Anna goes to...

Walt Disney World, Orlando Florida, Day Two: Hollywood Studios

2011-04-09T18:00:00.002-04:00

It was a beautiful morning. The kids woke up happy, then ate cereal as the grownups foraged for coffee (hint, brew your own in the room, and buy milk in the giftshop/cafeteria). There is no good coffee at Disney!

The joggers were making their way around the lake and the sun was rising in the morning sky as we strolled to the "extra magic" morning hours at Epcot. When we got to the side gate, our entourage screeched to a halt. "Epcot does not have extra hours this morning - Hollywood Studios does." So said the security guard. We harrumphed, reassessed and then hopped into the fortuitously waiting boat to take us across the lake (after a few stops) to Hollywood Studios.

The boat ride was nice. It really was the golden hour for a family portrait, I barked at the KDLP's and made them pose. For the short (20 min) boat ride, I got to check things out on the iPad, enjoy the view and MM had a chance to have her hair properly combed out. The view was picture perfect.

When we go to Hollywood Studios, we realized that we were misinformed. There were no early hours. And I was about to be introduced to the Disney weekend crowds. You really need to leave all phobias behind, and plan your attack on the park. As we stood waiting for the gates to open, a sea of people churning in front of us, and a sea of people swelling behind, we stood, and waited for the deluge to start. And it did masses and masses of people spilled into the park.

We strategically separated. C, V & MM went straight for the Tower of Terror. I took all of our tickets and went to the fast pass for the Toy Story Ride, and VDLP took P to the animation exhibit. 45 mins later, as we kept in touch via cell phone, I had our six tickets to the 12-1pm Toy Story ride, and VDLP and I decided to take P to the Little Mermaid Show. After standing in line for half an hour, we were told that the show was canceled. VDLP turned to me and said "The Curse" yes, I even have an ivy league Ph.D statistician recognizing "The Curse of Anna Traveling" - all seemed to make sense.

It also worked out, because C & the big kids had a chance to ride the Tower of Terror a couple of times, and then see the very loud pop music show at the Hat. VDLP and I too P to see the Disney Jr. Stage Show, and all had a good time.

We decided to rendezvous at the Hat, and we feasted on churros and pretzels from a cart. Then we were off to stand in line at the Little Mermaid Show again - oops. We all stood patiently in line for half and hour, and when we got to the front of the line. (seriously, we were at the chain) we were told that we would not be seated, and we had to wait another 45 mins. It got a little ugly - but, we were right next to Walt Disney a Man and His Dream exhibit, and I really wanted to see that, so I grabbed V & MM and we headed off, while VDLP, C & P waited at the front of the line for the Little Mermaid.

V waiting to get into
the Little Mermaid Show

Oops.. the Curse struck again. Just as we were sitting down for the movie, C texted and said - come now, they are seating us. I grabbed the kids and we ran off to get to the Little Mermaid. It was worth the wait. And the annoyance. It is a live action multi media/multi atmosphere event. The kids loved it, and the grownups were happy to be cooling down in comfortable seats.

Next Stop: Toy Story Ride with our fast passes - gotta love the fast pass! It rocked. We were sitting in our boats/carts within 10 mins. I scored 103,000. I am a bragger. After the kids got an autograph from a Toy Story Soldier (they didn't want mine even though I was high score with 103,000 - sigh), and a penny from the machine, we checked out the Brown Derby for lunch - NO. Stopped to look at the amazing Fantasia Topiary, then headed back for the boat.

Half a day on a Saturday @ Hollywood studios was enough for us. We got on the boat, got off at the Boardwalk for a leisurely deli lunch outside, and then hit the candy store, fudge shoppe. A sugar high commenced for all of us. When we got back to the hotel, it was time for the KDLP's to do some laundry at the pool side laundromat. (they were there for a week) The kids put on their swimsuits and hit the pool, when I saw how much fun they were having, I changed and jumped in with them. We stayed in that over-chlorinated pool until the sun was setting and our eyes were burning. We were in the "quiet" pool, and we pretty much had it to ourselves.

Then it came time for the Sunset marshmallow roast. Now this was a treat! The hotel puts on a bunch of free events for the kids, and I took MM & P down to the beach to roast marshmallows. It was a great way to end the evening. And the sunset, combined with the HUGE full moon rising over the shipwreck made it yet another magical Disney Moment.

Day two started with an amazing sunrise and stroll to Epcot, and ended with a beautiful beach side sunset.


The tired eyes and the cookie smile say it all. (ignore the burn from the roasted marshmallow) A great time was had by all.

Next: Day Three: Magic Kingdom

Walt Disney World, Orlando Florida, Day One: Epcot

2011-03-26T14:32:00.289-04:00

A seven year old redhead
outside the Haunted Mansion

It all started in Mrs. Feero's 3rd and 4th grade classroom. Holly was going to Disney with her parents, and Mrs. Feero was giving her tips. I was green with envy.

Then it got worse. Holly came home with amazing stories, pilot wings and exciting travel became synonymous with Disney. I was obsessed with the Haunted House and the hypnotic effect of Walt Disney's Wonderful World of Color on Sunday nights. I may have even developed a crush on Kurt Russell.

Years passed and my Disney obsession sank to the back of my psyche. I grew up and traveled around the world but my path never led to Disney. As a matter of fact, I kind of forgot about it - after all, I don't have children. But something was gnawing at me... I had never been to ANY Disney Park. I had been in Pharaohs tombs in Egypt; shopped in Istanbul; eaten countless breakfasts in Paris; been to weddings in both Italy and Belarus; taken a madcap taxi ride around Hong Kong Island; gotten tipsy at the Christmas Plaza in Munich; frolicked in the snow at the Catherine Palace in Pushkin, Russia; taken a train from St. Petersburg to Moscow; swam with Sting Rays in the Caymans... but I had never seen Cinderella's Castle.

Then one day, the KDLP family were planning a family vacation to Walt Disney World and I asked if I could tag along. All of a sudden, it was like I was 7 years old again (well, a re-do on being 7). I would be seeing WDW with good friends and their three kids (9, 7 & almost 4) that I adore. I cashed in some frequent flyer miles, booked a room at the Disney Beach Club Resort, bought my park hopper passes from Under Cover Tourist and counted the days until I would meet the KDLP's at Disney.

Getting there: I packed light. Just a backpack and a shoulder bag. I took a month's worth of immunosuppresives just in case (when you are living with a kidney transplant you have to plan for disasters), a couple of changes of clothes, a swimsuit, plenty of sun screen, camera, Blackberry and iPad (loaded with Disney apps for wait times and dining).

My first stop was Vino Volo @ JFK. Two flights of wine, some nibbles, and then I was on the plane for the short 2.5 hour trip to Orlando. We landed at 10pm and because of my late landing time, Disney's free baggage transfer (directly to your hotel room!) was not an option.

Since I traveling carry on, luggage wasn't an issue. I found my way to the MCO basement level check in for the "Magic Express" and that is when the "Curse of Anna Traveling" hit. Yes, I am cursed; but, since so much has happened over the years - Buildings being blown up in London `96; sixty two tourists being shot in Egypt `97; Ambassadors being thrown out of Belarus and riots at McDonald's in Minsk `97; closed borders and skirmishes between Ethiopia and Eritrea `98; Mid-Air "Correction" over the Atlantic Ocean `98 (the ONLY time I ever thought I was going to die); Cairo Muslim Brotherhood protest march `05 - well, the curse is more like a badge of honor at this point - and that is not mentioning the countless delays/diversions/unexpected stopovers/mid air medical emergencies that have happened (maybe I am a thrill seeker after all...). I am amazed when a trip goes right, and if it seems too smooth, I am always worried about what disaster is lurking around the corner...

I was the only person that the greyhound bus/"Magical Express" was taking to the Yacht & Beach Club Resorts, so I was piled onto an "after hours" bus that was making all stops. It took well over an hour for me to get to my hotel and I was the last person left on the bus. I was exhausted and hungry and maybe a little bit cranky.

When I checked in, I asked that my room be as close to the KDLP's as possible. They were in room 4577. There was much confusion. The desk clerk "Cast Member" was from Bangalore, and I think that there was some language difficulty. He put me on the other side of the hotel on the second floor, wrote my room number on my key card and sent me off to wander the halls looking for my room - cheerily calling out "don't worries, they are just a few floors above you!" I was not impressed.

Then I went to wander the identical halls of this 500+ room resort. By the time I found the room number written on my key card case, I was not surprise to find that my key card didn't work, and my cranky ratcheted up to furious. In exasperation, I called the phone number on the key card itself, and threatened to set up camp in the hallway for the night. I was told that the "Cast Member" had written the wrong room number on my key card. Seriously, the wrong room number. It wasn't even a transposition. I was way over on the "other" wing of the second floor. The magic just wasn't happening that night.

When I got to my room, I dialed room service and asked for a cheeseburger and a coke to be sent up. It arrived what seemed like hours later (but was just 45 mins). I was shattered, but feeling generous, so I tipped the waiter $5 for a $14.99 cheeseburger. After he left, I realized that Disney adds an 18% gratuity to all of their room service orders, and a $3.00 delivery charge. My cheeseburger and coke ended up costing me $30.00. OUCH.

After a good night's sleep, as the sun was lighting up the courtyard, I was texting away with C to plan the surprise for the kids. They had no idea that I was coming. I sourced Coffee at the giftshop/minimart, C met me in the lobby and I followed her up to their room. She went in first, and then a few mins later, I knocked on the door and said "Room Service!" MM opened the door. There was squealing. (and not just from me!) My Disney Vacation had begun.

Our rooms were similar, but where my balcony was overlooking the courtyard, the KDLP's were overlooking construction workers. Poor C & her husband V would wake up every morning to the sound of a hydrolic lift bringing a worker to their balcony. As I sat drinking coffee in their room, I recounted the disasters of the night before and I told them about "The Curse". VDLP is a statistician and he was skeptical. We laughed, watched the kids eat their morning cereal and started planning our day. My first stop was the front desk, so that I could try and switch my room to one closer to the KDLP's.

I was told by the front desk that it would be no problem. I took the kids back to second floor room and I packed up my backpack, we walked back to the front desk, I handed in my key card and gave my backpack to the bell captain to store until my new room just around the corner from the KDLP's was ready. I was told to check back in that afternoon. Then we were off to Epcot!

The great thing about staying in the park is that we just a short stroll from Epcot. How clean Disney is! Everything was spotless. Epcot was having a special Topiary/Gardening exhibit that V(9) was anxious to show me. V & I have spent many wonderful afternoons strolling through the Columbia University Greenmarket and at Epcot there is a garden exhibit where you can pick things. V made a quick friend with the man who managed the exhibit, and soon enough, he was helping himself to some parsley. (V is a vegetarian by choice). He then spent the next hour planning the garden at Grandma & Grandpa's house in CT, culminating with 30 pounds of vegetables that will feed the family Thanksgiving Dinner AND have some left over to give to charity.

Early mornings were my favorite at Disney. Not much is open yet, the crowds really haven't descended, and for a brief hour, you feel like you have the park to yourself. This was the one and only morning that I felt that way, because Epcot was closest to our hotel. We even entered through a side entrance called the "International Gateway". although our little Princess MM was drawn to every gift shop that she could see, she was a trouper and skipped along looking at the sights and brightening up the crowd by wearing her Princess Dress from Tuesday's visit to the Bibbidi Bobbidi Boutique.

We had reservations in Italy for lunch, so we wandered around Epcot counter clockwise. I was distressed to realize that my quest to find Mickey, Goofy and Tigger is more like a military operation with intelligence apps for the iPad and GPS coordination, and then, infinite patience to stand in line for a picture. I am the laziest stalker in history, and although we had the technology, I am glad that none of us had the patience to stand in line for a photo op.

The kids had already "met" the characters at a special breakfast, so stalking was no longer a priority. I did stumble upon a topiary of Tigger and I snagged a Blackberry picture of Goofy in the "Meet the Characters" pavilion at Epcot.

This is when I have to fess up to not "making the most" of my time at Disney. I am a lazy traveler. I would much rather be with people I care about and just soak in the sights around me, than attack anything full force and "do everything". I don't care about getting my money's worth and I don't want to be wiped out at the end of the day. We simply strolled, did what we could, coordinated out "must see's" and just had a great time together. Also, because am living with a kidney transplant, I am no longer riding roller coasters or anything that has a tight lap bar. My boy kidney is grafted in my lower abdomen and it isn't protected by anything but a layer of fat; so there won't be any roller coaster stories, no "Tower of Terror" for me.

"Kidcot Fun Stops" are a nifty way for kids to create at Epcot. They are interactive coloring/activity stations sponsored by Sharpie. Everything is "sponsored" in one way or another at Disney. The kids had their Epcot Passports stamped at each Country's Pavillion, and they colored in their Bear fan, had their names written on the back of the fan in the native language of each country that we visited.

In one morning, we went to America, Japan, Italy and France. VDLP joked to the kids that this gets him off the hook for a European vacation. They can consider themselves world travelers now. VDLP is efficient, I'll say that.

I get teary a lot more now that I am older. It could be the combination of age and steroids from the transplant, but aside from a few pre-kidney failure crying jags (drive to Bangor`80; Holly & Tim's Wedding`8?; one night in Palmer Massachusetts, `87; Sea World `90; The Secret Garden play, Boston `92) I have always been a stoic (I am shocked that I can count the times that I had cried on one hand). Of course, since I started dialysis, all bets are off. I am writing about crying now, because when we got to the American Pavilion, I looked to see the line of drum and fifes, and I lost it. Happy tears... nostalgic tears... just tears. I had been watching the kids, and thinking about everything that has come before- drums, fifes, history, just to be right there, at that moment, alive, surrounded by faux America while standing in one of the icons of American Culture. This was one of those "Magical Moments" that Disney promises - but I don't think that those marketing men had my reaction in mind. I am good at stealth crying, and my Sophia Loren sunglasses help to hide my emotion. (Note to self: get meds checked!)

Then we were on to Italy - I love Italy. I love an Italian (Hi Tony!). I maintain a wine blog where I have reviewed 41 (and counting) bottles of Italian wine. We had reservations at the pavilion's Tutto Italia Ristorante. The kids were troupers and they tried a bit of food outside of their comfort zone, but, in true child like abandon, it was pasta all the way. I can't rave about the food. But I will rave about the experience. Each person was Italian out of Central Casting. From the "prego's" to the "mangiare" to the "Buon appetito" - I smiled to myself and thought "just go for it". I wasn't transported back to my beloved Pimonte, but I was having an authentic Disney experience.

Japan was sobering for me. It was just a few days after the earthquake and tsunami. Just to look at the people who staffed the pavillion and shops, I wondered about them, what they were feeling as life went on, and their families. Even though they are in America, and this is their home. Home and "homeland" are two different entities. Home is where you love and live, and homeland is who you are.
C & I gave V a quick lesson in Japanese Manners: Arigato& the proper bow; we were subdued as the kids played and interacted. MM & P colored at the sharpie table and V had a quick lesson in origami. When it was time to leave the Japanese pavilion, we stopped on the bridge to take a picture. Then V showed off his warrior hat origami.

After Japan, we were off to Morocco. This was my favorite pavilion. The weather just suited it: Bright, hot sunshine streaming through the wooden slats and it wasn't very crowded. MM decided that she waned a henna tattoo and V decided the same. I preempted P wanting a tattoo by getting him hooked on the penny machines. He collected a few pennies this trip! : )

By the time we got to France, we were fading. The carb load of lunch had kicked in. The Florida sun had reminded us that we were 1000 miles closer to the equator than we were, and it was time for an air-conditioned movie. VDLP, V, MM & I waited in the theater while C & P went to find a bathroom. We watched a beautiful surround movie of aerial views of France, and then we walked back to the hotel. It was a nice, scenic along the Lagoon, and then we went to get some ice cream.

I had the kids come and hang out with me in my room. Well, in theory. The kids were coming to my room, but the truth was, when I went to check into my new room down the hall from the KDLP's, but the whole reservations system for Disney was down. (new computer program) I was roomless. Steven, the front desk "castmember/manager" was able to get me a key to my new room and he walked me to it. But, when we got to the door, we heard voices. There were people there. He knocked on the door, and a man answered the door. They had been checked into the room that afternoon. The curse struck again. Steven was horrified. Speechless actually. I went back to the KDLP's room, and waited for him to sort it all out.

A while later, he came back to the room with another key. Stephen, C and I walked to my new room, and lo and behold, it was mine, all mine. C, being the amazing lawyer that she is, "negotiated" my pain and suffering. Which came to $120.00 credit (than you Stephen!). The kids came to help me unpack. We ordered some room service pizza (shudder) and a good time was had by all while VDLP & C were in the hot tub ; )

Soon enough, the sun was down, and we were all exhausted. I changed and made my way down to the resort's wine bar Martha's Vineyard sadly my idea of a wine bar does not correspond with Disney's idea of a wine bar. I ended the night with a Mai-Tai.

Next: Day Two: Hollywood Studios

Clearwater Festival, Croton-on-Hudson, NY

2010-06-30T22:52:00.002-04:00

Last Fall, I was at a dinner party @ Nancy & Yori's, with a fairly radical couple (Judy & Felix) who had fallen in love later in life. I collect these love stories, I like to live vicariously. Their story was about meeting at "Clearwater, The Great Hudson River Revival", a Music/Environmental Festival, started by the activist/musician Pete Seeger. Bells went off in my head. I love Peter Seeger, he has a folk music festival?!? Here in NY State?!? I signed up to be a volunteer for three days in June.

Some of my happiest childhood memories involve music, boats and friends. My older sisters were `60's protesters, they were musical, and they shared that love of music with me. I played my "Folk Songs for Children" over and over again. It was my favorite album (until I discovered the Beatles in 1976 - ok, so I was always a little late). My sisters were always singing, so I did too (only to myself and in my mind). Somewhere a long the line I stopped singing. Just thinking about and planning for Clearwater brought the music back.

