Back In the Day

The year was 1987 and my small statured self, strutted into Mrs. Wright’s Kindergarten class at Walnut Heights Elementary School, one of several public schools in the Alcalanes School District. Nap was still on the schedule, as was learning to recite the Pledge of Allegiance (under God) and the Star Spangled Banner. Older kids learning cherry drops on the bars and playing ‘Butts Up’ with bouncy red balls overran our playground. Butts Up was a game I would later get into, which involved the loser standing against the handball wall and allowing the winning player to shamingly peg their butt with a ball as hard as they could. Really, there was no game I didn’t play, up until many of them throughout my formative years, were banned for being ‘too dangerous.’  In the late 80s, pre-litigious years, we had it good. 

We participated in Red Rover, a game that encouraged kids to run at full speed toward another group of kids in order to break through their locked hands. It was all fun and games until some kid got clotheslined and catapulted backward or worse, a weak wrist wrenched into a position not designed for human joints.  We had tanbark to break our falls not soft rubbery foam to save our little bruised knees. When we warred on the monkey bars, we knew the consequence would be falling into the murky puddle of water and bark below the bars, soiling our layered puffy socks. We got splinters and caught our fingers in the metal chain of tire swings, which literally were a used truck tire attached to a chain. We sprained wrists on tetherballs and poked our eyes out with slap bracelets. I believe they built us tougher back then. 

In my afterschool program ‘Club’, I was often playing capture the flag in the nature area behind the school. The small, leapable stream acted as the boundary and several secret circles of benches doubled as amazing ‘jails’ for when ‘prisoners’, aka slow kids, were captured. If not capturing flags I may have been playing Heads-Up-7-Up or wrestling Terresita for bragging rights. The nickname Rorin Lauren, and perhaps an invincible mentality came out of those years in elementary school.  Proudly shaving the underside of my head with the letters WHO (Walnut Heights Otters) to rep my neighborhood swim team and growing stronger alongside the other girls on my relay team also helped grow an inner sense of strength and belonging. 

We raised funds for good causes and learned that giving back to our community was important.  We jumped rope for heart disease and raised awareness about obesity and the value of exercise.  We bounced on Pogo Balls and trampolines and jumped over Skip Its that counted our rotations. We raised money with sales from Girl Scout cookies to fund our adventures. Troop 776’s Thin Mints and Peanut Butter Patties helped us to earn camping and sewing badges, although I must not have learned that sewing part because when I looked back at my sash, all the patches Ide earned were stapled on.  Some might say lazy, some might say innovative, either way I’m pretty sure I was more interested in playing in the mud and raising my version of ‘hell’ in someone’s backyard than threading a needle.  Proud Tomboy. Still am. From Brownies to Girl Scouts I bridged, applying myself to learn more silly songs like ‘I Sit Upon My Sit Upon’ and The Girl Scout Law. I made new friends and kept the old. To this day I am still a collector of good humans and some of those troopers remain integral parts of my chosen family.  

I remember finding items like Teddy Ruxpin under the Christmas tree. An animatronic bear that played a cassette and ‘read’ stories aloud to you. It was an amazing technological advancement for its time that had me enraptured for days, listening to the adventures of Teddy Ruxpin, Grubby and the WhosiWhatsits. He was a 30 lbs. wonder brick of a toy. Perhaps it was the batteries or Teddy’s blinking (creepy) eyes that drew my attention away from my previously beloved micro machines or wooden blocks. I would spend hours building marble machine ramps down into the pit from our family room only to watch a marble drop for approximately 8 seconds. I believe this is how I learned patience but quite possibly, and more importantly, the reason why kids these days don’t have much of any.  Immediate gratification is a two edged sword. And, I just said, “kids these days”=my generation, we, you, us, are aging, gaining experience by the minute, growing knowledge, getting old.  Believe it.

 

I remember tearing open packages of baseball cards. Top Deck if you were lucky, Fleer if you wanted a cardboard piece of bubblegum that left a powdery film on Chris Sabo’s goggled, cheating face.  It was the years of the Bash Brothers in Oakland and Will ‘the Thrill’ Clark in San Francisco. I could name every player on the ‘87, ‘88 and ‘89 San Francisco roster and would later meet Will Clark in his full camouflage gear and Kevin Mitchell on the back of his Harley Davidson.  The ’89 series was an epic showdown in what was coined the ‘Battle of the Bay’, only the lackluster Giants got swept in four games and the most ‘epic’ thing was the earthquake during game three that rocked the stadium and stunned people across the Bay.  If you can remember where you were when that quake hit, you can proudly consider yourself a northern California native.

