Off the Beaten Track
Sandy Barker's Travel BlogArchive for Autobiography
Leaving home and homeward bound
I have been home in Sydney for the past week to finalize a work visa for my new job in Seattle. The trip, while being ‘immigrationally necessary’, has been the greatest gift.
When I landed the position at Groundspeak two months ago, I was thrilled – and then a little sad. I realized that it meant I would not see Australia, my home, for at least a year and a half.
Hence, the reason I have treated this week as a gift. The work visa was approved on Monday morning, and while I awaited the return of my passport, I enjoyed every moment of being home.
I have hugged old friends and chatted excitedly on the phone to others. I have swapped stories, gossip, concerns and triumphs, catching up on nearly a year of absense. I have talked at length with my dad, and spent an evening of laughter and tears at my aunt and uncle’s dining table.
I have indulged in many cups of coffee made by top-notch baristas, and stocked up on Jaffas and BONDS undies. I have taken dozens of photos of the most beautiful coastline in the world, filled a ziplock bag with sand from Bronte beach, and raided my storage boxes for much-loved books I want to take back to Seattle. I brought one suitcase, and I am taking two back. I have a tan.
And after just a week on Aussie soil, and my accent is as thick as ever (Ben calls it my Aussie accent ‘reboot’).
In a few hours I will be jetting across the Pacific Ocean on my way home. When I get there it will be one hour after I left, which I love, because it feels like ‘time travel’. I lost a Thursday on the way over, but am happily swapping it for two Saturdays.
On arrival, after hugs and kisses, and unpacking and showering (is there anything that feels better after a long-haul flight?), Ben and I will head over to our friend’s place for their housewarming party.
I will get to hug my new friends, and swap stories about our escapades over the past week, and plans for our upcoming holiday season. I will spend the rest of the weekend trying to get on Seattle time as quickly as possible, for on Monday morning I (finally) start my new job. I cannot wait.
So, I leave home to fly home, just as I did a week ago. When you have two places you call home, you are prone to twinges of homesickness, you will always miss loved ones, and you will sometimes slip into the annoying habit of comparing the two places – even if only to yourself.
But you will also have more love in your life, more joy, more nostalgia, and more hope for the future than you can possibly imagine.
I do. And I am very grateful. For all of it.
Geocached up
So, I have landed a new job.
As soon as my work visa is sorted, I will be working for Groundspeak, who run Geocaching.com among many other things.
Geocaching, as a recreation, was new to me when I applied for the job. I researched it, and decided that not only did I want to work with the people at Groundspeak, but that I wanted to become a geocacher. And so I have.
Ben and I signed up right away – when I was mid interviews. He has one of the fancy schmancy phones that does everything – including answer the phone – so we were all geared up with GPS technology. We created an online profile, and searched for caches based on our zip code.
Voila! Over 500 caches popped up within a 5 miles radius. Um, yeah, let’s narrow that down a bit.
We chose one and headed out from our apartment towards the Seattle Center. Unbeknown to us, we had picked the day of a huge festival to find our first cache. Our first task was to navigate our way through the throngs of people all desperate to get their hands on freebies, corn on the cob, or beer in plastic cups.
We rounded a corner and headed down a ramp, finally easing away from the crowd. You see, when you participate in geocaching, you want to keep a low profile. No one wants their cache raided or stolen by ‘muggles’ (they have appropriated the term from the Harry Potter series), so you have to ensure that you are discreet.
Down the end of the ramp, and around the corner, the GPS assessed that we were ‘there’. Now it was our job to find the cache within a 15-25 foot radius, not knowing exactly what we were looking for, and all the while trying to appear like we weren’t looking for anything at all.
It didn’t take long. Ben took a chance on venturing a little way into the garden bed and it paid off. The cache was a sealed Tupperware container, and enclosed was a log book, which we signed, and a few trinkets. We took nothing, but left a coupon for free yogurt.
Success.
We were quite pleased with ourselves, despite the fact that the ratings for difficulty and terrain were both 1/5. Still, we were no longer non-geocachers. We went to a film that afternoon, and when we got home, logged onto our profile and shared our success.
Since then we have sought three other caches, two of which were successful. The third is located in a small nature reserve in West Seattle. We chose it because we had yet to get out to West Seattle, and it was deemed a 2.5/5 for both difficulty and terrain. We wanted to kick it up a notch.
We discovered a few things that day.
Firstly, geocaching gets you out of the house, which is a particularly good thing when you realize that you are still in your pajamas at noon on a Sunday.
Secondly, if you choose caches in places you haven’t been to before, then you get to go somewhere new! This may seem obvious, but it is delightful, nevertheless, to go somewhere you haven’t been before.