Friday Morning, June 18th, 2010. I was all packed, I had my committee assignment (Communications) and I set off on my latest adventure. I packed like a NYC Camper. My tent from Amazon.com, my army surplus sleeping bag, my recycled dinner plate from Chinese takeout, my knife for a supermarket in Paris, my fork and spoon from my silverware basket. I took photos on my Blackberry. I packed incidentals, my ground tarp, air mattress and pillow in a Duane Reade shopping bag, and strapped everything onto a ghetto trolley, tossed on my cancer rated sun hat, and I was set to go!!

When I got to the the camping area of Clearwater: The Great Hudson River Revival (at Croton Point Park) I was greeted by Mark from Peace Keeping as I stepped up to "Immaculate Reception" to check in and get my credentials. He was the first to wink and say hello and he was also the first person to use the word Hippie. I was at home immediately! I chose the "Night Owl" Camping area. My rational was that I had lived through Burning Man, how loud could Clearwater get? My camp was set up in 10 minutes. It really wasn't very difficult, and my $9.99 Rite Aid camp chair not only fit perfectly outside my tent, it was portable, and fit inside the tent too! Camping is GREAT!!

Pretty soon, I was wandering down the hill to acclimate myself to the festival lay out. A really nice volunteer hospitality person pointed me in the direction of the shortcut and if I avoided the poison ivy, I would have a quick path down the hill, through the "Quiet" Camping area and onto the back side of the festival, along the river, and close to the Volunteer dining area.

The festival was buzzing with set up. The gates and the seven stages would be open on Saturday, and all the volunteers were arriving, setting up camp and going to their areas. I was assigned to Communications. I saw Mark again, and I asked him where Communications was, he pointed "Right over there behind the Hippie van." I decided right then and there that my Clearwater drinking game would be that you have to do a shot every time you hear the work Hippie. So far, Mark had me for two shots.... I stopped by to say hello, and then walked around the camp. I had met another first time volunteer, Jeff, and we went to look at the ships as they were coming in to dock.

I had seen the Clearwater in full sail on the trip to the park, and we wewre lucky enough to see her coming into dock. The Mystic Whaler was just coming in right behind her. Clearwater is a sloop, launched in Maine in 1969. She is a wide bearthed beauty, that when in full sail is quite elegant as she tacks up and down the river. Clearwater was Pete & Toshi Seeger's dream actualized. To see the Hudson River cleaned up, and to return sailing vessels to the waters. 2010 Clearwater was an actualization of those dreams. (although there is still a lot of work to be done)

After touring the boats and meeting some of the crew, Jeff and I got ice cream from a Mr. Softee truck, and went to pick up our official Clearwater volunteer t-shirts.It was amazing to see how beautiful the singnage is at Clearwater. I was stunned by the Info Booth. Really, the care that goes into making this festival is beautiful.

I walked down the hill to the riverside, where the World Dance Stage had been set up, and the Green Living Expo tents were waiting for their vendors. The Site Crew were just setting up the world, and the North, South, East, West signs. It was amazing to see the crew roll the earth sphere along the water's edge and then place it upon it's fragile appearing, yet sturdy base.

After a stroll through the Activists Grove, I took a breather at a picnic table in the shade. There was a woman setting up her signage for their Activists Exhibit, and we struck up a conversation. I was trying to write in my diary about the day, but she had a lot to say. She was from the NYCAMP.org group. Star worked for the Citizens Against Marijuana Prohibition. If you click on their website, you can hear Star singing their theme song. She sang it in person for me. It was a great hour.

6:30 and it was time for dinner. My first meal at Clearwater. (Volunteers are fed 7 meals for the weekend) This was where I learned about Clearwater time. I was in line at 6:30, and they started serving at 6:50. I was happy that I brought my recycled Chinese takeaway box, so I grabbed my dinner and headed off to my first Communications meeting. The meal was DELICIOUS. Pulled Pork, a baked sweet potato, coleslaw and green bean salad. The food at all weekend was outstanding. To drink, I mixed Iced Tea with lemon-aid in my nalgene bottle, and I was set for the evening.

Then it was my first meeting, and getting to know the volunteers at Communications. Susan, our coordinated asked us to introduce ourselves and say what object we would be to make music. I wracked my brain and though, "violin". Nope,m that was used by the first person to speak. Then I thought "drum". Nope that was the second person's choice. I was beginning to wonder if I was unlucky or psychic. Then Allison spoke. And I liked her right off the bat. She said, "Hi, I am Allison, and I would be a Harmonica so Bob Dylan could blow me." After I stopped laughing, (and the group settled down), it was my turn. I chose Triangle, and I said it was because I have just one note. Really, how can anyone follow "Bob Dylan can blow me?!?" The meeting was fun, we went over some procedures, checked our schedules (I was on the 8am - 11am shift) and then we were off to relax before the next all volunteer meeting at the world dance stage.

The sun was setting, and I had found my favorite bench in the park. It was quiet, and I was at peace. At this point in my life, I needed as much peace and reflection as I could get. Clearwater brought me that. And it is evident by the first Sunset. I simply sat there and let the darkness wash over me. But I did stop to snap a picture. The mics on the Hudson stage were quiet, the park was quiet, and for the first time all summer, my mind was quiet. It is GREAT to get out of the city.

After nightfall, I made my way to the solar powered World Dance Stage. There were a few people sitting at the stage with instruments, and I sat with them. The next thing I knew, we had burst into song. It was serene. Strangers in an impromptu singalong. We never introduced ourselves, we simply called out a key, or a verse, and as the crowd gathered for the meeting, more and more voices joined in. We were all there for the music after all. Pete is right "Participation is what will save the human race." For almost 40 minutes, we all sang, and people danced. The microphone was passed for each verse amongst those on the stage, and then after a rousing "This Land is Your Land" , our volunteer meeting started. We were welcomed, and introduced to the Clearwater Team. Soon enough, I was making my way back up through the shortcut, u\in the dark, following a woman who had thought to wear a headlamp. I noted to myself to remember to put my flashlight in my backpack before I headed down the hill the next morning.

I got to my tent, and the campground had been filled with tents. Instruments were out, and the evening sing alongs had started. I was happy to have chosen the "Night Owl" camping area. I cracked some of my NOT environmentally correct glow sticks and lit up my tent form the inside. Mine became the rainbow glowing orb. I pulled up a chair, sat by a citronella candle, and was serenaded by strangers singing classic songs of my life. Some Johnny Cash, some Pete Seeger, some Rolling Stones and even some current music. After an hour, I crawled back to my tent, and fell asleep to the hard core campers still singing. It was a great way to fall asleep. Until the middle of the night when a young man from New Paltz felt the urge to scream "I am really drunk!" Yes, he was. I can attest to that. Then, someone drove up, and their headlights illuminated my tent. Soon, I heard Mark's voice. He was leading this latecomer to a camping space. Her name was Sandy "like the beach" She was from Canada, and had borrowed her father's car to come to Clearwater for the weekend. I never saw Sandy's face, but her 2am voice and her story are burned into my memory. Mark helped her set up her tent, and soon enough camp was quiet for the night.

Morning was cool and refreshing. I walked to the pool house to use the "real" bathroom (as opposed to the numerous portapotties). I walked down for coffee and breakfast, noted how beautiful the river is in the morning, and then went for my first shift at communications. The 4 - 8am shift was two Russian girls, their friend an Azerbaijani, a Clearwater Veteran and a recent transfer from Peace Keeping. I immediately bonded with the Russian Girls. It was fun to see them on the walkie talkies chatting with Peacekeeping. I heard about how they entertained themselves during the early morning shifty, and they were anxious to watch the World Cup matches. Soon enough they were off, and I took over the walkie talkie station. I signed out radios, changed batteries, and basically just hung out for four hours. Communications is a tight knit group of people who have known each other annually for many years. It was a great community to be welcomed into. Susan our leader and Josh her co-leader were both great communicators. The explained things really well, and made me feel at home.

More to come.....

Burning Man, The Black Rock Desert, Nevada

2009-08-29T11:01:00.036-04:00

Summer was rough on all fronts. In July, Bill wrote..."Maybe we should go to Burning Man. I'm thinking about this for the first time - go to Burning Man. hmmm".

Burning Man... an event that I have wanted to attend for years.....It took a short moment of calculation (after all, I don't have a job). And really, how could there be any other reply? Of course I said yes. As with everything that Bill Peckham does (well, almost everything...) the trip is being blogged. We are using the "he said, she said format" my post is directly under his @ IHD. When the trip is over, I will repost my post in its entirety here - I am cheating though... most will be a repost, but a lot will be my version of the trip (not posted on IHD). You'll have to use this link to read Bill's version of the trip. Here is a link to my photo album of the trip.

Saturday 8/29
I am still in NYC, packing. I fly to Seattle on Monday. Bill has been doing the brunt of the work. My sleeping pack is stuffed, my backpack almost packed and now I am just organizing myself for the trip. This will be my first trip to Burning Man. I've wanted to go for years and was instantly jealous when Bill told me about his past trips. Bill is officially a "Burner". Me, well, they have another name for first timers....

Burning Man encourages Radical Self Reliance. Fitting that we are writing about it on IHD. Was it radical when Bill decided to go it alone on home hemodialysis all those years ago? I know that people thought I was pretty radical when I followed in his footsteps. And for both of us, solo home hemodialysis changed our lives by keeping us healthy, active and well... self reliant.

And so, we will drive to the desert, set up camp and experience a city and a culture of 40,000 people that exists for only one week. (we'll be there for three days) Then we'll pack up camp, leave no trace behind and carry with us the what we experienced...possibly... burning the man, the sights and sounds of Black Rock City (fingers crossed, a sunrise or two), a lot of dust, pictures and memories of living for three days in the desert, years after our native kidneys stopped working and we rely on medicine, science & technology to be alive.

Monday 9/1
I flew out of Newark, with three bags. My day pack, my red backpack (from the Australia trip in the early 90's) and a sleep sac stuffed with a thermarest, my sleeping bag and other various sundries.

Some back story... I met Bill on the internet in 2007 at the dialysis support site IHD. He was a dialysis veteran 20+ years, and I was just starting. I immediately fell for his writing style. He is also an inveterate traveler and writer. Calling it a crush would be an understatement. But life is complicated.

I'd been to Seattle a couple of times in the past two years. My friend Denise is a nurse from Washington state. She was living in Seattle, and it was great to finally go out there, see her and meet Bill. On my last trip to Seattle, Bill & I spent a day walking around Mt. Rainer and it was wonderful. I was imagining that Burning Man would be the same.

But a lot happens in a year. We were facing this road trip with no expectations. Since the Mt. Rainer trip, I had a kidney transplant, five months later, I stopped writing about CKD advocacy and pulled my bio from Bill's blog. It was time, I didn't fit in anymore. And no matter how much fun I had with Bill when he first started the blog and no matter how much I had invested in it emotionally, it was not mine to be invested in. (more on that another time)

My flight to St. Louis was perfect. At the airport I stopped at Wolgang Puck Pizza Express, got a G&T and a pizza, then boarded my final leg to Seattle. My flight was early. I texted Bill from the tarmac, got my bags, and soon enough, he and Cairny pulled up to the curb. I threw my bags in the Subaru, and we drove off to West Seattle.

That night, for the first time, I sat and watched Bill set up for dialysis in person (having watched the video countless times), then I said good night and went off to bed, leaving him to sleep in his chair, while the machine cleansed his blood for the next 8 hours.

I had a nightmare that night and woke to hear Cairny fast asleep, but twitching (as dogs do) in the bedroom. I was groggy and disoriented as I heard the alarm go off on Bill's machine. My head hurt and I climbed out of bed and went to get an aspirin. When I peeked into the dialysis room, there was the glow of the computer, and I thought Bill was awake, so I stood in the doorway like a spectre and asked if he was ok. I scared the hell out of him. He had been fast asleep. That was the first of many surprises on the trip to Burning Man.

Tuesday 9/2
The next morning, I apologized, he accepted and then he had a phone interview with Salon.com. So, I walked to Bakery Nouveau and to check out West Seattle on foot. It is a great neighborhood, and people are so nice. Definitely NOT NYC. The bakery had some amazing goat cheese and mushroom quiche, I had a mocha, grabbed a scone for Bill and headed back to his place. I only got a little lost - which for me is amazing.

When Bill finished his interview, we started preparing for the trip. Bikes, u-haul, firewood, Home Depot, Food, booze... lots of errands to run. I put together the fire-pit, swept the front porch, and all the cleaning and loading the u-haul (the sofa we took came from the front porch - my project was to scrape years of dust off it - just to have the dust replaced in the desert days later...)

We went to Mark & Debbie's for dinner that night. After a quick attempt at cleaning myself up (I didn't have time for a shower) we went to their beautiful house. It is at the end of a dead end street and overlooks the ocean at sunset, the view was breathtaking. Debbie is Bill's best friend, and they have a relationship that is amazing. Just that past Sunday they had gone on a day trip to the mountains to celebrate Bill's 46th Birthday. It was just Bill, Debbie and the dogs and Bill described it as the perfect day. Mark (Debbie's husband) and I sat and listened as Bill & Debbie recounted their hike and they talked about trips past and future. It was a lovely meal, hearing happy stories, watching an amazing sunset.

Wednesday 9/3
Bill dialyzed, I slept, and was up early (thank you jet lag). We ran some errands, walked Cairny in Dragonfly Park (an amazing little park in the industrial section of West Seattle), then brought Cairny to Debbie's to drop him off. Good-byes were said, and soon enough we were back to hitch up the trailer (after redistributing the load) and we were on the road. Bill ran in for some coffee @ Diva's, we have goodies from the bakery... next stop Klamath falls. The trailer & car were fully loaded.

It was a typical road trip drive. We played the "How far is that?" game (I lost - repeatedly). We saw some breathtaking scenery - driving through the cascades. The i-pod gave us a sound track, and mother nature gave us some surprises. The first was a huge fire that was burning in some fields in Oregon. We oohed and awwed, and then thought of Karol and the wildfires in Southern California. I wondered about the towering cloud of smoke - was this a sign? After all, we were on our way to Burning Man. We got to the hotel, unpacked the NxStage and Bill set it up. We had sandwiches from Bakery Nouveau, stopped at the hotel bar for a quick drink, and then it was time for Bill to dialyize, and me to sleep.

Thursday 9/4
An early start, a nice crisp morning, coffee, loaded up the NxStage, showered and loaded the car, now we are going to have our last "Electric Breakfast" for a few days. I'm going for the waffles!! ( I actually went for the corned beef hash and scrambled eggs...)

We drove through Portland yesterday, and it was just as Bill explained, it is a little Jewel of a city. Some great architecture, fun modern buildings and a funky mini suspension bridge. Then we drove through the Cascades, and my jaw dropped. I had forgotten just how beautiful nature can be.

We've taken some pictures, and as soon as we get settled, there will be some uploading. (providing that the wifi cloud at Burning Man is working)

The long and winding road to Burning Man...

We drove through some desolate areas. No houses, no power lines. I saw my first tumbleweed. We stopped to get ice in Altruas (and resisted the free puppies on offer on the community bulletin board) As it was a road trip, I got a Mountain Dew. In the 80's Mountain Dew was the energy drink of choice - way before red bull...

And we hit the mountains. And we saw other burners on their way to the desert. In our final descent from the mountains into the desert, I got my first taste of the Black Rock Desert. (I will be tasting the desert for a very long time).

We stopped in Gerlach for gas (the cheapest of the trip) stopped at a temporary mall camp for Burners and had some fried spring rolls for lunch, then I had my first stop at a desert porta potty. (Bill has amazing patience for my Urinatior habits)

As we turned down the access road to the Playa, we saw a cloud of dust. And as we drove closer to the entrance, we were surrounded by dust and it was a "tanout" (If a snowstorm gives a "whiteout", and a NYC power loss is a "blackout", then a dust storm must be a "tanout" - that is pure Anna logic at its finest!)

Bill, having read the e-mailed instructions - drove into the wall of dust with complete faith that we would end up at the place we were supposed to be. He was right. We did.
When we got back in line to go through the check in/welcome/vehicle search, I was pulled out of the car by a bare chested "Greeter" having been identified as a Burning Man Virgin (gee thanks Bill), I was brought to a big brass bell, suspended on a structure and told to lay on my back and make a Playa Angel in the dust, and them ring the bell while screaming "I am no longer a virgin" - well duh, I am no longer a virgin (but it was so nice to be called one...) The bare chested hunky guy hugged me. (no complaints here) and then I was brought back to the car. Bill was given a quick rundown of where the quieter spots were (around 8:00 on the grid) and we headed off to find our campsite.

Friday 9/4

Our first night was LOUD. We walked around the city in the morning - Bill stopped to post at a wifi hotspot @ the intersection of 9:00 and Biodiversity, we then walked on, gasping at the line waiting to buy ice, (not by the length, but by the variety) stopping for lemon-aid at center camp, and then on to see displays surrounding the Man. Some Art Cars, the MOM installation and an amazing art piece on Perspective where we got to speak to the artist, who came from Bristol England. Then we were drawn to the Stainless Steele Rocketship - it was like a magnet calling out to us. The irate man who was guarding the launch pad was in the middle of job burn out, and we got a front row seat as he barked at various people to "Get the F**ck off the Rocket" and "We're gonna launch this at 10:00 tonight - we were intrigued, this was not a rocket to be launched. Our curiosity was piqued, and we decided to return that evening.

Around 9:00 Bill & I made our way to the center ring of the city that the Rocket would launch from. We waited, and waited, and watched the crowd swell, and there was so much. a parade of flame spewing vehicles, a parade of "Little Black Dresses" (male and female models - there had been an earlier fashion show) and an eccentric parade of art cars and people. We decided to circumnavigate the center ring of the city, and as we walked, and avoided dropped bicycles, drunken revelers and "Dark Wads" (I was a Dark Wad - anyone who is not wearing neon - a very nice man stopped me, and gave me a necklace, so that I would fit in. (and maybe not be hit by a car or a bicycle). It was while we were working our way through the crowd, we saw the most amazing sight. An articulated city bus that had modified to be a party bus. I have never seen anything like it, and I live in NYC!

