$350 lunch / lecture

My $350 lunch
OR
My $350 lesson

I should have known better than to eat something I couldn't quite decipher, when I wasn't really hungry anyway (but figured I would be later). However I thought I was being clever; settling into a cheesy but bright eatery at San Juan airport, plugging in, logging on, and making the best of my ample, really ample, layover. The young waiter and I communicated in broken English and worse Spanish; me telling him I didn't want anything breaded or fried, nor pasta or sandwich as I've been having some food sensitivity issues ... Well that was just about everything on the menu. And I don't fault him for trying to accommodate by bringing me the peculiar 'steak' crested in onions and cheese that had been melted into a plastic-like shield. I was skyping Susan at the time and posed the question: 'Is it tongue? Meatloaf?' It was odd, but didn't taste bad, nestled in a bed of plantain mush, and a forest of lettuce; it seemed fine and I picked at it as I worked and waited for my departure time.

In any event, a growing discomfort and rumbling prompted me to make one last pit stop on the way to my gate: a pit stop that lasted 20 minutes, during which - for the first time in the history of the airlines - a flight boarded at a breakneck pace, without any disorder or interruption; and they slammed shut the gate 20 minutes before departure.

Oh the plane was still there when I emerged, pasty and foul but void of vaca loca; but those b#@*(&@#($ uhm, 'air travel professionals' chided me, told me in no uncertain terms that iI was SOL on JetBlue, and sent me off to AIR LIAT to look for a ticket.

The long and the short of it, nine hours later, is that I had missed the last flight from San Juan to St Maarten; I retrieved my bag; began scouring the counters for flights to SXM; got the first (10:45AM) flight out tomorrow at great expense; declined to stay at the decrepit airport hotel for the $189 quoted so went to McDonalds (where they absolutely insisted I buy some food item, in order to use their password, even though I'd just hurled everything from my toes up, so I bought a soda, which i sipped in small measures, and I would like to now announce to the world THE PASSWORD AT THE MCDONALDS AT SAN JUAN AIRPORT IS "mcdonalds" !!!!!!) and began a lengthy Expedia / Priceline / Airbnb search for accommodations ... nursing my soda as tenderly as I was inching up my Priceline quotes. Ultimately I got accommodations at a beachside casino, at great expense (I hate casinos) a good $15 taxi ride away. WIfi extra.

So when you add up the new ticket, the hotel, the taxi, the wifi, and the bottle of wine that I got from the local grocery store - it being 1) about half the price of a GLASS of wine downstairs and 2) critical to my sanity ... I'm at about $350. And devastated. This is moolah I don't have extr-ah so stand by for the boing, boing, boing of checks bouncing.

Lesson one is: Bring your own lunch. Don't eat when you're not hungry. Don't eat things you can't identify. If you are going to hurl - hurl on the plane. They're used to it. (This is sort of an amalgamation of lessons)

But the other lesson has to do with Plan B-ability.

I spent a bit of time in shock that the plane was sitting there and they wouldn't let me on, willing the door to reopen. But basically no one gives a fig and nothing is going to change. Lesson: get on with it. When the going gets tough, the tough don't sit and whine. Formulate a solid Plan B immediately.

Then I wanderered through the motions, getting my bag and telling my tale; looking for a hotel, and telling my tale; texting my friends, telling my tale. (Oh a smarty pants at baggage asked if I wanted a ride to the hospital. She wouldn't have offered a half hour earlier, I betcha!) But see item one! No one gives a shit! the Stop dwelling on the story. It just makes you feel bad. Forge ahead on your new track.
   
By the time I scoured all the room options and secured one, got the taxi, checked in, moped around... there was little time left to enjoy my 'casino & resort' accommodations. I went for a half hour stroll on the beach til sunset, then walked to a grocery store to buy a little snack (being fearful of eating real food) and wine.
 
Embrace your new direction.
 Had I jumped on the program sooner, I could have enjoyed more time on the beach or pool; or even dressed up and trolled for someone to buy me a drink downstairs (although there are an awful lot of women sashaying around - who all must have lost their luggage, because they are women my aged, dressed in their daughters' clothes ;-? ) In any event: this time and money is shot - whether I enjoy it or not. How much better to check my 'grumpiness' at the door, and enjoy my diversion to San Juan ...

