Category Archives: travelogue

A Short, Happy Camping Story #contacthigh?#probablynot

28 Thursday Jun 2018

Posted by in Reflection, travelogue

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Seems like camping brings out the writer in me. Is it because of the enforced downtime or because the great outdoors inspires reflection? Maybe I’m high, the altered state we achieved just by crossing the border into OR. Not to cast aspersions on this border town on the OR coast, but Mike and I have noticed that there may be a correlation between the impressive number of marijuana businesses and the abysmal driving of the locals. By the time the third van has drifted in front of your car and the second person has crossed the highway without regard for laws or personal safety, you have two choices: stop driving or give into a contact high. I used to hear about contact highs at concerts but I thought that was from the smoke permeating the air. With the preponderance of edibles, the drifty, spacey feeling that overtakes one can only be from proximity to high-happy citizens. Even here at an RV Park that seems to be populated exclusively by retired couples with little dogs, there is a suspiciously laid back vibe in the air.

Yesterday I was sitting innocently outside the fifth wheel, enjoying the cool air (at 66 it was 40 degrees cooler than home) while crocheting The Project that Never Ends. A 70ish man and his small white dog stopped by to tell me how much he hates his fifth wheel, Direct TV and the people who sold him his fifth wheel and overcharged him on Direct TV. I’m continually amazed at the things people tell me. I must have an interested face because I can tell you my mind isn’t interested in listening to random complaints. The man and his dog kept looking around in a way that seemed paranoid to me. Ah ha! I thought, this man is stoned. (Does anyone say stoned anymore?) He wandered off in the middle of a sentence so I may be right. Another man congratulated me on our not hitting the Cougar trailer at the end of a row when we first came into the park. His mother did not achieve this feat and after meeting her I can see why. She was entirely too happy for an 85 year old with arthritis and too many grandchildren, her words not mine. She must’ve been hitting the happy gummies—no other explanation. The couple next to us have a Pomeranian named Mr. Lippy; I know this because they wear matching t-shirts with the name Mr. Lippy emblazoned on the back. All three of them. I rest my case….

All of this makes me wonder what effect the legalization of recreational marijuana will have on the more uptight folks of the northern Sacramento Valley. Somehow I don’t see a transformation from our current citizens to a dazed and happy population, wandering aimlessly, looking for people to talk to about nothing. Nonetheless, I think this is a great improvement on previous trips to Oregon, pre-legalization. In those days no one talked to me unless they wanted to ask me to attend their church. Having written all this I have to put forth a caveat. This weird sh*t only happens to me. Mike, with his genial Irish face and open demeanor gets the normal folks. For instance, the same man who bored me senseless with his griping talked to Mike about awnings—normal stuff. Here’s a perfect example of the different experiences Mike and I have with the same people.
Several years ago, we had an inconsiderate rat dig its way into a wall in our house and then die. You can talk about snakes and spiders all you want but rats are my phobia. If I believed in previous lives I would muse that an earlier self was attacked by rats or saw a loved carried off by the vicious rodents. But I’m pretty sure this is a genetic phobia as my mother and sister share it. Back to the story. Mike hired an exterminator who was jolly and nice, assuring us that it was no problem, not a big deal, he could take care of it. He was very reassuring and said he would make sure that any other rats would be “dealt with” and that he would seal the house to prevent further vermin incursions. I started to relax and then Mike left the room. The exterminator turned to me and said, “Of course you’ll always have rats around the house living this close to the river.” Before I could vomit or faint, Mike returned with a check and it was all hail fellow well met, sunshine and lollipops. In other words it was all good…until Mike left the room again. In fact Mike left the house and the mean exterminator man told me that in Red Bluff, a city ON THE RIVER about 30 miles south of us, a woman had been trying to get rid of the rats in her house for two years. Cue creepy music and muffled screams (mine). This is the way it went though the entire process. Mike leaves the room; horrible rat tales come in. I’m not sure Mike ever believed me but it’s true and now it’s in print. After the Rat Man had exterminated our house and left a lingering smell behind, we hired a guy to seal every opening, no matter how small, on the outside of the house. Why, you ask, did every tiny hole have to be sealed? Because Rat Man told me that a rat can squirm through a hole the size of a quarter and a mouse through a dime sized opening. Of course when this little tidbit was shared Mike was not in the room.

What I’ve learned from all this is to wait for strangers to strike up a conversation with Mike before I participate. By then the people have already established themselves as non-crazy and they can’t swerve to weird just because I’m there. Unless Mike leaves, of course. Today we went to a farmers market, hiked in Jedediah Smith State Park, and enjoyed a late lunch at the Fat Irish Pub. I participated in several conversations with very nice people. Fiona, our regulation little dog was with us and she’s a great ice breaker. If you’re one of my eleven faithful readers you know all about Fiona and you know that the nice dog act can be dropped in an instant. Luckily for me, today she was sweet and Mike didn’t wander off.

My Life as an Interpreter #dontleavehomewithoutme

17 Saturday Mar 2018

Posted by in travelogue

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Have you ever seen the “Friends” episode where Rachel is a bridesmaid and walks down the aisle with the back of her dress caught in her underwear? Of course she pulls it off (not literally) and ends up singing “Copacabana” or something like that with the band.

It wasn’t like that for me.

Yesterday in the lounge of the United Club (Houston airport) a man walked up to me and turned me around and pulled a piece of toilet paper out of the waistband of my jeans. A short piece, okay? He seemed to feel an embrace was in order but I wasn’t in the mood and I wasn’t that grateful. The man looked familiar, kind of like Kris Kristofferson. If it was you, Kris, I apologize. I’m slightly too young to have been your fan but still I may have let you hug me. Or not.

The man seemed sad or wistful or something new age-ish (he may have had braids) and backed away from me with his hands in the whoa! position. I said something about needing to blow my nose, which made absolutely no sense and he kind of snorted as if to say “I know that’s not why the toilet paper was hanging out of the butt side of your jeans.”