Here is a daytime video of the bus http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jpSx49NCfSU

Sunday 9/6
(click on photo for a panorama of our camp)
An amazing time, and we have many pictures but Burning Man was really off the grid for us. We had ventured out to walk around the camp and find a wifi signal. Bill's last update was done while we were sitting in Camp Singularity - a camp for open discussion, where people met and a topic was spoken on, and the audience participated in a "salon". We stumbled across it not in use and it was a quiet, shaded place near the wifi hotspot of section 9:00. After that post, we were unplugged for the rest of our stay at Black Rock City.

We are now back at the hotel in Klamath Falls, having left Saturday afternoon. Friday night was an amazing, exhausting night, but there had been terrible wind/dust in the night and by the afternoon on Saturday, the wind was gusting up to 40 MPH, and we made the decision to hit the road, rather than be a part of the mass exodus on Sunday morning. I'll admit it, "radical self reliance" for me, from now on will always include a shower. We tried a "bottle mister" shower on Sat am, although refreshing, the layers of dust still made my hair prematurely white and rather like I had some bizarre clay styling gel in it. The hotel has an indoor pool, and a sauna. That and a cheeseburger was our goal on Saturday night.

Bill has been amazing doing all of the driving. It was a sold 4-5 hour drive on Saturday, and I felt really bad that he was doing all the driving and that he may be exhausted, so I offered to drive. His reply "Well, that will definitely keep me awake." - He had declared back in LA in the Spring, that I am "not allowed to drive in Seattle." When we were driving around the day after we went to the RSN play "Who Lives" I may have run a stop sign or two - geesh... and maybe I cut a few people off... My friends & family are laughing and nodding their heads as they read this in admiration of Bill's self preservation.

We'll fill in the blanks and upload lots of pictures, it really was an amazing time for me, and an interesting look for Bill, having now seen such change. He was lauded as being one of the early "Burners". Some of our camp neighbors came to visit, share some food or drinks that they brought and hear about what Burning man was like back in the day. And for me, I am no longer a "Burning Man Virgin" - even though we didn't watch the man burn in person (we streamed it live from the comfort of the hotel).

Earlier, I pondered "if I didn't see the man burn, does that mean that I am still a Burning Man virgin? - was it like I only got to Burning Man third base?" As we were driving through the desert through the dust and wind to the "Default World" of highways, hotels and cell phones, Bill had a great answer "Nope, you made it all the way, there just wasn't any protection - @ Burning Man, an RV would have been the protection."

So, in the next few days, we will upload a lot of pictures, fill in a lot of blanks to describe what we saw, did and experienced. But for right now, it is all about washing off the layers of Black Rock City Playa dust & sunscreen. Today, there will be sauna, swimming, restaurant food, and then an 8 - 9 hour drive back to Seattle.

Thursday 9/10
I am back in NYC. On our last morning on the Playa, Bill woke me up to see the sunrise from the tent - seeing the glow of the sun lighting the desert from the tent window (I was too exhausted to climb out of bed) - well, that is one of the sights that I will carry with me in my memories forever.

Just a couple of things that I can say I have learned:

Some new vocabulary - I will forever be chasing MOOP;
Bill Peckham cooks an amazing breakfast with a frypan and a camp stove;
A Gin & Tonic really is the perfect drink for a hot desert afternoon;
Dialysate Boxes can be used as a platform, a storage box, and a solar oven

and sometimes, it is good just to sit and do nothing, to just be. No agenda, no puttering, no planning. Just sit and enjoy the moment.

Paris for the first time

2008-12-30T18:14:00.001-05:00

TWA spoiled me, and taught me the importance of the bump. I was off to Paris for Thanksgiving, to meet my friends Tara and Denise on their first trip to Europe. As I had frequent flyer points on TWA, I took a later flight. And when they asked for volunteers - I ran right up to the counter. I was moved to a flight three hours later, and I was bumped to first class. That trip spoiled me for life. From then on, it was to be all about the upgrades.

I landed at CDG in the early morning, this was before renovations, and Charles De Gaulle looked like a giant sci-fi hamster habitat. I loved the strangeness of it. The people in African dress in the terminal, and the dogs. I followed a family leading a Weimeraner through the terminal. I missed my dog. I think that she would have wagged her stub of a tail wildly if she had lived to know how much I missed her.

I then hopped on the bus to the Arc de Triomphe. Where I had time for a coffee and croissant the very kind waiter saw me as a wide eyed American with bad French and sat me with a well dressed businessman who put down his paper, and chatted with me over a smooth coffee and flaky, buttery, warm croissant. We said adieu, and I started on a nice long walk in the early morning mist watching the city come alive for a Parisian workday. I walked along the river to Île de la Cité. The ironwork of the bridges, and the classic architecture had me in awe as I made my way to meet my friends. I've been to Paris many, many times (Tony had a flat in the Place des Vosges). The city is beautiful, but I have never felt at home there. Denise, Tara and I did a lot of walking at night. The light does cast a lovely glow on the city, and the food for me is second only to Italy. But that morning of my first solo walk in Paris gave me a taste of why people are so enchanted.

We ate Thanksgiving Pizza behind the Opera House (where I shuddered as Tara referred to the waiter as garcon), did some expensive shopping in the Galeries Lafayette, then headed to the train station to take the overnight train to Munich where we had arranged to meet a friend who was studying in Germany.

Washington DC

2002-03-25T21:36:00.013-05:00

For some people, Washington DC is about history and power; for me, it has always been a happy place all about love.

The first time I went to Washington DC was for a boy. I loved him. Together, we explored DC/MD and Alexandria VA. It was in Alexandria, during a moment of distraction, he rear ended a taxi with our rental car. After he made sure I was alright, he jumped out of the car and started picking up pieces of the grill saying "I can fix this!" - well, I had signed for the extra rental insurance, so we were insured - he didn't have to fix it (that was the first of many rental cars we would damage...). The taxi driver laughed at us and I had never been more in love as the moment he got back into the car and held my hand. He often asked me what I was thinking in the moments before the accident and I would tease him by just smiling and shaking my head. The truth is, as we were driving through the redbrick night of Old Town Alexandria, I was trying to memorize the moments and the feelings, and I possibly could have had some very dirty thoughts running through my head (after all, we were staying together at a hotel for the first time). It was innocent and soul satisfying - everything a first love should be - and then BANG, rsmack into a taxi.

One bright winter day, we walked the Mall with his arm casually draped around me, and I knew that we had found our special place. When I woke up alone back in Boston on the next Monday morning, there was a hole in my heart. I ached. Months later, I flew down to drive with him back home. It was on that road trip away from Washington DC when we realized that we would not be together forever. We sat in a random college classroom in Springfield, Massachusetts when the Space Shuttle Challenger blew up and that night, back at a friend's house, we lay in the dark in silence.

The next morning, we talked and we cried. We had so many years of history but we knew then that we had no hope of a future. He offered me a kidney, but there was to be no marriage proposal. Sigh - it was for the best. He ended up having an addiction to waitresses, and well, I had trust issues and maybe I am just a bit crazy. We would have killed each other before my genetically mutated kidneys ever got me. But that was only the start for my memories of Washington DC.

A few years later, another ~~boy~~ man, road trips to see friends, hikes in Rock Creek Park, restaurants in Georgetown, parties in Virginia, all the museums, trips to Congress - it was the glittering '90's and we were young and happy. I can't go into too many details, he is pretty important now, but we had fun. We took my Jeep to the zoo, and when the exit line was too long a friend of ours drove my Jeep over federal land (kind of irresponsible for officers of the court, but hey, why not live on the edge?) and we zoomed to Observatory Circle. It was reckless, fun, and is one of my favorite memories.

It was between boyfriends, on a girl's weekend, when I had the best bottle of red wine I have EVER tasted (and I have tasted a lot of wine over the years). It was one that was poured for my friend Denise's 21st birthday at the Sheraton Observatory Circle. We still laugh and cringe all these years later because we didn't think to make note of what the wine was (the sommelier had recommended it).

So now, in a new century, decades later, I am going back to Washington DC. This time alone, as a lobbyist. I'll be that middle-aged lady having dinner, talking dialysis reform and kidney failure. Maybe one night, I'll wander down to the hotel bar and remember the old days. But, for the most part, I will be in meetings, discussing health care and medical research. I am sure that for fleeting moments, I will gaze at the monuments and remember a boy who held my hand or I'll look at the steps of the Russell Office Building and I'll laugh about the man I called Bear, jumping into the jeep, still sweaty from the gym, driving off to Troy's townhouse and planning brunch. I bet you didn't know that Washington DC, that cesspool of political BS could be romantic to some people. Well, to me, for a few years, it was.

And, as far as the 2010 trip, I am blogging it on IHD. Here is what I have written:

I have to admit, that it was out of curiosity, more than civic duty, when I decided to become a part of the PKD Foundation United on the Hill 2010 http://www.pkdcure.org/tabid/1497/Default.aspx. Sure, I have PKD (second generation - so I've seen it all my life), I'm an American, my vote counts. And on March 1st & 2nd, hopefully my voice will count as well. But I am a hesitant advocate. When I was younger, I spent a lot of time in Washington DC. I have a lot of memories there, and I never imagined that one day I would be going back to the Hill and trying to make change, but look at me now. I would never have been doing this were it not for IHD and all the people that it introduced me to.

Epoman started IHD as a place to share, and it is in that spirit, that I am going to post my journey to DC as an Advocate. My personal agenda is a bit different than the agenda of the PKD Foundation, but the two are complimentary.

Even though this "Diary" may be about Advocacy on the Hill, the truth is, an Advocate is anyone who can help - in any way possible. Almost every post I read here on IHD is advocacy, just showing that we are all in this together and as a group, we change each others lives on a daily basis.

That being said, now back to the event. Tonight was the first conference call, explaining what to expect, some logistics, and an overview of talking points to bring up with the Senators, Congresspeople and their staffs. Even though I live in NYC, I vote in Maine. I am a Mainer, I was born there and went to school there from grade school through High-school. So for me, my meetings will be in the offices of Senator Olympia Snowe (R), Senator Susan Collins (R) and Representative Michael Michaud (D). The PKD Foundation sets up the appointments. There is a day of training on Monday 3/1, and then appointments are on 3/2. There'll be around 100 people going as a part of the PKD Foundation.

For anyone who wants to get involved with any issue that they might have, if you don't want to join a group and go to the Hill, e-mail your congresspeople and let them know what you need. They were elected to be YOUR representatives in Washington, help them do their job. Here is a link http://www.votesmart.org/. By inputting your zip code, you can find out who represents you, you can click on their name check out their stats and under then use their contact information link in the right column, to e-mail them with your concerns.

As a nation right now, we are suffering from Healthcare Fatigue (elected officials especially). It has been a rough and bloody battle and we are still in early days of healthcare reform, but for those of us with Chronic Kidney Disease (and those who love someone with CKD), we are used to fatigue and bloody battles (it is just another day in the life of a CKD survivor).

I'll update this post during the days that I am in DC 2/28 - 3/2. (I may even take some pictures just for the fun of it - Should I try to kiss Justice Roberts? I could swing by the Supreme Court - Susie "Goofynina" would laugh!)

Wednesday, February 17th
Conference call with Kimberly Cantor, Government Coordinator PKD Foundation. Kimberly welcomed us, gave us a pep talk about sharing our story, some logistics about navigating the events of the two days, and general info about meeting with Senators, Congresspeople and their staff. Then she ran down the talking points for the PKD Foundation (I'll go into details of those w/ my commentary when I've gone over my Lobby Package). For now, I'll say that there are 3 big ones: Extending Immunosuppressive drug coverage; NIH PKD Research (including report language); Research under DARPA (the Department of Defense Research and Development (- I know, who knew that disease research was funded by the Department of Defense???))

There will be e-mails and agendas in the next few weeks, I'll get my final appointments, and well, then on Sunday 2/28, I'll be on BOLT bus for the 3.5 hour ride to DC.

Thursday, February 25, 2007
Well, I am in final prep stages for my trip. I foolishly agreed to meet with both Maine and New York. My first time Lobbying, and I take on two states... I guess I am an overachiever (or kinda delusional). The PKD Foundation have their own talking points that I will have to address, but I also have my own agenda. The initial meeting with the staffers and elected officials - is just that, and initial meeting, put a face on the people, make the issues personal. (it is more difficult to say no, when you have met the person asking). I've been working on my own personal position paper (as a voter); researching the members that I will be meeting with, how they have voted in the past, what is public in their biographies, some of the demographics for CKD in their constituencies (like how many dialysis units, and how many offer home hemo) - The PKD foundation has paid researchers to compile their data, and I will be furnished with a leave behind packet for the PKD agenda. I will be on my own with my personal CKD agenda. Well, I am back to doing my homework. There is a snowstorm today in NYC, perfect weather for staying inside and organizing my thoughts.

Minsk, Belarus

1997-01-22T13:46:00.000-05:00

My first trip to the former Soviet Union

22 January 1997 London to Minsk, Belarus

11:15 a.m. We left late for the Victoria Station Gatwick Express. Tanya went looking for postcards while I sorted through my bags. I left the hand warmer behind. Figures. I ended up leaving a lot behind at the house, I guess that I was in too much of a rush.

Victoria Station was quiet, a few travelers and gypsies selling flowers. I stood there practicing my Russian face. A frown, and a far off gaze. This was what I imagined it would be like. A few hours later, I realized that I was right.

While we were on the train to Gatwick, I sewed up my luggage. This was an attempt to foil the thieves that run wild in Belarus. Tanya helped, and showed me the tricks of sewing a bag. Of course, I diligently sewed up the wrong zip and had to use my razor to undo it. (You see. It works!!) As she looked out at England as it was passing before us, it was as if Tanya was saying good-bye. Each moment as the train advanced its journey to the airport, England was just as quickly pulled away from her. I have noticed that travel seems so much faster when you are not alone, and when you feel as though you have left something behind.

It was fate that our plane was next to a Virgin Atlantic flight to Boston. Tanya offered to jump ship, but I hitched my bag on my shoulder, took a deep breath, and prepared to go to Belarus.

As we walked through the airport to the international departures, we missed customs. After finally clearing passport control, (I had a man who was busy tracing his family tree.) Tanya had a woman questioning her that I needed to reassure. (Tanya was NOT an illegal alien working under the table.) (She has a Mink Coat for Christ's Sake!!!) Well . . . I smiled inside. Tanya had to wait to see a customs officer, to get the VAT back on her coat, and I was off to change some money and do some last minute shopping.

The time passed very quickly, like everything else. I forced Tanya to leave the shopping area and catch our flight. We bought sandwiches for the train ride from Gomel to Minsk, and after a quick phone call to London and Scotland, and a dash to the loo, we were seated on the flight to Minsk.

As usual, I fell asleep on the flight. There were twelve of us on an old Aeroflot jet. Some were Russian "Businessmen" passing a bottle of vodka between themselves, and two young British Doctors carrying a piece of medical equipment. And a couple of lone Russian tourists, (one who had been to Hamley's (buying toys for the youngsters back home??)) and that was the flight. I was impressed with the jet. Although it was at least 20 years old, it was in good condition, and the seats were roomy. Much better that I would expect in the States. When we landed at Minsk Airport, it was deserted. There were bays for at least 50 planes, yet there were only three Belavia planes at the airport.

Minsk Belarus

I was greeted by the ghosts of Russia past as I stepped onto the gangway that led to the terminal. There were five uniformed soldiers standing in the doorway. I tilted my gaze to the floor, hid my smile in my pocket, and walked through to the terminal. Everywhere I looked, there were people in uniform. From security, to Airport personnel, No one smiled. Our first section to see was the Visa Section. As I already had a visa, it was merely a formality. There was an aged apparatchek who insisted that my visa was in error, as it was missing the number 7 after 199 in the date. He was hesitant in filling it in, but finally he did (at no cost to me!), and Tanya and I were off to the next checkpoint. Meanwhile, the two doctors who did not have visas were left behind in bureaucratic hell.

Our next stop was to pick up our (hopefully not rifled) luggage, and pass through Passport control and Customs. As we were filling out our declaration forms in Russian, (there were no sheets in English or even French for that matter), Tanya was surprised to see that her Brother had come to pick us up. He had another man with him and a bottle of Coca-Cola in his hand. I laughed. "Have a coke and a smile" has even made it past the now thoroughly rusted Iron Curtain. Tanya has three brothers, this tall one in a black leather jacket was the first that I was to meet. So, instead of a train ride, we were to have the luxury of a Taxi ride to Gomel.

The men quickly grabbed our bags, and we were off to find our taxi. I use the word Taxi in its loosest form. The car was a seventeen year old Lada that was parked in a row with some other cars. The owner of our "taxi" was a driver for Tanya's gangster brother, who, I was surprised to find out was not the tall apparition in leather that greeted us. I was to meet "Sasha" another time. (For the record. After Tanya read this, she corrected me. Sasha is not a gangster. He simply uses Gangster money, for which he pays to illegally exchange money on he black market. He also has to pay the police, so in the future, when I refer to him as a Gangster, please understand that it is all tongue in cheek. For in truth, he is as stated above, simply using gangster money, and gangster habits. But categorically, per his sister, he is NOT a gangster.)

I was amazed as we walked out of the airport. Above us, there was a full moon, and a starry sky. Thoughts of home were in my mind, and then I listened passively a Tanya started to speak her native language. I noticed that her English was quickly deteriorating, and according to her brother and the driver, her Russian was pretty ragged too. It is tough when you are stuck between two languages. I just listened and watched out the window, as we searched for a Gas Station. The men were in the front, and Tanya' brother, put on Western (well, kinda western Rock and Roll,) In the four hours that we were in the car, I recognized two songs. (Where is perestroika when you need it? And why didn' t I bring the car adapter for the walkman???)