CIDER REVOLUTION

21 October -- Crystie Kisler was still in her PJs when we arrived (admittedly early) at Finnriver Cidery, to drop off our wild apples. In truth, Susan and I had been hurried that morning too, pulling over on Washington’s Route 104 at the last minute to pick the small feral apples that grow along the roadside: scrabbling up and down mud-slicked embankments, peeling away brambles that clung to our legs like whiney toddlers. With our bounty overflowing Susan’s colorful Zulu baskets came the promise of a free bottle of hooch made from this harvest of apples gleaned throughout Jefferson County; dropped off by us and others who were unpredictably eager to taste apple wine and hard cider in the early Sunday hours.

Too early. Crystie fluttered back and forth like a nervous sparrow, putting out flyers and snacks between pours of cider. At one point a gangly bed-headed boy walked in with a delivery of serving trays: Crystie’s eldest son, River. On completing his chores he asked for a piece of the chocolate Crystie was putting out. ‘After you bring me my wool skirt,’ she replied, and continued to set up the tasting room, doling out sips of elegant and rustic ciders. When he returned with the skirt, she immodestly pulled it on over her leggings; a swing of wool beneath the heavy sweater that hung rather limply on her twiggy frame. (Littlest son Coulter – about 4 – milled around silently in a large tri-cornered pirate hat and shimmery coat.)

Today, on World Apple Day, Finnriver Cidery was collecting natural heirloom apples (those not bio-engineered or bred for sweet-toothed American tastes) to create a ‘Backyard Blend’ of hard cider. Apple donors will get a share commensurate with their tonnage (or poundage, as is more accurate) and the balance of proceeds will go to support the local food bank.

Finnriver is cultivating more than just apples and berries on their 33-acre farm: a strong sense of community exists on the compound (I want to call it a commune) reached by a windy dirt road in Chimacum, past clever signs asking, in rhyme, for visitors to drive slowly, keep the dust down, and mind kids and critters.

There is a wind turbine (we don’t see) and several small houses and even smaller (frightfully so, for a claustrophobic like me) cabins that house workers and interns, set off from the large pavilion, where random chairs and bales of hay provide community seating around a generous oven suitable for firing pizzas and breads, and to take the chill off the numbing cold of the Pacific Northwest.

As she pours, a tangle of hair jutting out from beneath her wool beanie, Crystie tells us, “We think the more complex apples will make a more complex cider.” Small or large; the size doesn’t matter, “it’s the tannins and character we’re after.” Most Americans prefer sweet apples, but these don’t make the best cider she says. Referring often to ‘old world’ taste, she serves up hearty sips of ciders that are tart, clean, mineral.

While Crystie describes each sample, more donors arrive with apples: from Dungeness, and Port Angeles. One of the patrons offers to go out and help a newly arrived woman, Ellen, lug her boxes of apples to the bin.

“We are just three years into this,” Crystie explains, “’Let’s try this. Let’s try that.’ Sometimes it’s dangerous.” One such case could be the fir infused botanical cider. She calls it a ‘culinary adventure’ – I liken it to a fizzy Christmas tree. But the small company is unrestrained by corporate dictates, so there is indeed a new-world sense of exploration – even euphoria – in their endeavors. Open-mindedly they experiment, bound along the way to hit some snags, but presumably more successes.

Other samplings:

Artisan Sparkling Cider: won a double gold in the 2011 Seattle Wine Awards. “We thought they didn’t realize it was from apples,” she exclaims. It’s fermented with champagne yeast, crisp, dry, sophisticated, with a neat finish.

Farmstead Sparkling Cider: she prefaces with a ‘warning’. Aged on the lees, it’s much more rustic than the earlier sample. Earthy, mineral, with a hint of citrus or lemongrass.

Sparkling Pear Cider: notable perfume and a hint of sweetness – a blend of organic apples and pears. Delicious.