West Seattle gave us this view of our neighborhood.
Queen Anne from West Seattle
We also discovered the joy of finding a cache that someone else cannot find. While we were looking for a Rating 1/1 cache close to where I took this photo, we saw other people looking for the same cache. They were following the readings on their GPS, trying to be surreptitious, and left after they had looked in all the same places we had. Only we decided to keep trying after they left.
At that moment I looked down and saw a small piece of paper next to my foot. I picked it up; it was a fortune from a cookie. It said “Your short-term goal will be realized soon.” I showed it to Ben, just as he put his hand on the cache. Cool!
The last thing we discovered that day was that you can try too hard.
We went in search of the 2.5/2.5 cache (that is 2.5/5 for difficulty and terrain). We had some notes from the previous finders, and we had the location in our GPS, but under the dense canopy of trees, the GPS was rendered next to useless.
It got us in the general vicinity, but we could never seem to get close to the cache, no matter how deep we went into the woods.
At one point I had climbed down a steep incline, fought my way through giant ferns, knocked down about 5o spider webs, and traversed a fallen log that was 8 feet off the ground on its far side. Nothing. And the only way out was to repeat all of that in reverse.
After more than an hour we were both dirty, sweaty and a little baffled. We went back to the main path, and even tried a couple of other small paths. None of them could get us any closer to the location marked by the GPS.
Ben emerging from a path
We called it a day.
We walked back to the car, drove back across town and when we got home looked up the cache. One note said, “The position of the cache is visible from the main path.” We had tried too hard. We had been searching for a cache that would have been rated much higher than 2.5/5 for either terrain or difficulty. We had dug holes, looked in trees, and gone WAAAYYYYY off the path.
But we’ll go back. I want that cache!
So, as I wait for the visa thing to be sorted, I am learning many wonderful and interesting things about all aspects of the geocaching world.
I have learned that in Western Australia there are 1818 caches. I have learned that most people I know in North America are geocachers themselves, or know someone who is.
I have also activated the Geocoin given to me by one of the founders of Groundspeak during my final interview. (Thank you Brian). I have set its course for the UK, and then Australia in the hopes that it will find its way back to me here. Isn’t that cool?
And, courtesy of my new boss, Jenn, I have my own geocaching profile now under the profile name, Sandy (for those who have accounts too – they’re FREE!) . At the moment I share all my caching information with Ben and our joint profile. Perhaps we will always cache together, as we are loving our mini adventures, but this gives us the chance to broaden our individual horizons too.
So, this is a little insight into my new world. I hope to see you out in it.
Heatwave
The thermometer in the northwest of the U.S. has nudged (and sometimes tipped over) the 100F mark for the past few days now.
As an Aussie girl yearning for a ‘real’ summer’s day, I was equally thrilled (It’s hot!) and amused (Will the people here please stop freaking out?) when I saw the forecast.
But you see, Seattle is equipped for the cold, not the heat. Our apartment, with its two tiny windows in the living room, has central heating, but no air-conditioning.
We are on the bottom floor and face north, so our place cooler than most other apartments in this building, but there is no air movement. If I cook for more than a few minutes, it gets very hot in here.
“We are eating only raw food for the next few days,” I informed Ben. He rarely complains about anything, and this revelation was no exception. I think he is just thrilled that I am willing to prepare dinner at all – cooked or raw.
Sleeping has presented its own problems. Two nights ago was the hottest night on record in Seattle – 71F/21C, which is very warm when you’re trying to sleep.
In my last apartment in Sydney, I had many windows. On a night like that I would have thrown them all open, and enjoyed a cooling sea breeze throughout the night. Not here.
Here we sleep under only a sheet, with a giant fan blowing on us. We sleep perfectly still to avoid the chance of touching or generating any superfluous body heat.
And you cannot buy a fan or air-conditioner in the entire north-west at the moment. Sold out!
Yesterday Ben and I were out in search of a salad spinner (so my life would be complete). We got our salad spinner (and my life IS complete), but as we left the store, a man pulled up in a car, leaned out the window and asked a staff member, “Do you have any fans?” “Nope,” was the heart-breaking reply.
“Really?” an incredulous Ben asked me. “I know this is unusually hot weather, but it gets warm here. Don’t people have fans anyway?” It’s a good point. We have been sleeping with a fan on all summer.
“You know, we have two fans,” he continued. “I bet we could sell one for $100 right now.” When we got back to the car, the thermometer read ’104′. “I think we should keep the fan,” I countered.