It kind of was. I went to the bathroom for the usual reason but also to get some tissue or toilet paper for the nosebleed I could feel coming. Did I store that paper in my waistband? No, obviously. But I did connect the events and shared the information in my usual stream-of-consciousness style. All of this makes me think about how one’s communication style may lead people to stop listening.

I don’t know when I began starting conversations in the middle, as opposed to the beginning where it would make sense. I have enough friends who can pick up the conversational ball, as it were, and fill in the blanks. This is not a skill my husband shares. He often looks at me blankly and says “I have no idea what you’re talking about.” Kind of unfair because I can fill in the blanks for him. In fact, when we travel, I am his unofficial interpreter. I know exactly when and where this started: Madrid 2008.

I don’t speak Spanish. I should because I was fluent from age 2-6 when we lived in Spain. For a long time I had a wish/fantasy that if I went to Spain I would understand the language—it would all come back to me. Not so; in fact 4 years of high school French (also forgotten) actually interfered with my pronunciation of similar Spanish words. I had to overcome my lack of language skills quickly because when Mike leaves the U.S. and in some cases, California, he loses about half of his ability to hear and talk.

Mike is the opposite of the Ugly American. He is culturally sensitive and never verbally demanding or deliberately confusing. This translates into a particular way of communicating in Spanish, which he studied in college and where he achieved about as much fluency as I have in French. He repeats himself. But not at the end of a thought or after a response. No, Mike chooses a word or phrase to repeat a few times when asking a question. People don’t get that.

The problem became obvious when I stood by and listened to Mike and the very nice and extremely patient concierge (Alejandro) at our little Madrid hotel try to understand each other. Mike asked about getting a massage (not from the concierge but at the spa we had passed). There was something about bringing your own towel which we were told in English, the concierge being a typically multi-lingual European. Mike asked for directions (in Spanish) but he repeated the phrase for where is (donde es) several times. Alejandro looked at Mike blankly so Mike threw in a couple more donde es’s. At this point I’d had enough and I asked Mike’s question without all of repetitions, which Alejandro understood. And so I became the interpreter. Mind you, all I did was repeat what Mike said and sometimes I didn’t even know what it meant, but it worked. Little did I know that this role would be permanent and employed by Mike even in English speaking countries.

In Mike’s defense, he doesn’t do well with accents. Early in our relationship we saw “Emma” and Mike did not find the upper class English vernacular easy to understand. After about twenty minutes of Mike asking what they said and me whispering the American English version, I looked at him and hissed, “It’s your language!” After that he didn’t ask and I took Shakespeare off the list of plays we would see together. The embargo on interpretation of people speaking English lasted until we went to Scotland.

As a devoted Anglophile I’ve always read literature and novels set in England, Ireland and Scotland so I have some familiarity with the vocabulary and slang. Probably my favorite feature of electronic readers is the way you can look up anything by holding your finger on the word. That’s how I found out what Jaffa cakes and court shoes were. Look it up. Anyway, when we landed in Edinburgh, pronounced Edinburrrrr or something like that, we headed out to the taxi queue. Our driver epitomized the laconic Scotsman and uttered a total of three words, “What’re you after?” Mike turned to me with a look I can only describe as desperate. Luckily I’ve read a lot of Denise Mina and was able to reply, with equal terseness, “the George.” And that was it: he drove us to the George Hotel and when I asked him how much he pointed to the meter. None of those unnecessary, extra words.

My interpretive skills continued to be utilized throughout Scotland and south to Bath and London. Mike was best with people who spoke English as a second language. Go figure. Maybe they spoke more slowly? I was actually okay with the interpretive role in the UK because I love Brit lit and I found out not long ago that more than half of my DNA is British and Irish. So, on a molecular level, I was connecting with my people.

If only interpreting for Mike were limited to foreign soil. There are many places in this country where folks have specific and (maybe) difficult to understand accents. Maybe. I feel if you’ve ever watched American television you’ve been exposed to southern drawls, mid-west twangs and the interesting “a’s” of New England. But, come on, people, we’ve had a president from Massachusetts and another one from Georgia, not to mention Matthew McConaughey at all times. BTW, did you know that you can identify dialect in the United States by how people pronounce their “a’s?” But I digress.

Last night we arrived in Miami and I may have been a little impatient what with the toilet paper incident and flight delays. So when the nice young man at the desk gave us information, talked about the amenities and asked a couple of questions, I didn’t help either Mike or Joel (pronounced jo-elle). Nope, I let them talk and talk and not understand each other and acted like I was in my own little world. Of course I’ve paid the price. No sooner did we close the door of our room than Mike turned to me and said, “Did you get any of that?” Sigh.

The Last Dance #feetdontfailmenow

01 Saturday Apr 2017

Posted by in Photography, travelogue

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I heard something….
Home: My work is done.
Home–grass–joy

Day 407 (JK)

So after our luxury night in beautiful Barstow (hotel with walls thick enough to block wind sounds), we headed for a final night in an RV park in Manteca. The plan was to get in fairly early and do some of the cleaning and prep necessary before taking the fifth wheel to B&B repair. That was the plan.

Around 4:00 Mike announced that he wasn’t tired and why didn’t we drive all the way home? Okay. Somehow we missed most of the Sacramento traffic–all the fender benders were in the south- bound lanes and no wind or rain slowed us down. Yes, the gods of RV travel were with us.

Until two miles from home. When at a stoplight a young woman in the car next to us signaled that Mike should roll his window down. Then she told us that the spare tire had fallen off the fifth wheel during our last turn. We circled back and found the slightly banged up tire leaning against a tree where a good soul had rolled it off the road. It was a night for good Samaritans as just when Mike was contemplating the weight of the tire and the height of the truck bed, a man approached and asked him for 40 cents. I know, weird amount. Anyway, the man hoisted the tire into the truck bed and Mike gave him $5. Smiles all around.

In the morning light we could see how the bolt holding the tire clasp thingy (don’t want to get too technical here) had worked its way through the hole. It says something about this trip and its effect on us that we weren’t upset, just grateful the tire hadn’t escaped on a freeway and caused an accident. The rest of that day we unloaded, cleaned, put stuff away and readied the trailer for its cosmetic overhaul. Which will not happen until June because getting new skirting from the factory doesn’t happen fast. And let’s be honest, this is a 2017 fifth wheel and spare skirting isn’t exactly piling up at the factory.