If not opening up baseball cards, I remember pleading to buy packages of Garbage Pail Kids. Those crude little cards that incorporated every gross bodily fluid alliteratively attached to kids names of that generation. I was in elementary school and my card was called ‘Pourin Lauren’ depicting a boozed up waitress in fishnet stockings holding a tray complete with milk bottle and cocktail. Were these things marketed and sold to kids? Yes. Were they appropriate? Sure thing J Loosen up everyone.

In elementary school our minds grew with projects like the California Mission Report and the State Report that seemed a huge and insurmountable part of the 5^th grade curriculum. I remember that project looming all year. We worked so hard on gathering information from the Encyclopedia Britanica and drawing depictions of state flowers and important industry in our assigned state. When we were all said and done, I remember sliding my report into a clear plastic cover with a long, hard plastic binding to make it look ‘professional’. That’s how you knew it was a big deal, when it had the goofy plastic cover.  Do those things still exist?

We took pride in learning cursive and how to gracefully connect that capital L to the lowercase a.  We learned checkers and practiced our skills against other players. In the 4^th grade when we learned chess I remember thinking I wasn’t much of a thinker, as I preferred checkers because I did not have to consider two and three moves ahead with a pawn or a rook or whatever that funny castle thing was. We learned to Square Dance and were coached in the art of dodge ball and four square. We waited in line for school lunch (full disclosure, I was spoiled so only waited in line on pizza Friday). They served peperoni and cheese pizza, the difference being peperoni had one slice of peperoni in the middle of a square cut slice.  One piece! If some caca-farty-head came by and stole your one piece of peperoni you then had cheese. Boring cheese. Imagine the 9-year-old disappointment. Snack bar included corn nuts and fruit roll ups that we would wrap around our index fingers and suck on until they were sticky, gooey messes.  I hit up the milk cart everyday and by the 5^th grade, inflation had raised the price of a milk box to $.25.

At home after school we would watch Tiny Toons and later on Saved By the Bell, where everyone, even the boys, crushed on Zack Morris or the muscles of AC Slater. I had a routine of eating and watching some television before going out to play with Elaine or Sarah or other Amigo Laners. The day my Dad brought home our first computer, the Apple II GS, I remember staying inside for a record amount of time to discover what that machine could do. It came with a dot matrix printer that I created cards and banners on. One year for my mom’s birthday I recall waiting what felt like 2.5 hours and two ink cartridges later, to print out a color banner that read ‘Happy Birthday’. The perforated paper allowed you to hang it as one piece of paper in proper banner style. Boy did my Mom feign excitement well, which made those 2.5 hours so worth it to my 3^rd grade self.

I played Oregon Trail and often lost an uncle to dysentery or typhoid or ran out of money purchasing an axle for our wagon that was broken along our harrowing journey. At least there was excess beef jerky stocked in the covered wagon that I had bartered for at the general store. I begged for several weeks for Where in the World is Carmen San Diego, which had me flying around the world as a detective, cracking cases about evil villains attempting to take over the world. In refelction, I think this is something I need to be doing right now. The computer competed with the original 16 bit Nintendo System that had two manageable buttons. I was the lucky kid who got the Power Pad allowing me to compete with world-class athletes in track and field. Over the years I could dominate Cheetah and bury friends in the 100-meter hurdles. What are meters anyway? Duck hunt was not my strong suit but that was ok really because I never did like that laughing dog that taunted you after missing several ducks in a row. Then came Mario 3, which turned gamer’s lives upside down because with a tail, Mario had the ability to fly. Imagine the massive leaps forward in gaming systems when a miniature man can wiz around in the sky with a raccoon’s tail! Later on in life I would be swept up by the SEGA system and learn the ‘blood code’ for Mortal Combat and ways to help Sonic & Tails zip past the rest.

The first day of fifth grade I clearly remember sporting the new Air Jordan Vs. All the sneaker heads out there know how baller this shoe was and still is.  Black suede, plastic mesh, reflective tongue, all sweet. They were a far cry from the white high top Reeboks with two Velcro straps that I sported for years prior to the teal and purple Andre Agassi’s that we bought from Simons. I found first day of school outfits to match my new shoes. B Unique surely had a perfect puff paint match to my florescent color scheme, sparkles setting off the wisps of color flung to every side of the shirt. I remember my mom coming home with Hypercolor shirts for my sister and me because they were ‘so cool’. So cool up until you were that kid that came in from recess with orange armpits that in no way matched the blue of the rest of the shirt.  Whose idea was that anyway? Stussy, Mossimo and T&C Surf were the thing along with your pegged pants and high top Vans. Then overalls and palatzo pants took over, which took my middle school by storm.     

