March 31, 2011
Mexico City
How to Celebrate a Birthday
First, start with an idea: Hmm...I want to do something my father never did on his 62nd birthday!
Think of possibilities: Visit a colonial city. Go to a museum you've never been to. See a movie. Have a great dinner in a new part of town you don't know well. Climb a volcano.
Pick the one that best meets the criteria of something your father never did on his 62nd birtday.
CLIMB A VOLCANO!
And so I did. I certainly didn't like the idea of turning 62, but if I had to do it, I might as well do it in style. Up at 6:00 a.m. on the morning of the birthday. Shower. Pack warm clothes. It might be warm in 7,500 foot Mexico City, but it will not be warm at 15,000 feet. Grab a taxi to the bus station. Travel the hour up and out of Mexico City to Toluca, at 8,500 feet. Start the day right with a big bottle of cold Diet Coke and a package of cookies. Hey! Why not? It's my birthday and I can do anything I want.
I get to Toluca by 8:30 a.m., walk outside and start asking taxis how much they will charge me to take me to the trail head of El Nevado de Toluca, wait at least two hours while I finish the ascent to the crater's rim, then return me to Toluca. I get quotes of 700 pesos. No way! My guide books tells me 500 pesos! $42.00.
I find Max.
"You speak English?" he says.
"I do." "500 pesos," he says.
He's my man.
I settle a few other issues, like where to buy some breakfast and enough liquid to keep me hydrated as I slog up an extinct volcano almost three miles above sea level. This is not a difficult climb. We head out of Toluca. El Nevado looms ahead. It's a clear, early morning. I'm told to do this hike early as it it clouds up by midday. Max and I are rattling along in a fine mix of English and Spanish. He lived eight years in Pittsburg and speaks the language well. When neither of us can figure out how to express ourselves in the other language, we swtich back to our native tongue. It's a great way to start the day! Twenty minutes out of the city he diverts off the Federal Highway and starts a steady climb up another well paved road. Pine trees shade the dry, parched ground. It's not rained here in several months and it's bone dry. Soon we enter the El Nevado de Toluca National Park and the paved road turns to a well packed dirt track. We climb and climb. Both of us say we have headaches. We're well above 12,000 feet, and this is rarified air. I'm grateful that I've been living at 7,500 feet and am aclimatized to that. It will make the last leg of the hike that much easier.
We reach the end of the road. He's warned me that I'll have to hike at least a kilometer up. That's just over a half a mile, but I'm at 14,500 feet and at that altitude a half mile takes on a whole other story. I take off and start the ascent way too fast. I'm well above 13,000 feet and this was a fast climb to this altitude.
I'm healthy, but my lungs take a beating and I start a hacking cough tht leads to dry heaves. And this is just ten minutes into the hike. But I refuse to give up. I will not do that. This is my birthday climb and I will get to the rim of the crater.
So I start to climb more slowly. From several trips to Bolivia where I've lived for days at this altitude, I've learned that the best thing is to count twenty slow steps, stop for a reasonable time, then repeat the process. It's slow, but within the hour I reach the crater.
Below me lay two lakes--la laguna de la luna and la laguna del sol. I really want to take the trail down to the crater, but my deal with Max was to climb to the crater, hang around a bit, then return. He is, after all, waiting in his taxi for me.
I stay on the crater's rim for almost an hour, soaking up vistas, thanking God for the ability to do this, and texting a few people boasting of my accomplishment.
I'm totally bummed, though, that my camera's battery wore out on the ride up the mountain. But I'm also so exhilarated that I've already decided to come back with a few others--and my good Niokon where I'll photo document the whole adventure. That time we'll negotiate for a longer stay on the summit, allowing us to take the trails down into the crate and around the lakes.
The walk down to the car is a cinch. Max is napping. I wake him, we take off and within the hour we're back in Toluca.
Mission Accomplished! I had a fantastic birthday and certainly did something my father never did on his 62nd birthday!
Wednesday, March 30, 2011
62!
March 30, 2011
Mexico City, Mexico
62!