But it’s all good. We made it home, we didn’t kill anyone with our tire, and the little dog was able to increase mastery over her people.

 

 

 

Note to be former students: I KNOW I am writing fragments and run-on sentences. That’s called literary license. You’re welcome.

Keep on Driving #isthereanotheroption

28 Tuesday Mar 2017

Posted by in Photography, travelogue, Uncategorized

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I never thought I would long for a night in a campground, even in our fancy fifth wheel, but a night spent in a sleazy freeway motel in Flagstaff changed that. We decided to stay in a motel so that we could get an early start and not have to deal with freezing temperatures. Our choices are limited because we need a place that will provide RV parking and tolerate the little dog. Yesterday we found one motel–let’s call it a Super 7.

It probably wasn’t a great idea to read the Trip Advisor reviews, but I’m a loyal reviewer and reader. In fact, if I write one more review I may move into the top 10% of reviewers…in Redding.  But I digress. The reviews were not encouraging; remarks like “you get what you pay for” and “I was afraid of the bedspreads” did not inspire confidence. For my part, I ripped those bedspreads right off the beds as soon as I walked into the room.

The three of us have “go bags”–just the necessities for a night out of the RV. My bag has enough clothes so that I have a choice the next day, toiletries, jewelry, extra shoes– not that much. Fiona’s bag has her blue blanket, food, bowls, a brush, toys, and a change of harness. Mike put underwear, socks and toiletries in my bag when I wasn’t looking. Leaving the high maintenance dog out of the equation, I think the difference between Mike’s and my go bags is telling.

Let’s start with this: Mike found the Super 7 perfectly acceptable. It had a tv, a bed for him and the little dog and another bed for me. And as a bonus, there was a Cracker Barrel next door. Once I’d removed the bedspreads, I was okay with the beds. And frankly, I enjoy the occasional nights when Mike is the sole recipient of Fiona’s quirks. (All I’m saying is never touch her tail while she’s sleeping.) Besides the scarred bathtub and interesting carpet, not to mention the scarily skinny guy at the front desk, I considered the presence of the Cracker Barrel to be a minus. However, we are mature and experienced married people.

Mike happily took himself off to CB for a comfort food dinner, which I’m sure involved mashed potatoes. Meanwhile I ate artisan cheeses from the Santa Fe farmers market with apple slices, crackers, and an unpretentious and refreshing Sauvignon Blanc. 😏 The best part is that Mike felt sorry for me.

Today we left our altitude headaches behind in Flagstaff and drove through the good, the bad, and the ugly of Arizona. I was hoping to see some desert bloom; mostly I saw a parched landscape and occasional bursts of cactus flower color. And of course there was the wind, the wind that has plagued us since Michigan. We started calling Barstow RV parks but all were full. Of course that raises the question, why the hell are all these people camping in Barstow? Around that time, the ever present wind picked up, 29 mph of head wind. We were tired and talked ourselves into another night in a hotel.

We drove by our motel, where we had been assured there was ample RV parking in the large lot. And we kept on driving. Maybe it was the 6 spaces at the front and no visible parking on the sides. Maybe it was the post bombing look of the concrete building or the tiny, dirty door to the lobby. For me it was that this motel looked worse than the Super 7 from last night.

We drove on and Mike pulled into a large empty lot that happened to be in front of a nice hotel. I didn’t think we had a chance but they let us park and bring our dog and go bags into the clean and pleasant room I am currently writing in. Yes we lost the fee for the other place. I made a half-hearted attempt to reach the service who had booked us into a hellhole. When I finally worked my way through the labyrinthine automated choices to an actual person, the call started cutting out. Suspicious since I wasn’t moving at the time. But I’m not complaining: I’m warm, I can’t hear the wind, and there’s not a Cracker Barrel in sight.

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A Nice Day #stopworryingabout us

26 Sunday Mar 2017

Posted by in Photography, travelogue

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Today was nice: no one was injured, not even the fifth wheel; the wind stopped and the sun shone, and we made it to Santa Fe an hour before the Farmer’s Market closed. Getting up and out of the RV and on the road is harder than it should be. There’s something about a cozy space that slows down movement and requires extra cups of coffee. Still, we drove the rental car up (literally) highway 25 and it was a relief to be in a Camry instead of a Laramie. Unlike yesterday when everything was difficult and time-consuming, today just flowed.

As I write this, I’m eating part of a delicious cardamom/cinnamon roll from the farmer’s market, drinking an adequate rosé (purchased in Nashville) and trying to ignore the game. The Ducks are beating the Jayhawks, which will wipe me off the face of the family March Madness list. Is it petty that I do not care that the Ducks haven’t won the NCAA championship in 80 years? Perhaps.

Today I was able to do all the shopping my little consumer heart could desire. I like to shop but I really don’t want any more stuff so I tend to buy gifts and then save them for birthdays, weddings, etc. Mike and I bought spices, jams, pastries, soaps, hand balms, bath salts, and a few pieces of handmade pottery. We tend to give people consumable gifts; seems like most of us have enough tchotchkes already. Mike often buys a mug when we travel and he bought a gorgeous one today. The little dog came along and was a catalyst for several chats with folks on the plaza. One of the vendors whipped out her phone and showed us pictures of her Yorkie, including one that showed her dog having a bad hair day, which looked a lot like Fiona. A young woman from a shop brought us a bag of dog treats. So it’s pretty clear Fiona was in her element and added a few points to the plus side of her scorecard.

Then we went to lunch at the Cowgirl Cafe, mainly because it has an outdoor patio that welcomes well-behaved dogs. We took Fiona anyway. Besides having some great food (an eclectic lunch of arugula/beet/ goat cheese salad, and a combination barbecue plate), we were entertained by a bluesy combo that was tearing it up on the crowded patio. So fun.

After lunch we headed back to Albuquerque stopping in Old Town to pick up souvenirs for the grands and a t-shirt for Max. I usually get my son a t-shirt when I travel and he has an extensive collection mainly because he never throws anything away. I wanted to get him a shirt from the Cowgirl but Mike thought he might not appreciate the girly logo on the back.