Bad at math then, and bad at math now, they made me buy a graphing calculator to support a bogus, money making contract with Texas Instruments. It was the TI-82 back then and to be honest I don’t remember ever gaining any knowledge from it or with it, only that that $100 calculator could also spell out 58008. That’s BOOBS upside down. Hindsight once again, maybe I liked boobs back then too J. I do remember purchasing my first CD player, which would ignite a new passion for music and CD shopping at the Wherehouse. If you were lucky, which I was, you had several friends working there who could get you *discounted (*free) things from time to time.  The CD player came shrink wrapped with a Kenny G CD which was rapidly disposed of making room for my first CD ever purchased: 2$hort, ‘Gettin’ It’.  The profane and vulgar lyrics were abhorrent but the man came from Oakland and the beats were sick, so turn that up! Outkast, E40, Ma$e, Tribe Called Quest and Notorious BIG were the soundtrack of our lives in high school.  

I remember the day Cody and I walked past Newell Plaza to discover Taco Bell would be coming soon. Taco Bell?! We were so excited at the thought of this mega fast food chain slanging bean burritos in our neighborhood.  We would welcome a switch-up from our beloved George’s Giant Hamburger French fries dipped in mazes of ketchup and mustard to Double Decker Tacos doused with packets of mild hot sauce. Those mystery meat tacos filled my belly directly before soccer practice for what seemed like seven days a week in high school.  I looked up to Brandy Chastain and Mia Hamm who inspired girls everywhere to play harder and learn that double-scissor dribbling move.  To this day freshly cut grass strikes up nostalgia of the pristine soccer pitch at Arbalado Park and our team comradery of yesteryear. We sported Lotto and Diadora all matching track suits and had soccer bags to match, making us feel intimidating to our opponents as we walked out onto the mud puddle also known as our home field. In the middle of January, this scene is intensified when you imagine seeing 17 young women, matching warm ups, walking out under the lights, breath visible in the bitter cold, stone cold eyes, prepared for battle. Badass Knights.

We played hacky sack at lunch and laughed at each other during homecoming week for a silly lip-sync performance. ’99! ’99! LLP!  We experimented on Bunson Burners and dissected hearts. I was one of the last holdouts to get a pager but the quickest learner when it came to pager code. I could decipher a paragraph in no time locating the best party lickity split. We drank free smoothies from Juice Time and filled up on Coke Slurpees when the weather was hot. We cruised with our windows down and music up, not a care in the world. In retrospect this can likely be attributed to the fact that social media and things like Facebook did not exist then.   What would we have done if our every embarrassing or illegal activity was captured and documented for the rest of the judging world to see? Yes, illegal. I was not exactly a saintJ Instead, we concerned ourselves with planning 90210 watch parties-Dillon dreamboat and Brenda bitch successfully wrapping us up in Beverly Hills, California drama.

Those were some brilliant years I spent growing up in the Bay Area. Years I will never forget…

Montezuma, Costa Rica

Montezuma, Costa Rica.

Tucked away along the coast of Punta Arenas Province, is an eastern facing town called Montezuma. If you look at a map and run your finger down the Pacific side of Costa Rica, Montezuma will appear as you reach the southeast side of the first peninsula extending into the sea.  I hear foreigners on the street here describing this place as 'quaint' and 'bohemian' so yes, I would say it's a hippy town, only with less tree-hugging hula hoopers and more dreadlocked, jewelry making stoners. Mellow. Slow moving. Warm ocean breezes. Cold beers perspiring on charmingly dilapidated wooden bars.

I arrived here on Monday planning to stay two nights and everyday since I have walked downstairs from my quiet little deck to tell the woman at reception, (the open shutter along the side of the house) I will stay "one more day". It's Saturday now and I haven't felt inclined to go anywhere. Each day has been incredible. With a bathing suit, sarong and some Colones you can do whatever you want.

The first evening I lay back on the beach mesmerized, sand still warm from the sun, salt water pooling into my belly bottom. I watched the color of the blue sky seamlessly transition into soft pinks and oranges highlighting the billowing clouds. As the sky turned, I could sense a shift happening inside of me, creating a liberating sense of peace. It moved slowly into my chest, swelled like the tide and overflowed in the form of one large alligator tear spilling out of my right eye. A single tear of joy. Ahhh, happiness.

I wanted to tell everyone- and so I did.

I grabbed another Pilsen beer and sat down with a local guy I had struck up a conversation with earlier in the day.  In these small towns you can't help but run into the same people several times a day while meandering the main drag. He was charming and quick witted and understood the feeling I described to him saying, 'Yeah, that happens here.'

For me, as a native of North America's west coast, sunrise on the ocean is counter intuitive yet despite this truth, waking up for sunrise over the ocean here feels so natural and so much like home. Mornings involved watching our sparkling orange ball of fire arise from the water. Daily breakfast consisted of watermelon, pineapple and mango and then potentially passion fruit, tangerines and cold beer for lunch. I was fully sustained on fresh fruit, banana bread, beer and fresh fish caught on the line earlier that day.

This was just the beginning.