Gomel, Belarus

1997-01-22T13:13:00.000-05:00

A Nighttime Drive to Gomel

We pulled into the driveway of a shack that was encased in iron grating. In the middle of the driveway, there were pumps. I was right to assume that this was the Gasoline Prison. Where all the bad Gas goes to be locked up before being sold. In the darkness, it all seemed to have a sinister look to it, and I was a bit surprised to see the driver come back to the car for something. Half expecting him to have a gun in his hand, he surprised me by pulling out a pocket calculator. I guess that inflation has really hit, with 23,000 Belarussian Rubles to $1.00 He needed to make a couple of transactions, as the girl in the cage was only allowed to sell twenty liters at a time. The driver had fitted out the Lada with an extra gas tank, for long journeys. I was surprised to find the driver was a professional. He drove all of the moneychangers to make their clandestine exchanges. For being a Mafia driver, he was paid $100.00 per month. I was assured that these were very good wages. In the six months that Tanya was gone, the man who was our driver had married, and his wife was expecting a child in February. When Tanya left, he didn't even have a girlfriend. How things change.

I was amazed at the similarities between the Russian landscape, and the landscape at home. If I just looked at the scenery, and didn't hear the language, I would have thought that it was a starry night on my way home from Bangor. At one point, the men needed to stop and take out some of the extra petrol in the tank. And there was a distinct smell of petrol wafting through the car. Of course, that smell would perfume my backpack. But we wouldn't realize that until later.

As the men were filling the tank, Tanya and I trudged through the woods to use nature's bathroom. It was a strange sensation to hear my boots crunching through the snow. But it was somehow familiar. After christening the Russian woods, we waddled through the snow, back to our ride. When we were piled into the back seat, we broke out the rations that we had bought at Gatwick. There were the last western sandwiches that we were to have for a long while, and we shared them with the men. They thought that the sandwiches needed salt. And I even shared my Diet Coke. The men couldn't tell the difference between Diet and regular Coke. As far as I was concerned, they had a lot to learn.

We passed clusters of Dachas, and some small villages. At the perimeter of all of the cities, there were police checkpoints. It was at random that the police chose to stop cars and extort money from them. I guess that it as an oppressive form of capitalism, but it was there where there was no longer a resemblance to home. As we drove past a small town, Tanya's brother pointed out where he had been stationed while he was in the army. It is the law that all men join the armed forces from the age of 18 to the age of 20. It is in these two years that boys learn army life. But from the stories that I was hearing, they simply learn to be abusive to those that are younger than they are, and they fill the time doing frivolous tasks. Tanya told me a story of when her brother first went into the army. They were sent to the country. There, they were starved. It was a practice to feed the animals on the farms with nutritious food, but to give the inedible food to the soldiers. When I coupled this story with what I had heard of how W.W.II affected another generation of the people of Belarus, it amazed me. No matter how many times you hear of people suffering, it just doesn't sink in until you have seen the survivors. As I re- read the above paragraphs, I realize how melodramatic I sound. But here in mid January, surrounded by gray, it is hard not to be melodramatic.

It wasn't until we were just outside of Gomel that we were finally stopped by the police. The driver took his papers and got out of the car. I tried my hardest not to turn and stare, but it was all over in a few moments. The police were not Road Police, they were Criminal Police, and they were asking for some Gas, so that they could get home.

Each city that we had passed had a large cement marker bearing the name of the city that we were about to enter. And just as we were driving into Gomel, Tanya pointed out a chemical plant, which was in full production. There were mountains of chemical by-product just piled for 1/4 -1/2 a mile radiating from he plant. And in the fields between the road and the plant, Tanya explained that there were plots of land that were given to the local people to use for farming. So, in the run off from a processing plant, the people of Gomel were growing potatoes. Potatoes being the main source of carbohydrates, a staple in the Belarussian diet. It was an important crop to keep. But I had to ask myself, what was the true cost?
Gomel Belarus

There are no houses in Belarussian cities to speak of. In the communist ideal, there are a series of concrete apartment buildings. They create a skyline that is unmistakable. I have seen it in Cities all over the world. I even lived in one of these large complexes, The Brook House. A city of concrete. Little did I know what I must have been being prepared for.

Homecoming is Universal

As we pulled into one of these large complexes of buildings, Tanya pointed out a long low building that contained about 400 apartments. The locals called it "The Great Wall" (of course in Russian that is...) Her building was dwarfed by the adjacent "Great Wall". As we walked into the building, the entry was encased in darkness. I made a mental note to ask in the morning what happened to the light bulb (my American brain saw a lawsuit in the making). Tanya and I took the lift, and the men carried our bags to the third floor.

What a home coming it was. After our four-hour drive to Gomel, we were ready for bed. But as soon as we arrived, the house was ready to drink. Tanya's mother and father bustled around the flat. Tanya gave me a tour of what was to be my home for the next month. It is the custom to take your shoes off as soon as you enter the house. I had no problem with that, but I was forced to put on a pair of fuzzy green slippers that almost killed me. I finally convinced everyone that my socks were thick enough to keep my feet warm, and they let me walk around the house in my stocking feet. It saved me the shame of fuzzy green slippers.

As far as life in Belarus is concerned, there is no comparison to western standards. It would not be fair to either people who live in the West, or to the people who live in Eastern Europe. All of the propaganda that each side of the cold war has spread, and all of the horror stories that were passed back and forth between the iron curtain prepared me for loo paper that wasn't scented. It did not prepare me to see an image of family life that is universal. No matter what your political beliefs may be.

From the start, people worried about me. How can she stay here, when she is used to life in the West? And all of those questions were mixed with a pride. It s unlike anything that I have ever seen before. The people that I am with are survivors, there are a few exalted examples of that type of people in the west, but here in Belarus, the former Soviet Union, I am the outsider. As we ate at the first of many "tables" that were to be set in our honor, I watched as Tanya silently appraised the food that was set before us. She was my culinary censor. The bread, she deemed to not be up to snuff (details cannot be written.). Her father took a hunk and popped it in his mouth and asked what she was talking about. He had survived both being cast out into the street as a child (after his father was imprisoned by the communist state), and then he had survived World War II (where he was a career Officer for the same political system which had left him homeless and fatherless as a child). For him, the bread was just fine. The kitchen is fitted out as any kitchen would be, a fridge, stove, sink, table and cabinets. There is a difference in seating though. There are no chairs. We sat on stools. I really longed for a chair, but soon realized that these stools were built to last, and I got used to them.

As we sat around the table, Tanya was stuck between needing to remember to speak in Russian, and of needing to care for me. She is not only my friend on this trip, she is my translator, food censor, alarm clock, tour guide and banker. What a job! (And she thought that being a nanny was difficult)

My first meal in Gomel was accompanied with one of the hundreds of shots that I would do. Tanya's parents make their own Vodka and Wine. I opted for the wine. (Vodka still brings back memories of Tony's party) I was told that the first shot is for meeting, and the second was to keep the first company, and the third was for marriage. Or something like that. They were just excuses to drink. And I did.
There was a question raised, what should I call Tanya's Mother and Father? It was decided that I would call them mama and papa, just like Tanya and her brother. (I had a hard time pronouncing his name for the first couple of days, so I just looked at him and smiled. That is why he is only referred to as Tanya's Brother in the first pages of this. Although she as three brothers, only one lives at home).

We kicked her brother out of his room that night. We commandeered it. After all, he had two beds, and there were two of us. It was the first of many things that we would make Tanya's brother do. But he never complained. Well, at least not in English!

So, after eating a meal of Wine, Chicken, Wine, Potatoes (bulba, my first word in Belorussian), Wine, and cabbage, Wine, and a salad that Kolya made. That is Tanya's Brother's name by the way, well, actually, it is Nickoli, (I CAN PRONOUNCE THAT) but I didn't know that it was Nickoli until a few days of mispronouncing his name, and finally, he asked me to call him Nickoli, but by then, I had mastered Kolya. So there!!! (Tanya uses a variation that is an endearment, Kolka, but all of the different endings confuse me to no end. It wasn't until my fourth week, that realized that when Kolya spoke "Tanka" he was speaking to his sister. They have their pet names for each other. It is sweet. (If you like sweet that is.)

Well, after we finished drinking, (I mean eating) we settled into our room. I quickly unpacked my gasoline scented backpack, and put it out to air on the Balcony (yep, there are all kinds of balconies around that flat.) We picked our beds, and Mama fussed over the sheets and pillows, then, after a short conversation, we fell asleep.

January 25, 1997 Gomel

I woke up the next morning thinking I was in Maine. It wasn't until I heard Russian being spoken in the kitchen that I realized that I was a long way from Maine. I staggered out to the kitchen, and searched for the coffee I had brought. Tanya put the kettle on, and I sat on the stool at the head of the table and drank my coffee. All the time mama was worrying that my feet would get cold. And that I didn't eat enough. (This was the first time in my life that someone has thought that I don't eat enough, and she was not to be the only Russian who feels that way.) We had slept late, and soon, there were knocks on the door.

Our first visitor was Sasha. The Gangster. (Please refer to the former disclaimer in reference to the use of Gangster) I have to smile as I say that because he looks about as much like a gangster as I look like Cindy Crawford. Sasha (Alexander) is Tanya's half brother, and he is about 5' 9' and maybe 150 pounds dripping wet. He has sandy hair that is perpetually flattened by his mink hat. When I first looked at him, I felt this need to send him away on vacation. He is very nervous, and since the government has imposed five-year prison sentences on anyone caught exchanging money, he is scared. Everyday, he goes to the market, and stands in the cold exchanging money. He is scared to take a day off, because some day all of the money changing will stop, or worse, he will go to jail. I guess that the adage "make hay while the sun shines" is universal.

So, first thing, Sasha wanted his phones. They were unpacked, and Sasha was mad. He wanted NEW phones, and they had never see Mitsubishi before. Tanya yelled at Sasha and his companion. They left, and then Sasha returned with yet another driver, and a table was set, and Vodka was the drink of choice. I opted for Wine after the first shot. I have discovered that there is no way I could have any Russian blood in me, for a true Russian's blood is heavily laced with Vodka. After lunch, I snuck off to sleep. It was while I was sleeping that the household started worrying that I may be depressed. The truth was that I was exhausted. Two years had crept up on me, and I have discovered that a month in Russia may be the type of isolation that my body needs to prepare to re enter society, as I know it.

We had another visitor while I was sleeping, Wuva (short for Vladimir) (I personally would like to start calling him Vlad, but I don't know him that well...) I missed the whole thing, but apparently, he had been enjoying the National Pastime (drinking Vodka) a bit too much, and he was asked to leave. I didn't officially meet him until a week later. That night, Olga called form Scotland. Tanya reassured her that were getting along just fine, we asked her to call London and to have Vivienne call us. (The rates for long distance telephone calls here are extraordinary) As we sat in anticipation by the telephone, when it finally rang, I picked up the receiver, and uttered "DA". This strange voiced asked in English "May I speak to Tanya please?" I shrugged my shoulders and handed the phone over to Tanya. She said "hello", and then "Anna you idiot, it's Vivienne!" I smiled and said, "OOPS, I didn't understand her accent". So for a while, I had London on the line, and I told all of the above paragraphs, (kind of) And finally after attempting to use the BT direct account, we decided that the Russian Telephone system needed a lot of work, and Vivienne called back to say good night and to check our itinerary. As we went to bed that night, we talked about the differences in the world, mainly Marks and Spencer vs. cooking. And in a bit, we drifted off to sleep.

Friday 24 January 1997

I woke to the sound of movement in the kitchen. The whole flat seemed to be waking up. I was amazed that the day started so early, then I looked at my watch and saw that it was 10:30. So much for an early morning. I had my first Russian lesson in the morning, but the only thing that I could master was "Da mama, Da". After mixing up a Nestle's cappuccino, and Tanya drinking her chi (tea), we bundled up and took a walk to see a bit of Gomel. It was when we were getting cold, and we couldn't quite find an empty trolley bus, when a gift from God (No, not David) was bestowed upon us. Well, actually, it was just as Tanya was giving me a tour of the shopping opportunities in Gomel, and wham, we found Diet Coke!! It seemed as if the West had come to Gomel just for me. I was happy, and my addiction was satiated. The traffic circle where we found the kiosk that sold Diet Coke is now called "Diet Coke Circle". (I claimed it in the name of consumer imperialism) It is also the Traffic circle where Olga's apartment is, and Sasha and Wuva live near there too.

As we walked, I was amazed to see so much new construction. How could a city be in economic ruin and still have so much building going on? Surely, Tanya could see the signs of economic growth around her. You could not build without some form of capital and demand. Finally I questioned her about it.

She pointed to a construction sight next to her house. "You see that?"

Yes, I saw a ten story concrete mass that was in the process of being built. It had the promise of not being a ugly building per se, if you like concrete...

As I looked at the building, Tanya told me, "They started building it eight years ago. Every time that they got a bit done, the workmen stole the materials, sold them and got drunk. Maybe in another eight years, they would finish it."

As we walked, Tanya pointed out another building in progress, "You see the different bricks there in the facade?"

I nodded. She continued "The bricks are different because each year the builders add a bit more to the building, so the bricks don't match."

I counted the patchwork in the building, and by using this method (not unlike counting the rings of a tree), I counted at that there must have been six years that the building must have been being constructed, and still, all of these years later, I stands like an empty concrete patchwork, the wind whistling through it>s empty windows, and it's framework patiently waiting to be filled.

Meanwhile, in the buildings that are finished, it is not unusual to see a family of three living in a one room apartment.

It was cold in Gomel. I guess that I was experiencing one of those famous Russian Winters that are written about. But it wasn't just the physical coldness that chilled me. Seeing a city of thousands of people, seeing where they live, surrounded by grayness. That was just as chilling as the bitter wind. As we were walking, I felt an intense anger come over me. I think that it was caused by witnessing a sand truck (badly needed as the walkways and roads were a sheet of ice) The sand truck was sanding, but he was sanding bare pavement. Tanya explained that he was sanding where it was easy to drive. I guess that is the Russian system. Everyone is used to it, well, everyone except for me.

How can I explain what it is like for me to go out in public? Whenever there are people near me, there is an innate curiosity. They stare, and the more unabashed gape. (You will hear about the more amusing ones.) Walking down the street, I am a spectacle and when I speak, I am the center of attention..

Saturday 25 January 1997

This was to be the day that I would experience commuting Trolley Bus style. Anyone who has lived in an urban environment is familiar with public transportation, and the aspect of crowding that accompanies it. Nothing can prepare you for the seething mass of bodies that pile into a decrepit Trolley Bus. These are the main form of transportation that the city dwellers use. Private cars are few and far between, as petrol is expensive, and the possibility of your car being stolen is up in the 70% area. (If not the whole car, a least parts.) So, with all of this in mind, and the price of a single ride on a trolley bus being 2000 rubles (about .10 cents) EVERYONE uses the trolley bus, seemingly at the same time.

I have noticed that while I have been in Europe, there is a difference in respect to personal space. Where, in the United States, we take Personal Space as our God given right, in Europe, and especially here in Belarus, personal space is non-existent. The pushing and shoving on the trolley bus is a national pastime. I liken it to the era of the 1950's when fraternity boys would see how many people they could fit into a phone both. There are no apologies when one is shoving someone aside, and the most adroit at furrowing through the masses, and scampering to vacant patches of seat are the Babushkas.(Grandmothers). Yes, those little old ladies with their shopping bags would put any American quarterback to shame. Any person that may be on the bus is the offensive line to them, and they ferret their way to the goal with Heisman like speed. I bow to their agility. And I get the hell out of their way when they are coming through.

My eyes were wide open that Saturday on the Trolley bus. Everything was new to me. Tanya was anxious to see my reaction. One of the benefits of having people stare at me, is the freedom to stare back. And this was how I examined my fellow commuters. From the wrinkly old babushkas to the painted twelve year olds, the woman were at the height of Belarussian fashion. Needless to say, the fashion police were in full force. I saw so much make up, I prayed for a facecloth to hand to those women and tell them to wash their faces. Blue eye shadow and bright red lipstick coupled with pancake foundation for a Saturday morning trip on the trolley bus was a bit much. Some of the girls were wearing panty hose and a short jacket. I am sure that they were proud of their legs, but I am glad that they wore black panty hose to cover their legs that must have turned blue with the cold.

In a crowd of people, there is no where that you can escape the smell of Vodka. There is always at least one drunk in the crowd, and usually, it is an old man in a rabbit hat. The trolley bus brings all of us, the large, loud American Tourist, the young students, the middle aged grandmothers, and the men, both employed and unemployed to our different destinations. If we are lucky, the bus will bring us to our destination. But we were unlucky. Our driver chose to stop along the way, and she cleared out the trolley bus. We needed to line up and catch another bus to complete our journey. As per the unwritten rules, the driver just stopped the bus and threw all of us off. There were no explanations, and no promises of a free ride on the next bus. (But who cares about the price, most people don't pay anyway.)

Finally, after another ride, we reached our destination for the day, Harrod's (Well, not REALLY Harrod's) The local equivalent of a large department store was not far off it's mark. It was large, and there was a lot to be found in the three levels of shopping. There is even a drinks bar and a one hour photo express. If you look hard, you can find many things from the west. Unfortunately in this store of stores, the whole atmosphere is permeated by neglect. And the staff, where I would be used to being greeted with a smile, the staff here is apathetic. Where in public would I find a genuine smile? I know that they exist.

In Tanya's home, there is a lot of love and a lot of frivolity. She and her brother are close, and in that they share a joy that makes me wish that I had a brother close to my own age. You can't help but observe the subtleties that they have between them. So, I know that this type of emotional intimacy is possible in this society, why can't I see it on other people? Not even the spark in someone's eye. And I stare, just as they do, but in my staring, I am searching for some hint of familiarity, a human bond. And what do they perceive when they stare at me? What could their eyes be searching for? I guess that none of us will ever know.

So Tanya and I shopped, and looked and looked some more. We found pseudo English and American things, we compared prices, and we looked at television sets. We even stopped in at the drinks bar, and Tanya bought me a drink. (fanta orange) There was no Diet Coke to be found.

