Local Travel, World Travel, Travel in the Southwest, National Parks, Utah, California, Washington DC. The United States
Snubbed.
And by the way,
Ouch!
For me, and I am assuming most women, feeling snubbed is one of the most immediately painful reactions we ladies can have. As my husband beautifully stated, snubbing is one of the most effective ways a woman has to punish another woman. The deep sting and simultaneous hurt of someone else purposefully invalidating and rejecting us is a pain like no other.
To be snubbed can actually be a gift. It was for me.
Namaste.
Peace.
Huzzah!
Fifty-nine dollars and a fifteen minute boat ride is all it took for me to gain access to The Rock. Dave had meetings that day so my girlfriend and I went the day before and bought our tickets. We got up early, walked to Market Street and caught the Street Car. As we rode a long we began chatting with a young couple sitting in the seats in front of us. They were going to Alcatraz too. We sat there watching them tend to their beautiful baby girl when my friend and I commented to each other, “Remember how easy it was having a little baby?” We looked up at the couple and said, “Enjoy this time. Cherish it. We know you are not sleeping. That being said, you can take her anywhere and she won’t talk back. She won’t fight with her brother. She is just a baby. With those big blue eyes and shock of bright red hair, She is so beautiful.”
I could see the look on the husband’s face. I could see him thinking, “Are you kidding me ladies, ladies with those big, capable boys. Did you see me haul the giant stroller onto the streetcar? Do you see the sweat dripping down my face? Easy? Not sure about that. Your boys can walk on the bus, find a seat and sit down without any help.”
As we talked to this couple all I could think is how much the wife looked like my DC friend, Heather’s sister. I wanted to ask her. I knew Heather’s sister lives in the Bay Area and also has a new baby. I kept thinking to myself how cool it would be if it were her. As I was studying this woman’s face and thinking about this possible connection, my friend asked where the couple was from. “Phoenix,” the woman responded and suddenly I had to let got of this imagined connection.
The boys were eager to get going and we were almost to the Pier.
And that is when they said it:
“I think all the tickets are sold out for the day. We bought ours online. We bought our tickets last night.”
Moments later as we stood in this Alcatraz Tours Ticket Line with our squirrely boys, we learned that the couple with the beautiful, easy baby girl were indeed correct. Tickets were gone for the day.
We re-grouped and bought tickets for the next morning.
Twenty-four hours later we followed the same routine. Dave accompanied us on his way to his meetings. First stop was the hotel lobby where the boys had their daily dose of complementary hot chocolate. Then Starbucks on O’Farrell for breakfast, oatmeal. As we made our way, we did the daily check, making sure we had enough change for bus fare. Meeting our friends by the Gap on Market and waiting for the Street Car. Back on the Street Car, riding along, I looked up at just the perfect moment to see the San Francisco Ferry Plaza Farmer’s Market. There it was, a sign for “Donna’s Tamales.” Glee is what I felt and I smiled as the warm memories flooded in.
Mid-February 2008 found Dave, the boys and I at Hapuna Beach on the Big Island of Hawaii. After purchasing three Boogie boards from the local Kona Costco, two yellow and one blue, we made our way on the black volcanic rock-covered, dry desert landscape drive to our favorite beach, spending many of our Big Island days riding the Hapuna Waves. I don’t think I have ever spent that much time in the Ocean. While riding the waves Kyle and Eli met another boy. As often happens on sunny beach vacations, my boys and this boy became fast holiday friends making sand castles, catching the biggest boogie board waves and collecting amazing beach artifacts as they ran all over the beach. Soon the Aunties of Kyle and Eli’s new friend were saving a place at the beach for us each day. We got to know them too and feel blessed because of it. One of these women was Donna of Donna’s Tamales. The other was Shirley.
I looked up at just the right second and saw the sign, “Donna’s Tamales.” I insisted that after we were done at Alcatraz we must return. Knowing my girlfriend is a big foodie, I knew this would not be a hard sell. It wasn’t.
The line for Alcatraz Tours was long and windy. Naively, and as we were also toward the back of the line, I wondered how they were going to get all of us on the boat. Sitting on the boat I realized my perspective was inaccurate and that they indeed had room for many, many more. Even though we could see “The Rock” clearly from the San Francisco Shoreline, I also assumed the boat ride would be much longer. Barely enough time to sit and take a few pictures, I heard the Captain or whomever’s job it was to do this, announce, “We will be docking momentarily. Be prepared to leave the boat.”
The weather was unusually warm. I stripped layers of clothing off and tied a sweater around my waist and stuffed the boy’s sweatshirts in Dave’s newly-acquired tradeshow swag backpack.