Forecasters predicted that yesterday would be the hottest day in Seattle’s recorded history. They were right. While we were buying a salad spinner, the city of Seattle was suffering. It is not used to the heat, it is not built for heat, and it is ill-equipped when a wave of it hits.
Malls, cinemas, and parks with wading pools are bursting at the seams. Restaurant takings have gone through the roof in recent days. People are showing up to work early and staying late, because most people here do not have air-conditioning at home.
Having said all that, I write this from the coolness of our apartment while outside it is 91F/33C. If we keep the blinds closed, the fans on, and the cooking to a minimum, we can keep it cool in here so sleep comes easier. A salad for dinner tonight, methinks.
So, the cynic is silenced.
Yes, it is hot, even for an Aussie girl.
Finally, I am reminded of a favorite poem by Shel Silverstein. Enjoy.
It’s Hot!
It’s hot!
I can’t get cool,
I’ve drunk a quart of lemonade,
I think I’ll take my shoes off
And sit around in the shade.
It’s hot!
My back is sticky,
The sweat rolls down my chin.
I think I’ll take my clothes off
And sit around in my skin.
It’s hot!
I’ve tried with ‘lectric fans,
And pools and ice cream cones.
I think I’ll take my skin off
And sit around in my bones.
It’s still hot!
Musings from Minnesota
“Summer time and the living is easy…”
Gershwin had it right. When the days are hot and the breezes are cool, when lakes are glassy and the loons call out at dusk, when you’re sipping beer and reading on the deck, life is easy.
A few days ago, Ben and I got back from a week at Crosslake, Minnesota. It is about a 3-hour drive from the twin cities, and is a heavenly part of the world.
Ben’s grandmother, Ellie, owns a cabin on Rush Lake, and we headed up there for some time away from the city bustle. Ben’s parents joined us half way through our stay and friends, Jake and Arielle, brought their baby Gus to visit.
Snippets from our stay:
Getting grubby
We both spend too much of our day to day lives indoors sitting at desks. That is why we gladly donned gloves and work clothes and got a little grubby doing yard work.
We raked and cleared, and I ushered a fist-sized frog down to the water when he (she?) emerged a little shell-shocked from a pile of leaves. I unearthed an old wheel barrow
and mended a small outdoor table. It feels really good to hit wood with a hammer!
When cleaning the speed boat I discovered at least 50 different kinds of spiders. In fact, there seem to be more spiders in the state of Minnesota than there are in the entire of Australia. One even thought that wiggling around inside my bra (while it was on) would be fun. Perhaps it was, but only for the spider.
Even Little Gus took time out of his visit to pitch in. Here he is getting vital instruction from Uncle Ben.
Seeing and being seen
My biggest question of the week was: “Are we in Minnesota or Miami?” The 4th of July long weekend on the lakes of Minnesota is the scene to see and be seen.
On one of our first jaunts out and about, I said to Ben, “I didn’t realize that I should be in a bikini and artfully arranged across the back of the boat.” He replied that he was all for supporting local cultural practices, so I adjusted my attire and seating arrangements on subsequent days, just to fit in…you know.
Getting into the Minnesota groove
Lazy days
So much of our time was just lazing about. Reading on the deck, walking to the shore and watching the sunset, playing with Remy, (Kevin and Ellen’s dog), getting ice-cream from the parlor in town, enjoying the fresh air, and having encounters with the wildlife (chipmunks, squirrels, frogs, crawfish, turtles, loons, geese and ‘lake’gulls).
Taken by Ben
Even our boys, Squirt and Tahoe, spent some time just watching the world go by. It was a truly relaxing time.
Water works
Of course, spending time up at the lakes means being on and in the water.
View of lagoon from dock
We swam, floated about on sun loungers, boated on the pontoon, sped about in the speed boat and even water skied on our last day up there. While the speed boat wasn’t powerful enough to slalom ski, I got up easily on two (despite the 16 years since I have done that) and took full advantage of the glassy water. There are few things that feel as exhilarating being ‘out on the whip’ as the boat turns.
4th of July Celebrations
And of course, our visit coincided with a festive time of the year. We attended the 4th of July parade, and watched as children lining the streets hauled more candy thrown from floats than they would ever get while trick or treating.
There were patriots young,
and old.
A highlight for us was seeing a family friend, Carl, driving his restored 1910s firetruck in the parade.
We were lucky enough to be taken for a ride on his firetruck a few days later.
As always, a warm thank you to my best friend and traveling companion, Ben, and to his lovely family who were wonderful to us.