We wandered through the food section and watched as people lined up to buy salt fish, rolls and bread. And as we passed through the doors to the outside, we saw men offering to change dollars. The mumbled "dollars" in a thick Russian accent, and it was all so clandestine. These men were money changers just like Sasha. It amazed me to be so far from home, yet to see that the American Dollar was the currency of choice. I was used to it in the Caribbean, I am not quite used to it in the former Soviet Union.

Outside, just past the steps of the store, was where local babushkas were peddling what ever they could. Some were selling roasted sunflower seeds, others cigarettes, (both are national vices) The sunflower seeds are what we call birdseed. But here, they are a snack food. And the task of shelling the tiny seeds to just get a morsel of food between your teeth is highly addictive. I have succumbed to the habit, but I am careful, as I have seen far too many people with black sunflower seed shells in their teeth.

Speaking of teeth... Maybe I shouldn't. Modern dentistry here consists of a lot of gold. Sometimes, I look at people talking, and I see nothing but gold. It makes me think of James Bond. Does the gold make their teeth stronger? It sure makes people look like the Terminator.

After Tanya and I bought some sunflower seeds to tuck safely away in our pockets, we walked to the trolley bus stop, it was a cold day, and it was time to go home. Back in London, I had prepared for the cold by buying some turtle fur, both a hat and a neck warmer. They were put to use in Belarus, but the locals just didn't know what to make of this tall large apparition whose head was shrouded in some brown furry stuff. I looked like an out of shape member of the Red Brigade. Balaclava and all. And when I had my sunglasses on, I looked like a local axe murderer. Nevertheless, my choice of a Mark Phillips Barbour and Turtle Fur coupled with Timberland Boots did make some sort of fashion statement in Belarus, but unfortunately, it was just the oddity that the locals needed to break up the monotony of their winters. I realized that day, on our first official outing from the apartment, I was a freak.

When we left for the shop, I made a point of leaving my walkman for Kolya I felt that it was my moral obligation to force my music on him. He seemed happy enough to be handed a discman and he did use it. As I never bought a European power supply, I have always relied on batteries for the walkman. I had anticipated hours of use, so at Gatwick, I bought a large enough supply to last for the month that I was to be in Belarus. When Tanya and I made it back to the house, after I had peeled of the layers of freakdom that shrouded my body from the cold, I peeked into Kolya's room to see if he had been listening to the Walkman. It seemed as if he wasn't. So, I dug around in my bag and produced the box of batteries. (I thought that maybe he was unsure about the availability of batteries, as they are expensive in Belarus) So, I left the box of batteries, and the balance of my CD's on his desk for his use. Then I walked into the living room to watch TV.

As I sat down on the sofa, I heard the sounds of the Russian language coming from the Television. I didn't even bother to look for the first few moments, because I knew that this would be a learning experience for me. More foreign television. I took a deep breath, and looked at the picture that was being broadcast before me. I shook my head. Then I looked again. I listened more closely, and in the jumble of language that I was hearing, there was something that I understood. The face before me seemed so familiar. Then I spoke to all who would listen, "Oh my GOD, I am watching Shogun in Russian!!!" I could not stop laughing, for there, before me in a green hue (the television had lost it's capability to produce any red colors at all) was the love of my life (at age 14) Richard Chamberlain. The memory of watching Shogun so many years ago eclipsed the fascination of listening to the Russian dubbing over the English dialogue.

I am sure that all of the members of Tanya's family were thinking that I was the strangest person who had ever entered their house, but they could see that I was excited about the television viewing that they had to offer. And so the night ended. After that episode of Shogun was over, I went to sleep. Knowing that Anjinsan had saved Lord Toranaga from the earthquake once again. All was right in the world.

Sunday 26 January 1997

Although we did sleep rather late in the morning, as soon as we woke up, we were in for a BIG surprise. Tanya and I were alone in the apartment, and then there was the ominous sound of the door bell. The buzz that you knew meant that something unspeakable was behind the door, but you just had to answer it... Tanya walked to the door, spoke in Russian and as I watched from another doorway, the most disgusting thing walked into the flat and set down his suitcases. (Plastic bags that is...) It was one of two students who were to board at the flat for two weeks as they were taking exams at one of the local universities. I never bothered to learn his name, I simply called him Butthead. And Bevis was to arrive the next day.

The only good thing that came out of the arrival of Butthead, was the fact that he brought a VCR. Tanya and I were able to watch the video that we had made in London, and then a bit of my Absolutely Fabulous tape. But just as we were getting used to the fact that a slimy, disgusting weasel of a boy was going to be sharing a bathroom with us, Sasha arrived to take us to the Dacha. For today we were going to have a Bania. Sasha came with yet another driver in a Mercedes. They were an hour late, but that was of no consequence, as we were desperate to get away from Butthead.

Belarus, a day at the Dacha (in the countryside)

1997-01-22T11:00:00.000-05:00

A Day at the Dacha

Dachas have always formed an exotic picture in my mind. They are the country houses of the city dwellers, but they are a far cry from Seal Harbor. The normal Dacha in the Belarussian countryside is a miniature farm. A small land holding in which to raise a few animals for food, and some vegetables to get you through the winter. I was lucky, not only did Tanya's family have this, but they also had a traditional Russian Sauna, called a Bania. As we drove through groves of cultivated pine and cedar trees, we came to a road that became more of a path, then it turned into a sheet of ice that was bordered by miniature homes that were the dachas. I was worried about the Mercedes as we drove closer to the cluster of dachas. Would he smash into a fence? After all, the sunlight was glistening on the ice, and looked as though it was a very slippery surface to be driving a Mercedes on. I was sure that I would not even walk on it yet alone drive on it. But we pulled up to a blue Dacha, and Sasha announced that we were there. It is just a 15 minute ride outside of Gomel, but to me, we were in a different world. The dachas border on a man made pond, and it was frozen over.

All of the Dachas seemed to be between one and four rooms in size. Our Dacha was a large one, with two bedrooms, a loft, a living room, a root cellar (funny story about that coming), a kitchen and a summer kitchen (this is in a breezeway that is connected to the building.) In the back yard were two other buildings the larger of the two was the Bania, and the smaller was the bathroom. (We call it an outhouse where I come from.)

I could not decide what was my favorite feature of the Dacha, either the Bania or the Pietch. Now, the Pietch is a central stove that is more like a tile furnace that sits in the center of the Dacha. It is the sole source of heat, and can be used for cooking. It is encased in tiles, and it emits heat evenly throughout all of the rooms that boarder it. In the living room, there is an indentation in the tiles, and it forms a bed. Tanya's father has put up a light and a bookshelf, and a curtain, so that you can cocoon yourself on the shelf, pull the curtain, and be in your own warm and snuggly space. You could even read a book there. (But all of the books are in Russian.)

Well, enough about what the dacha looks like. I know that you really want to hear what happens in the Bania. Well, let me prepare you, it is not a pretty picture. First, imagine me naked. And sweaty. Now that you have willed yourself to do that, imagine me not alone. No, you can't imagine it can you? I didn't think so. Well, the Bania is where you loose all inhibitions, get naked, and then in the sweltering heat, you get beaten with birch branches (good ones with the leaves dried and green). Yes, beaten... All over your body.... Yes, that's right, all over. Now, there is nothing kinky in this ritual, it is simply the age old tradition of getting clean. And Tanya's mother really whips the hell out of you. Meanwhile, in addition to pouring water on the hot stones, she pours beer too. It adds a sort of brewery type smell that I have been told is healthy. (They also eat salted fish.... Ok, so something in the room smelled like tuna!) (No really the eat salted fish!!!)

Well, after you have been beaten, and you have washed all of the dead leaves off your body, you run around naked outside. Yep, I did it, and it was in the daylight too! ( Did I mention that I am now engaged? Yes, there is a rule, if you see me naked in the daylight and you are a man between the ages of 15 and 85, you must marry me and lock me away. This is to save men in the future from this terrifying sight.)

Meanwhile, we had our Bania, and Tanya's mother wrapped me in a sheet, then we went into the Dacha and curled up in a snuggly bed and slept.

I woke after a few hours to sounds in the kitchen. As I fumbled to get dressed, and stumbled into the kitchen in my post Bania/nap haze. Seeing that the bedroom was unoccupied, Tanya's mother lost no time in pulling up a trap door in the floor and getting some provisions out to take home. This was the indoor root cellar and as Tanya and I stood over the gaping hole, and watched her mother climb down into the mine of food, Tanya told me a story about her childhood.

Now, I know that have waxed romantic about the closeness of the relationship that Tanya shares with her brother Kolya. And it is true, they are very close. But, as children, they terrorized each other. When Tanya was three, and her brother five or six, he felt the urge to push her into the root cellar. She was lucky that she landed on her mother's back, so no major damage was sustained. But I have been assured that this type of warfare has existed since childhood, and I have made it my duty to hear as many of these stories as I can. Just to debase this seemingly perfect relationship that these two have. (Smile. Do I detect a bit of the green eyes monster in my soul??? YES!)

Meanwhile, back to the present... Just before we went into the Bania, Tanya's mother cooked for us. (What a surprise!!!) We had a fresh egg omelet, and there was so much food, that I was obliged to feed the cat some of mine.

A word about the cat. His name is COT, which is, you got it, Russian for CAT! Of course, Tanya was looking for some type of surprise on my face when she told me the cat's name, but may I remind you that I once had a cat, and his name was Seeaytee (sound it out). Well, I thought that the cat and myself were best friends, after all, we had shared an omelet... But after I woke up that afternoon, and joined the rest of the people of the house in the living room, I felt obliged to pat my new found friend. He promptly started purring, rolled onto his back and attacked the shit out of my hand. I am writing this four weeks later, and I still have the scars. I tried in the beginning of the attack to hold my hand still as he dug and bit into it, hoping not to rip the flesh too much. But my tender, well steamed, post Bania flesh soon tore apart, and I pulled down my sleeve in shame and pain to cover the wounds.

I still like the cat, and pat him on occasion. I just use caution. Whenever I see him strategically rolling onto his back in order to get more scratching power, I judiciously kick him across the room. It has become our little sadistic game.

Miraculously, I was spared the drinking of vodka at the Bania. It seemed that after a couple of days, the novelty of me saying NO was wearing off, and no longer was it pushed so forcefully on me.

In darkness, we left the dacha. It was a 10-minute walk to the bus stop. Sasha had left hours ago while I was sleeping. And in the rising full moon over the Russian landscape, we traversed on the aforementioned sheets of ice. In short, it was beautiful, slippery and cold. Above all, it was DARK. Moon or no moon, I wished that I had a flashlight. Tanya and her mother knew the path by heart. I was the interloper. I followed at a distance, and prayed that I would not fall. As I listened to the darkness, I imagined Peter and the Wolf. Tchaikovsky must have seen countryside not unlike this, because the music fit the walk perfectly. I tried to remember the tunes as I plodded along. It seemed fitting. And I was told that it was wolves that I heard in the distance. (Do I look like I would believe anything that is told to me? Well, on a dark and starry night in the Russian countryside, I did. And as I write this, I have my reservations...)

We waited at the bus stop for quite a while. Although the service is fairly reliable, the timetable is not. You must arrive at the posted time in order to catch your bus, but more often than not, the bus will not arrive at the appointed time. We waited in the darkness. There was a man at the stop, also waiting. He smoked a cigarette that added a small glow to his profile, and we all looked at the masses of stars that were above us. I realized how little I know about astronomy, and I made a mental note to correct that lapse in my education. It was still pretty to look at even if we were not sure of what we were looking at...

Tanya and I had a great debate about a light that was illuminating the sky. I said that it was the lights of the city glowing in the distance, she said that it was the moon rising. She was right. But to justify myself, (and what is life without justification???) the lights of the city did glow, just not with such intensity as the moon. I still wonder what parallel we are at... I seem to remember Maine as being on the 43' I will look on a globe as soon as I find one.

The bus was late. True to form, by about 25 minutes, I think. And as we piled onto the Bus, the driver announced that this was actually the earlier bus, and it was more expensive that the later bus. So the man who had been waiting so much longer than we made a loud noise (it wasn't translated for me), and bolted off the bus. The cost was 8,000 rubles (.30 cents) the cheaper bus cost 5,000 rubles (.20 cents). He waited longer in the cold starry night for economical reasons. We quickly found our seats and continued the journey home.

"Hi Honey, We're Home!"

The bus ride was uneventful, and when we alighted at our stop, there was a walk through a maze of apartment buildings, past playgrounds that were shrouded in darkness, and very well work ice paths to our final destination. Home and chi. I had no sense of where we were walking to nor the direction in which we were traveling, I just knew that at some point, one of these concrete monsters of Stalinist architecture would be our final destination.

We came across our building from a direction that surprised me. I was totally wrong in my estimation of where we were to turn out. But once we were inside, and just outside the door, I yelled in my own subtle way (NOT) "Hi Honey, we're home!" (Who needs a doorbell when I am along?? That was to be my own catch phrase each time that we came to the door, I am not sure that the other people who live in the building appreciate my loud American accent echoing strange words through the stairway, but hey, who cares?)

Kolya opened the door anyway, and ushered us into the apartment. We took our bundles into the kitchen, and peeled off our coats, hats, and boots. We had left Tanya's brother alone with Butthead, and he was happy to see us.

That night, a technological phenomenon was about to take place in Gomel. I dusted off the laptop, and after showing the slide show of photographs that I have on disk, Tanya started to show her Brother the addictive game of solitaire. And so it started. My IBM became a very expensive Game boy, and all of the people in the Ageeva household were hooked on cyber solitaire. I laughed as I remembered the hours that I wasted playing games on my sister's computer in her kitchen.

As they took turns, and Butthead showed just how annoying he really was by trying to take over the computer. Not only was he stupid, but he was dangerous. I warned Tanya not to leave him alone with my computer, as not only was his personal hygiene in question, but he was forever trying to muck about with the function keys and the on off switch. (Can you tell by the spirit in which I write this that I hated him??? Well, just in case you couldn't tell, let me sate it for the record, he was one of the most disgusting and annoying scumbags that belong to the human species that I have ever had the inauspicious opportunity to observe.) To paint a mental picture, he only washed once every 11 days, weather he needed it or not. And even if this is a hygienically challenged country, by the local standards, he was odious. I think that the only times that he had ever laid eyes on a toothbrush was when they were shown on TV. But this asshole thought that he was modern, because he had a VCR. The more I write about him, the more incensed I get.

After a few hours of Solitaire, it was time to roll out the printer. And that was when my world started to fall apart. In my haste to pack when leaving London, I packed the wrong cable. I did not have a printer cable. And I knew with a heavy heart, that even though we planned to scour Gomel in the morning for a printer cable, my lifeline to the 20th century would not be found in the land of chest x-rays. I went to sleep that night with a heavy heart.

Monday 27 January 1997

In the morning, I woke up, and realized that this was not a dream. When I stumbled into the kitchen, there was Butthead, drinking OUR COFFEE. I quickly made myself a cup, and ran off to the bedroom, where I would be spared the sight of Butthead eating. As I sat assessing my situation, Kolya's girlfriend (well, the relationship has yet to be FORMALLY established, but the familiarity s there) Tanya and I went in search of a printer cable. We searched from kiosk to kiosk, then we hit the local shops. We took a short yet informative walk through the central Gomel Park. Formally, the park was an estate. (Pre revolution) and after Lenin and his buddies decided to make Gomel a city of Comrades, the lovely Georgian estate was turned into a hall for the local communist party. Tanya had her Pioneer ceremony there, as did every other youngster in town for the past 70 or so years of communist rule. The children who were awarded their Young Pioneer badges are the same children (now with children themselves) who are selling things in the market, and dreaming of a place where you can get a legal job that pays more than $30.00 per month. Yes, my dear western reader, the average wage here in the south of Belarus is $30.00 per month, and that is when you get paid. It is a good thing that the Trolley bus only costs 2000 rubles. (.10 cents)

Meanwhile, I forgot to talk about the park. There are new lampposts strewn about, and I am sure that in the spring they will be properly installed. Someone, somewhere has appropriated the money to refurbish the long neglected church that is a part of the park. There were plenty of workmen bustling around, and as I had never been inside an Orthodox Church, I asked if we could go inside. Tanya had never been inside one either. So, this was to be a first for both of us.

I have just read what I have written, and it seems to be a manifesto against communism, rather than the notes of a trip that I have taken. I have to stop and question this political tilt that I have added to what is essentially, a good friend bringing me home to meet the family. For Tanya, and most Belarussians, the fall of communism has hurt them, not helped them. Belarus was forced to stand on it's own economically after being in the Soviet Cradle for 70 years.

This has caused massive unemployment, inflation, fees for school that once was free, a lower standard of life, and a rapidly devaluing local currency. Once, the Ruble stood it's own against the dollar in a closed economy, now as of today the rate is 25,000 rubles to $1.00 When I started writing this, it was 23,000 : 1.

And now, Belarus and all of Russia has the unpleasant crime element of what we in the west call the Mafia. Organized Crime is reminiscent of the turn of the century American Agangs" culminating with the imprisonment of Al Capone. What we, (Americans) have been insulated from, and have had a chance to romanticized for the past 60 years is alive and growing in the former Soviet States. Organized crime here isn't what we watch on TV. It is the dead body of a man that was found next door the day before I arrived here. The man had known underworld connections, and a large amount of cash. In addition there were a few bullets in his lifeless body. The police did their part, they confiscated all of the money that they could find in the apartment. (which belonged to the dead man's mother) As I heard the story, I wondered how she could pay for the funeral? And this morning, as I stepped out of the building, I passed a woman with a baby in a pram in the hallway. One life ends in this new democratic world, and one life begins.

It is hard for me to differentiate between the parody of the Russian immigrant that I have grown up seeing. Propaganda in it's own right. How can I listen to Kolya's purposely accented English, when he greets me with "Hello my Friend"? I thought that he was serious, and I mistakenly pitied that way that he spoke. Then, after a few "almost" conversations with him, I realized that part of the Russian curriculum for every school child includes English, and the majority of people in my generation can communicate on a very basic level in English. And then there is me, a product of the American public School System. I am barely able to speak my own language, let alone that of another person.