It is, I suppose, normal to be more reflective at the years go by, and at 62 I find myself more reflective than ever. This is probably due to the loss of Mom a year ago; she has been ever on my mind as this month flows into the next. It was she, more than anyone who made birthdays, and Christmas and Easter and every other holiday, special. She loved holidays and it made her sad as she aged that the holidays were not filled with people as they were years ago.
On the morning of my birthday, or my brother’s, we’d come into the dining room to find balloons and streamers attached to the chandelier and one place set at the table with her wedding china. All the gifts would be piled on the plate. And so it’s been this month, as I contemplate what it means to be 62, that I’ve been thinking back through the years to the most memorable.
Maybe I was six. It’s an Uncle Francis story which means I was in Kindergarten. We were just home from Florida and waiting to move back to 23 Grace Ave. My mother must have seen an idea in a magazine. The cake was a “clown cake,” with a decorated ice cream cone as the hat. Perhaps I remember the cake from the photos. I don’t know. But it seems to be the first birthday of which I have a memory.
A year or two later my mother made a birthday cake with four or five layers. She covered it with frosting and coconut. It was the custom in those days that my two cousins, born the same year, would come to my birthday party. The cake was such a hit that both cousins wanted the same cake. My mother would tell that story for many years to come.
When I turned eighteen I became “legal.” I remember going to a store, buying a quart of beer, and sitting in Riverside Cemetery drinking it. At age twenty five I was so depressed for being a quarter century old that I stayed in my apartment all day—a cold, rainy, late March day. Twenty five! Hah!
From the day I turned 29 I spent the next 365 days in angst! I’d be 30 a year later and that was a depressing, sober fact. I remember running into my cousin John Ladue, twenty years my senior, on the night before my birthday. “Oh woe is me,” I must have said. “Tell you what, John said. “Kill yourself right now and you’ll always be 29!”
I didn’t. I turned 30, and the day after I realized what a bunch of negative energy I’d expended for a birthday. I never did that again.
Fast forward twenty years. March 30, 1999. I’m in Central Australia, choosing to climb Ayers Rock for my 50th birthday.
And ten years later, retired, I’m at Iguazu Falls in Argentina. In my memory, there are very few bad birthdays.
I don’t like the idea of 62. I’m still trying to wrap my head around 60. But this is the way it is. I think of my high school friend, David Heath, who died at 16, two weeks after diagnosis of leukemia. I think of a teacher I worked with who died of cancer at 27. And friends and acquaintances dead in their 30’s or 40’s of accidents or disease. And my dear, dear and oldest friend, Mary Boulé, who died of pancreatic cancer within six weeks of diagnosis at the age of 55, leaving behind a 20 year old orphan.
No…like 60, I will rejoice in this birthday, give thanks for blessings more abundant than anyone can ask for, and be grateful that I got this far without anything serious.
The five years since I retired have been…well…astounding! I have come to believe, as the author May Sarton wrote in The House by the Sea, that “the 60’s are marvelous because one has become fully oneself by then, but the erosions of old age, erosion of strength, of memory, of physical well being have not yet fully begun to frustrate and meddle.”
There is still time…time to do all the things that I still want to do. And, to quote a Quaker writer, Bradford Smith, “at 62 I am ready, and fortunately able, to plan my life without reference to earning more money. What I do can be for the doing’s sake, or expected fruits—a prospect as fearful almost as it is pleasant. What is worth doing?”
What is worth doing? It’s a powerful question.
Perhaps I’m doing it.
One thing I’m not going to do is waste my time trying to figure it all out.
62 is a gift! And I am grateful!
Mexico City, Mexico
62!
It is, I suppose, normal to be more reflective at the years go by, and at 62 I find myself more reflective than ever. This is probably due to the loss of Mom a year ago; she has been ever on my mind as this month flows into the next. It was she, more than anyone who made birthdays, and Christmas and Easter and every other holiday, special. She loved holidays and it made her sad as she aged that the holidays were not filled with people as they were years ago.
On the morning of my birthday, or my brother’s, we’d come into the dining room to find balloons and streamers attached to the chandelier and one place set at the table with her wedding china. All the gifts would be piled on the plate. And so it’s been this month, as I contemplate what it means to be 62, that I’ve been thinking back through the years to the most memorable.