‘Til the next time I wander…
One book in one minute
Of course, having just read through my friend, Simonne’s, 15 books in 5 minutes (note that she claims she wrote her whole post in 5 minutes. I took 45. Hmmm), I have realized that my favorite classic of all time is not on my list (it is on hers, though).
I could argue that it is in The Pantheon of books, and that it goes without saying that it is not only a favorite, but has an inexorable ‘classic’ status. Did I really need to mention it in my 15 books in 15 minutes? (I should say that it took me less than 7 minutes to come up with my list.)
Um, yes. I did. I should have to revoke my ‘awesome English teacher’ status – for at least a week.
The book is: To Kill a Mockingbird by Harper Lee. I first read it because I had to teach it, and I discovered magic. I did everything in my power to make my students love it as much as I did – for the simply told moral tale, and for the never to be repeated writing of Harper Lee. I guess when you win the Pulitzer for your first novel, the pressure to produce a second one can be great.
Phew. Glad I got that off my chest.
15 books in 15 minutes
I love to read. In fact, I have discovered that my desire to write is affected greatly by whether or not I am reading regularly. When I read less, because I am too busy to carve out the time, I write less. When I make time to read – and I read diversely – I find that creative impulses kick in more frequently. I even write stuff in the middle of the night, if that is when inspiration strikes (like last night).
This meme, as with many of the others I have done, comes from Charlotte, whose humor and insight also inspire me.
The task: Name 15 books that ‘stick’ with me – in 15 minutes. Okay, so this took me 45 minutes (sorry Charlotte).
IT by Stephen King Truly the most terrifying book I have ever picked up. I could only read it in daylight, because it scared me so thoroughly. This proved difficult, because it is so long, and I never wanted to put it down. Dusk would come, however, and I had to close the pages so Pennywise the Clown would not get me.
Jane Eyre by Charlotte Bronte I read this for class at university, and I fell in love with simple Jane, and her classic Byronic hero, Rochester. I learned that ‘classics’ are deemed such for a reason. Heart-achingly told, and timeless.
Almost French by Sarah Turnbull A travel biography about an Aussie girl living in Paris with a Frenchman she fell in love with while traveling. Hilarious episodes underpinned by a sense of ‘otherness’, homesickness and doubt. Striking parallels to my own life, and validation that my writing style is commercially viable.
Dracula by Bram Stoker I am drawn mostly to the love story in this novel. I also love the Gothic genre, and this book laid a foundation for future reading, such as Anne Rice.
The Bride Stripped Bare by Anonymous Nikki Gemmell was revealed as the writer of this ‘stream of consciousness’ novel. As a reader you wonder how she crawled into your brain to extract your thoughts. She speaks dark and private truths, the things that you would NEVER say aloud.
The Lovely Bones by Alice Sebold A young girl is murdered and watches helplessly from heaven as her family struggle to survive their loss, and the killer walks freely amongst her family and friends. The concept is innovative, but it is Sebold’s skill with words that makes it an extraordinary read.
Postmortem by Patricia Cornwell And so began my love affair with intelligent crime fiction, and with Kay Scarpetta. I was riveted, and because I came late to the party I was able to read 6 or 7 in quick succession. The last was a disappointment, however.
The Bronze Horseman by Paullina Simons I was given this book and it sat on my bookshelf for over a year. It is fat and I was daunted by it. I labored through the first hundred pages, and then I was carried away into Russia during WWII. Epic.
The Rabbits by John Marsden and Shaun Tan A picture book. White rabbits invade a land inhabited by bandicoots. The text is sparse and the drawings are so evocative, they bring tears to my eyes.
The Long Way Round by Ewan McGregor and Charley Boorman This was a television series, but I enjoyed the book more. They ride their motorcycles from London to London (essentially). Intriguing stuff. Importantly, it inspires me to ‘get out there and get grubby’.
Flowers in the Attic by Virginia Andrews My friends and I devoured these books throughout adolescence. Chaste schoolgirls lived vicariously through the sexual awakening of Cathy and Chris, siblings whose love was forbidden. A modern-day Gothic novel, with many bosoms heaving – inside and outside the book.
Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban by J.K. Rowling My favorite of the lot. I still don’t understand the end of the last one. Perhaps the movie will shed some light.
The Lord of the Flies by William Golding I read this at 15 and my perception shifted (perhaps not for the better). I realized that there are innate traits in us that will want to rise to the surface, and that it is our job (in life) to keep them subdued. That’s pretty heady stuff for a 15 year old.
The Time Traveler’s Wife by Audrey Niffeneger This is my favorite book. The writing is tough, poignant and real. Up front you have to accept that time travel is a genetic anomaly, and beyond that everything else is ‘truth’. Beautifully written, brilliantly imagined.
