family in the Pacific Northwest combined with the annual pilgrimage to Ashland, OR to bask in the wisdom of the bard.  I was looking to let the rest of the year slide. Then Lesley popped up at Bucket List Publications suggesting the year’s not done and challenging her fans to write a list of five things to accomplish before 2012 ends.

  I tripped over the word accomplishment.  Haven’t I accomplished enough for one year? Then la petite voix in my head said “they don’t have to be BIG accomplishments.” So here goes:

1. Walk a trail at Yosemite
2. Celebrate my mother-in-law’s 90th birthday with family
3. Help someone heal
4. Organize just one of my photo projects
5. Draft 50,000 words of my next novel in November’s NaNoWriMo

You see what happened by the time I got to item # 5.

If you check out Lesley’s list, you’ll see she likes to live large. Me, I like to live in a large world but next year I’d like to conserve some energy to give to God as temple offering. I’m going to attempt to pare down my resolutions; No bucket list next year, more like a shot glass approach—quick, powerful, done.

1. Start something
2. Finish something
3. Celebrate something
4. Kill something
5. Figure something out

Most fun will be identifying what to kill. This year, I killed my landline. Pre-election season was a brilliant time to do this. My house is blissfully quiet. I save money on a redundant service and minutes in a day checking to see if the light on my answering machine is blinking. I’m motivated to actually go see people so I don’t lose all my friends.

Panorama, Bled, Slovenia

Little in life is a cakewalk. Whether 30 amazing adventures crowd your calendar or five activities challenge you to make changes, list making pushes you to accomplish something that is often harder than you imagined it would be.  So leave a little room for a piece of cake.

Door #1 or Door #2?

Holly Lane Gardens

Inn at Vineyard Lane

We recently sampled lodgings on Bainbridge Island, WA. They could not have been more different, but each had its appeal. Organic farmer Patti Dusbabek has four rooms and a cabin down an unpaved road on 8.6 acres at Holly Lane Gardens.  Llamas keep the grass trimmed and geese supply eggs for breakfast. The charm is joining Patti in her warm farm-style kitchen, watching her put the finishing touches on a cranberry kuchen and hearing the tales this retired federal labor law investigator tells about giving the good old boys a hard time at the local farmer’s market.

I’m not sure who runs the Inn at Vineyard  Lane.  Our daughter made reservations online. We received email instructions for how to access our room electronically and directions to breakfast in the morning.  The first day we never saw a soul, but hot coffee waited on the counter in the empty commons and fresh homemade yogurt, granola and fruit chilled in the under counter refrigerator.  The Inn comprises four well appointed, zen-like rooms meditating in the middle of a complex of flats and penthouses near the Bainbridge Ferry--as  urban a landscape as the Gardens are rural. It was peaceful. Eerily so, but we liked it.

So, which to choose when we snatch our ninety-year-old grandma out of Arkansas and whisk her to the island for Christmas? She would feel at home on the farm. Patti would warm her insides and make her laugh. But she chills easily. We have to keep her warm on the outside. We will choose Door #2.

Book Lust

When I started writing seriously my literature libido declined. Too busy engaging with my own little set of characters, I didn’t have the energy to mingle at someone else’s party. But now that Faerewryn has gone off to be compiled into a progressive novel that may or may not go to print and Dolores requires an additional 30,000 words of tale spin, I’ve started reading again.

Author Ann Voskamp says in this week’s World Magazine that when you hit a dry spell in your writing, you aren’t reading enough. She suggests reading several books at once. They talk to each other and you can join the conversation.  She also maintains that list writing generates spiritual attentiveness. To that end, I’m recommitting to my practice of keeping an annotated list of what I’m reading. I use the Book Lust Journal by Nancy Pearl.

I’m drawn these days to read imagined characters set in real world context; most recently Caleb’s Crossing and Remarkable Creatures. In both cases the protagonists keep their minds and hearts open while working alongside people with limited perception. It’s always a push to see the bigger picture. 