While boating out to Tortuga Island we spotted humpback whales breaching. We followed them for a few minutes and got to see an entire tail flip out of the water. A whale's tail?! Come on, isn't that 88 years of good luck or something? Underwater and with a snorkel and mask, I spotted boxfish, clownfish and shark. With a glassy ocean, I swam out into the deep and felt like a fish myself. Hikes to views, more cold beers and like minded New Yorkers. More than once I caught myself smiling from ear to ear for no specific reason at all, other than believing it was the best day ever. My eyes would wander along the lush jungle and then be refocused by the erratic flight of a butterfly, seemingly as big as my face or ospreys circling above catching warm thermal updrafts higher into the sunny sky.

After morning swims along the shore I would drink fresh lemonade with mint and passion fruit and notice the corners of my mouth stretching upward into a smile again. One day, I found myself giggling quietly because just below my bare feet a woman was sweeping up beautiful flowers which had fallen from vines twisted into the landscape. Something in life is going right if beautiful flowers become a nuisance. Another sign things are on the right track is when you get to know the guys who work at the 'super mercado'. The one mini supermarket in town with constant foot traffic and workers restocking shelves by the hour. You know the place, one of everything, floor to ceiling stuff, from birthday candles to baking soda to bubble gum. With insider connections you can avoid the warmer beer due to the constantly revolving doors on the beer cooler and be welcomed into the cold beer club. It's a secret society of small town people who have 'made it'.

Just south of Montezuma and up river are a series of waterfalls nestled into lush jungle. Within 20 minutes you can arrive to the first fall and 20 minutes after that the second. For those with more grit, there exists a third fall which requires grasping onto tree roots and shimmying up more treacherous terrain. But, for the scramblers and the gamblers a bigger reward awaits: a beautiful fall and less of a crowd. This fall had a jumping rock that peeked out above the moving water. Not for the faint of heart, it's one of those jumps where you have time to think in the air, really ponder things in the seconds of free fall. A leap where if you don't nail the landing, your arms will be smacked along the surface of the water causing instant bruises. So Big. And SO fun :)

Launching off rocks and diving under waterfalls felt like I imagine the Phoenix must have felt rising up from the ashes. Rejuvenating like nothing else. The fresh cool water pounding on my shoulders and such internal excitement that even though no one could hear me, there I was saying out loud how amazing it all was. Permagrin. Again. The next morning, a sore body in all the right places from deep ocean swimming and trail traversing was just the right way to wake up. Back outside where I spen t all my days I saw pelicans flying in flocks 60 birds strong, like nothing I have ever witnessed. Their V formations stretching out along the backdrop of the pacific, each bird drafting along the wings of the bird in front of them. No matter how many times they flew over I would gaze up, the peaceful glide of their flight never losing its novelty. Even the small bits of sand in my sheets signifying a hard days play in the ocean held a weird sense of novelty in the state I was in.

Invites to bonfires on the beach whose dry drift wood logs burned until morning. A shooting star dashed across the night sky. The Irish chancer in me thought it was time to make a wish and so I looked to my new friend Javi to see if this wish phenomenon exists here. Javi explained that he didn't have a wish. 'I have everything I need', he said, as he sat there shirtless and barefoot in the sand. 'I have everything I deserve,' he continued. I sat in the bold silence of his response and smiled. I appreciated him for this grounding perspective, which is the reason I seek out the knowledge of perfect strangers. But. My wish was already made. He coaxed it out of me. He nodded his head. Smiled. 'It will come' he assured me. These things always do.

In this place I have no real need for hair product. I can't even remember the last time I washed my hair. The combination of fresh water deluges and salt water swims has given my hair an amazing texture, settling perfectly atop my head after a good shake and comb through with my fingers. Everyday has been a good hair day and more so, a really good day. Full stop.

Yesterday, while hiking back to the waterfalls for more adrenaline, I ran upon a band of monkeys. These monkeys have been made almost fearless, as people have taken to feeding them for a 'cute picture'. (Side note: attention everyone, everywhere, please don't feed wild animals. Ever.) Moving on. So I see these monkeys seeking any opportunity to sneak my snacks and they're all in cahoots, working to distract me from my goodies. I act big, clap my hands and begin to play with them. Out loud again, as if these monkeys understand language, let alone English in this Spanish speaking country, I say, 'I'm going to get you monkey!' I'm in such an exuberant mood that even when said monkey darts above me causing a mini sized avalanche, which sends a rock the size of my fist into my leg, I'm not even mad. It struck blood immediately and my first thought was not of pain but of, 'you got me that time monkey.' Smiling, I shook my head. Then I laughed to myself, thinking that a scar left by a playful, yet still conniving monkey in this incredible place is a scar I will take. Touché monkey, thank you very much. Pleased, I kept walking, blood dripping, feeling alive.