The Book Thief by Markus Zusak I finished this book and said, “That is the best book I have ever read.” And it is. Niffeneger is still my favorite, but The Book Thief is innovative, engaging, and gut-wrenching. Could not put it down, so finished it in about four days.
Tag! Your turn…
Boys, baristas and burgers
When you move to a new city, your senses are heightened. You notice that everything feels ‘new’, because your body is picking up on the subtle differences between that place and your previous home.
The salt air here in Seattle is brinier than in Sydney, more pungent. On sunny days, the sky seems bluer here too, perhaps because it contrasts so starkly with the usual grey. The people here are friendlier, especially those who work in stores, “Are you finding everything okay?’.
This heightened awareness, however, does not last. Through a series of simple little acceptances, small snippets of knowing, a place starts to feel like home. The novelty of charming details dissipates, as do the annoying differences (‘I have to pay when someone sends ME an SMS?!’).
Instead those details become part of a fabric called ‘home’. The appreciation may remain, but we come to know those details as the norm. We stop saying, ‘Back home in Sydney…’ and think of the new place as home.
Seattle is now home.
I have started looking after two little boys, aged three and five, once a week. Mostly, our time together is fun, or at least fine. They paint, and play endlessly at a game that I can only describe as ‘not much of anything at all’, but includes lots of running, and uttering of unintelligible words. I even made muffins with the little one, who delighted in cracking an egg for the first time all by himself.
These boys love to stop and smell the flowers, and I mean that literally. Yesterday, a three block walk to the bus took 15 minutes, because they stopped at nearly every garden to smell and admire the flowers. Sweet – a little annoying after 13 minutes – but mostly, sweet.
When I first met them, I was charmed by their strong American accents; it is generally cute to hear any child speak in an accent other than your own. ‘Oh, their R’s are so pronounced – how darling!’
However, that novelty was quickly forgotten yesterday when the oldest one ‘chucked a tanty’ (threw a huge tantrum, for my North American readers). There is nothing cute about a tantrum in an American accent. There is nothing cute about a five year old screaming anything in any accent. (We made up – me and the five year old. Although, I am a forgiver, not a forgetter.)
The boys at Seattle Center
Yep, Seattle is home.
I have a new local coffee shop now. I thought that it would be Uptown Espresso, which I discovered on a visit here last year, and for a while it was. Their coffee is good, and they are only three blocks away.
They were usurped, however, when I happened upon the smooth smell of well-made coffee wafting from the door of Cafe Lladro, a few blocks further from my home.
Jackpot! Their coffee is great. ‘A double tall non-fat latte, no foam, extra hot,’ has replaced ‘tall, skinny flat white’, and is just as good as Pavel used to make back in Sydney. I never thought I would say that about a cafe in the same city that birthed Starbucks, but I am happy to proven wrong about this particular previous gripe. And I would be remiss not to mention that their friendly efficient service is the icing on the cake. Great coffee and good service. Nice.
Oh yeah, Seattle is home.
Last Friday night there was an impromptu gathering of friends at the loft of Lars and Anya, or ‘Larzenanya’, as they have come to be called. Lars promised us a ‘$25 Hamburger’ – not because that is what they cost to make, but because that is what he could charge in a restaurant. It was a big call.
We arrived to gracious hellos, the pouring of drinks, and burger order forms. In: blue cheese, special sauce, onions, or a combo of these. On: Swiss cheese, Cheddar cheese, or Mozzarella? Done: well, medium-well, medium, medium-rare, or rare. Wow. Not sure on the math, but I approximate at least 1500 permutations of burgers with those options.
Lars manned the grill with confidence and flair. Anya, ever the charming hostess, ran front of house like a pro. Ben, long time avoider of red meat, signed on for the ride.
When my burger was done, I added my fixings, and savored the anticipation. Onions in, and Swiss cheese on a medium-rare burger with barbecue sauce, ketchup and mustard.
Phenomenal. I was delighted by every bite, and judging from the lull in conversation throughout the room, so was everyone else, including my mostly-vegetarian boyfriend.
This month Seattle Magazine has readers voting on the best burgers in Seattle. I would argue heavily that the Larzananya’s Burger should win.
For sure, Seattle is definitely home.
I have said before that Ben and I do not know what the future holds for us both professionally, so therefore do not know where work will take us in the coming years. For this reason, we are truly savoring all the little things about Seattle that make it home.
It’s natural beauty takes my breath away. The wonderful friendship we continue to make, make my heart full. That I am picking up some work outside of home is a blessing (no matter the little ‘moment’s that come with child-minding).