Dry Hopped Sparkling Cider: attempt to ‘address the plethora of beer drinkers’ in the Jefferson County market, she explains, “It’s like drinking a meadow.”  I found it tart and soapy: perhaps beer is something best left to the breweries.

Sparkling Black Currant Cider: Susan liked this one, but it reminded me too much of cough syrup I took as a child. Still, I could see it with holiday toasts, or game dinners. Rabbit, venison, boar (If anyone knows where to shop for boar these days …)

Seasonal Botanical Ciders: with their Wells Fargo Wagon elixir type labels. Lavender, Fir, Cranberry, Rhubarb. Novelty ciders in small releases. (Thankfully - in the case of the fir ... )

Apple & Pear Sweet Wines: “The sexy, sophisticated side of the apple” Crystie says. Cider fortified with brandy, intense fruit flavors. I want to shove the wine aside and indulge on the rich, heady brandy.

Fruit Brandy Wines: I try the blueberry. It’s absolutely delicious and intense, without being cloying. It slides down easily, and at 18.5% alcohol content, is welcomingly warming on a frisky day.

Crystie refers to a 9/15/2012 article in the WSJ on the cider renaissance, calling it ‘historical’ and part of the ‘locavore movement.’ So over the next week we go on to explore every winery and cidery we can find, within an hours perimeter – with much success and mirth. But that report (and the image upload) will have to wait for another time …

Northwest comments

10/20

I can see how you could get depressed up here. The dismal sky pressing down, crushing the tree tops, smothering everything with the same dull gloom. Asphyxiating.

And I can see how at some point in life, there is more past than future. And if you are on that (unstoppable) treadmill – the past receding to shadowy memories astern; the threshold ahead loomimg larger every day – it could be depressing as well. 

But that is not me. I have my past. But I have my future too.

A birthday, uncelebrated

The inlet, slick black like marble, reflects the stars in its stillness.

Few lights betray this tender slip of land. The embers of my little cigar. The flash of headlights through distant woods. The blue flicker of tv next door, like a thunderstorm encapsulated within the boxy walls.

Across the way the great blue has roosted in a lofty pine. The stream, where the otters live, untiringly flows.

The big dipper nests perfectly, like a saucepan, over the silhouette of the forest. I have seen it – on end, upended, topsy turvy, around the globe. This world is a beautiful place. What a gift to have seen so much of it. 

                                                                                                                   

Oh Brooke, you left us much too soon. Do you watch this from above, and delight?

Washington. The state.

You’ve probably never seen the movie FLESH GORDON. But if you have, you know what I mean when I say the First Class seats on Virgin America have these ridiculous penisaurus-like phalli sprouting out from between the headrests, all cockeyed (haw haw haw! i am hysterical over this pun!) and curious with big-one-eyed stupor. If were a man – a real man – there is no way in hell I would fly First Class with one of those things sticking out by my head.

Yes. Another flight. This time: Seattle. But what does it matter. I am tired of moving around and tired of staying put. So this trip is part work, part respite. A touch of cool, of relaxed; a change-of-scenery; a visit; an unzip-the-skull-mind-opening-brain-draining-reset between the pages (to be written: mine).

I arrived eight hours ago – a pleasant blur of tall pine trees from the conspicuous red Jeep simmering oil as it bounced down the road; bridges, harbors, fjords and mountains pointed out; a fabulous dinner; and magic water. Of all the things on my mind as I sink into my second story bed beneath the timbers, as the wind whistles and rattles the blinds; it’s the water. Susan has me started on the magic water and already it’s having an anticipated (not eagerly) effect. The sleepy ginger cat lifts his head as my tummy rumbles; it brings to mind the  giardia episode. But I won’t get into that here and now. Time for rest.

WRITING PROMPT

“At first I didn’t know it was fire.”

I’m in a writer’s workshop led by Mary Sojourner, with several other eager disciples. We are by no means novices – the group (OWAC) is not for wannabes; but established, credentialed writers, editors, and even a scruffy publisher who looks like he just rolled in on the “3:10 to Yuma” – greasy hair slicked away from his leathered face, conspicuously sporting a tall felt bowler and long duster, despite the heat.