As engaging as writing and reading are, it’s still a party with fictional people so I took myself off in search of the bigger picture—to Central Europe to meet real people in historical settings.  It’s inspiring to see young people emerging from centuries of oppression with hope for better times, even though hope is tempered with uncertainty.

My travel companion Sharon and her Polish cousins

I love the café societies where people meet face to face and electronic devices are consulted, not worn as armor against intruders.

I’m back in the New World now, missing the city squares where people gather in front of makeshift big screens to cheer their favorite football team—for free! I love crossing bridges that span the old and the new, walking cobblestone streets, popping into an art gallery or a palace (there’s not palace on your block?) to enjoy a concert before dinner, gazing out my window over red-topped roofs that undulate across the horizon of time, punctuated by golden church spires that wear globes, crosses and stars like a Hapsburg monarch wore her jewels. 

As lovely as the Old World is though, I would not trade freedom for antiquity.  

a Toast to Peter & Co.

We breakfast on cucumbers, cream cakes and cheese
We’ve all changed our thinking; we do want to please
We’ve learned to say new words, instructed by you
Like Allo and Ahoy and, of course, Dooby do!

A Ruin Pub in Budapest

Each day brings new challenge, wonder and fun
We know if it’s not good, the day’s just not done.
We do what we’re told; we go where we’re sent
Our optimism’s boundless, fierce, militant!

Our guides, Peter and Barbara

Your lectures inform us, now we know it’s not Zen
To say Eastern Europe, we won’t do it again.
And lest we forget who helped make our day
To Barbara and Bojan, Whoo hoo ! Na zdrajel!

King Matthias on Castle Hill in Buda

So let’s raise a beer to our next trip—Belize?
Heck, let’s raise a statue to our patron, Rick Steves!
Dear ladies and gentlemen, our trip’s at an end
To life, peace and Peter, our good commie friend.

Koszonom szepen Peter!

Traveling light

“Why are you doing this?” a good friend asked, “just for the hell of it?”  That sounded right; nothing truly compels me to trek through Eastern Europe but the trip is not entirely without purpose. 

I’m pushing my way through my 100 TTDBID* list; wiling away time in the beautiful city of Prague has scrolled to the top. It’s an appealing adventure—exploring the history, culture and beauty of the small countries that once were Yugoslavia. Discovering that my grandfather’s family came from the Eastern Bloc heightens my interest, but mostly the trip meets the criteria of forcing me out of my comfort zone.

I’ll be traveling without my husband and most agreeable traveling companion of 43 years. Sharon and I will be two of four singles in a tour group of 24. We’re counting on a connection formed in high school and nurtured over the years by a similar curiosity about life to make this a memorable adventure
.
I’m interested to see the spirit of people who live in relative peace now after so much turmoil. I wonder how long it will take me to adjust to a slower pace. Peeling myself away from the rituals that that give my daily life structure—checking my social media accounts, keeping my blogs going, fulfilling obligations, moving from project to project—leaves me with a mild anxiety, especially since I’m laying aside the tools I count on to keep in touch. I’m not taking my cell phone and will count on a low budget laptop with an hour of battery life to send smoke signals.

I took to heart the admonition to take only what I can carry. I’m normally a “plan for any occasion” packer but this trip I have a small roller holding a minimal wardrobe and a back pack with my plastic bag of 3 oz bottles, my map and guide book, my Nook, my Acer, sunglasses, umbrella, camera, notebook and that’s it. Not even a purse. A passport, a debit card and some cash are secreted on my person. My life fits in a paragraph.

I’ve been focused on getting everything done. Now it’s time to stop and go.

*things to do before I die     

Hee haw!

horsing around in Wickenburg

The Desert Caballeros Western Museum in Wickenburg, AZ is billed as Arizona’s most western museum.  Apparently Caballeros is Spanish for “dude” because Wickenburg is the dude ranch capital of world.  Dudes from all over the world ride the Wickenburg trails next week. The clink of spurs on the pavement was the tipoff.