All day the weather was perfect–sunny, mild, calm. As we drove into the RV park, the wind picked up and it’s currently beating against the flimsy fifth wheel walls and I’m once again fantasizing about tornadoes. I hope you’ve noticed that my blog posts where all goes well aren’t nearly as amusing as the disaster laden episodes. Never fear, we still have 1200 miles to go before we reach home and hand over the fifth wheel to the folks at B&B RV Repair who already know not to laugh at us.

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Neither wind nor snow…. #cautionary tales

25 Saturday Mar 2017

Posted by in Photography, travelogue

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In order to explain the various incidents that have led to our current immobilized, hitched status, I need to first confess that we were warned….

Several of our RV experienced friends strongly recommended that we stay in MI after picking up the new fifth wheel–just to make sure everything works. Makes sense, doesn’t it? But a couple of things got in the way. First of all, it was cold. All the way across country we had enjoyed great weather and the arctic chill coming off Lake Michigan didn’t inspire us to stick around. Besides we added 20 days to our trip and I was in a hurry to get to Maryland to see my family.

I can see I have to interject another explanation about how Mike and I travel. We talk over our plans and I have a pretty clear idea of the route and time involved. In this case, I “knew” we would leave MI and head back home, the route depending on weather. But we would be back about the 13th of March. Mike, however, never limits himself to one set of plans and usually has several scenarios rolling around in his mind. When he suggested that we go see my Dad since we were already so close, that sounded good to me. It was warm in MD and the cherry blossoms were supposed to be spectacular the week we arrived. Besides I was sick of being cold and we figured the fifth wheel was fine. It had been checked at the factory in Indiana and the mechanic in Muskegon showed us how everything worked. We even spent a few hours on the lot loading up the supplies I had brought for 6 days in the fifth wheel. Six Days, not 20+ days.

Flash forward to Ohio on March 8, approximately 5 hours after we drove out of Muskegon. The trip was grueling because MI and Ohio were experiencing the worst winds since 1897. We had some exciting moments like when the semi passed us and then ran off the road. Or the time we were stopped for 20 minutes while ambulances and cop cars raced by. A semi was overturned on the median, knocked off the road by the wind. As soon as we could, we pulled off, planning to wait out the worst of the winds in a service plaza. It was a full service facility and even had an area for RVs that was marked off with bright yellow posts about 4 feet tall. Except that one post, the short one that leaped out and sidled up to the fifth wheel with a terrifying crunch. Mike and I looked at each other, I said it didn’t sound bad; Mike, looking in the side view mirror told me the truth, “It’s bad.” Not only was it bad, it was dangerous because the parts that were sticking out might’ve caught one of the 60 mph gusts and who knows what carnage would have resulted.

At this point MIke got out of the truck to see just how bad the damage was. Fiona and I huddled like cowards in the cab and besides it was really windy. When Mike returned his hair was standing straight up–wind-blown or stunned–I wasn’t sure. And here is a clear example of why I love my husband. It took him about 2 minutes to get over it and start figuring out solutions. Without beating himself up or indulging in a well-deserved freak out, Mike said, “Well, it’s a good thing we insured it this morning.” It was a little ironic that we chose the plan that would reduce our deductible by 25% every year we didn’t have a claim. A nice young guy with a mobile auto repair service came, ripped off the skirting, and bent down the trim. At that point we decided to stay in a nearby motel and wait for the next, less windy day to finish this leg of the trip. We didn’t even unhook.

When we arrived in MD, it was in the seventies and my brother, another Mike, and his wife Peggy came over with wine, snacks and daffodils for us to enjoy outside. After that the temperature dropped, the cherry blossoms froze, and four days later it snowed. It was 16 degrees the night before we left and about 30 when we hitched up and pulled out. It won’t surprise you to learn that RV-ing in the cold was a new experience for us. We had the right clothes and enough blankets but learned what happens when the water hose is left out at night (it freezes). I stocked up with groceries, which turned out to be more important then we could’ve imagined. That night we stayed in a motel in Blacksburg, VA, and the next day we drove to Nashville. We’ve been to Nashville before and we’re looking forward to country music, delicious southern cooking, and strolling down Broadway listening to the music from the honky tanks. So it was disconcerting when we unhitched at Jellystone RV Park and our capture plate fell off. The capture plate is on the kingpin (on the front of the fifth wheel) and is a necessary piece because it slides into the hitch and keeps the truck and fifth wheel traveling together.

Luckily we had a warranty covering everything mechanical and factory installed. Except the plate wasn’t installed at the factory, and the mobile RV repair man “wasn’t sure when he could come out to the park.” So the 3 days in Nashville were focused on making our RV towable and not going to the Grand Ol Opry that was literally across the street from the park. It was also about taking Fiona to a “You Wash Your Own Dog” place as she had rolled in something pungent and (blessedly) unidentifiable. Other than that we waited around and the guy finally came and welded on a new catch plate. Yay! We’re were good to go and go we went–to Little Rock, AK. Where we couldn’t get the trailer unhitched. And haven’t been able to unhitch it since.

Let’s review what this means. Since Little Rock we have not been able to shop or leave the campsite until we pull out the next day. And the RV parks have little in the way of fine or even okay food–previously frozen buffalo wings and previously cardboard pizza being the best options. I know, boo hoo. But actually exploring the areas we stay in and enjoying local cuisine is a big part of our travels. And we have not been able to find grocery stores on our way to the parks. This dilemma became critical in Amarillo. I had been making frozen pot pies, soup, and sandwiches from the groceries I had purchased in Maryland. There had also been a few cereal meals and eggs cooked every way possible. And I won’t mention the non-nutritious quality of truck stop food we ate for lunch daily. Okay, it was fried everything and old coffee.