Moments later, while gripping the rocks to stay vertical, the man in front of me on the trail almost puts his hand around THE LARGEST iguana I have ever seen. Seriously, I am not just saying this because it sounds cool. It WAS. So. Cool. The beard alone on this guy was incredibly striking. A regal creature straight out of the land of dinosaurs. Scaled skin of green, grey, yellow, red and black. It's mid section about the same size as the pregnant cat living at the restaurant near my place. A tail like a whip, slow steady movements with claws resembling the curved talons of an eagle. Seemingly ancient, this sun worshiper sat on the rocks, basking in the sun, warming his amphibious blood. A minute later I was talking to Dani who tells me this impressive creature is a local here whom he sees daily. Dani has scars on his leg from the whip of this beast's tail in frightened moments of fight over flight. Incredible.

Now, day six, I have fallen into little routines that all involve extreme relaxation and/or extreme sport. I have come to know how to turn the trick light switch on in my room with three flicks and holding down the bottom until it fires on. I recognize the guy in town slurring his words by noon and the man from Northern California ironically involved in selling the best extra curriculars. I know that at about 5:30 the caballero with the horses brings them up the beach to water and feed them. I know each vendor's face and the intricacy of their handmade crafts, as well as where to get the best smoothie and cheapest bottled beer in town. I know the guys down at CocoColores restaurant start food prepping around 4:00 and singing 90s rock music loud enough for me to sing along with them. I know a hidden bench formed into the rocks just up from the main beach and where the live music will be playing at happy hour. On the other hand, I know I will never be able to slice a mango like a local or walk around barefoot without wincing at the really sharp rocks. I know I will not be able to ride a dirt bike nearly as well around the unknown turns in the gravel road or catch all the slang terms in their conversations but I do know this, I have fallen in love with this place. I will return one day to experience it again but no place is quite the same as you left it, now is it. Until then it will live in my memory on a pedestal. The small town that sucked me in, held on tight and stole my heart. Thank you Montezuma, you have been too kind.

Attached are a few pictures in and around Montezuma. I have but a few, preferring to take mental pictures to live in an album in my heart rather than pause to tap a shutter. There is a saying about that somewhere that I love and can't remember exactly.

Playing Catch with flowers, Chatting With a Mole 

and Buzzing With Bees

That was my afternoon in the hills of Oakland yesterday, amongst the mighty redwoods. A quick down pour in the morning left the ground damp along the trail. It also heightened the smell of the big tress and the small buttercups and forget-me-not wildflowers blooming along the beaten single track. Dew, poised on leaves and fronds, reflected the afternoon sun causing ferns and underbrush below the canopy to glow with life. Leaves seemed to sparkle as they mirrored the sun’s rays that danced on their surfaces. Yesterday, I picked a new trail. A zig-zagging switch back that climbed to elevation and revealed more of the redwood forest to my thirsty eyes.  I had no idea where it would lead but my sense of direction reassured me I could find my way back to Cooper, and, if not, guaranteed me a beautiful search for the tiny breadcrumbs I left behind.

There is no doubt that the air below those trees contains more life giving oxygen than any other place on earth. The fresh air put pep in my step as I jogged up the hills, careful not to trip on any one of a bevy of exposed roots. At the end of the misty single track came a clearing that led me to the more exposed West Ridge fire trail, a trail I am familiar with that encircles the entire regional park. I moseyed up to a small crest along the rocks and happened to stop where there was a parting in the trees, just wide enough to expose an eastern facing view. I stepped forward to discover three small rocks placed in a row, so perfectly positioned it had to be done by a human hand. My eyes followed the direction of the strategically placed rocks in excited discovery.  I could see a barely beaten path just beyond the blackberry brambles growing over the inconspicuous trail. I jumped the brambles and found that someone had placed a small platform bench just six or so inches off of the ground. The bench was nestled into the bushes and trees so well you could not see it from the fire trail and the shape of the plant life surrounding it shielded it from the wind blowing up and over the ridge, almost like a cozy living blanket. I sat down. From that vantage point I could see to the north and to the east for miles and miles, the previous rain and wind clearing the sky, or more like refreshing it anew. I listened to the buzz of the honeybees zipping about collecting nectar for the hive, remnants of pollen stuck to their furry little legs.

“Good work”, I told them.  

I giggled. A barometer for my happiness has always been talking to inanimate objects or beings that have no ability to respond, and here I was discussing work with bees. I likened a bee with pollen stuck to her legs to an athlete with grass stains on her uniform, both wearing their hard work proudly.  Ravens swooped overhead and the sun on my shoulders felt warm and inviting. My heart rate slowed from my incline run along with my breath and overall self. I was in that moment. When I finally decided to rise out of my chrysalis and rejoin the trail, I thanked whatever human had placed that little bench in that marvelously hidden spot. I decided that the two of us have similar blood running through our veins. An adventurous, eager to explore while stopping to smell the roses blood, that wishes to build random benches in remote locations so those who have earned the summit can revel in the hidden treasures that lie there.