As I sit typing away on American technology (made in Japan) I am proud to quote Daniel Webster, (himself a master at words) "For I was born an American, I shall live as an American, and I shall die as an American". Never have I felt so much a part of a society as I have when I am away from it. I carry with me not just a backpack and things, but thirty years of idealism, and patriotism. I just hope that I have learned not impose my ideology on those who do not share the same opportunities, influences, and memories as I. It is a birthright that I should cherish.

Tanya read the first 10 or 11 pages of what I have written and simply said, "You see things differently that I do."

Meanwhile, back at the church! As we were walking through the trees and past benches that are universally present in every self respecting park, we saw a miniature version of St. Basil's in Moscow. At least that was it seemed like to me, it was a colorful mosaic infested onion topped chapel. Tanya read the inscription, and it was the burial chapel for the family who had built and lived on the estate. I was happy to see that this little gem of death had survived the communist winters. I said a silent Thank You to the family whose lands were now a place for me to stroll through and look at a bit of nature in a city that is encased in concrete.

The three of us turned and walked to find the entrance of the church. There were people bustling around, and there was quite a bit of machinery in what I took for a parking lot. As we turned to the gates, there was a drunken beggar. It reminded me of the Bible stories of the beggars out side of the temples, and fittingly, without any prompting, Tanya opened her purse and gave him a few notes. I smiled when I realized that she did it out of the goodness of her heart. Because she has never heard the stories of the beggars outside of the church. Just after the warmth escaped my heart when I saw that the church had set up a gift shop outside of the entrance. I laughed, and credited the Russian free enterprise system. After all, what do our televangelists do? All's fair when it is done using God's name, right ???

We climbed the steps into the church, and after we went through the first doorway, it seemed as if we were walking into darkness. As we opened the second door, we were amazed at the sight that was in front of us. I took a deep breath, and stepped back in admiration. There before us was an even bigger gift shop than the one inside. And busy scurrying about like little mice were some babushkas fresh off the trolley bus. They were cleaning the Church and minding the store all at the same time! Talk about economy of time!

We walked around, and were underwhelmed. It was obvious that the once ornate Orthodox Church was still in need of re gilding. But I could see that progress was being made. It was my first time in a church where there are no seats. I immediately felt sorry for all who worshiped there, for as far as I am concerned, the seating is one of the more important factors to consider when attending any church service.

We circled our way around the church, and quietly left the building. As we passed other people in the park, a middle aged man asked Svetlana if she had just been at church. We got the giggles. (well, I got the giggles, after what he said had been translated for me.) I said that we were just doing a bit of shopping. Svetlana quietly pulled some sunflower seeds out of her pocket, and chewed as we walked into Lenin Square, back to the hustle and bustle of the city.

We came back through the city and had yet another memorable trip on the trolley bus. At home, we ate again, and hung out. The television is green, but the scene is the same all over the world.

When we got home, we saw that Sasha had dropped off is wallet, which is considerable, as that it was a hockey bag filled with $40,000.00 Cash. It was in Rubles, and it was so heavy that I couldn't lift it. Tanya's mother couldn't sleep at night, because she was freaked about having all of that money in the house. Along with two students and a very strange American...

Bevis and Butthead had rented the film Independence Day. I watched it in dubbed Russian, and with green tint. It was a first for me, and probably a last too. Tanya and I shared her parents bed that night, because hopefully we would be going to Minsk the next day. If Sasha would come through with a ride.

Tuesday 28 January

Waking up for me in the morning is an experience, in the apartment, there are six people and one bathroom. On top of that, there is no place to be alone and quiet. So, generally after waking up, I would go to the bathroom, (careful not to turn on the wrong light), and then I would go back to bed. The worst feeling is to try to use another woman's kitchen, when you can't speak to them and have them understand you. All of the time that I have been in Gomel, Tanya's mother has tried to feed me. (More on that later!) When all that I want in the morning is a cup of coffee and some quiet time to think about my day. Tanya and I got our act together, and we ate the Kasha that was put in front of us. Kolya offered to let us take a picture of what he was eating. He didn't even eat from a bowl, it was more like a troth. (Actually, it was a frying pan.)

After waiting hours for a call from Sasha, we realized that he was going to disappoint us. We had another day in Gomel, and we decided to take the over night train to Minsk the next day. So I did some laundry (in the bathtub) and Tanya played some more solitaire. Then her Brother played some solitaire, and when Bevis and Butthead returned, they too, sat around the lap top and dreamed of their chance to play solitaire. I watched them all and felt so foreign. It was starting to dawn on me that although we all belong to the same species of animal, I was an outsider. Butthead tried to impress Tanya by speaking English. But I couldn't understand what he was saying, and she had to interpret it for me. So much for his speaking English. I just hoped that I didn't sound so stupid as he when I tried to speak Russian. So, I smiled, and read my books. For the first time in my life, I couldn't figure out how to use the phone. I wanted to call London that night. My excuse was that I needed more information about Nossum, but I think that deep down, I just needed a connection with the outside world. But with all of my efforts, nothing came out of it. And the phone didn't get a chance to relay English conversation that night. With that minor communication failure tucked under my belt, we went to sleep. There was a trip to Minsk on the horizon, and thoughts of life in a foreign land running through my mind.

Wednesday 29 January

Early in the morning, I heard a loud banging noise. As I shook my head out of it's grogginess, I recognized the sound. Then I looked at my watch and I felt my blood begin to boil. It was 7:15 in the morning, and Butthead was stirring MY coffee and clanging the spoon around in the teacup as if he were ringing a bell to come to dinner. I weighed the thought of getting up and shoving the spoon down his throat, but I realized that it would just appear to be another American Psycho on the rampage. I rolled over in bed and began to hate him even more. It was an unusual phenomenon that was happening in Russia. With my inability to communicate (except via Tanya who sometimes severely edited my comments) Butthead thought that I was just shy. I didn't stay in the same room with him, because I was a woman, and he was such a man. Well, that can go down in history, if nothing else. Russia is a country that thinks I am shy. I try to laugh as I write this, but I just end up scoffing. It bothers me that someone does not know that they are despised by me. It takes all of the power out of hating someone, or even something, if they remain blissfully unaware. This has taught me a lesson.

After we finally got out of bed, and ate breakfast, Tanya and I went back to the bedroom. Her Mother had been pulling a lot of things out of her drawers, they were pictures. It was my introduction to the faces of Tanya's past. I looked at the people and places set before me, and tried to memorize the looks on their faces. I saw pictures of Communist gatherings, old school photos and what seemed to be an inordinate amount of photos of Kolya.

The family seemed to be suffering from a Kolya fever, and I am ashamed to say that I caught it too. In looking at all of the pictures of him from a child sitting on a chamber pot to a boy in an army uniform, I felt that he had permeated the communications barrier, and I allowed him into my thoughts. It is not unlike a virus taking over a cell, now that I have reflected on this Kolya fever. But it soon passes, and he gets firmly established in everyone's life as an all around good guy (who still watches cartoons).

Tanya had the same aloof look on her face as she has now. And there are far fewer photos of her than there are of her older brother. As far as the two oldest boys (Sasha and Wuva)are concerned, in my mind, they were frozen in time as children. After seeing the photos of them as children, and virtually none of them as adults, it is as if they are a different set of people, not Husbands and Fathers as they are now.

It was while we were looking at photos that Tanya's mother brought us a paper. It was a letter that had been written in the fall of last year (1996). And as I looked at it, I was told the story of her father, and her search for his grave.

W.W.II took Russia by surprise. And with that surprise, it also took 25% of the population of Belarus. That is one in four people. No family remained complete during the years of devastation. Vera, (Tanya's mother) lost her father. He was a Soviet soldier. One day, she received a letter saying that he had died while fighting in Poland. That was it, no body to bury, no face to say good bye to. She doesn't even have a photo of him. What she does have is a series of correspondence beginning in the 1940's, a yellowed sheet telling her that it is time to mourn. And a reply from the government in 1996 saying that they have no record of his death, or even a mass grave that he may be in. She has no final place to lay the memory of her father, but a drawer in her bedroom. With the hope that some day, she may find where he was laid to rest.

She looked at us, with our fancy charts, and our hopes and expectations, and wondered how we could find a man who died in 1911. When she couldn't find a man who died 30 years after. I respected her even more after that morning. And I had a bit of a reality slap.

All of the photos that I was looking at seemed ancient. Even the recent ones of Tanya at school and Kolya in the army. They appeared to me as old, because the technology of color photography didn't reach the homes of Russia until the 1990's. Yes, that is right, it wasn't a typo, 1990. The use of color film has just started to be common here in Belarus, and it is 1997. (but you will hear more about that later.) The photos that I looked at that morning changed very little from the ones that I saw that were taken in the 1950's up until those that I saw that were taken in the 1990's.

Gomel to Minsk to Maladitchny to Gomel via train

1997-01-22T10:00:00.000-05:00

While we were still in our pajamas, Tanya sent her brother to the train station to buy our tickets for Minsk. I was amazed, with just the asking, he went. Instantly my Kolya fever grew. He was the perfect slave. I was so impressed. I asked Tanya where I could buy one. She laughed. I had to ask myself, was there any truth in my jest? Tanya and I stayed snug at home drinking tea and gossiping, while Kolya went out into the cold and bought our tickets for us.

It seemed as if we were just killing time for the rest of the day. Our train was scheduled to depart at 10:00 PM, so we packed, and I finished yet another book. We ate (what else is new) and Tanya played more solitaire on the computer.

At 9:00, we were off on our first Russian adventure. Tanya's mother worried about us, and she made Kolya come with us. Having a slave is one thing, but a bodyguard is a whole other kettle of fish. It seemed as if our first steps of adventure were going to be chaperoned by a tall stern looking man in leather. (I am only half complaining here!)

While we were waiting for the trolley bus, a man came up to us. I thought that he was a drunk, and I hunched my shoulders, and pulled my turtle fur down over my ears. I was in my axe murderer outfit, and Tanya was in her mink. To my surprise, the drunk started talking to Kolya, and then he reached over to shake my hand. He simply nodded to Tanya. Then he continued his conversation with Kolya. That was when Tanya leaned to me in the darkness of the night and whispered "He thinks that you are a man, that is why he shook your hand." she giggled, and I mumbled "Fornicate" (well something of similar meaning) It was obvious to me this early on in my time in Belarus, I was not going to get lucky. I sighed, and hitched my beggar's bag up on my shoulder and tried to look masculine. After all, I had an image to portray.

The train was waiting at the station. Al that we had to do was show our tickets and find our seats/beds. The soviet trains are huge. I am not sure of the scale, but the easily dwarf any train that I have seen. The arrangement that we has was an open berth in a common car. There were four berths facing each other, and another two across the aisle. So effectively, we would have been seated with six people. But there was only one strange lady that looked like a potato across from us. We could stow our gear underneath my bunk. (obviously, I was on the bottom) And then we could purchase bedding from the attendant. Our tickets (round trip) cost $4.00 each. (yes, that is four dollars, for an eight hour journey) And the bedding was about $1.00. The whole trip was good value for money as far as I was concerned. And when you bought bedding, they also gave you soap and loo paper!! I was amazed, and shocked. I am saving my former Soviet loo paper (one step above industrial paper towels) for the future. The potato woman who was sitting across from us didn't buy bedding, and I felt guilty as we snuggled under our clean sheets and slightly dirty blankets. My pillow was functional, but I had to wonder how many heads had slept on it in its twenty years of service to the railroad. The potato woman pulled her jacket over herself and went to sleep. Oh well, at least she saved a dollar.

Thursday 30 January

The train was cold. It affected my sleep. During the night, between moments of dozing, I heard passengers getting on and off at stations along the way. It was dream like, because as they muttered in Russian to each other, I felt that I had been transported to another place and another time. You can't help but feel reminiscent of Europe past when you travel by these monster trains. Because everything that I had read or seen in reference to European history revolved around travel by rail. I could imagine a hundred years ago as if it were yesterday when I am on a soviet train. I was awake in the morning early enough to see the other passengers get up and start their day. I knew from an experience during the night that it would be wise to skip a trip to the bathroom. The politically correct phrase to describe the bathroom would be to call it hygienically challenged. The potato on the berth next to me was up and munching away on what looked like a bit of unrecognizable breakfast. I tried to make eye contact, but she seemed vacant. I pulled on Tanya's leg, and soon she was up and dashing to the loo. Actually, she was dashing to go and stand in line for the loo. I need to warn you though, the Russian trains lock their bathrooms when the train is 15 minuets away from a town. Something about human waste on the tracks.... How thoughtful of them...

Having painted THAT mental picture, I guess that it is time to get off the train and talk about Minsk. The train was on time, and it pulled into a large train station. Tanya and I got off and took a deep breath of the freezing air that surrounded us. It was cold that day. We needed to find a train to Maladitchnya. That shouldn't be a problem right? Well, in the 15 minuets that we were trying to find the train, two came and went. Tanya and I were left standing in the cold at 7:00 in the morning. We had decided that we should go directly to her aunt's house that morning. Maladitchnya is two hours by train from Minsk. But, since we missed the early trains, it meant that we would b catching a much later train, and it seemed as if our (my) plans were a complete waste of time. But I was exhausted, and a bit overwhelmed. Tanya was a good sport of it, and at 8:24, we were on a train headed northbound to our final destination. A word about this two-hour train, it takes two hours because it only travels about 15 miles an hour. There were times when we were on the train when I wanted to get out and push to make it go faster.

We were an hour off schedule when we arrived at the station. Tanya's Aunt Nadia was very excited about us coming, and she had been waiting at the station. The only problem was, we didn't really know what she looked like. It had been years since Tanya last saw her. As we started walking around a very modern train platform, an elderly woman came to us. She was followed by a large, dark man who seemed rather ominous. Tanya just said, "I think that is my aunt." And as the little lady scuttled towards us, she broke into a smile. This was my first sighting of Tanya's mother's sister, the now famous (in my life) Tchte Nadia. The man, I was to learn, although he never even looked at me, was Nadia's son in law, Sasha. Now, a word about the name Sasha. It is short for Alexander, and it seems as if Alexander is the most popular name in Belarus, as you will hear the name quite a bit (there will be four times of mention during my trip. You, the reader have so far met two.). This Sasha silently loaded us into his white Lada, and drove us to our destination.

Nadia and her husband moved a few years ago from a village where he was a teacher to the city. The have a standard three room Soviet flat. And as we walked into the house, I saw, that we were not going to have a quiet morning. Nadia had gathered all of her family for our arrival. I was confused as to who all of the people were, but there was a little child. It looked to be about three and when I asked what his name was, Tanya laughed and said AOlga." So, his name was Olga. Then I looked a little closer at her, and she fit her name. So, I was a bit confused. I am staggered by how much sugar the Russians consume. When the family told me that Olga liked to drink hot tea, I was shocked. But then I realized that it was really sugar water. I struggled to understand the obsession with sugar that the Russians have. Passed along to Olga from her Grandmother Nadia was a bag of sweets. Just before the rest of the household was going to sit down for a six course brunch. Olga was dismissed, she ran off to another part of the room and ate her sweets in quiet.

So, I sat in a living room in Maladitchnya, and at 10:30 in the morning, they were laying out a TABLE. A table is a time-honored tradition in Russia, and it does not matter what time of day it is. There were bowls of food and platters of dried fish, plates of chicken, pickles, Potatoes and the ever-present VODKA. The custom is to drink, and no matter what time it is, you must drink. After the first three shots of Vodka, they go easy on you and allow you to drink the rest of the shots as wine. either way, I realized that I would be leaving the country as a fat alcoholic. The whole time that we were seated at the table, food was passed to me, if it wasn't chicken or fish, it was mushrooms or peppers.

Nadia first uttered her famous words, "Yesh, Yesh" she wanted me to eat, and then eat some more, and then eat again. Her husband simply kept filling my glass. (not with water) The whole family ate and listened to Tanya speak about the family back in Gomel, and life in London. After stuffing myself excessively on food that I could not even identify, I was allowed to go to bed. It was the second time that a married couple would give up their beds for us. Tanya and I were given Nadia and her husband's twin beds, and she and her husband were to sleep together on the sofa.

After a few hours of sleep, I ventured out to the living room and checked on how Tanya was holding up. She seemed in deep conversation with her cousin, (Olga's mother, named TANYA) As I staggered into the living room, Nadia jumped up and started cooking something for me to eat. She was sure that I must be hungry. I wanted to crawl under the table. Tanya laughed, and said that in Russia, you are not considered a good guest unless you eat a lot of food. I asked her to qualify what exactly a lot of food was.... She just laughed at me. I played with Olga, showed the family the pictures on the computer and all was well. Nadia cooked some more food for me, and I dreamed of finding a printer cable in Minsk the next day. Olga was happy, she had a large play friend. And I was happy, because I finally found someone who couldn't speak properly either. She had an excuse, she was only three years old.

Friday 31 January

I woke up to the sound of Nadia cooking. She wasn't sure what an American would eat, so she cooked a huge troth of Kasha without salt and put it on the table in front of me. Should I point out now that the type of kasha that they use in Belarus is like that which we make dog food from. I was scratching and thinking of chewing on leather all day. When we first arrived, I pulled out my ziplock bag of coffee and tea. And when I made myself a cup of coffee, I left the bag on the table. Big mistake. A helpful hint when traveling is to pack a lot of zip lock bags. They come in handy against spillage, encase dirty underwear, and they are great for the spur of the moment drug deal. But in Belarus, they are a scarce commodity, and when I looked again on the table, my cute little bag was gone, and replaced by a large oft washed soviet baggie. I laughed and showed Tanya. She had seen someone earlier with a baggie and wondered where they had bought it. Oh well. Tanya had the surprise of the day, when she was showing her pictures of London. There is one of Possum in her natural habitat (the fridge) and in the photo, the fridge is wide open. Tanya's cousin just had to keep the picture of a western fridge, it was amazing to them to see so much food. I laughed and thought of how much they eat, they just don't refrigerate it. Enough about food, on to Minsk!! Just don't forget Auntie Nadia, "YESH, YESH!" I still have nightmares about it.