On the way to the Oasis RV Park in Amarillo, we looked for a grocery store, finally stopping at a convenience store which yielded two bananas, a quart of milk, Ritz crackers, and American cheese slices. I asked where we could find a grocery store and a lady directed us to the Dollar General 4 miles back up the highway. This did not appeal so we made our way to the park where I made a delicious meal of microwaved baked potatoes with almost melted American cheese and canned chili. Our side salad consisted of the charmingly slices bananas sprinkled with dried blueberries. At this point Mike was more than willing to agree to a 3 day stay in Albuquerque with a car rental to allow us to restock and drive to Santa Fe for the day.

Except the wind was so bad that we spent several hours sitting out dust storms and arrived here too late last night to rent a car. The wind howled all night; I lay awake wondering if NM ever had tornadoes. (The park in OKC had a bunker that would hold up to 200 people in case of tornadoes–not that reassuring really.) This morning we got a car (they picked us up) and I battled the wind to do some laundry and walk the little dog. At last we were able to go out for some excellent Mexican food, to the Verizon store to replace Mike’s phone that flew out of his hand, and finally to the grocery store. Sine we won’t be unhitched get until we reach home and professional intervention, I bought enough food to get us through another week although we’re supposed to be home by Thursday. At this point I’m not counting on anything. Except Santa Fe–tomorrow–unless it snows.

Travels w/Fiona #somepeopleneverlearn

24 Friday Mar 2017

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On March 7th my husband Mike and I picked up a brand new fifth wheel, conveniently located in Muskegon, MI. Today, a mere three weeks later, we are camping (stuck) in windy Amarillo in a trailer that has suffered exterior renovation, three visits from mobile auto/RV repair professionals, and what I like to call “hitch hostage.” But I’m getting way ahead of myself.

A couple of months ago Mike casually mentioned that Cougar had come out with a really nice, light weight fifth wheel with a double slide. I said “Uh, huh” and apparently that was enough. You would think that after more than 20 years of marriage I would have developed a radar or at least an inkling about Mike’s casual remarks. The next thing I knew Mike had called every Cougar dealer in the country and found a great deal in MI (2200 miles away from our home). Initially I was unenthused but then I surrendered to the unstoppable force that is my husband. And why not? Unlike my situation during the last two trailer purchases, I am retired and might actually enjoy this relaxed mode of travel. Uh, huh.

We left March 1st and were in Michigan by March 6th. Let me be clear: we drove our truck an average of 500 miles a day. On the way east we stayed in pet friendly motels; some more friendly than others. Usually we arrived late in the afternoon, tired and hungry. Since the princess was with us, we were limited to carry out or delivery food and we had some great and some horrible meals.

It’s time to re-introduce the eponymous star of this blog, which originally detailed travels without her. For the first time, we embarked on a lengthy trip with Fiona. Luckily for us, Fiona loves riding in the truck, usually perched on the console between us. Along the way she has learned, or rather taught us, how to meet her needs. When she wants water, she pokes whatever drinks we have in the cup holders and I quickly pour water in a small bowl I keep in the door pocket. (She isn’t patient.) When she’s hungry she paws the console, licks her lips and stares at me meaningfully. So she’s a little high maintenance. On the plus side, she has learned to pee quickly and on any surface. When she’s had enough of our company, she lounges in her car seat. On the not plus side, every time we stop for gas she barks hysterically, her special ear-splitting yaps.

It would’ve been a good idea to approach this travelogue chronologically and to take pictures of RV parks along the way. I’m afraid that an organized approach isn’t in my wheelhouse. So on Day 21 of our trip, here is the first blog. I could’ve started three weeks ago but I didn’t feel like it. Besides three weeks ago we hadn’t remodeled the Cougar’s exterior with the help of a friendly post.

The somewhat friendly skies

17 Tuesday Nov 2015

Posted by in Reflection, travelogue

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The only place in the world where you sit 4 inches from people and never acknowledge their presence is on an airplane. I am in the middle seat because I often travel with my husband (must have window) or son (needs aisle for long legs). When I fly alone (bliss) and have an assigned seat, I check my bag through and stroll onto the plane, carrying only my purse with iPad tucked inside, after everyone else is seated. I’m in no hurry to sit for 5-7 hours as I’m usually flying across country. Of course this method inevitably inspires the disappointed grimaces of the people who thought there was going to be an empty seat in their aisle. Uh huh. When was the last time that happened to you?

“Ladies and gentlemen, this will be a full flight today.” Everyday as far as I can tell.

When I travel alone, I immediately assess the social preferences of my aisle mates. The long forward stare is a good indication that this person and I will be invisible to each other. As is the slouched, earplugs in, device on, posture of the 15-40 year old. For me–person with a novel to read or listen to–these are ideal companions. Not ideal are the bright-eyed women or avuncular men who brought nothing to do.

“Where are you headed, little lady?” Uh oh.

I have two problems with chatty seat mates. For one thing I really want to read the new Elizabeth George or listen to “Girl on the Train.” I’ve been saving it specifically to engage me during a flight. Also–and I mean this sincerely–I cannot keep turning my head to politely converse without getting motion sick. My son, also a victim of heredity, understands this and we conduct terse, face forward conversations when we fly together. The face forward thing became a grisly reality when I puked noisily into the air sickness bag after a lively conversation with the young pilot sitting next to me. He flew for another airline and looked all of 17.

Remember my husband: must have window? He likes to engage the aisle person in conversation across my uninterested lap. Luckily he also likes to look out the window and/or nap so these conversations, once destination, occupation, and education have been established, are blessedly brief. Right now he is sleeping during our Sacramento-L.A. flight. I have nothing but admiration for this talent. It hasn’t been a quiet flight but he has snoozed through multiple announcements (weather in L.A., cruising altitude, cruising speed, distance to L.A., benefits of the tailwind, injunctions to keep seat belts on and not stand in line for the bathroom, and loud offers of beverages). I, on the other hand, have been recording this adventure while simultaneously remembering many previous flights.

People such as myself, who dislike air travel, have different reasons for their phobia. In my family motion sickness has been passed down through the ages. My mother famously lost 15 lbs sailing across the Atlantic to Britain and earned the sobriquet “Bones” from my Dad. My son actually vomited under water while snorkeling near the Chanel Islands. None of us can handle waves; in fact my sister can get queasy from jumping in the waves. Barring turbulence, Dramamine is effective but puts me in a 24 hour trance.