Along the return trail I knelt next to a bunch of forget-me-nots growing out of a fallen oak that lay rotting, feeding brilliantly orange fungi and newly sporing ferns. On the saturated, pale blue petals was a bulbous drop of dew. I reached out to touch it.  My finger was moving slowly toward the droplet and when my skin finally touched the water, it adhered perfectly intact and just as round, to the tip of my index finger.  I admired the rainbow spectrum of colors refracted through the water and lightly flicked the water from my digit. As in slow motion I watched the droplet leave my finger, move through the air and stick to another forget me not flower just beside the previous one.  I laughed out loud. We just played catch! That’s a first. This thought sparked a more animated, motion picture of a cartoon me heaving water droplets back and forth with smiling daisies, reminiscent of Alice down the rabbit hole.  Recognizing the ‘crazy’ in my imagination, I smiled, grateful for the play in my life and freedom to fly away on cheerful tangents and return, if necessary, J to a more serious reality.

I took a long stretch before getting back into the car, observing wild turkeys eat up the tall weeds in the park, their ugly (subjective) gobbles swaying with the shifty jerks of their pecking.  I took the speed bumps slowly and cringed as I drove over the parking spikes preventing people from entering the park past curfew times. I know the spikes will retreat into the ground but that never stops me from imagining the sound of tires puncturing and a long wait for AAA. I successfully exited and was making my right turn back to Oakland town when I saw what looked like a leaf blowing across the ground. I put my foot on the gas and took a second look. Was that? Brake. The object had gone beyond my hood, in front of my tires making it impossible to see. I came to a complete stop along the windy road and waited for this thing to enter back into my line of sight. A rodent? There is was. Eyes hidden behind its velvety looking fur, snout nose and big ol front paws turned out adapted for digging in the dirt.

“Mr. Mole, get home!”

I was not surprised at my exclamative conversation starter, just more so that I had given this gent a dapper subtitle such as Mr. and for that matter, assumed he was male. I was right though, HE did need to get home, for if I hadn’t recognized him he would have been flattened like the leaf I originally thought he was.  He lurched along the road until he reached the shoulder. I watched in wonder as his pint sized back legs, practically useless, waddled forward while his front paws, exposing proportionally massive claws did all the hard work to propel him forward. He found a pile of leaves and soft earth and burrowed himself underneath. Back into the safety of subterranean darkness I believe both he and I felt relief.  I wound back down Skyline boulevard with views of the setting sun on the Bay.

Happy meter turned to high.

Adulthood:


There was a T-shirt floating around multiple pop-up stalls lining the streets of Cambodia. It read:

'It's not what you see, but how you see'.

While floating about in the Gulf of Thailand,  watching the sunset dip beyond the horizon, I pondered the actual meaning behind this cheesy point. My mind was afloat just as my body was, free to move in any direction, like a fish on the sea. One part of my mind was being mesmerized by the spectrum of orange and red light bouncing off the calm water. Being joyfully taken up with the display made by schools of miniature fish jumping out of the water. Upon re-entry their bodies making the sound of hundreds of coins plopping into a fountain (The wish made on these 'coins' obviously coming true).  As I took strokes toward them, the breaching and diving became more rapid. It was all happening so fast, making it next to impossible to get a good look at them. But all I wanted to do was get a good look at them! Per my usual, this digressed into a game of sorts. Fish tag, only I was all-time 'it'. Their tails propelling them out of the water, their silver scales mirroring the color of the flaming sun, their itty bitty splash, so amusing, breaking up the glassy surface. 

The other part of my mind, the more philosophical part, went on questioning this quote: 'It's not what you see, but how you see'...

My initial surface level thoughts on the topic brought up 'how I see' the man who was sitting at the table next to me last night, knuckle deep in his nose. My perspective on the fact that every man, woman and child smokes cigarettes here, or perhaps my view on cultures that have a different understanding of how a line should function. But I wanted to go deeper, like the fish. Beyond superficial thinking.

Then I recalled a fellow traveler I met while in Cambodia. We enjoyed each other's company and conversation as she too was a social worker in her home country of the Netherlands. She was younger. Twenty four to be exact. After a few hours we came around to a conversation in which she asked me my age. I replied 34. Soon to be 35, I shared. 

"Wow", she said. "I thought you were older but would not have guessed that. How does it feel to be older traveling around with backpackers a lot younger?"

I had never even thought about it. How does it feel? Should it feel different? Older? Am I old? Suppose my years would suggest so.

I was not offended or surprised by the conversation but, in fact, quite the opposite. I was glad the topic was raised now because it has given me a moment to reflect on these questions without the clutter of work and life pressures threatening to muddle my process.  