I got to experience another trolley bus, And a twenty minute walk through the snow of Maladitchnya. Tanya and I took the 8:00 am commuter train to Minsk, and then we just sat in an unheated train and watched as people looked at us. Kind of a mobile freak show. The fashion police ere in full force, playing spot the bleached blond, and we passed the time quickly.

Our mission when we got to Minsk was to get to the American Embassy, buy a printer cable and then find Nossum Eckhardt. (Maybe Nadia could feed him) We stumbled around looking for a map of Minsk and after a while, we found one. The American embassy was not on the map, and it looked like it was far far away. When we decided on getting a taxi, Tanya just held out her hand and there before us was a Volvo. Perfect timing. We got dropped at the German embassy first, and tried to get information on getting a visa for Tanya. No go, you can't even get through the door if you don't have a n invitation. Then, we were trudging down the street to the American embassy. I was starting to get excited, the thought of speaking to someone with the same accent as I have was just a bit too much for me, and when I saw old Glory flying in the breeze, I felt downright patriotic. As we stepped up to the security barracks, though, my bubble was burst. It was manned by Russians. There was a man names Scott behind me from the mid west, but he was dressed like a Russian, I ignored him and dreamed of a bureaucratic heaven that awaited me. We were led through the courtyard, where I wearing a maniacal grin said hello to a small man walking to us. He doffed his hat and sad a formal English AHello." I thought to myself fornicate, he is British, I have heard that enough. Then we entered the building. On the outside, it was a beautiful Georgian converted mansion. But I was pleased to find that on the inside it was institutional grey. It even had cheap government chairs. I was right at home. Just as I was practicing my Ahey how are you" for the Ambassador, a small Russian woman asked if she could help me. I started at her dumbly. A Russian woman? Where are all of the life time bureaucrats from Iowa? Where are the people who got out of The grind in Washington? Where were our diplomatic corps? I was shocked and crestfallen. I forgot all of the questions that I wanted to ask, and I started writing a mental letter to Bill Clinton. This was a travesty. No American's in sight. Meanwhile, I was jealous... Where the hell was this Scott guy who was behind us in line? Who was he seeing? I imagined him sitting by the fire with the ambassador eating Peanut Butter and Jelly sandwiches with Ben and Jerry's ice cream for desert. Yet there I stood, in an American room, surrounded by Russians. Tanya and I left and decided to look for a printer cable.

Snow makes any city glisten, and Minsk looked beautiful, but it was cold. As we walked and looked at the map, we saw that there was a computer land on the map, and it seemed near by. There was hope on the horizon, at least I would have a printer. We had a bit of a navigational problem, as I am adept at map reading, but I do not read Cyrillic, and Tanya is adept at Cyrillic, but not so hot on the map subject. We had an argument, Tanya was right (I concede) and we came a bit closer to computer land.

Now, one of our quests is not for the holy grail per SE, but for a bodum coffee press. We forgot to buy one in London, and were hard pressed to find one in Russia. As we searched, we knew that one would turn up, and as we entered a dusty shop, and climbed to the second floor, there one stood, on a shelf. I was close enough to almost touch it. But as I reached for the grail, a Russian man yelled at me. The store was not open. Nothing was for sale. Now, I just had to ask, since when had something not been for sale in Russia. I laughed and told Tanya to speak to him, all that we wanted to do was buy the coffee pot. But he was stoic, NOTHING WAS FOR SALE. I was amazed. And so we left it, knowing that there must be more in this capital of Belarus. Anyhow, the morning was still young, and we had a printer cable to get and Nossum to find.

I stopped and took some pictures of a couple of the thousands of monuments that we were to see, and then we walked, and walked. It was cold, so the distance seemed so much longer. Finally, by mistake, we stumbled across, you got it... COMPUTER LAND! I ran in through the doors, ripped off my turtle fur and breathed in deep the smell of plastic. We had arrived. There in a corner was a case, and at the bottom of the case was a printer cable. I was happy. The sales clerk came over and sold us a cable after trying to see us a whole lot of other stuff, and we made our five dollar purchase, but it was priceless as far as I was concerned. But I was perplexed, it didn't feel right. I started looking around at the backs of printers, and comparing them to the cable in my hand. A I looked, I felt even stranger. Then a man came to me and asked, "Is there a problem?" I looked deep into his blue eyes and answered AI think so." His English was good. I explained that I just didn't feel right about this cable, and asked him if he had a Canon Bubblejet there so that I could test it. He said no, but it was the wrong kind of cable, and if I waited, he would get me the proper one. I felt a rush of relief. I didn't want to be disappointed after all of this effort.

So, with a new printer cable stuffed in my bag, I followed Tanya out to the street. It was time to find a restaurant. That shouldn't be so hard, we had a map. But I forgot that we were in Russia. And there were restaurants, but none seemed to be open. We tried and tried, and I got crankier and crankier. I really don't know how Tanya put up with me. Finally, I saw a sign for a restaurant. I said, Awe are going there" Tanya said ok. I led our journey across the street to a large white fairly modern building. And as we walked through the modern, clean door way, we saw that we had entered the mother of all adult entertainment complexes. A real Russian Strip club (that also served food) The dark men that were manning reception said that we had to leave our jackets. I looked at the life-sized cut out picture of a stripper that was facing me, then I looked at Tanya. All that I could say was "Not your mink." And we walked out.

I humbly realized that Tanya knew what she was talking about, and together we set off to find another restaurant. Halfway up a hill, in what looked like an abandoned building (glass from the door had been broken out and replaced by plywood) there was a sign "Restaurant". I took one look at the door and said, "It's closed, just our luck" Tanya pulled on the other door, and it opened. She led me into the darkened building. Just when I felt some smart assed American comments fly out of my mouth, we opened another door and were standing in the large dining room of a cafeteria. There was cold food displayed on the tables before us, and a hot buffet around the corner. I sheepishly followed Tanya to the hot buffet. It was at this restaurant that I discovered something that was to be a Major part of my trip! Stuffed Cabbage. I noticed that there were some available on the cold food tables, and I mentioned to Tanya that I loved Stuffed Cabbage. She promised that her mother would make some. And so, I looked forward to food that I would soon enjoy.

Belgium

1995-07-26T15:41:00.000-04:00

My time in London was amazing. But every day, I saw my savings dwindle, and I would not have much of an adventure with no money. I was staying at a hostel by the Gloucester Station, and I picked up a TNT magazine. There was an ad for Grooms. There are few things that I know well, and one of them is horses. I called, did a phone interview, was hired, and what seemed like the next day, I was on the ferry to Belgium.

After a night in 17th century estate of a Rider/Nobleman - he had converted the estate's chapel into a riding ring, how could I not have a crush of the Marquis? My Agent, a South African from Euro Groom worked for him. Grooming is a great gig, but a lot of work. Grooming in Europe was going to be a great adventure for me. I was traveling with a backpack and an IBM laptop, I planned on writing and working for a year. Staying overnight in a 17th century estate just outside of Liege was a good start to the adventure.

The next day, I was brought to my post in Kinrooi Belgium, on the borders of Holland and Germany. I was working in the barn of a German Rider, Dunja Banken. She boarded, sold and trained sport horses, Jumpers. Two of the horses were spectacular, Money Boy "Codexco"; and Milan d'or "Milan". The rest were nice stock, and I learned a lot about bloodlines there. Dunja was mainly a trainer/saleswoman, and my job was to clean, feed, exercise and tack/untack the horses.

It was an easy, healthy job, where I spent hours alone with these equine athletes - listening to Belgian radio, and just working through my day in a quiet zen-like transition. Even now, I'll play Der Grootste hits CD I bough, and years later, I am transported back to that summer. I realized that music defines me, that is a language that I understand, and am comfortable with.

It was a good respite for me. I was in great shape, I understood the subtle nuances of equine personality, and I worked on my dutch language skills. Unfortunately, Dunja never paid me, and well, the quietness ended one day when I realized that being an immigrant laborer was not something I was prepared to do for free - no matter how zen like it was. I called my agent, and was promptly moved to another farm.

The next farm was a total change. It was a multi million dollar stud farm in the south of Belgium. There was a full staff of three Grooms, one professional rider, and beautiful dorms for us to live in. To get to the farm, you drove up a slowly ascending tree lined road that led to the impressive farm. My first night, I was given a tour of the barns, and then brought to my room (that even had weekly maid service) - you know that adage that when something seems too good to be true, it usually is? BINGO. The next morning, on my way to breakfast in the dining room, I was told that this was also an institution for mentally disabled boys, and we were to have breakfast with them - and we needed to walk through their dormitory hallways to get to the dining room. By the time I got to the breakfast table, I had three new "friends" all before I had my coffee and nutella. I lasted a month.

By now, I was giving up on grooming, but I thought, maybe the third time would be a charm. My agent placed me with a top notch rider, Sven Laevers at his family's barn, Stal Laevers in Diest, a beautiful, ancient walled Belgian city in Flanders. They kept 11 horses in training and one race horse at stud, Duc. Duc was an amazing champion, who had manners and was absolutely beautiful. But, Sven was a professional touring rider, with a high standard of turn out, and high expectations for their barn's one groom.

By then, I realized that I had learned some bad habits while working at Dunja's barn. I wasn't up to World Cup standard - it was exhausting, and even though the money was great, the housing was, well... interesting. At first, as it was the Fall, I stayed in a beautiful trailer at the barn. It was just me and the horses, and I loved it. But, it was November, and there was no heat, and no water once it froze. I moved into town to live in an apartment on the first floor of the family home, and I was given a bicycle to get back and forth to the barn, a mile away. The beauty of the city was detracted by the fact that each morning and evening, I had to ride past an arbittoir, that factory of death was ominous. I didn't like it.

In December, Sven was jumping at a three day intensive international show held at the indoor arena at Meppel, Holland. We loaded two horses, Giamba (my favorite) and the horses of two other riders who would be competing as the Belgian National Team.and another who's name is lost to history, and made the journey to Holland.

Wow. My first international event was amazing. I quickly made frineds with a girl named Cherry, a girl from Englands who was the groom for the rider for Greece. We both soon realized that we had crushes on each other's boss. We had a great couple of days, hard work, winning (always a plus) and 2am visits to check up on the horses. The Dutch Barn night Security guard insisted on telling me every time that I flashed my security pass "I Love you, Marry me!" Cherry would laugh and remind me that I had been promised to the Bartender. We had run out of money for drinking, and Cherry had a boyfriend at home, so we weren't comfortable flirting for drinks, so we sat there nursing our drinks - until the bartender told me that he would exchange beer for kisses - who am I to turn down a business deal???

Then Cherry & I (still holding our Rider's hard hats and crops from the Puissance) stole a couple of bicycles and rode them through the sand of the jump course. The crowd cheered us on, we brought back the bikes, the Bartender told me that he was off duty, and we quickly escaped to the barn to check on the horses (where the Bartender could not follow). While we were convulsed with laughter staggering down the hall to the stalls, we heard people. (which was strange,as it was 2am) Sven and one of the other riders were also drunkenly "checking on the horses" I panicked, I was smashed in front of my boss, and I had though that he was back at his hotel. We just started laughing speaking in broken English and fractured Dutch. Sven walked me back to the truck, and we both passed out. It was a bonding moment. And I am proud to say that I was up four hours later to feed and prep the horses for the days final rounds.

The trip back to Diest was fun, Sven was excited about touring the Costa del Sol for the jumping season. I was starting to think that this adventure would be bad for my liver, but great for my memories. But it was not to be. When we finally got to Diest, unloaded the horses, and went to dinner at Sven's home, I realized that I was having dinner with my replacement. An older, professional Irish Groom - I couldn't fell bad, he had been a groom for over 10 years. I was an American on vacation who was having a good time. I knew that I was in over my head. The next day, Lennert, Sven's younger brother gave me a ride to Liege, where I met my agent, and spent the night at the Chateau -then she and I drove to London. She was on a trip scouting farms for her rider to train at for the season. It was Christmas time, and my six month career as a Groom was over. It was good to be back in London, and I arranged to stay at Montpelier Square for two weeks over Christmas - little did I know that those two weeks would turn into me forever calling Montpelier Square home.

Scotland

1995-06-16T18:41:00.001-04:00

There is no way that I could ever quantify my love for London, it is infinite. I love the Belgravia B&B's that line Ebury Street behind Victoria Coach Station. Paddington Station takes my breath away. I fantasize about walking hand in hand along Bayswater Road on a Sunday morning looking at the artists' displays. And when I die, I want part of my ashes dumped in the Round Pond at Kensington Palace. (It won't be the first time I ended up in that pond, but it will be the last.) But this isn't a post about London.

In 1995, I was lost and wandering. I knew where I didn't want to be, but everything else was up for grabs. I was alone (which for me was a novelty) and I needed adventure to heal a broken heart. For me that summer, the adventure started with a month's unlimited travel National Express Coach Ticket. First stop Edinburgh. I was good with bus travel. I cut my teeth on the Belfast, ME to Boston, MA Greyhound trip. I could put on my discman and look out the window watching the motorway signs, and time just flew by. I met two au pairs, one German, and one Austrian. And, as I had a tent, a driving license and credit card, we decided to take a few days, split the cost, rent a car and drive around Scotland.

Our first night was at a hotel in Edinburgh. Then, early the next morning we set out in the direction of Ben Nevis and the Isle of Skye. The Scottish Country side is made up of beautiful hills, very few trees and many distilleries. We decided to stop at leisure to do distillery tours. It was amazing - I wasn't a whiskey fan, but I became a fan of Single Malt on that trip. Our second night was at a campground on the shores of Loch Lomand (yes, I sang the song while driving - for the record, we took the low road). When we drove by Loch Ness, Nessie was nowhere to be found. Then we were on to Mallig and the ferry to Skye.

We stopped at a sporting goods store in Fort William, and I bought a sleeping bag. Packing a tent and not packing a sleeping bag - one of the stupidest moves of my life. I ended up sleeping in the car when we were at the campground.

Skye was dark, rustic and beautiful. We stayed at a youth hostel overnight. Then we were off to the highlands, stopping at the most famous modern castle in the world, Eilean Donan Castle. It is beautiful, modern and made to look ancient surrounded by a loch (lake) As we toured the castle, I was very angry with Hollywood for making me think that the castle was ancient. It was still great to walk over the causeway.

We drove on to Culloden, and gave some thought to Bonnie Prince Charlie, then looked to the left and saw the Roman viaduct - I was gobsmacked. In Scotland, your history books are in the fields and bridges all around you (not to mention a few Harry Potter shooting locations).

We drove on to Stirling, where we checked out Stirling Castle, were in awe of the view of the valley below us, then went down to the youth hostel, signed in, grabbed a quick Indian takeaway and then fortuitously went to a screening of Rob Roy.

The next day, we drove down to Perth, hit some distilleries along the way, and checked into a B&B for the night. (Camping was a wash - Scotland in June is COLD at night) On our final day with the car, we wandered. And found our way to Glamis Castle. Now, Glamis is a CASTLE. I love it. I love the Shakespeare connection, I love the haunted chapel, and I love the stone work. I could easily live there. Yes, even now, I go on their web site and look at the rooms. It was a great way to end an ad-hoc driving tour of Scotland. I was happy, my companions were happy (we saw so much more with a car). All in all it was a memorable trip. I spent my last night in Edinburgh at a Hostel, hanging out, drinking and playing darts with other wanderers. The next morning I grabbed my backpack and hopped on a coach to Liverpool.

Egypt (the first time)...

1995-06-10T11:08:00.000-04:00

How do you mend a broken heart? For me, I grab my passport.

In June 1995, I was walking through Stratford-Upon Avon, looking for Shakespeare (he moved out centuries ago) and on a cobblestone street, I found a travel shoppe with a sign on the window for 2 weeks in Egypt, 225 pounds. I walked in, booked the trip for the next week, and then grabbed my backpack and hopped on the train to London to go to the Egyptian consulate for my visa.

Soon enough, I was on a Hayes & Jarvis/ Monarch air flight to Luxor. We landed in the center of a nighttime oven, Egypt in late June is a furnace - no matter what time of the day. The glow of the street lamps reflected off the tarmac, and we were herded to our buses to take us to our hotels, delineated by star. I had paid for 3 star accommodations.

On the walk to the bus, we could see the surrounding cliffs in the distance, and young men scurried to grab our bags. I fought to keep my bag. It was my first losing battle, as was the fight that ensued when I tried to tip just one British pound for the 500 foot trek to the bus. I quickly learned that Egypt was a country of contentious negotiation. For me, a person who hates conflict; it was going to be an experience.

The bus brought us to a short alleyway, lined with lean-tos and shacks. At the end of the alley (a road called ‘the gut’) were the gates of the Pharone Hotel, on the banks of the Nile. It was a dingy spot, with out dated rooms, a pool and an in-house restaurant with formal French service. For three weeks (I extended my stay), it was home – or at least home base.

It housed mainly British tourists on low cost package tours. I was the only American. When I extended my stay, it meant that I was witness to a revolving cross section of people. For my first week, I settled into a routine of waking in the wee hours before dawn, going down for breakfast and then setting out on whatever tour I had booked for the day.

The Pharone is on the Banks of the Nile on the Karnak/Luxor side of the river. On the other side is the necropolis. Crossing the Nile is a metaphor for crossing the river Styx. All tours are booked for the early dawn, to avoid the heat. A bus picks your group up at each hotel, and drives you through Karnak and Luxor from hotel to hotel, avoiding kaleshes pulled by skinny overworked desert horses. There are always children in various states of dress, asking for baksheesh, hands outspread. They smile, teeth glistening white against tanned skin, and bare dirty legs running after the buses of fat, pink tourists. The children wave, practicing the English learned from television and a lifetime of tourist culture.