We’re in the back dining area at Tamarack Lodge, a boxy room lined with knotty pine paneling and old black and white photos, and crowded with tables and chairs. Orange glass lamps are hung too low from the ceiling. We are seated in uncomfortable straight-backed chairs at a cluster of plywood tables (clearly meant for linens) drinking too-strong coffee.

Mary is seated in front of a picture window, through which I can see leaves dancing in the wind like jingling bells. But she’s back lit, so I can’t see her face or expressions. I merely see the silhouette of her round head bob as she doles out anecdotes, wit and suggestions. She’s wise and irreverent. Candid. A little inappropriate. Citing the works of Kerouac and London, she remarks, ‘And that was before hallucinogens,’ (drawing out the word into a seven-syllable, five second utterance), ‘in the days of alcohol, peyote and very bad dope.’

She tells us to slow down. She doesn’t have the answers, she says. She provides a writing prompt, forbids us from stopping, sits demurely (she will bristle at that suggestion, no doubt) keeps track of our 20 minute time allowance, and then we read.

“At first I didn’t know it was fire.

I was at the tail end of the trail ride, eating the dirt of the preceding horses: 20 clip-clopping hooves stirring up the chalky loam on the track to Rainbow Falls in the Eastern Sierra. I rubbed my tongue over the grit covering my teeth, as the rolling, tumbling clouds of dust blocked the guide from my view.

I elected to bring up the rear, I said, because I wanted to trail Lindsey, who had never ridden a horse before; and her mount – a fat-assed mule named Hillbilly – was indeed taking advantage of that; routinely veering off course, going right when the rest went left, and stopping and starting at will. So I stayed behind to marshal her …But in truth, I wanted some solitude. I am a sailor and the ocean is my first love. So I desired a little time alone – an ‘affair’ if you will – with the land.

I was out of earshot of Bobby, the trail guide, and missed his snippets of information about the trail, the Sierras, the falls, the fire. So when we bent around the granite outcropping, and surveyed the mountainside covered with scorched tinder – so many sticks poking up into the bluebird sky; so many logs laying catawampus on the ground – I was aghast. The hills had looked so peaceful and green.  But these stumps looked like legions of tombstones. Like death.

Eventually the word worked its way back. It had been a fire, 20 years ago, that had devastated this sweep of mountains, rushed through the valley, and left these skeletons in its wake. And here – two decades later – was the most nominal regrowth. The slightest hint of regeneration. I never knew a fire could cause such devastation for so long.

So I suppose I am to be writing something fictitious.                         

And how it would be clever to segue into some tale of trial and tribulation … about how the forest fires of our lives can leave decades of devastation, and how hard it is for something new to take hold in the charred soil. And yet, how a plush carpet of green is pushing up between the remains …”

We sit in somewhat humility and awe, presenting our work with apologies and disclaimers, and even though her criticisms are meager (she says nothing about either of the pieces I read. I am either very, very good, or very, very bad) I walk away feeling inspired.

Mary gives me a lift back to the hotel, moving the two stuffed toy ‘guardians’ from the passenger seat to the debris field in the back. We talk easily (‘You’re poor?’ she asks. ‘I’m a writer,’ I emphasize. She nods.) and I notice more than one similarity between us (which I will not reveal, to preserve our dignity).  She gives me a book (“Delicate”) which she refuses to sign (‘W don’t sign for friends, only customers.’) and I feel as if I want to run back to my room and write. I don’t ... but I know I can.

PRACTICE MAKES ...

PRACTICE MAKES PERFECT

Today’s ‘practice day’ was a day of chaos, and the skippers arrived on stage for their ‘meet the public’ stage show still weary and wearing their PFDs beneath their team shirts. What a pity: these buff sailor boys looking all pudgy and Pillsbury Doughboy-like

I was impressed (and consoled) by their admittance of how challenging the boats and venues are; having felt the new AC has left the rest of us sailors behind. Today’s quotes are very telling:

Terry Hutchinson:         “Every day of match racing is sudden death.”
 Yann Guichard:           “It’s my first time racing in San Francisco – a really challenging place. The conditions were really tweaky.”