I knew well before I moved here that I could happily live in Seattle. And now I do.
A big bite
I live with an amazing person. Yesterday morning, despite a niggling cold, he jumps out of bed and says, “Let’s have tea on the roof.” So, we made mugs of tea, grabbed our books, and headed to the roof of our building to enjoy the morning sun, and our incredible view.
Looking back to the city
The Port
Yes, it is a little gray today (it was sunny yesterday), but we are so close to the city and the water that I love the view no matter the weather. That said, the next time the sun shines – more and more as we head towards Summer – I will take more pics.
Back to the person I live with: yesterday afternoon, suffering a little from cabin fever and too many video games, he says, “Let’s head up to that park we haven’t been to yet.” It is about three blocks from home, and is less like a park and more like a series of paths and trails that traverse the giant Queen Anne hill. The canopy of trees is thick, and the air smells earthy and clean. Walking the trails I could just imagine fairies and princesses doing the same. We climbed the paths to see where they went, and headed back home. The Spring blossoms have spread a carpet of pink over the neighborhood. I stood under a huge tree and jumped up to touch the branches. A rain of petals showered down, “It’s snowing pink stuff!”
Just a little excursion shook off the cabin fever, and the post-flu blues.
This is such a beautiful city, with many wonders – big and small – that we get to encounter every day.
This is on the drive home from Ben’s aunt and uncle’s house.
Woodinville, Washington
Woodinville is about 30 minutes from the city, and is a semi-rural neighborhood, with white fences, rolling green hills and dozens of types of trees.
Woodinville Christmas Tree Farm
On the way back from Woodinville, we make this crossing of Lake Washington on the 520 bridge. This was a day when the wind was whipping along the lake, and because the bridge is floating, the water can be rough on one side and calm on the other.
And sometimes we get to share this city with visitors. My mom was here recently, and we took her to Bainbridge Island. We crossed Puget Sound on the ferry on a beautiful Spring day.
Seattle from the ferry to Bainbridge
The main streets of Bainbridge Island are filled with cafes, stores and this church:
And the shores are lined with trees and houses.
For $6 dollar ferry ride, which is spectacular in itself, Bainbridge is a little treasure close to home.
More and more we are enjoying the company of new friends. Last weekend, our lovely friends Matt and Crystal invited us out on their boat, along with Monica and Brian.
Lake Washington
It was still and peaceful out on the lake, and for some reason we were the only people who thought to get out there. We had the whole lake to ourselves. This blew us away:
Sunset over Lake Washington
Ben and I had our king and queen of the world moment as we headed back to the marina.
On Lake Union
These are some snippets from our life here in a beautiful city. We are not sure how long we will be here – another year, or maybe more. We just want to be able to say we took a big bite out of this city. Oh, and to our friends here: keep the invitations to those parties coming!
At Gerry's 30th Birthday Party
back on the horse
On Saturday, April 4th, Ben and I made the drive from Vancouver to Whistler in good time, despite the copious roadworks. Our accommodation in Whistler was ready for us at 9am – 7 hours before check in – which suited us perfectly, because we could change for the slopes in our apartment rather than the car park. The sun was warm, and the day would yield blue skies, which was stark contrast from the -12C weather I’d experienced my first time there in 2007. We had prepaid our rentals and ski passes, so were geared up and ready to ski by 10:30am. Not bad for leaving Vancouver at 7:30.
The only thing tainting a perfect morning was my nerves. I always get a little nervous before skiing, because I am relatively new to it, but these nerves were making it hard to concentrate on anything other than the steep runs of Whistler Mountain. I haven’t skied many places, but when I skied Whistler in 2007, I felt liked it kicked my butt. The green runs were steeper than I had experienced before and the bottom half of the mountain was icy, which means a novice spends more time slipping and sliding than skiing.
“Are you okay,” asked Ben, noticing my apprehension.
“I feel like I did right before we went sky diving.” I wasn’t kidding, and no matter how hard I tried, I could not talk myself out of that fear.
We rode the gondola to the top of Whistler and Ben had already said that he would ski part the way down with me on the green runs ‘to warm up’. I was happy with that, and by the time I was actually standing on my skis and could see the powdery snow, I was feeling more calm. The run started well, mostly because I have had quite a few more hours on skis since my first time at Whistler. Add to that the gorgeous weather, powdery snow, and a grinning boyfriend skiing next to me, and my nerves dissipated. “I can do this,” I thought as I handled slopes that would have scared me not too long ago.
Then it happened: I started having fun.