The museum’s Cowgirl Up! Art exhibit was impressive. Unfortunately photography was prohibited so you’ll have to take my word for it or hit the trail to Wickenburg yourself sometime before May 6, 2012. 

The soulful eyes of a young Yavapai girl; the masculine strength of a cowboy toting a bale of hay and impressing the heck out of his young grandson; the galloping abandon of women on horseback feeling their oats in a brass sculpture titled Girls Night Out; the in your face smug bunny; these all made me yearn to paint, sculpt or saddle up.  Lack of talent and courage preclude me from doing so but for a second I pulled a brush oiled with petal pink across the bunny’s cheek. I reigned in my horse with admirable expertise.

Weather got you down? Go to a museum. 

Desert Caballeros Western Museum general store exhibit

Regional divides

There are places I travel where I still hear the old saw “Oh, you’re from California, the land of the fruits and the nuts.” That’s the time when my tendency to stereotype fires up on all four burners. If you want to talk about nuts, there are sections of the U.S. where fresh fruits and vegetables don’t appear on any restaurant menus (unless it’s okra disguised as a corn dog).

I get teased for being a fussy foodie. My idea of comfort food is sushi or the perfect dark chocolate sea salt caramel. In my mother-in-law’s hometown comfort comes battered and deep fried.

Thinking about the cheery man who last offered the stale commentary on my state of origin, I took a deep cleansing breath and began to consider what we all could do to cultivate an appreciation for our differences before we jump to ridicule.

1. Relax and enjoy. Sample what another region savors. While I believe a steady diet of carbs will kill me, one hush puppy won’t hurt, and they taste yummy. Okay, I’m more likely to indulge in a hush puppy than you are to sample raw fish. I’ll give you that one.
2. Open your heart. Yes it’s difficult to watch a man dance down the street in a pink tutu, but if you let a slender youth with spiked hair advise you on makeup, you’ll probably learn something.
3. Remember. The divides are legion. Besides regional, we judge cultural, socio-economic and generational differences. Skinny jeans and stilettos may look ridiculous on you (or not), but you have to admit they look darling on your daughter. She’ll figure it out when she starts developing bunions, just like you did. Caveat: If it’s your mom adopting every new fad and she’s in danger in breaking a hip falling off her rollerblades, do stage an intervention. She won’t recover fast.
4. Practice tolerance. I’m mystified how abstainers can get buzzed on soda pop, which I consider should be an illegal substance, then burn me over an innocent glass of Pinot Noir, which should be on the Surgeon General’s list of healthy foods.
5. Embrace change. And if you can’t, at least don’t throw your body in front of the bus unless you have a cause worth dying for.

Baseball as Theatre

Not being a sports fan I watch a baseball game as if it were a stage play. Like any good theatre production, acting and staging are critical to my enjoyment. Admittedly a baseball game is longish—three hours to a play’s usual two and a half—and the chit chat in the air can be tiresome. Last game, every time De Jesus came to bat the woman behind me recounted how her niece married a De Jesus and was on her third pregnancy.  This commentary is not forthcoming at the Ashland Shakespeare Festival. But many of the elements of drama I do appreciate play out on the baseball field.

Light in the Dark (there's an app for that)

We grapevined through the pass, refreshed ourselves with date shakes at Hadley, gassed up at the Morongo Indian Casino gas station and then my phone beeped. An incoming text message wanted to know—did we really buy $500 worth of shoes at that gas station? USAA, who issued our credit card, was Johnny on the spot.

Behold what lurks in yonder swamp

What a thrill to leave the flow of the St. John’s river, haul keel over the swamp grass and settle in beside an alligator sunning himself under the watchful eye of a heron. And then to turn around and see cattle grazing chest deep in the murky water—who knew that they fancy the water hyacinth?