Beyond motion illness lie the other unpleasant aspects of air travel. Claustrophobia rears its ugly head when you’re hurtling through space in a narrow, confining, flimsy, metal tube. An air-van of a sort. And then there’s basic fear of flying. Man or woman wasn’t meant to fly; we don’t have wings, etc. All of that sounds ridiculous unless you’re the one with the tight, dry throat clutching the armrests and ignoring the idiot next to you who keeps pointing out landmarks.
“Oh look, there’s the Grand Canyon, Lake Michigan, Atlantic Ocean….” Shut up.

My friend Mary Jane likes to confide her fears to her seat mate prior to lift off. She once told a man that she’s always afraid she’s on the plane “that they forgot to put the oil in.” He was pretty shook up by that idea and later declined to hold Mary Jane’s hand during landing. I have to stop now because we’re encountering turbulence (I know this because the pilot announced it) on our descent into L.A.. Descent is an ugly word.

Here’s a new thing: our plane, engines off, is being pulled into the gate. Not sure what that’s about but I’m thrilled to be out of the turbulence and on terra firma. Also the landing itself was a resounding thump but the pilot, after apparently slamming on the brakes, coasted for awhile which tells me we’re not going to crash into the gate, hit another plane, or spontaneously combust.

I would like to mention here that people who have no fear of flying are amazingly unsympathetic to the rest of us poor sufferers who board every plane reluctantly. My husband enjoys flying and I can tell this because he likes to get to the airport early and then stand in the line of people waiting to hear the announcement to form a line. In others words stand in the line for the line. Incomprehensible. However this doesn’t make him immune to the irritations that have increased over the years. It’s only in first class that you’re not subjected to people reclining a seat back into your lap so that you can’t even lower your tray. My brother recommends faking a sneeze or cough while simultaneously spraying a mister over the head of the inconsiderate person in front if you. I don’t know if he’s ever actually done this. I once kept my knees against the back of the seat in front of me (not difficult with 6 inches of so-called leg room) for most of an entire flight to prevent the inevitable recline. The second I dropped my knees the seat back came down. I would have used the spray technique then had I been appropriately equipped.

The notion that flying with a crying baby is a nightmare is overblown in my opinion. Rarely have I had to listen to a baby cry and when I have heard the brief sobs I’ve felt nothing but sympathy for the child’s ear pressure pain and the parents’ discomfiture. There are plenty of other, adult, behaviors I have no patience for. The person who blocks the aisle, oblivious of the line of people behind her or him, adjusting a carry on, casually removing a jacket, pulling out the carry on again for a computer, putting a small bag into the upper bin….this person drives me crazy. And there are no mitigating circumstances: extreme age, physical disability, or traveling with multiple children under the age of 5. These people are really in their own little world, aren’t they? Either spaced out or incredibly self-centered. Let’s give them the benefit of the doubt. Let’s give the guy with the ear plugs who keeps asking me to repeat the announcements a pass as well. But let’s hold accountable the folks who give the flight attendants a hard time. After all, they are basically servers who don’t get tipped, trapped on this plane with the rude, the fearful and the clueless.

So now I’m seated on the second flight, going into Houston and it looks to be a pretty good ride. The pilot has some gray in his hair and he made only one announcement. Mike is on the aisle and the kid at the window, after a semi-surly phone call with his mother, put on aggressively huge earphones and is wearing out his thumbs playing a game. Also he has left the armrest for me. Yeah! It’s 2 1/2 hours in the air, hopefully outrunning a storm, and… I have the new Elizabeth George to read.

Evidence we may not be campers

19 Saturday Sep 2015

Posted by in Photography, Reflection, travelogue

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Fiona and St. Francis

Fiona and St. Francis

Typical mess

Typical mess

Fancy coffee maker we love (not appropriate for camping

Fancy coffee maker we love (not appropriate for camping)

6 months of jam, note Red Vines in background

6 months of jam, note Red Vines in background

No poisoned apples

Not poisoned apples

P1012627

Lunch at the Wet Dog

Beautiful Columbia River

Beautiful Columbia River

Picture of Fiona not barking

Picture of Fiona not barking

She Who Must Be Obeyd

She Who Must Be Obeyed

My family never camped. Family vacations involved long car rides to see other family. There was an element of camping because we slept on the floors of our cousins’ rooms sometimes. At my Aunt Alma’s farm we didn’t camp but my sister and I slept with one or another girl cousin upstairs in the dormitory style room at the farmhouse. It was sort of like camping. Aunt Alma and Uncle Larry had 11 children—7 girls and 4 boys; the house had 2 bedrooms as well as the long dorm room and one bathroom. My brothers remember when there was an outhouse instead of a bathroom and I have vague memories of using that outhouse when the bathroom was occupado. We loved the farm—because of the cousins, the freedom…and the vehicles. There was always something to drive—years before legal driving age arrived: my cousin Danny’s motorized go-cart, a tractor, snowmobiles, even bicycles down long country roads. Years later I realized that going to the farm gave my parents a break from us (they didn’t’ stay there) and an opportunity to see other family and friends. My parents grew up near Detroit, briefly attended the same school, went to Guardian Angel Catholic Church, and knew each other for most of their lives. Since Dad was in the air force, my family lived all over the world and I wonder if the 20 moves during the first 10 years of their marriage is why camping had little appeal.