We stepped off the boat. I looked up to my right and starting snapping away. It has been years since I have felt this inspired. The landscape. The words. Everything about this moment entranced me and I wanted it captured. The Large Red Spray Painted letters read, “INDIANS WELCOME,” (in reference to the 1969 occupation of Alcatraz Island by 79 Native Americans), on the sign that also stated in big black bold type face, “United States Penitentiary, ALCATRAZ ISLAND 12 ACRES, 1 ½ MILES TO TRANSPORT DOCK, ONLY GOVERNMENT BOATS PERMITTED, OTHERS MUST KEEP OFF 200 YARDS, NO ONE ALLOWED ASHORE WITHOUT A PASS.” I could not believe I was standing there. I could not believe I was reading these words, not on a television or movie screen, in person and it was not a dream.
As we walked on further, we were met by our Jersey-Chicago styled ex-cop-ex-army guy. He talked like my Chicago Irish Cop grandfather. I could envision our Chicago-Cop-Accented guide eagerly and loudly calling as I disembarked, “Hey Bam Bam,” just like my grandpa used to do. At age four, maybe even five or six, I always thought it was super cool that my grandpa gave me this special name. I looked forward to our visits and positively could not wait to hear those words: BAM BAM! As I got older wiser, or maybe just a little insecure, I realized that my grandpa was comparing me to the Flinstone’s “boy” baby and the comparison was made because I was so rough and tumble. Girly girl I was not.
AS we walked off the boat, instead of hearing my “special” name (I seriously half expected it), our guide immediately began weaving the off-the-beaten-path tales of the Alcatraz Prisoners and prepping us for the tour. We were also given the option of touring the island on our own. After hearing him speak, yet knowing I usually only take a guided tour if absolutely required, I did not hesitate when my friend asked, “What do you think about taking the tour?” “Absolutely!” I responded.
Before starting the tour we were encouraged to buy the $1.00 Alcatraz Pamphlet and use the restrooms. We chose the restrooms. The caffeine had caught up to my bladder and all I could think about is the closest place to release. I scanned the fastest route, grabbed my boys and raced over. As I jammed the old family bathroom door lock shut, I sliced my index finger wide open. The blood was gushing, would not stop and I was elated that I had inadvertently cut my finger on the Alcatraz bathroom door. I made my way to the ranger station for a Band-Aid while the boys looked among the masses for our friends.
Our guide was speaking just to the left from where I stood. Several people were gathered around. Kyle looked at me with an “I can’t find them” face, while Eli stated, “Mom, we cannot find them!” I looked and there were our friends, perched right next to our tall guide. I really do wish you could hear his voice as he told about Inmate #210, Joseph Bowers or Alvin “Creepy Karpis” Karpowicz or Arthur “Doc” Barker. I was hooked and then promptly wondered to myself, “Why don’t I usually take the tours?” Boring! Because they are usually so mind numbingly boring. Not this time. Not on this island.
See, I was a tour guide once. I tried to make the tours interesting. Ultimately I think all I did was spew out phrases, tons of factoids that I had to remember word for word. Not our guide. Maybe it was The Rock. Maybe it was the subject matter and then I listened for a moment to the young, long-haired tour guide behind us. Yes, because our most awesome guide was so loquacious, the next tour caught up to our tour. The tour behind us, I listened and yes, it was boring. Our guide added things, and I do not know if they were exactly true, and I did not even care if they were. He kept me engaged. Maybe it was his voice. Maybe it was because he reminded me of my Chicago Cop Grandpa. I think it was his stories, stories about this amazing place where I never thought I would be.
The tour ended. I pulled out my camera and snapped away as we moved through the rest of the Island on our own. The prison cells were so clean, so small and so desperate. Looking at the tiny prison cells I imagined the claustrophobic feeling and understood the need to escape. The boys broke free from the line of people waiting to check out headphones and tape recorders for the recorded portion of the tour. With their escape, we dodged the boring-taped tour bullet. I did one of those once, the USS Something or Other. Never again!
They went off, up some stairs and out a door and back down another set of stairs. We were walking in the prison yard. It was lonely, stark and beautiful. The boys played and asked about what prisoners did. “They would most certainly have a basketball.” I snapped and captured and snapped some more. The fog was settling low and the sun was shining appropriately through. Breathtaking light.
At the edge of the yard there was a small exit. At the exit there was a set of steep stairs. We walked down and I snapped pictures of the birds perched on the out building, with fog, ships and water all floating mystically in the background.
Then it hit me. I was standing next these broken old buildings, surrounded by thousands of birds, with the foggy, dark shadowed San Francisco backdrop off in the distance. At that moment I felt like I was hiding in some crazy Post Apocalyptic movie. It was beautiful and I was inspired. I had not been this inspired in I do not know how long. All the broken concrete on the rocky beach, the vivid and occasional flower growing through the destruction, the Prison Buildings behind me, surrounded by the beautiful landscape, the fog, the darkness in the distance and the sun shining through. I could not stop taking it in. I was more interested in photographing the scenery than my own kids. That just does not happen.