My Winter Vacation - Part 2: The American Spirit

Sometimes you have to leave the country and spend time at the crossroads where cultures intersect to appreciate what is uniquely American. In Barbados I was reminded that Americans have always traveled the trade routes to remain in touch with the finer sensibilities of cultures with longer histories. In turn, Europeans have always traveled to America to enjoy the sensation of freedom and wide open space.

Like a pound dog, the space shuttle Endeavor waits for a new home

My Winter Vacation - Part 1: Island Time

We gave Santa the slip, flew to Barbados and tuned our hearts to the rhythm of the sea. We switched off the internet addiction – traded beep tones for the chirp of the whistling tree frogs and redeemed leds for the light of the moon. The warmth of the sun and gentle massage of the trade winds rendered us catatonic.

For two days we sat at the edge of the ocean at Peach and Quiet Inn and stared at the horizon, watching the surfers spill their boards at Inch Marlowe around noon and spotting sea turtles who stuck their necks out of the water to sip air at dusk. Our only movement was to trace a finger across the screen of our nooks to turn a page, the one e-device we allowed ourselves. 

 

Aboard the Royal Clipper, we dispensed with Tylenol PM and let the ship rock us to sleep every night.  The sparkle of the sea served as our holiday tinsel; the unfurling of the 42 sails at sunset to martial music all the seasonal pageantry we required.

No gift exchange, we filled up our bucket list with the suggestions of the many seasoned travelers we dined with nightly. Better than Christmas cocktail party conversation, we shared the wonder the ship, the beauty of the shore and joy of the Caribbean culture with guests and crew representing over 30 nationalities.

Some highlights of our trip:

·         Snorkeling in the champagne reef in Dominica and off a beach in Les Saintes while pelicans dove for fish over our heads.

·         Swimming in St. Lucia with six-year-old Nativia, who explained that sharks don’t come into the bay because they don’t like sand; chatting on shore with the local spear fishermen.

·          Learning the history of the islands: The English and the French played tug-of-war with these islands from atop a fortress in St. Kitts. The Barbadians claim responsibility for George Washington’s win – they say he learned fortification on a trip to Barbados. Also, he contracted a mild case of smallpox that left him immune to the disease which claimed many lives during the war.

·         Feeling more “present” when there is less to be present to. What’s not to love about beach shack living, al fresco dining and the constancy of the ocean?

Sea-U Guest House, Tent Bay, Bathsheba, Barbados

In this context, I’d like to wish the world more of God’s spirit that leads to an abundance of joy. Happy New Year!

Traveling Solo

An invitation to have lunch with the associate publisher of World Magazine was ultimately too good to pass up so I drove down the mountain to the Bay Area, a three hour trek.  I couldn’t think of a friend quite as enamored with getting the scoop on the future of publishing a news magazine with a Christian world view as myself so I made the trip alone.

When I was working my travel arrangements were no brainers.  We traveled in packs and stayed in corporate approved hotels.  Traveling solo, I find I make decisions differently.  I nixed an airport hotel near San Francisco in favor of the Best Western “boutique” hotel on the Alameda in Santa Clara. It was half the price and twice the charm.  Santa Clara has aged well. It feels like anycollegetown, USA.  It feels like being back in the ‘hood.

A quick OnStar search turned up Antonella’s Ristorante on Park and Naglee in San Jose, 0.7 miles from my hotel.  It’s a great little neighborhood restaurant where you can get a cup of homemade minestrone, a caprese salad and a nice glass of Sangiovese for under $25.  I read a Ray Bradbury short story about a house that survives without its people while I ate. I people-watched  the neighbors in this wonderfully cosmopolitan city come and go.

Tomorrow I’ll head to San Francisco to join Warren Cole Smith and other World Magazine subscribers who have decided this is worth their time.  I wonder what we will have in common, other than an interest in quality journalism that provides in depth coverage of world events.