The focus of my thought was not so much age, per-say, but more so about my own personal growth and my place in this world. I have never really felt 'old' or like an adult, in the same way Peter Pan has always refused to grow up. I hear strangers sometimes call me 'mam' and when they do I get an egodystonic feeling that creeps into my skull. It's not that I don't enjoy getting older or aging because indeed I do. I have found every step along this journey to be amazing, 'grand entirely', and the small flecks of grey growing in at my temples a mark of adventures had and life lived.  And still, I have never considered myself an adult because 'how I see it',  adults own things, adults have life insurance, adults are responsible people who don't pop out of boxes as a joke or play tag with fish. Well now, in regards to responsibility, I can say that aspect feels true, congruent with how I see myself but the label of adult surely does not. 

And then it occurred to me or struck me rather, I am approaching 35. 35! I have lived some life! I have experience in this world. I have some valuable things to contribute. 

Maybe I am an adult! 

An adult with the soul of a playful child, but an adult non the less. I can be trusted, I am responsible, I make good decisions (for the most part) and I will be turning 35 years old in June. I could be president of the United States for God's sake. Hmmm. World domination?! Mwah ha ha. 

It feels oddly rewarding to see myself in this new light. Not as if anything has changed dramatically,  just perhaps how I see it.  

After all that may I make one suggestion, 'second star to the right and straight on till morning.' 

Easter Supper 

Observing or perhaps just recognizing it to be Easter Sunday, I decided to put on my bathing suit and celebrate. It felt more a celebration of gratitude toward the universe but a celebration non the less. It involved boat tripping, snorkeling, swimming, sunset watching and supper. 

As for supper-I went out in hopeful pursuit of a nice ham dinner, complete with green beans and mashed potatoes. Actually, I did no such thing. I'm in Vietnam, quit being so gullible. 

Instead, I showed up to an outdoor restaurant full of locals and a smattering of Westerners. The place, as suggested by my local evening beer vendor, was all open air seating with a bustling kitchen set up under a corrugated iron roof. Up a steep cement ramp and I was seated just beyond the kitchen next to the live fish tanks. Barracuda, sea snake, cockles, crab and shrimp lay restless in their tanks as patrons drank beer with ice in it, lit up cigarettes and leaned back in their wobbly, brightly colored plastic chairs just off of the ground. If I didn't know any better I would think this miniature furniture was meant for children's picnics. Oh wait. They are. 

'When in Rome' I said aloud and poured my Saigon Special Beer on ice and sat back to observe the well oiled machine in front of me. It appeared to be a family run operation, three generations orchestrating the show. If I had to guess, it was the eldest son manning the woks, second eldest on the BBQ pit, dad handling the money, sister as acting sue chef, mom washing dishes, grandma refilling, topping off and replenishing everything and four other boys racing around taking orders and running food to each table. 

Orders were written down, placed on the edge of a large chopping block and taken by the eldest. He had three burners simultaneously blazing under three different woks. Pause here...Before I go any further I feel the need to discuss the versatility and magnificence of a proper Asian wok. I'm willing to bet that these particular woks have never seen soap in all their years. A splash of water and a quick hit with a bundled twig brush is the way to 'clean' these bad boys. This allows years of 'flavor' to marinate into the bones of the wok providing endless taste complexities to anything you throw into it. 

Back to the eldest, tallest and leanest boy on the woks. He throws in a splash of garlic, oil and fish sauce constantly rotating the wok until the ingredient mingle and begin to simmer. Scallops, dried squid, instant noodles are thrown in with his one free hand as the other smokes a cigarette or sucks down a jug of iced tea to rehydrate from the sweat rolling off his brow. The perfect technique of tossing a wok, practiced and perfected over the years. Round and round the ingredients fly, caramelizing and yummifying all at the same time. When the time is right, and he knows when the time is right, he empties the food onto a plate. Mom circles around with a red marker and simply writes the number of the table the food is to be delivered to directly onto the plate. She also adds a garnish of sweet basil, because it's all about presentation alongside the hand strewn marker numbers and plastic plates. 

Heading up the BBQ, is the second in line. Replacing wooden charcoal briquettes, rotating meat and prepping fish. A giant clever rests on a stump, which doubles as a chopping board. Crack crack crack and a squid is ready for the grill, a small miracle no fingers came with it given the speed at which he accomplishes this task. A sea snake needs to be tenderized and it seems in absence of a mallet there is always the trusty side of a beer bottle to do the job. His one hand operates the tongs while the other pulls up his sagging pants slipping off of his tiny frame. The smoke from the cigarette hanging out of his mouth seeps into the corners of his eyes but they are immune to it, having been working over the BBQ all night long and absorbing the wood smoke. 