Our time was nearly up, we made our way back to the ship as I snapped and tried not to miss a thing. Even the restroom sign was cool.
Back on land, we hopped another streetcar, rode along and got off at the Ferry Pier Farmer’s Market. I could not make way fast enough. We headed directly for “Donna’s Tamales.” The boys and I stood in line and then I saw her. It was Shirley! “I nervously thought, “Is this stupid? Will she recognize us? The boys are so big.” We moved closer to the front of the line. Between the second she looked up and smiled until the moment she uttered the word, “hello,” she had indeed recognized us. Her long grey hair pulled in a ponytail and she could not believe it was us. Words flowed out of her mouth, “What happened to you guys? We waited and waited and never heard from you. It is you!”
“Time and life got in the way. I saw your sign this morning and knew it was meant to be.” I quickly told her about tickets selling out the day before and how we had to come back this day and how I had looked out the window at just the right moment to see the sign. It was all meant to be.
“Can I buy you guys lunch?” Shirley offered. The boys and I ordered three amazing tamales, one goat cheese with red pepper and two traditional. They were the best tamales we ever had and I am not just saying that because we know the owners. Shirley and I talked a minute more and made plans to keep in touch.
The boys and I walked away met up with our friends. Fruit and vegetables beyond our wildest dreams of goodness were before us. We tasted grapes, peaches, candy, nuts and some sort of Apricot-Plum hybrid fruit. I am sure it was organic [wink, wink]. And then we made our way to the Gelato Sorbetto store. I mention this now because as far as memories go, the Coconut Sorbet I had was and still is one of my very best and most delicious memories. We were hot. The boys were hot. The cold coconut flavored sorbet with giant coconut flakes mixed in was an experience I did not want to end. So much did I not want the flavor to end that I talked Dave into taking the bus back down to the Pier for some more Coconut Goodness that very evening.
A perfect day, it was a perfect day. My eyes and my heart were big and I was open.
The only way to describe it is, “Out of Body.” When we were planning our trip, I looked at the big world map. Thought about what I saw and then I looked again, staring at this tiny speck in the middle of the Pacific Ocean. I could not imagine that this is where I was going to be. Up until then I had always stayed landlocked in North America. Trips to Mexico and Canada were as exotic as it got. Ok, I know Hawaii is part of the United States. To me, it seemed like I was heading to another planet.
I really wanted to get somewhere warm and sunny. California was not as warm as I wanted in February. Arizona has no ocean and Florida is just as far away from Utah as Hawaii is. I put aside my crazy fear of flying over the ocean and told Dave he could buy our tickets. Because the boys were attending a very flexibly scheduled Montessori School, we decided to take an extra week. Of course I did not sleep the night before our flight or the night before that. The boys were set with movies and video games, Dave was satisfied with a book and I was a deer in headlights riding the Roller Coaster, otherwise known as our flight over the Pacific Ocean. Supposedly the turbulence was particularly bad this time across. Now, having flown several times over the Pacific Ocean, I can say it is always a turbulent flight. As I walked to the bathroom the turbulent bumps threw me into another row. I felt comfort in the fact that the woman I landed on looked as scared as I did. As the plane dipped down and then jerked back up I made my way, grip by grip to the bathroom. I sat in that tiny stall and prayed. Sweat dripped down my face and I prayed some more, willing myself out the door. Upon exiting the stall I noticed the male flight attendant sitting strapped into his jump seat. I asked him, “What is up? Is it always this bad? Seriously? This really sucks!” He gently explained physics and engineering and told me how many times he had flown over the ocean and how much force it would really take to crash. He made me feel a little better, better enough to safely climb my way back to my seat. Truth be told, I should not have gotten up, but I really had to pee.
I took a Benadryl and drifted off.
There it is was, the tiny speck of land surrounded by water, the tiny piece of land I had seen on the giant world map. It was evening and I was in a Benadryl fog. We landed in Oahu and made our way to our Oceanside hotel where we were met by the concierge who promptly gave the boys a cool ocean print backpacks filled with all sorts of goodies. We were offered a cookie and checked into our room. After dropping off our luggage we promptly took the elevator back to the ground floor and made our way out to the ocean. I looked at the Ocean. Then I closed my eyes really tight and looked at the ocean again. I grabbed Dave’s hand and held it tightly. I honestly wanted to make sure I was not dreaming. I looked at the ocean and closed my eyes tightly again. Breathlessly, I held onto this moment, this feeling. We were in the middle of nowhere and I felt like I was in the middle of a dream. I kept saying, “Can you believe we are really here? Can you believe it? Look? It is so beautiful. Look! We are surrounded by water! Look.”
