Joys of travel

16 March 2012.
It always startles me when I enter a Ladies Room stall and the toilet seat is up.

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AIr travel is full of surprises these days. On the heels of news that a Flight Attendant went 'postal' recently (wow. there are two high stress jobs: stewardess and mailman. woo-ee. ) it's a bit unnerving to hear the gate agent Adolfa Hitleress barking over the P.A. She's got that Jane Velez-Mitchell screech: as if she lives with someone hard of hearing. And stupid. Each time she explodes a name, a passenger RUNS to the gate. Scared.

I settle into my seat. It was unduly difficult to get this changed to a window (I know: so many keys to press! Such effort! Such stress!) so when my seatmate appears with a scrawny little boy, asking if he can have the window seat (it will be dark in an hour!) I decline. I have my own urban sprawl happening: my little laptop "Turq"; a folder of notes representing my juggling act of jobs; two cameras and related cards, batteries and chargers; a digital recorder; snacks; water; toiletries, meds and swimsuit (in the event my luggage goes missing); a small pillow; and a blanket I borrowed from my earlier LA to JFK flight, which I promise (pinky swear!) to return on my way home ~ because I learned the hard way on one frigid flight where I was advised they don't carry blankets on flights to the tropics (even though it's about 40 degrees onboard) that you are screwed if you don't bring your own!

How anyone so small can take up so much space amazes me. His skinny arms poke out like chicken wings. But he is cute and quiet: raptly watching CARS on his portable dvd player and not at all missing the window view, and I am amused by the warmth (even if it is spindly) of a child inconspicous of the space he occupies. And somehow, in keeping with my charmed life, i have just been served a bottle petite of wine, on the house. On the first flight I was given a free bloody mary and not one but TWO bottles of vodka. I am on the verge of suspicion.

So where am I off to? First stop San Juan for a day and a half, then Fajardo ~ where I'll board a brand new Lagoon 450 (I have been eager to try out this cat wth a forward cockpit, among other things) for almost a week of cruising Culebra, Vieques, and the snippets of islands nearby. Then USVI for the weekend (Rolex Regatta) and BVI (Sailing Festival/Spring Regatta). a week after that. Oh yes I am thrilled and thankful: a bit on edge from being on the move so much; living out of a suitcase; having no regularity or sense of control in my existence. However as always, i realize it's at times like this, when life takes over, that amazing unpredicatable things can happen. So I try to keep my mind open and mouth shut.

I gaze out the window, thinking too hard. Veins of lightning streak and brighten the sky beneath us, and the plane chortles in reply. It might be nap time, on this long dark leg over the Atlantic.

ADDENDUM 17-March 2012
Oh those gorillas had a fine time with my luggage it seems ... ! Unpacking I discover a container of mango powdered drink got crushed in flight - sprinkling easy-to-dissolve hence ultra-fine seep-into-everything tutti-fruity sugary dust all throughout my luggage. It takes til about 1AM to clean the mess; completely dissasembling my suitcase; shaking out and ultimately laundering all of my clothes early this morning ..... By the time Vicki arrives Saturday our room looks like a Chinese laundry: clothes draped everywhere. But it smells deliciously of mango ...

After a quick run to the liquor store  (there is a horrific rumor we can't buy booze Sunday or Monday due to blue laws and /or the elections) we head to Old San Juan ~ practicing our Spanish as we stroll the shops and sights. We pick a boisterous tapas bar (Toro Salao) with live jazz and a chic crowd for dinner. The food and sangria are great and we're thankful that even though it's St Patrick's Day there is none of the drunken foolishness you find at home. We're eager to get to Fajardo tomorrow, and begin our sailing adventure! Til then ... ciao!

Photos HERE

Special Delivery

Charles delivers the wood to Deb's :-)

An amazing answer to our prayers.

One hot hen

 Feb. 29 - There’s a lot of trepidation this morning. Deb rushes back and forth gathering ‘must have’ stuff for her tote bag, most of it, as is increasingly the case, misplaced: her memory is getting nearly as patchy as her hair.