My plate reads 26. It is delivered by a boy who looks no older than 15, a Monster Energy hat on his head, knock off gold Gucci belt around his waste, dark skinny jeans and flip flops. 'cảm ơn bạn' I say in what is likely the worst Vietnamese accent imaginable. The scrap hunting cats slinking around the restaurant notice me now that a plate of shrimp lie on my table. The smell of garlic is the first thing to hit my nose but more than anything I am hit by the nature of this place. The freedom. The chaos. The stark difference in this meal as compared to the Easter dinner I had last year while sitting around a table in Yosemite. 

Who knows what life will bring next year. I look forward to it. Happy Easter. 

A Review of the Senses

Sight: My eyes wandered up a piecemeal cement path that meandered alongside a tributary to the mighty Mekong River. Each twist and turn uncovering more beautiful countryside and a growing urban area, the result of population swells into Can Tho city, Vietnam.  Flourishing palm fronds and banana trees breaking up the suns's rays throwing dappled light onto the trail ahead. Brown, muddy waters of the flowing river being churned up by small wooden skiffs and fishing boats plugging along.

 

Sound: The 110 cc wiz of oncoming motorbikes zooming around bends, the rattle of my rusted bicycle chain, birds chirping, the relentless low roar of barge engines struggling against the weight of their cargo, laughter coming from small houses, orders being barked by men managing conveyer belts as one by one bags of rice and other goods are dropped onto boats for distribution around the delta. 

Touch: The sensation of the warm breeze hitting the beads of sweat collecting on the back of my neck and chest, my sit bones absorbing the shock of my tires rolling over large crags in the deteriorating cement path, the sudden halt of my inertia as I pull on the jerky brake levers, my feet in socks and shoes for the first time in weeks, emerging from the shade of bougainvillea vines into the sunlight and feeling the temperature of my skin rise. 

Smell: Smoke of small wood burning fires boiling water to make rice, fish, fish and more fish, sewage, fields of marigold flowers in full bloom, sweet mangos hanging from their trees. 

Taste: Dank air hitting the back of my throat, dragon fruit plucked from a tree and cut up for me to enjoy, steeped iced tea made from rain water collected and stored in large clay pots for just such use, Vietnamese pancakes, tangy tamarind left over on the corners of my mouth after sucking some seeds of all their chewy goodness. 

A great bike ride yesterday. 

Serious Research 

I've been doing some extensive anthropological research here in Cambodia. Submerging myself in the rich culture, thoughtfully observing and then systematically cataloging the daily lives of the people. In other words, I've been doing some hard core people watching-My favorite activity! 

I feel like a modern day beer drinking, sea swimming, noodle consuming Margaret Mead! Maybe different. Ok, really different but that's not the point. The following are some of my observations as I wander through this incredibly vibrant place. 

If you are driving a car, bus, moto or tuktuk and you are not using your horn anywhere from 30-388 times per day, you are doing it wrong. 

On long, six hour bus rides when the sun outside is baking and sweaty legs are sticking to seats, it would appear, that it is not frowned upon to bring plastic bags full of crab and small fish to place on the seat next to your neighbor. 

Amongst Chinese travelers within Cambodia, the selfie sticks per capita ratio is roughly 2:1 based on my rudimentary calculations. 

Plastic bags, styrofoam waste, plastic  bottles and general garbage clog every waterway and sidewalk. In odd contrast leaves, dust, and various rubbish are ritually swept from business entrances and homes to maintain cleanliness. The existing garbage heaps just beyond these entrances are perhaps being ignored from what I can gather. I'm stumped. I am hopeful that education will align these contrasting ways of thinking and increased awareness will allow for reduction, reuse and recycling of the driving plastic storm drowning Cambodia at the moment. 

The power of a smile here is seemingly infinite. Flash a smile and be rewarded with kindness. It has been my belief that kindness often begets kindness. This is undoubtedly true here in Cambodia. Whether it be a warm smile from a perspiring woman standing over a wok or a gummy grin from a local fisherman, the universal gesture of a smile inspires connection and understanding on a beautifully silent level. This absence of verbal language made me reflect on a wonderful excerpt from a book I am reading:

"You don't realize how language actually interferes with communication until you don't have it, how it gets in the way like an over dominant sense. You have to pay much more attention to everything else when you can't understand the words. Once comprehension comes, so much else falls away. You then rely on their words and words aren't always the most reliable thing." -an excerpt from Euphoria by Lily King. Perhaps fluency in body language is the best thing? 

A Cambodian man in his underwear given a snorkel mask and a butter knife is also known as a boat mechanic. 

A family of five crammed onto the seat of one single motorbike is known as a carpool. 

Sharing canned beers and Oreos with a group of older woman on the street corner is always better than draft beers in the bar. 

I imagine my research and the discoveries yet to come will remain in the catalogs of my brain for the rest of ever. A gift.