If I don’t count an unfortunate day camping episode that involved dropping all the hot dogs in the dirt and burning my fingers on a primitive stove that involved hot wax and a can , which led to an end of my brief career as a girl scout, I never camped until I was in college. At that time a friend of a friend had access to family land on the Mason-Dixon Line so we often headed north to “Beth’s land” to camp in loose groups of fairly clueless college chums. Luckily there was usually someone along with experience to guide us and keep us alive. Mainly I remember utilitarian tents, (very) basic food prep, and inebriated fun as we hiked and waded in the stream that flowed through the property. One time I went camping with some forgotten people somewhere in Virginia and we went canoeing. That time in my life is a genuine blur. I worked selling shoes and periodically waitressing, carried a heavy load of college classes, lived in a sub-standard (scary) apartment, and plotted my escape from East to West Coast.
Flash forward to life in California: I’m in my twenties with my first teaching job (thought I was rich when my first contract for nearly $10,000 was signed). Camping was the way I vacationed then and there is plenty of beautiful camping in NorCal. We (and who “we” was changed periodically) tent camped in state and national parks mainly, occasionally forced into a commercial camping area. In those days, people mostly camped in tents; the fancy ones had those extra pop up shades to put over the park-supplied tables. The really fancy ones had Coleman stoves and lamps and didn’t have to climb into their sleeping bags at dark. Somewhere in my late twenties I started seeing more trailers at campgrounds. How I loathed getting behind someone pulling a trailer up winding mountain roads. Even more I hated the loud generators that roared all night keeping wimpy would-be campers comfortable. Why I wondered didn’t these people, who needed all these electrically driven comforts, stay home? I still wonder but now I wonder it about myself.
Camping stated losing its appeal when I had a baby. Camping (or as I called it: doing housework and childcare in the dirt) was less relaxing with a toddler to chase over uneven ground, keep from the fire, and bathe in “3 minutes for 50 cents” showers. Still I persevered for a while and hope those pictures of my son fishing, playing with friends, listening to ranger talks, and eating s’mores provide Max with nice memories. I notice he doesn’t camp and has consistently ignored my efforts to foist a sleeping bag, pad and equipment on him.
So now, retired and in possession of a fifth wheel and the time to camp, I wonder what I have gotten myself into. We’ve had our truck and trailer for almost five years and have managed to use it for about 30 days total. Initially I was working and unenthused about spending my limited free time cooking and doing housework on wheels (sound familiar?). Also, people lie to you about how effortless camping with an RV is. It’s true. They rhapsodize about the ease and mobility, post gorgeous scenes on FB, and suddenly acquire a whole new group of camping friends. A case in point is my brother Mike. I have never known him to be an excessively social person but now, a mere year and half after acquiring a fifth wheel and truck, he has embraced camping with evangelical fervor. He and Peggy, his genuinely social wife, spent 100 days in their rig last year; this year they will again achieve that goal. They travel to rallies with other RV owners they’ve befriended and apparently have the times of their lives hiking and socializing. They camped last March, in Virginia, on purpose. It’s cold then and I know my brother well enough to know that he doesn’t run the heater all night. So Mike and Peggy woke and could see their breaths when they said “good morning.” However, and I want to be clear about this, I envy them. Mike and Peggy seemed to have rolled into RV life effortlessly: staying in beautiful places, making new friends, reconnecting with old friends and, and basically doing it right. My Mike and I, on the other hand, can’t seem to get our crap together.

Currently we are camping in Oregon on the coast, which I have to characterize as our “safe place.” We’ve had fun camping in Oregon. Last summer we camped on the coast with our children and grandchildren—a different kind of fun but well worth it. We also camped on the coast and in the wine country with our good friends Randy and Sue. They are experienced campers and a lot of fun, which is great for us novice RV-ers. We were supposed to go on a month long, 7000 mile, camping trip to Canada and Alaska with Randy and Sue in July but I ended up back East instead. Mike and I were really looking forward to this trip but if our current camping experience is any indication, we weren’t ready for it. When I told people about the proposed trip to Alaska they reacted in one of two ways, both extreme. They either glowed and said it was their dream to go on a trip through western Canada and into Alaska or recoiled in horror and suggested we fly into Anchorage and rent a car. I think the second group may know us a little better.
Today is Day 10 of a two-week trip and we are in a campground/ golf course in Astoria, OR. This clean and lovely park provides golf carts, a pet area the size of a football field, water/sewer/Wi-Fi, and an activity room for us to meet with our imaginary RV friends. With an Airstream on either side of us and motor coaches dotting the sites along the golf course, we are clearly the poor relations here. It hasn’t been particularly warm (but that was the point, wasn’t it) so we haven’t fired up the grill. Perhaps that’s how campers meet each other. Our favorite camping food seems to be Red Vines. I’m not bothered by the sounds of the other campers running their heaters, watching television etc. because I can’t hear them over our own noise. Right now I’m using a laptop, the space heater is running, Mike is using hot water generated by the propane tank to shower, and the little dog is wearing a sweater and huddled in her special bed. Not exactly roughing it. The list of things we should’ve brought lengthens daily and features both the obvious (matches, playing cards) and the ridiculous (heated, therapeutic socks). The list of things we were going to do and didn’t, expands: write for 3 hours a day (me), work on genealogy (Mike), and walk at least 5 miles a day (both). So on Day 10 we are finally kicking in. Mike is walking the dog and I’m finally writing. What I have done is listen to 3 books on tape, read the new Jack Reacher novel, crocheted most of a scarf, think about writing, watch the little dog’s antics, serve several “snack” dinners, and figure out how to stream “Monarch of the Glen” through Netflix on Mike’s computer.

I’m including some pictures in this blog of our messy camper, the jams Mike buys in every town (apparently he harbors a morbid fear of a post-apocalyptic jam blight), and a few shots of the titular focus of this blog. For now this is “Travels — with Fiona.”  Traveling with Fiona is like traveling with a canine Scarlet O’Hara. She is self-centered but adorable, vociferous about getting her needs met while laying on the charm whenever necessary. We were concerned that she would bark constantly and disturb the other campers but Fiona barely barked the first 8 days of the trip. Now she apparently can’t stop barking. I don’t know if it’s the openness of these RV sites or if she is expressing her contempt. She seems to favor campgrounds with more trees and privacy and doesn’t care about amenities. In Newport she suffered to have her picture taken with a statue of St. Francis and took a nap in the car while we looked at pottery. In Astoria I’m pretty sure Fiona barked the entire time we were in the Columbia River Maritime Museum. Strolling along the River Walk she confined her remarks to a few short woofs at other dogs and sat smugly in the patio of the Wet Dog enjoying occasional bites of pretzel and cheese. After that, the party was over and it was an outraged dog who returned to the campground. Last night, for the first time, Fiona woke us with hysterical barking and a dash to the window. She did this 3 or 4 times (I lost count). Each time I stumbled after her, shushed her, and brought her back to bed where Mike told her she was a good girl. She isn’t. Today she has watched at the same window, alternately growling and whining. And I wonder what is going on over there in that Airstream. We kind of met the couple and their yellow lab Riley yesterday when we walking around the place. They weren’t particularly friendly and the woman pounded on Riley’s back when he jumped at me and called him stupid. Maybe there’s some dog torture going on over there that Fiona senses? Or maybe the dog torture is going on here and we’re the victims…. Just a few minutes ago Mike left in the truck to seek supplies. I muttered softly that it would be nice if he would take the dog and he hissed, equally quietly, that he didn’t want to. I pulled the trump card that I can’t write if I have to tend to the barking madam. He acquiesced and I know that he will return with tales of Fiona barking incessantly from behind him on the back seat. She goes there to avoid him pointing at her and telling her to stop. She hates that.