I grew up in Maine, “Vacationland”, and I remember the novelty of tourists and out of state license plates, and if those cars driving by caught a glimpse of me, fresh from weeding the garden, on bike riding to the lake for an afternoon swim? I wonder if they thought of me as an impoverished urchin. The context often adds to stereotypes, and an American world view is very small and clichéd – if my travels have taught me one thing, it is that I had as much to unlearn as I had to learn about this world.

Crossing the Nile for the first time was amazing. We lined up for the tourist ferry, and to the left was a ferry that brought locals and their camels, and piles of green that were a reminder that the Nile valley was once an agrarian community. There were boats of fishermen, and feluccas’ with patchwork sails starting out on their Nile tours.

In a few minutes, we were on the Necropolis side. People selling trinkets, post cards and t-shirts called out to us as we were led to our air conditioned coach. I took my seat by the window and watched as the bus navigated the road past canals, and field workers, tourists on small donkeys bouncing along the trails, and camels resting until they were called to duty ferrying tourists to sightsee.

The newly paved road brought us to the Valley of the Kings, where I descended into ancient burial chambers, the underworld that the masses were never supposed to see let alone visit. I felt that I was violating privacy every time that I examined a hieroglyph closely. These walls were not painted for me to see. A burial chamber is for one soul’s trip to their afterlife – and now it is a tourist attraction. I guess that is a way for the Pharaoh to live forever.

There are men who sit at the openings to the tombs who watch the tourists hour by hour burning in the baking sun. These men have skin like tanned leather, and eyes that are lined and wizened. After some conversations with a few of them, I learned that they were at most in their mid- 40’s, yet by western standards, they seemed ancient – a hard life ages a person. Yet another reminder that I was a stranger in a foreign land.

Back at the hotel, after a light lunch, it was time for a mid day nap to avoid the heat of summer in Egypt. I woke after the sun set, and walked down to the pool to socialize with the other vacationers. We were a mixed lot of strangers, couples on illicit getaways, solo travelers like myself wandering, Australians on walkabout and a older woman who walked into the local pub and asked “who wants to go to Eqypt?” A young man answered “me”, and soon he was her escort for a budget all expenses paid vacation. We sat around the pool and talked, shared edited versions of our life stories, joked and traded travel tips – all while drinking and looking out over the Nile to the illuminated Valley of the kings. It was a magical time with strangers that I will never see again, yet years later, I will remember them fondly as long lost friends.

Just as I was starting week three, my latest group of new friends had departed, and I was alone for a day or so. I booked a tour of the Temple at Karnack, was wowed by the ego of Ramses II and his boulevards, I was stunned by the graffiti from centuries past – signs of the Coptics, the Romans and the British and inspired by Hatshepsut, the woman ruling as a in a man’s world, keeping her femininity for the gods. (I wonder how she would have coped with my relationship issues? Would she have left or simply had them beheaded? I decided that leaving was the prudent thing to do.)

I wasn’t alone for long. One night, as I was fending off the brother of the manager of the hotel, a tall, dark handsome Italian man walked up to my table and asked me to join him and his friend for dinner. I saw trouble ahead, and said no. We had a brief conversation, and finally he said, “If you won’t join us, then we will join you”. I gave in. Walked over to his table and was introduced to his friend Gareth. The Italian’s name was Tony, and he was on vacation with friends from London. Gareth was a fellow vacationer staying at the hotel, who’s day job was being a butler at Buckingham Palace. I had so many questions, and we became fast friends sitting in the wee hours before dawn, poolside, drinking, listening to music, talking about life and comparing our Egyptian tourist adventures. Little was I to know that Tony was going to be a major part of my life for the next few years, and it all started on the banks of the Nile.

to be continued....

A cruise up the Nile

1995-06-08T22:45:00.000-04:00

Egypt on a budget is easy. If you go in the Summer (definitely NOT the tourist season) and if you meet up with like minded budget travelers, there are many deals to be found. There was a 3 day, five star Movenpick cruise up (remember - the Nile flows South to North) the Nile to Aswan. At the Pharone I met an Australian on walkabout and her cousin from Poole, and we chipped in for a three bed stateroom on the cruise. Tony was off to meet some friends at Hurghada on the Red Sea.

The cruise was old world and amazing. We had an on board tour guide, Reda Fouad. We stopped at temples along the way: Esna, Edfu and Kom Ombo. The sunsets on the Nile were beautiful. Equatorial sunlight is very special, providing some of the most intense and moving sunsets that I have ever seen. We went through the Nile lock at Esna, and I felt that I was following in the wake of so many tourists, artists and writers, that it would be redundant and impossible to add to their words.

But for me it was at sunset, as I sat alone in our stateroom looking out the window, that the trip was overwhelmingly beautiful. I watched local business children throwing souvenirs up to the guests on the boat. If the guests wanted to purchase, they would toss down money. I watched this impromptu market emerge from the banks of the river as the ship came to the lock, and as the water level slowly changed, I listened to the muffled negotiations going on outside. As the ship progressed up the river, one by one, these riverside entrepreneurs disappeared, back to their perches, waiting for the next ship to pass by.

We had an onboard costume party that night. A group of strangers, in fancy dress, on the adventure of a lifetime. I, of course, went as Cleopatra (after all, she had red hair). There was eating, drinking and dancing into the dawn. We had a chance to sleep, and soon enough we had arrived at Aswan. There was the option to drive to see the sun rise over the tomb of the Aga Khan which my travel companions took - I stayed in Aswan. After two weeks in Luxor, and the temples along the Nile - I was tombed out.

I chose to have a gin & tonic at The Old Cataract Hotel (I was looking for Agatha Christie, but she had left decades ago). That evening, a group of us went to the Aswan Market, were given a drink of pressed sugar cane, and left to shop. But I couldn't get my head around the kaleshes, and the poor horses and donkeys that labor with them. I wanted to take them all home with me. When I finally went into the Bazaar, the men were aggressive, and would catcall. I hated it, and I wished that Tony were with me. When a Western woman is alone in Eqypt, she is fair game. It is harmless flirting for the most part, but I have never been comfortable with that. And there is also a nasty undercurrent of sex tourism in Eqypt - as I was alone, it made me feel vulnerable. Just as I was able to see and touch ancient history with every turn of my head, while I was in Egypt, I was able to see and learn about parts of my personality that a sheltered life would never have allowed me to see clearly.

The next morning, we took a first class train back to Luxor, a taxi to the hotel, and Tony was waiting pool side. We had much to discuss about our respective side journeys. We bonded over what we saw, and our own personal journeys. Or, as my friend Denise says - there is something about Egypt that changes people.

Liverpool to find the Beatles (they left years ago....or did they?)

1995-05-31T13:25:00.000-04:00

Nation Express coach Scotland to to Liverpool. Easy, listing to music all along the way. I booked for two nights into the Embassie Hostel a converted Georgian mansion with home made bunk beds, and a friendly staff. It was cheap and a great bohemian landing pad for my exploration of Liverpool.

First Stop, the docks. Albert Docks, where I signed up to take the Magical Mystery Tour. A colorful bus that took me all around the sights of Liverpool. Strawberry Fields, John Lennon's Auntie's House, Paul McCartney's childhood home. The Liverpool College of Art, and a stop at the original site of the Cavern Club, and finally, the new Cavern Club gift shop.

What can I say? Going to Liverpool for me was like a Muslim making the hajj to Mecca. Everything was so familiar - yet foreign. How did this seaside working class town incubate the talent that spoke to my soul? I guess it was just fate that intervened.

The Hostel was fun, and run by a musician Kevin. I went to a party over a club on the Friday night, and met some rather interesting people - young backpackers, older drug dealers, musicians and footballers. I remember settling in on a long red velvet banquette and just watching people dance through the haze, and thinking to myself, "How did I get from Monroe, Maine to a party in Liverpool?" At around 4am we staggered back to the Embassie, and got a bit of sleep. The next day I was off to the coach station - next stop - Stratford-upon-Avon. I wanted to see if Shakespeare was still around.

Nassau, Bahamas

1994-01-07T03:01:00.000-05:00

Winters in Boston can be great, but cold. It is always nice to get away, and I did as often as possible. Denise and I needed a break. I was having a relationship crisis, and Denise was working and going to school. We bought a package deal for a long weekend at Pirates Cove, Paradise Island.

The best part about a getaway is the outings. As soon as we got to the hotel I went straight to bed. Denise, bored, went down stairs to hang out with the concierge. She grabbed brochures and talked to people and planned out itinerary for the next few days. That is what good friends do, they balance out. I was thrilled to wake up and hear what we had planned for the next two days. A submarine trip, a Robinson Crusoe day on a remote island, a snorkeling trip, and a trip to the Casino.

Paradise Island is remote from Nassau, you either take a water taxi or a regular taxi. We took a water taxi to the market, did some shopping (the fish market is amazing), and I had the bright idea to get my very long hair braided. It took hours. I looked like a baked potato. My dark red hair hugging my scalp, my round pink face with no hair to frame it, and heavy beads rattling whenever I turned my head. WHAT was I thinking?

After a light lunch (and a light mocking from Denise) we took a taxi to the Submarine. It was a great exploration in the Nautilus. And Denise really hit it off with the Captain, he was a lovely, kind man. This was to be the first (but not the last) trip where shy, quiet Denise would have an adventure of the romantic sort. But those are her stories to tell. I would be back in the hotel room, writing in my diary or to that man back home, and Denise would be taken out to dinner. And people say I am the gregarious one...

The next day, after regaling me with stories of her date over breakfast, Denise and I headed off to our Robinson Crusoe day, which involved snorkeling for champagne bottles, and conch then rest and relaxation on a private island while a beach picnic sunset dinner was prepared. This is where I found out that if you lie down in a rope hammock with braided, beaded hair, you need help getting out, because the beads get caught in the knots of the hammock.

That night in the hotel room, the scissors came out and $40.00 was lost to silly notions, which was seconded that night when money flew out of my wallet and into the Casino - never to be seen again.

The next morning, we flew back to the frozen January that was Boston, with stories to tell, and a slight sunburn. Nassau is a great getaway.

Munich, Germany

1991-11-30T13:13:00.000-05:00

We took the overnight train from Paris to visit Ruthie who was studying in Stuttgart. Our final destination was Munich. I have now learned from this trip - traveling in groups of three seldom works. Denise was ready to push Tara off the train, and I was exhausted. Never before (or since) have I traveled with such malice surrounding me. I am going to chalk it up to stereotypes. I am from New England, Tara is from North Dakota, and Denise is from Washington State. Translation: I am a NE liberal, Denise is a PNW adventurer, and Tara is from the bread basket of America - the land of leisure suits, bad perms and a very America centric world view (which is why we were forced to have pizza for our Thanksgiving dinner in Paris - sigh - Tara didn't like the foreign food).

The only sane thing to do was go to sleep as soon as the train pulled out of Gard du Nord. When we crossed the border we were woken and asked to hand over our passports for inspection, then we went to sleep again. I woke up a bit disoriented to see that the clientele on the train seemed to have become more up market, business like, and I asked a new passenger - are you going to Stuttgart? He looked at me - "I came from Stuttgart, I am en route to Munich." oops - we had slept through our stop, which was fortuitous. If we kept our mouths shut, and were lucky, we would get a free ride to our final destination Munich. It worked.

We finally met Ruthie, and settled in at Ingo's apartment. (Ingo was the friend of a friend we had met while he was taking a year off and traveling the world. When Ingo landed in Boston on the final leg of his journey, Mark had picked him up at Logan Airport, Ingo had a backpack, cowboy boots and was playing his guitar - his assimilated seamlessly into our circle of friends).

Denise departed for Czechoslovakia. Ruthie, Tara, Ingo and I headed back to Ingo's apartment. The train station had an amazing bakery at its exit, and Ingo picked up some pastry for our breakfast the next morning. We took a bus for a short trip to Ingo's tidy modern apartment, decorated with pictures of his round the world odyssey. Then, he collected our passports to register us with the police (it was then that I was reminded that we were in Germany).

After we unpacked and unwound from our journey, we had that night to wander the Christmas Market at Marienplatz, the central square in Munich. It was a perfect night, fueled by mulled wine (you pay a glass deposit and go back for refill after refill). German Christmas traditions are ornate and beautiful. We walked around for a little over an hour, watched the glockenspiel strike, and then went to a candlelit dinner at the Rathskeller, where people were in their best clothing, some in formal lederhosen, and the diners could bring their well behaved canine members of the family to dinner. It was quite a sight to see a beautifully dressed couple dining by candlelight with their German Shepherd sleeping under the table. I was impressed with Germany, the evening was perfect.

The next night, we went to a friend's house for dinner. It was a lovely evening, until we went to take the train back to Ingo's apt. Ingo had been in a bad bicycle accident earlier that week, and besides dinner, our purpose of the journey was to pick up his bike. It was while we were taking the escalator down into the pristine station, that a stranger started yelling at Ingo. I was in shock, and since I don't speak German, I could not understand what her issue was. Ruthie translated. She trying to make a citizens arrest for Ingo having his bike on the subway. She felt that he needed a ticket for the bike. WWII quickly came to the forefront of my mind, and to this day clouds my memories of that trip to Germany.

It was unfortunate that the next day we took the train to visit Dachau. After passing people eating a breakfast that included tall drafts of beer, and walking a short way to the former concentration camp, now museum - I realized that this camp was in the center of town. We ate lunch around the corner at a Greek restaurant. You can't help but feel haunted as you walk silently through the town and camp. You can't help but silently cry as you walk the grounds that for so many was the last earth that they would ever walk on. You can't help but imagine the misery of lives interrupted and ended. This journey through the heart of evil sobered me, and taints my world view even now, years later.

This was the end of my vacation. I had a very troubled sleep that night, and decided to leave early the next morning on the first flight out of there. I left a note for Ingo, Ruthie and Tara, grabbed my backpack, took the bus to the train station and grabbed a taxi to the airport. That taxi ride through Munich's dawn mist was beautiful. The monuments were softened, the trees framed the view from my window like a natural picture frame. The streetlights added a glow the the breaking dawn, and in this Mercedes taxi, the driver was silent and a Mahler violin concerto played from the radio.

At the airport, I was able to get on a flight to Boston, I had a few deutschmarks to use up, so I stopped in the gift shop outside of security and bought some Wustoff steak knives. At security, there was a scene, as I was trying to bring knives in my carry on. I had just bought them 10 feet away at the gift shop. I was soooo over Germany. I was being berated, and I lost it. In one of my more regrettable moments, I called the female security screener a Nazi, and asked why the hell do you sell them in security. I was very close to getting arrested for abusing a security officer. Finally, I surrendered my backpack for the airline to check in, and I was allowed to board the plane.

I have never before or since been so happy to return home after a trip.

Northern Ireland

1991-06-02T12:03:00.000-04:00

I was born an American Citizen. Genetically, a New England Yankee... but there are very few places that I have even felt so at home as when I pulled into the drive of the Marlborough House for the first time in Down Patrick, Northern Ireland. The Georgian house had been in the family since the 18th century, and is still a working farm. Lise and her sister Joan had befriended me on one of their trips to the States, and after a fun jaunt in NYC, I was invited to visit them for the first of what turned to many trips to Northern Ireland. I spent quite a few weekends there. My last trip was during the Christmas/New Year's Holiday, memories of a house party, screening Chaplin films in the front hall, and the 12 foot Christmas tree, dominating the hall, welcoming everyone. I may have even chased Stephen Mercer under the dining room table, but that is his story to deny.

Being horse mad, I lived for the weekends when I could board a plane from Boston to London, jump on a British Midlands flight to Belfast, Northern Ireland (changing into riding breeches en route) landing and heading straight to the stables, where Sarge, a giant dapple gray gelding was waiting to carry me through the woods. After a few hours riding Sarge, I would head back to the house, and collapse in a beautiful brocaded bedroom with a 200 year old armoire to hang my clothes in. It was staggering to think that the armoire was made just a few years after the Declaration of Independence was signed. It is one thing to read about history, and totally another to be hanging your shirts & skirts in an everyday piece of furniture from that same era in time.

These were some of my first solo international trips, and it was during the "Troubles" when Ireland was divided and bombs were going off. It was common practice for us to be stopped and a soldier with an automatic rifle would ask for our papers (more often than not, we were in a car with British plates). On one trip to Dublin we had to cross a military border that I would only see the likes of again in the former Soviet Union. We drove up and down the country, to Dublin to visit friends and see Grafton Street, to the Belleek factory, and to a fortuneteller who lived in a house with a thatched roof. She read our tea leaves. There were no earth-shattering revelations in my reading. But then again, nothing about my life has been earth shattering. We smiled, paid our 5 pounds and hopped in the car to speed off to our next destination.

Driving up and down the highways of Ireland was a fun, exciting time. We stopped for dinner once at Lusty Beg Island. A rustic hideaway that I'd love to revisit when I am in love. Dinner there, in the candlelight is, to me, one of the most romantic places on earth.

It was that final Christmas trip that put an abrupt end to my visits. The Napiers are a family full of life and love, and the whole family welcomed me with open arms. On my last morning, we woke before dawn, my bags were in the hall, and Joan saw a mouse scurry into the kitchen. We woke up Johnny who was 18. He groggily grabbed a cricket bat and killed the mouse. Then, barefoot and bare chested, he took the body of the offending creature and disposed of it outside. He was our hero that morning - he was pretty heroic every morning for that matter. A week later he was dead. A sudden heart virus, I think. One day, he was in the peak of health and a week later, the house that was once filled with raucous laughter became a house of mourning. I couldn't bear it. Death had been stalking me all of my life, stealing away my mother, then my grandfather. I had just started picking up the pieces of my shattered childhood, only to have Johnny's death remind me that death will strike anyone at any time. His death still makes me cry today, twenty years later. I couldn't go back after that.

Someday, I'll visit Ireland again, to see old see friends and explore the Western Coast. Sarge is long gone now and my horse mad days are behind me. But I can still hear the thumping of his gallop as we raced through the woods of County Down. And I can still see Johnny's sleepy face as he slays the mouse that made the girls scream.