We have been to Hawaii three times since. We have visited other islands and nothing will ever take away that very first hazy, surreal, amazing moment.
These moments are why I am so in love with travel.
I know he will only be gone for twenty-eight-ish hours – a blink.
I ask if I can drive him to the airport. It is probably cheaper for him to park over night. I think he wonders why. He will be gone for such a short time.
He travels all the time on business. I am ok with him leaving. I am fine when he is gone. Today, I just do not want him to go or better, I want to be with him a little longer. It is just nice to touch his arm as he drives down the highway.
The first years of our marriage were spent with Dave traveling – a lot. I got really used to having him go. We got really good at navigating his trips. The airport was ten minutes from our doorstep to Curbside Drop Off. One of my favorite marriage memories is when in 1998 Dave traveled to South Africa. Ok, I think the actual trip is actually one of his favorite memories. At the time, it was so expensive to talk on the phone that chatting with him online was a happy dream. He was there. I was here, yet we were connected in every keystroke. I would look at the computer screen in awe and say out loud, “He is chatting with me from South Africa!”
Recently, Dave is again traveling frequently. The boys and I always have a good time when he leaves (and of course when he is here). For some reason, today I do not want him to go. I don’t think his plane will crash. I know he will be back before I can fold all the laundry. I know we will be ok.
So I make my unwilling boys, DSI’s in hand, get in the car and drive Dad to the airport. “Do we have to go? Can’t we just stay home? Please? MOM?” I tell them that it is not a choice and to get in the car. Surprisingly they submit, willingly they get themselves in the car and we are on our way.
Dave’s arm is on mine while he drives. We do not say much. His arm is on mine all the way. This is the connection I needed and these quiet moments driving the mountainous route through I-80 are making it ok. His touch fills my longing tank. I am ok, completely ok. He grabs his carry on, hugs the boys, I kiss him twice at the curb and I am on my way.
Clunky. Clunky. Clunky. Clunky. I have just spent the last little while trying to understand slide show software. Something that a few years ago I would have struggled with as well; however, eventually it would all make sense. Today. I am not so sure. The Internet seems to move at the speed of quadruple dog years, with technology itself moving even faster.
Ok so here is the deal. In the past four years, a majority of my time — our family’s time –has been spent traveling. I have finally been to Europe. I survived the year of the Disneyland Season Pass. We made it to California Five different times that year. I saw beautiful Maine for the first time. I bought super strength Antibiotic Ointment in Mexico and I have gone home to Minneapolis more than once. In these years I have traveled for death and traveled because we had an unexpected Swine Flu School Holiday.
We have always traveled — a lot. CrazyUS began as a travel-log. In 2002 we took a year to travel with our then one and three year old boys. As the years pass, my love for travel has exploded and my Wanderlust is nearly impossible to contain. Today I was all excited to start talking about travel and how travel is the journey I hope my life always takes. Damn it! I love to travel! Dave’s new job is in the travel industry. I am trying to work in the same industry. I get home from a trip and before my suitcases make it up to my room, I have already begun scheming our next trip.
Of course that would lean one to think the following and yes, it is true: I love escape. I am so grateful I have a life and a husband who helps me make our traveling dreams possible.
Here I was going to talk travel (I kind of have) and I was so excited to put together a little slide show and now I am stuck. I think of the days where my grandfather, who also loved to travel, by the way, would take snapshot after snapshot of his trips. Once home, as a family, we would gather around his giant old canister slide projector and look at grainy vacation photos. I never quite understood why it was such a big deal. It was an event to go to my grandparents’ house and view these slides. To a little girl, those grainy photos were boring and the slideshow long.
My guess is that my travel photos are not much more enthralling to the average viewer. It’s super cliché for me to even say it. I will. Those photos bring us back. Bring us back to the smells, the moods, the fights, the stinky feet, the new discoveries, the little snail we happen to capture crawling across a leaf, something we would not have seen had we not left our house.
Cross your fingers that I can figure this out.
August 16, 2009
I just took a bite out of my horribly tasting, yet very juicy Fuji apple, which is a complete bummer because Fuji apples are one of my favorites. Apple juice squirted all over my screen and as I wiped the splatters with my shirt, I kept thinking, “Did I really ever have anything to say?”
Seriously, it has long enough that I cannot really remember blogging or better how I blogged. The words are not flowing and I cannot find the beat. I keep eating my apple, mostly out of guilt. I have had nothing healthy to eat. My punishment: I must eat this disgusting, dirt-tasting apple.
Continue reading “A Kind of Where Have I Been . . .”