It pushes me outside my comfort zone to travel alone, but not that far out. Funny how you can make yourself feel at home by choosing what feels like a familiar corner in a large landscape. I’m intrigued with the thought that I might be able to make myself feel at home anywhere in the world.  

The resort of my dreams

We are planning a December getaway. In the planning stage it is useful to know what you are trying to get away from. Expectations, holiday stress and worn out routines top my list.

We begin our trip in Barbados, sweep through seven islands on a sailing ship, come back through Orlando and end up Bentonville, Arkansas. I imagine that moving from the trade winds that cool Bathsheba on the east shore – where green monkeys play in palm trees above our hammock pillowed heads below – to wintry Arkansas will be a trip in itself. But we want to take grandma on a holiday, so we are taking her to see the new Crystal Bridges Museum of American Art.

After we set the dates and made the airline reservations I had an “uh –oh” moment. We had decided hang out in Barbados for a few days after our cruise.  I researched hotels, inns, guest houses and resorts, avoiding phrases such as raucous night life, good place to shop for trinkets or beach activity (euphemism for crowded). The west shore seemed ideal. When you visit Barbados, don’t you owe it to yourself to check out the resorts?

That’s when I discovered that Yuletide rates would be in effect.  We are talking $1,500 a night, at the low end! Despite those lovely beaches, do we really want to be in surroundings that make us blink twice in the morning before we remember where we are -- and what we spent?

If I read People magazine at the beauty shop instead of short stories by Raymond Carver, I would know that this is where the rich and famous spend their holidays. Will sighting celebrities enhance my island experience? More likely it will focus my attention on where I can find a knock off of that darling resort wear thingy some Sex in the City sultress is wearing.

Loathe to letting go of the idea of staying at a resort, I want more to rub elbows with history, smell the rainforest and experience the real instead of the real estate.  

This morning I read in my devotions:

“Where he is to be found, there make thy resort.”

If I look for a place where I can open my heart to God, I will find the resort of my dreams.

I powered up my computer, looked on the more remote Atlantic side of the island and discovered the Sea-U Guest House.  It features charming colonial style rooms, reasonable rates, rocky tide pools where we can wade with brilliantly colored fish, porches high above the ocean where we will sit, sip our rum punches and watch the local surfers.  Ah, yes.

Quote by Charles Spurgeon

Sunday in the park

If you are ever at a National Park on a Sunday, take a little time to attend a worship service conducted by ACMNP (A Christian Ministry in the National Parks). These inter-denominational services are led by seminarians and college students honing their abilities to lead worship.  They get a lot of help from nature’s most impressive object lessons. 

“No one ever stands in front of Lake McDonald and says ‘Wow, I am awesome,’” Paul from Georgia concluded in his homily. Still waters and green pastures are God’s therapy for us who are over involved with our own needs.

If the heavens declare the glory of God in a national park, then the stand of fire-ravaged tree trunks that circle the lake have a message as well. I regenerate. At water’s edge the forest is greening. A shadow of green pushes its way back into the forest like a watercolorist bringing a sketch to life by adding subtle hues.

 Lightning, the world’s most careless and uncontrollable arsonist, has burned away the pine and cedar duff along with the trees. Now, new light shines in an old dark forest. In the transitional habitat, lodge pole pines that required heat to burst their pods are gaining ground. Song birds increase 200 percent after a forest fire.

Nature gives the best sermons.

Wanderlust

I am blessed to live in a mountain town with the peaks of Yosemite in my backyard. When I go to the Farmer’s Market at funky Mountain Sage – part nursery, part coffee house, part art gallery, occasional music venue for amazing talent – I may not have a choice of vendors of  a vast array of designer vegetables, but I know the back story of most everyone I encounter.

And yet…

I miss access to a state-of-the-art fitness center, easy walking distance to boutiques and museums, the availability of a nearby college or university that hosts artists and writers (no disrespect meant to Columbia College, which turns out firefighters who keep us safe and chefs who tempt our palates at local restaurants).