Dean Barker:               “We had a little incident” (they flipped) “It’s part of the game now: you make a mistake, and you pay for it.”           

Ben Ainslie:                  “This was a great initiation to the AC45s … I would have enjoyed a gentler introduction.”

“Maxx” Sirena:             (when asked about their ‘spectacular capsize’ last week) “Maybe it was spectacular to you, but not us … obviously we chose the San Francisco venue to do that the first time. And the conditions are tough, it could happen again.”

Russell Coutts:             “It’s a challenging venue.”

Nathan Outteridge:    “We had a bit of a swim the other day … still working out where the limits are.”

Phil Robertson:            (late for the press conference: ‘picking seaweed out of his teeth’) “We went down pretty hard. It was like the first hill of a rollercoaster: I just held on and closed my eyes.”

J.R. Hildebrand – AKA “Captain America” Indy 500 Race Car star and Rookie of the Year – who went on a ride along on one of the boats.

“You don’t have to be going 200 miles an hour to feel like you’re hauling ass … I was very impressed to see how sensitive the boats are, the teamwork, how streamlined (the interactions) are … My job was to stay out of the way and hold on!”

BEEP! BEEP! BEEP! BEEP!

Marina Green was amok with the noises and commotion of set-up. Fork lifts unloading (and sometimes dropping) crates from trucks, quads of burly men (one trailing a dog on a leash, which worries me he’ll trip) carting and positioning panels and displays; cables being laid; tents set up; banners unfurled … for someone (me) who has termed the America’s Cup “over-privileged adults enjoying a costly recess…” I defer to the building excitement. 

Several boats slide by the waterfront park, their mainsails towering visibly over the detritus. Fast. “Did you see that?!” Sharon asked as one zipped closely by. But I had turned my head for just a second, and missed it completely: they were that fast. And they weren’t even trying … yet.

Today is the official practice race. We leave the hotel in an hour to walk to the green for the official media meet-and-greet-the-skippers. Later Sharon will head out on a photo boat, where she’ll be positioned to shoot the AC45s as they approach the windward mark; while I head back to the hotel -- to finish up some work so I’m freed up to watch the races the rest of the week (and potentially shoot: both Sharon and Leslie want crowd & color scenes; our M.O. being that they pre-set the buttons on the cameras, tape them over, then I can just snap – LOL).

The fog horns have been bellowing all night – a promise of wind on the race course. Getting a bit excited … 

San Francisco, CA 21 Aug 2012

PHOTO: Sharon & AC book cohorts (L-R) John Owen, co-publisher; Bob Fisher, co-author; Insight Editions Director Michael Madden

Coffee Karma

Georgia and Bob have a neat little coffee gadget on the counter, and although Georgia walked me through the step-by-steps, this morning’s coffee creation was problematic … 

I thought I was making one thing, but I put in another. An ounce of water shot out and it halted: so I pushed it again (universal solution to all things electronic: push the button again) but eventually realized I’d put an espresso thingee in, so I replaced it with a coffee pod, pushed again … suddenly I had too much water, dribbling on the counter … (all this for a cup of coffee!) and my unintentional blend tasted a bit yuck … So I added some half-and-half, ambled up the stairs (dodging my new BDF – BestDogForever –Buster, who likes to stop right in front of you to make sure you’re still there) and finally, finally sat down for a cup of coffee.

Ewwwww! 

Was the half-and-half bad? I tried again. BLEAH. Sour. As if I didn’t believe (praying for some water-into-wine type miracle?) I took another tiny sip. Gag!

Nope. After all the efforts to make the coffee, and then try, try, TRY to make it palatable, I finally grasped: I had to throw it out and start over again. I headed back down the stairs.

And then, halfway down (as I paused for Buster, who had halted one step ahead of me) I decided I didn’t want a coffee anymore. I wanted something different. I wanted something better. 

DING! After wasting w-a-y too much time on all sorts of mental mastication and machination and self-flagellation I figured it out. Stop wanting that. Yes I had longed for it, put effort into it; it looked good, smelled good, and I was so eager to drink it down. But in the end: it was sour. ‘Time to pour it down the drain.