I have several hypotheses about why I’m not a natural at camping. It could be that I missed out on important formative camping skills in my youth. My Valko cousins (all 10 of them) and their parents camped all the time—in a station wagon with tents and children sitting on laps (this was pre-seat belts). I think the Krupitzer cousins must have camped too because at least 4 of them have bought some kind of camping vehicle in the last two years. My mother had an aversion to camping—probably realized it would be an opportunity to cook, clean and take care of children in the dirt—that I may have inherited. Or maybe it was the bizarre camping I did in college. I brought my cat along, which should tell you a lot about the group I camped with. Talk about an “anything goes” attitude. Sometimes we left with such short notice that people forgot sleeping bags and had to share (or maybe that was the point). One time the elegant grocery bag containing all of my clothing for a long beach weekend was left behind and I was forced to wear my bikini and borrowed t-shirts from the guys until one of the girls bought me a set of ugly sweats. Sweet. The best camping I ever did was pre-child and in places of breath-taking beauty (Big Sur, Morro Bay, the redwoods) with people who went off hiking and fishing and left me alone to “guard” the site and read away the day. When they returned I would listen to their fish tales and imply that my time had been spent bird watching or re-reading Walden. Lately, with a fifth wheel and friends along, camping has been fun. But it takes a few days to regain the rhythm as I fight the feeling that I should be doing something productive. Conversely I don’t want to be pushed into planned activities so I resist the hearty souls who want me to bike (“it’s only”) 50 miles or agree to tour the local antique firearms museum. No thanks.

Still. There are many things I like about camping especially the space that it creates for other things to happen. Lots of times the cell service is weak so no one can call me—same with emails and texts. I get to wear my favorite old, demoted clothes. These are the shirts that are worn into the comfort of a second skin and the jeans that fit perfectly (and by that I mean loosely) but have that bleached spot or rip that isn’t fashionable just grungy. Also no one cares what you look like and you can always put on your sunglasses if someone comes at you with a camera. Someone left us apples on the table at this site and I didn’t really think about poison or razor blades or asking around about the character of the people who left them (except as a possible detail in a mystery). I can produce a dinner of salmon spread on crackers with red vines for dessert without guilt or adverse response. When the temperature drops, the little dog gets cold and becomes affectionate and cuddly and sweet. Also it takes only half an hour to clean up everything and hit the road. And after a week or so I actually relax. Here’s the best part. Mike and Fiona just got back. Fiona barked incessantly as predicted but Mike found what he needed and brought back breakfast sandwiches and ice tea (my favorite). I think I’ll finish breakfast with an apple.

At 15 camels, it’s a bargain

16 Wednesday Jul 2014

Posted by in Photography, travelogue

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9/23/2010
As I mentioned in the last email, now I have the distance and perspective (not to mention the loss of our luggage for 2 days between Casablanca and Madrid) to write about Morocco. Despite the fascinating history and sites, the funny camels, our nice tour guide/cab driver, I’m done with Morocco. I think it was the constant reminders that I’m a big, “rich” American infidel, not to mention a woman who clearly doesn’t know her place. Here’s one example: despite the fact that I felt the Souks (bazaar) was a scary place at night with cars and motorcycles driving through huge, compacted crowds and almost psychotically aggressive vendors (in a place of extreme poverty and wretchedness), I agreed to go back the next day in search of bargains. If we hadn’t gotten lost in the winding streets and then been led out (the long way, I’m sure) by a teenager who kept shaking us down for more money, it would’ve been an overall, pleasant experience. We went during the day–less crazy and fewer people running into me (these people were, by the way, all men and all managed to knock into my breasts before leering at me and apologizing–charmingly–in French). Back to the actual example…

After bargaining (not very well, I’m sure) I purchased a couple of supposedly handmade pashminas from a semi-sleazy vendor, probably in his 30’s. He offered to give Mike the pashminas in exchange for me. Pretty sure he was thinking, “I’ll make her my 6th wife, the one exclusively for beating.” I could be extrapolating here…. Later he offered Mike 15 camels for his daughter Kelly so maybe he just wanted to have a full American experience.

On the day we left, we talked to a couple from England who were traveling with a tour group. When they heard we were traveling alone, the man said, “Oh, brave.” Maybe that’s British for stupid. The only other person we spoke to was from Mass.; she’s Moroccan by birth but has lived in the U.S. for 14 years. She was very nice, had 2 little girls who were darling and spoke perfect English (French and Moroccan also). Other than that, everyone was French and apparently still pissed off that Americans rebuilt their country after WW II. The good thing was that my high school French proved useful and more and more of it came back to me as we talked to people. I can now ask how much in French and Moroccan; the resulting “rip off” doesn’t change, though. We fully expect to be overcharged on the way to the airport tomorrow and I could write an article on being overcharged by cabbies in Porto, Sevilla, Granada, Marrakesh, and (no doubt) Madrid.

This is likely the last you’ll hear from me until we meet in person although I may send a few more pictures. Hopefully by then I will have dropped the speech pattern that is the result of attempting to speak simply in 3 languages other than English. Or as I like to say (in Portuguese, Spanish, and French): I will later have wine today.