Closed in by oaks and pines, I yearn for open pastures. Up here on my mountain I long to be gazing across a glacial lake or skimming my eyes over gray coastal tides to lose myself in a horizon that pulls the sky down into Poseidon’s fathomless depth.  I want to light incense in my living room that smells like Montana.

No matter how good it is to be home, I’m always looking forward to the next adventure.   

Travelogged

It’s time for some irreverent musings on travel accommodations. 

Chico Hot Springs

Resorting to an international hotspot

When we first considered vacationing where the buffalo roam, what better place to begin than Chico Hot Springs?  Our “suite” was so named for the prominence of a huge Jacuzzi tub in the center of the bedroom.  Resorts typically offer romantic décor but impractical furnishings.  I couldn’t fit a book on the night table, but as the light was too poor to read by it didn’t matter. A full sound system took up all the space on a counter by the tub. At night, the CD slot cast a bright neon blue light in the room suggestive of pole dancing.  As we had ridden horses, rafted the Yellowstone River and toured the park all in one day, I was too tired for any more activity.

Offerings from Grandma’s organic garden found their way to our table. We loved that.

Olive Branch Inn

Inn consideration of meeting every need

Three generations of our family descended on the Olive Branch Inn in Bozeman and there was room for all, from a closet in which to tuck a tiny pack ‘n player for his nap to a suite retreat for the seniors.  In this case, I could spread a library of books and papers, glasses and small electronics, tea and fruit on the night table.  Small cousins played secret agent, hiding under beds on three levels of the historic home.  Big cousins adopted a rhythm of cooking, cleaning up and storytelling on the patio or around the big dining room table, lazy walks to Front Page for coffee, and field trips to the local attractions. The seniors flitted about like honeybees on the flowers of youth, enjoying the energy.

In Montana, fresh clean water is on tap everywhere you go.  That and clean air are  rights guaranteed in the state constitution, I'm told.

Lake MacDonald

A view with a room

Not an original saying, but appropriate to our fifties-style rooms at the Village Inn at Apgar at the panoramic lakeshore edge of breathtaking Lake MacDonald. Our suite accommodated two couples in a clean, comfortable, scout lodge-like fashion.  Built for easy maintenance with no perceived need to indulge users of modern electronics, all communication with the outside world ceased when we entered Glacier National Park. But who cared?  We were stunned into submission by beauty.

It’s not pretty but it’s clean

Our final night we are hanging out at the Royal 7 Motel on the highway praying for good weather for take-off tomorrow. We dined around the corner at hole-in-the-wall Fresco Café whose chef makes pasta sing opera.

Moving experiences

Now for the irreverent part – our family curse is the stubborn bowel. Sis offered up her remedy – five dried figs a day. Good, but I like my son’s cure better.  He said his poopologist (too funny) prescribes a shot of Jameson’s.  It works!!

some of the clan

Montana Skies

Truly Montana is big sky country. On a canvas stretched across eternity, clouds charge across the sky like Disney animations on steroids – empty-eyed flying dragons strike at fat furry bears that fly by, nipping at the tails of celestial squirrels. 

Look below and a different drama unfolds. Cavorting through the tall grass a wild black bear forages. It pokes, unconcerned about the people pile-up on the road – anglers for a glimpse of a creature that is cute and uncontrollable, darling and dangerous.  

  In a meadow a lone bison lounges undisturbed, chewing his cud. We joke that although we appreciate his ubiquitous quality – his stolid, preternatural presence – if he gets paid per viewer he will lose to the bear.

It’s the vistas that most enchant me – the lone dwelling settled in a pasture of sweet grass dotted with prairie flax looking like a pointillism masterpiece. A warm speck of life against a majestic snow-capped mountain, it whispers in the wind: Here there is time and space.