I let myself pick up speed. I tried more parallel turns (nearly there), and I took bigger chances than I usually would. I was loving it, and even laughed off a clumsy fall, which happened when I overturned and headed down the mountain backwards. I also managed a terrific parallel stop which amazed me. I didn’t know I could do that!
Ben skied off in between trees, because he can, and was pulling off a spectacular cross-country maneuver when the edge of my uphill ski clipped something hard, crossed over my other ski and I fell face forward down the slope. I put my arms out to break my fall, and ‘pop’ went my right shoulder, which is a horrible sound to hear when you fall. More horrible was the pain that shot from my shoulder to my neck and down the length of my arm. I rolled onto my back, and lay there, swearing. The swearing part was involuntary, because it was the kind of pain that makes you feel a bit nauseous.
Ben came back and helped me to my feet. He retrieved my wayward ski and helped me back onto it. He wiped off the outside – and inside – of my goggles, and I reassured him that I was okay to keep going. I cursed my clumsiness, and we got back to the business of skiing down the mountain.
The thing was, we had skied most of the soft, powdery snow. Fairly soon after my fall we hit the mid-mountain runs which were icy and more steep than those at the top. And not only did my shoulder hurt, I also started to feel the after effects of the fall. Physically, the adrenaline was wearing off, and I became shaky and weak. Mentally, I lost my ‘mojo’. All confidence was gone, and when we turned on to trails I previously would have attacked (in my clumsy, novice way), I was scared again.
We got to a major junction where Ben could get on a ski lift to more challenging parts of the mountain. I kind of begged him to ‘go on without me’. I wasn’t being dramatic. I just didn’t want to completely fall apart in front of him. He seemed disappointed, and I wasn’t sure at the time whether it was ‘for me’ or ‘in me’, but perhaps it was a little of both. He got in line for the lift, and grateful to be on my own, I continued on my way down the mountain. ‘Snowplough’ featured heavily on my descent, even though I have been beyond that for some time now.
I skied 2/3 of the way down, and came upon a gondola station where I could ride the rest of the way to Whistler Village. As I leaned against the bench in the gondola I let my tears of frustration fall. I had a stern ‘get back on the horse’ talk with myself, and I knew that if Ben was disappointed in me – even if only a little – it could not compare to how annoyed I was at myself.
At the bottom of the mountain I splashed water on my face, looked hard at myself in the mirror and shook off my feelings of self-derision. I killed time before lunch with Ben by mooching about shops, and when I entered l’Occitane, I was greeted by three Aussie accents. I spent about half an hour having a chat with lovely young ex-pats who were good company, and let me try lots of different products. When I left for lunch I was feeling – and smelling – better.
Over lunch, Ben and I decided that we would start the next day by riding the Peak to Peak gondola that runs from the top of Whistler to the top of Blackcomb Mountain. There were green runs from there all the way down Blackcomb, so I could rest up for the rest of the day and then start fresh in the morning. I was committed to getting back on the horse. I spent the afternoon alone, but not lonely, nursing my aching shoulder. We then spent a lovely evening which included the resort’s hot tub, drinks by the fireplace of a wine bar, and a gourmet Japanese dinner.
I slept carefully, mostly on my left side, keeping my right arm close to me like an injured wing. When I woke on Sunday and tried to do something simple, like pushing the covers off me, I knew I wouldn’t be skiing that day either. My should and upper arm hurt worse, and showering, drying myself and especially getting into a turtleneck all presented challenges and required help from Ben. To put myself, a relative novice, on skis for the day would be irresponsible. Damn it!
I thought of wasted money and wasted opportunities – to ski again with Ben, to improve my turns, to ski under blue skies. I so desperately want to get past the part where skiing is somewhat challenging and even a little scary and onto loving it. It did occur to me to stay in our lovely apartment and read, but that thought did not last long.
I suited up for a day in the snow, and rode to gondola to the top of Whistler with Ben. We then boarded the Peak to Peak gondola, which holds the record for the longest span between towers (3 kms).
The ride gave us incredible views, including those from the window in the floor of the cabin.
Once on top of Blackcomb, I took a few shots and Ben kissed me goodbye before skiing off.
I headed indoors for a hot cuppa. I wrote most of this post in a notebook while I sipped a hot mocha and looked out at a breathtaking view.
When the table next to mine filled with three families who shared a total of seven children under six, I made a beeline for the door. (I knew I could not listen to much more whining about who got the most M&M’s.)
The ride back across the Peak to Peak was just as enjoyable, and I met a lovely Mexican couple who put me onto Arnica (a natural remedy) for my shoulder. I sought it out when I got to the base of the mountain, but two days later am still achy and sore. More rest, some anti-inflammatory pills, and keeping up with the Arnica will hopefully have me back to boxing class next week.