Her already cropped hair is thinning in a most random pattern. While Deb models a dozen different headgear ensembles - with Vikki adjusting the various scarves to hide the bald patches - I make French toast (out of Junior, our tenderly raised loaf of bread). We laugh a lot: Deb’s feathery checkered do looks like a downy new chick’s, and we determine this is why Fred-the-Rooster (who she inherited when she moved into the cottage) is so enamored with her. She is one hot hen.

But things get tense as it’s time to go. The car is packed, and Deb emerges in a get-up that demands a double take. Or two. Some authentic ‘let the sunshine in’ knit hippie pants; green clogs; a grey sweatshirt covered with a baggy white button down and topped with a bulky moth-eaten but favorite wool sweater. Around her head she’s wearing a green and turquoise floral silk scarf (with a black beanie underneath) and an orange sarong from Thailand covering her neck. She’s brave, but not happy. We concur that it goes against your survival instinct to deliberately poison your body. And then we press on.

The drive to St. Helena is long. At first she chatters, then quiets. I keep thinking that Deb and I should be on the open ocean again; not here. 'Racing a boat to Hawaii, laughing our way across mountainous seas, her long tangle of hair wildly blowing in the wind; not scalped, sober, in a mood as if she's going to the guillotine. On occasion we need to stop: the winding road that meanders up and down the mountains, combined with her anxiety, makes her queasy.  I play Pavarotti (La Boheme) to soothe her. After a stop to buy some mints at one of the few markets along the way, we’re there.

What a gorgeous place! It looks more like a spa, with a grand walkway and water feature, art and sculptures, beaming attendants. But of course it’s not. Deb goes through the paces: IV, blood tests, consultation, finally the drip. Her Doctor is divine, and we catch him off guard (oh, I cannot say, but it was funny) and we are belly-laughing, HARD, and he tells Deb she is doing well.

Originally I’d planned to visit the library and get some work done, but instead I keep her company and play more music: this time, a Scottish band we both like – Capercaille - as I pop in and out: tracking down a nurse to get her something for her headache, straightening her blankets, getting water, a banana, more warm blankets …  But I am neither angel nor saint nor warrior. I love my friend. I'm not of the means to write a charitable check and be done with it. Deb asked for help and company (and now that I am here, I see the need - not desire). And I have a perverse curiosity – like someone slowing at a car wreck – because I can’t really believe this whole process (even though I have witnessed it before). It gives me the heebie jeebies, it makes me want to throw up, cry, and bolt: especially when the nurse comes in with the plastic bag of chemo – and she’s wearing a hazmat suit. I watch my friend’s crumpled body take the drug, thinking ‘this could be your cousin or niece’ (and it has been), but statistically speaking, this could just as easily be you too.

It’s a long day and wraps up with the ever-so-pleasant Doctors and staff providing Deb acupuncture, aromatherapy, a shoulder massage. But as we walk out the elegant glass doorway, she breaks down in sobs. We have a quiet ride back to the cottage (driving ever so slowly because of nausea) where Vikki has played ‘advance’ and started a fire, warmed up the soup and the bread.

We have a joyful feast. I’m thrilled that Deb’s appetite isn’t lost, so she can eat, enjoy, and get healthy. She is oddly energized. But her attention span and interests have become muddled, as she spontaneously asks some off-topic question, starts a wild goose chase for a black shawl, solicits help in remembering to take certain pills, and impulsively calls me in to show me a basket of seashells she’d collected in Malibu. At midnight.

Finally she goes to bed, undisturbed by neighbors across the rutted dirt road who are arguing loudly. Every night a handful of men gather around a blazing Weber grill that’s propped up just behind the plywood sign advertising “FREE PILE OF STUFF.” It’s just occurred to us we never see any lights on: they don’t have electricity. But clearly they have beer … Deb’s house is safely set back, but the noise carries. Soon I hear the ‘whack- whack – whack’ of chopping wood but Deb is in her room softly snoring. I stoke our fire one more time and call it a night. Tomorrow will be full: Vikki has paperwork for funds, Charles should be arriving with more wood, and Deb is determined to have an official hair buzzing ceremony. And I will make more soup.

Tonight I am saluting the cancer patients; and the doctors, nurses, friends, family, supporters volunteers and donors and everyone who strives for their comfort, good health, and dignity during this ordeal