A Change of Scene

Today I saw an old man jogging on a trail in the Northwest. Nothing unusual about that, except that he was juggling while he jogged. This struck me as the ultimate Alzheimer’s prevention exercise. It’s not a sight I would expect to see on the mountain trails in my home town.

Last month I saw a league of old men playing softball on a field in the Southwest. I don’t think I’ve ever seen such a gathering of healthy old men. Again, not a sight I’ve witnessed in my rural town in the California Sierra Nevadas. Perhaps the difference is that Bainbridge Island, WA and Surprise, AZ are urban spaces in natural landscapes.

Wikipedia characterizes an urban area by higher population density and vast human features in comparison to a rural setting. On Bainbridge Island I experience a cornucopia of characters, artists and entrepreneurs who weave themselves into the landscape and flower brightly. The desert suburbs of Phoenix fairly burst with the health and wealth set.

We return to our rural enclave next week only to venture out once more to the California Coast. There is nothing more beautiful than the Pacific Ocean lapping at the Northern California Coast. Craggy cliffs overlook stretches of sandy beaches I walk in mostly temperate weather while gazing out at fathomless horizons. The old men don’t stand out particularly. No one does, really. Like Paris, France and Los Gatos, CA it’s the dogs sporting age–indeterminate people who stand out.

I live in a place graced by golden hills and expansive valleys, wild rivers and sparkling lakes, snow-capped granite mountains and grassy meadows. It’s not very populated. Our human features are not all that vast.

We are rural. Our resources are limited. Mostly we live on fixed incomes, although some are fixed higher than others. Some live “off the grid,” with no income at all. Mostly we are aging, although school buses still disgorge short backpackers onto the roads every day around 2:30 pm. I vacillate between thanking God for the breathtaking beauty of our mountains and wishing for a wider array of human features.

A change of scene is welcome then. When a lone juggling jogger crosses my mindscape of rugged hikers, when I pass a grassy diamond full of exuberant gray-haired ball players, when my eyes follow a seagull sweeping low over the ocean water instead searching for the red tail hawk soaring high above the oaks and pines, I am caught by surprise, and it delights me.

Variety Show

The black oak in our yard pulled up roots in the last storm and threw itself across the back forty. The birds that hoteled in that tree will have to find new digs. Shortly after its demise, we also uprooted ourselves and headed to Arizona for respite – or maybe in spite of my superior attitude toward snowbirds. What? Not tough enough to last the winter in the place you’ve chosen to live? That’s why we live in California. Now, we also have flown the coop after a particularly gruesome start to winter.


A lot of my attitudes are being challenged here in the sunny Southwest. I’ll just say it. We are holed up in a Sun City, something else I thought I would never do. Don’t people go to Sun City to die? I guess not, because everyone here looks amazing! They zip around with a sense of purpose, on foot, on bicycles, or in cute little open air contraptions that look like golf carts on steroids.

I took an aqua aerobics class today in an infinity pool the size of Canada. No class for sissies, I punched and kicked and lunged and almost passed out with exertion. Yup, I’ve traded the oaks and pines for saguaro cactus, but mostly I’ve sold out for the amenities. This place has a fitness complex the size of our small town back in California, and it’s a 10 minute walk from our rented house on even pavement. It’s been over a week since I’ve had to dodge a deer on icy streets in the car. The only wildlife I’ve spotted here has been a cottontail bunny, and it dodged me.

I can’t get over how healthy and happy everyone here looks. Of course, I brought my bad habits with me. One hour in the pool does not a reformed exercise slacker make. I still spend hours at my computer writing, but at least I can step outside my door – without a sweater – and go stretch, flex and tone something. I can go with the flow yoga day or night, or tai chi, chi gong or zumba my way back to bliss.

I’m sure all that sunshine will get boring and I’ll be happy to head back to the land of leafy oaks and needled pines that filter the sun, host bird choirs, and shelter fox, deer, and the occasional black bear. Life is a variety show. I’m glad I have a ticket.