The rest of our time away was wonderful. We had evening drinks outdoors because the weather was so mild –
and took a morning walk along a trail through the woods before we left.
I got over the disappointment of not skiing, and am keen to hit the slopes again soon – mostly likely in Washington, if we can make time before the end of the season. My turns are coming along, and I really want to get better. I will ski Whistler again some day, but for now she remains the victor. She is beautiful, but she kicked my butt again.
I used to hate Woody Allen
April 16, 2009 at 10:37 pm · Filed under Autobiography, Commentary, Film Critique and tagged: films, Penelope Cruz, Spider, Vicky Cristina Barcelona, Woody Allen
I am sure my dislike of Woody Allen stems from my mother. She can’t stand him, and I have clear childhood memories of her saying so. “Yuk, he’s so icky,” she’d say, screwing up her face. As a child that stuff gets in there and it sticks. I grew up hating Woody Allen.
In my 20s I discovered the Manhattan Murder Mystery, which I loved. Perhaps because it is Allen’s homage to the Thin Man Films of the 30s with William Powell and Myrna Loy – and as a university film student, I had chewed through those voraciously in a matter of weeks.
Bullets Over Broadway delighted me, and I fell more in love with Dianne Wiest (an ‘affair’ that started with Footloose) who was bold and sexy. “Don’t speak,” she’d cry with that throaty voice, as she seduced John Cusack. Delicious.
Mighty Aphrodite converted me completely; the Greek Drama intrusions appealed to the thespian in me, and Mira Sorvino is brilliantly vague as Linda. At the impressionable age of 26 I had to admit that, “Yes, he is a little icky, but Woody Allen is a creative genius”.
These films were guilty pleasures, and I usually watched alone. I didn’t know how to tell my mother that I had been converted to the ways of Woody. Her echoing words remain, however, and to this day I prefer his films in which he does not appear.
Sadly, I hit a Woody wall in 1996. I went with much anticipation to Everyone Says I Love You. It sucked. Enough said. I returned with hope to De-constructing Harry, which was pretty good, and Melinda and Melinda, which I enjoyed. Some years down the track we arrive at Match Point.
I know I may be alone, but I must confess I did not like Match Point. By the end I didn’t care about any of the characters, particularly the protagonist, and hoped they would all die/get caught. I thought it should have been called What’s the Point?
I left Woody for a while, skipping Scoop and Cassandra’s Dream to return to the fold with Vicky Cristina Barcelona.
I LOVE THIS FILM. I would be so bold as to say that it is in my Top Ten. VCB is passionate, hilarious, dark, heart-breaking, sexy, and poses many pertinent questions about life and love – questions that we must all ponder at some point.
When Penelope Cruz won the Oscar for her portrayal of Maria Elena, a crazed and impassioned woman, I jumped up and down in my living room, and I cried. She was outstanding in this role, and she credits Woody Allen for showing her that she could be this dark and intense.
More recently I was introduced to a quirky wonder of the Romantic Comedy canon. “Have you seen Annie Hall?” asked my film-loving man. “Um, no.” I made a scrunched up face reminiscent of my mother’s. “Oh my God, we have to watch Annie Hall!”
I cannot imagine why I was so reticent. I knew I liked – no, loved – Woody films, so why didn’t I want to see this one, his masterpiece? And then I realized it is because he is the romantic lead in Annie Hall, and he is, well, icky.
I told Ben I would give it 20 minutes, so we started watching on a rainy Sunday afternoon.
Brilliant. Hilarious. Moving. Brilliant.
If you can watch the scene where he goes over to her apartment to kill the spider(s) in the bathroom – “Honey, there’s a spider the size of a Buick in your bathroom!” – and not laugh, you must be dead.
–Clumsy, non-existent segue–
As Ben and I lay in bed this morning, talking about how much we didn’t want to get up, and I spied THIS on the ceiling:
Deadly Bedroom Spider
I then sent my man to do what men must do: kill the spider.
“Do you want to use my stool,” I offered. (I have a little step stool for the kitchen, so I can reach the flour cannister and the good wine.)
“You want me to kill the spider with your stool?” Was he crazy? Then my stool would have spider guts on it!
“No! I want you to stand on my stool and squish it with a tissue, like a real man!”
And so he did.
My hero
I realize that we’re not quite Woody Allen and Diane Keaton. But watching Ben save me from certain death with a tissue took me back to Woody doing the same for Diane (only he used a tennis racket). Just thinking about that scene makes me laugh.
Yes, I used to hate Woody Allen. Not anymore.
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