And instead of trying to recapture or recreate it I am striving for something different, more, better. Much better. 

I made a cappuccino. Strong. Intensely present. Creamy and sweet and delicious. Better.

ON TURNING 50 (3 years late)

It is cool tonight in San Diego, where – surrounded by adoring (or perhaps just ‘hungry’) cats and a dog – I am taking a nearly unprecedented – of late – respite; reading, writing, drinking wine and smoking a cigar. Prompted by an anthology on Things To Do When You Turn 50 loaned to me by Cheryl (my accountant who surprisingly still talks to me) at my annual scolding; which alternately tells you to ‘stop obsessing about your flaws’ and ‘get plastic surgery’, and ‘start hiking … playing tennis … running’ while you ‘take it easy on yourself and accept yourself as you are’ … I was inspired by Dr. Patricia Farrell’s entry ‘Write Your Own Top 10 List.’

Clever.

So here goes. Now that I’m …. 40-10 (I still can’t say the F-word) (plus) my words of wisdom are …

1.    Forget your mistakes. Seriously: so many of my blunders took place so many years ago, they are ancient history. No living soul probably remembers them. Only the dinosaurs.

2.    Keep whatever hours you like. Get up when you want. Go to bed when you want. Nap. I still work 80 hours a day – sheesh!

3.    Accept that some things are water under the bridge. That the sun has set on some dreams and goals. Savor sweet memories; write fictitious novellas about the others. And this just adds to the urgency of …

4.    It’s time for the full court press on the things that haven’t transpired yet. Do the marathon (ok: half-marathon). Climb Kilimanjaro. Get the Captain’s license. Take Spanish lessons. Move to a foreign city. I’m not getting any younger.

5.    Do not let cheap wine pass your lips. Nor crappy beer. Better to have one luscious glass of Cab Franc than a whole bottle of (ptuh! ptuh!) Up-chuck Chuck. You know: unless stranded on a desert island and dying of thirst. Ditto on cigars. And food. We need to consume less. Share more. Waste not. Want not. You get the cliché … Consume judiciously. Give the rest away. Be generous to a fault.

6.    Be the first one to jump in the water. Or off the rocks. Skinny dip. Swim under the water falls. Do the daring thing. It’s exhilarating. And scary. You won’t die … probably. But if you do, much better than an aneurysm! 

7.    Dance as often as you like. By yourself. Or with friends. Or even better: with handsome men: soldiers, sailors, cowboys, young Latin journalists …  Close. Who the fuck cares?! Considering women ‘my age’ are nearly transparent, no one will even notice you. And if they do … see item # 8.

8.    Bang one out on a tropical beach if you feel like it. As my counselor (Yes! I just started going to a shrink and on our first meeting she earned her keep) chided me, peering over her glasses: ‘You’re a grown woman …!’ Exactly! So flirt, kiss that stranger, hold hands, lose your bikini top, whatever floats your (consensual) boat.

9.    In fact: have sex as frequently as possible. And when you find yourself in bed with an utterly delightful guy, do not – at any cost – get out of bed. I don’t care if the President is on the phone or Ed McMahon is at the door with the big cardboard check (is he even still alive?) Nothing is as fabulous as a good roll in the hay. And another. And another …

10.    Accept who/what you are. Well I find this the hardest one. Embrace who/what you are, what time (and tragedy) (and gravity) has manifested in your person and body. Of character and fortitude: continue to shape who you are and what you are becoming. That is totally within your control. 

11.    Be an excellent role model. Know that you are a role model: be brave and act with intention. I cannot believe I waited so many years to say some of this shit. But life is way too short and I can see the end of the runway from here; and although I personally intend to enjoy every remaining minute, I also want to leave a legacy and a roadmap for the future, that says it’s okay to enjoy life. That’s the plan!

12.    Don’t worry about being too precise or too accurate. If you need to take a little longer to accomplish something right … ie if your ‘Top 10’ becomes ‘12’ … so be it. Better to get it right.

SELF PORTRAITS OF ME @ 53 ... BIKING MAUPITI (TOP), HUAHINE BEACH (LEFT)