Maybe I was six. It’s an Uncle Francis story which means I was in Kindergarten. We were just home from Florida and waiting to move back to 23 Grace Ave. My mother must have seen an idea in a magazine. The cake was a “clown cake,” with a decorated ice cream cone as the hat. Perhaps I remember the cake from the photos. I don’t know. But it seems to be the first birthday of which I have a memory.
A year or two later my mother made a birthday cake with four or five layers. She covered it with frosting and coconut. It was the custom in those days that my two cousins, born the same year, would come to my birthday party. The cake was such a hit that both cousins wanted the same cake. My mother would tell that story for many years to come.
When I turned eighteen I became “legal.” I remember going to a store, buying a quart of beer, and sitting in Riverside Cemetery drinking it. At age twenty five I was so depressed for being a quarter century old that I stayed in my apartment all day—a cold, rainy, late March day. Twenty five! Hah!
From the day I turned 29 I spent the next 365 days in angst! I’d be 30 a year later and that was a depressing, sober fact. I remember running into my cousin John Ladue, twenty years my senior, on the night before my birthday. “Oh woe is me,” I must have said. “Tell you what, John said. “Kill yourself right now and you’ll always be 29!”
I didn’t. I turned 30, and the day after I realized what a bunch of negative energy I’d expended for a birthday. I never did that again.
Fast forward twenty years. March 30, 1999. I’m in Central Australia, choosing to climb Ayers Rock for my 50th birthday.
And ten years later, retired, I’m at Iguazu Falls in Argentina. In my memory, there are very few bad birthdays.
I don’t like the idea of 62. I’m still trying to wrap my head around 60. But this is the way it is. I think of my high school friend, David Heath, who died at 16, two weeks after diagnosis of leukemia. I think of a teacher I worked with who died of cancer at 27. And friends and acquaintances dead in their 30’s or 40’s of accidents or disease. And my dear, dear and oldest friend, Mary Boulé, who died of pancreatic cancer within six weeks of diagnosis at the age of 55, leaving behind a 20 year old orphan.
No…like 60, I will rejoice in this birthday, give thanks for blessings more abundant than anyone can ask for, and be grateful that I got this far without anything serious.
The five years since I retired have been…well…astounding! I have come to believe, as the author May Sarton wrote in The House by the Sea, that “the 60’s are marvelous because one has become fully oneself by then, but the erosions of old age, erosion of strength, of memory, of physical well being have not yet fully begun to frustrate and meddle.”
There is still time…time to do all the things that I still want to do. And, to quote a Quaker writer, Bradford Smith, “at 62 I am ready, and fortunately able, to plan my life without reference to earning more money. What I do can be for the doing’s sake, or expected fruits—a prospect as fearful almost as it is pleasant. What is worth doing?”
What is worth doing? It’s a powerful question.
Perhaps I’m doing it.
One thing I’m not going to do is waste my time trying to figure it all out.
62 is a gift! And I am grateful!
Monday, March 28, 2011
Teotihuacan and the First Day of Spring!
March 27, 2011
Mexico City, Mexico
The Pyramid to the Sun,
at the great Aztec city of Teotihucan, 50 miles north of Mexico City, is the third largest pyramid in the world, and on the first day of spring it's overrun by thousands of New Agers, all dressed in white, who climb the pyramid to absorb the Sun's energy from the summit.
But this year, March 20th, 2011, the first day of spring was not only on a Sunday when it's free for nationals, but the day before a national holiday. (If spring arrived on a Tuesday, as it did four years ago when I first experienced the Vernal Equinox here, about 20,000 people would show up.) This year, though, because of the long weekend, it's estimated that 800,000 people came.
800,000!
That's just 200,000 people short of a million.
I just love the excesses of Mexico City. And so it was that three of the 800,000 were me, and my dear friends Glenda from NY and Gerardo from Mexico City, who's been my guide more than once for the best this city has to offer. We got a late start--not a good thing.
Our first indication that this was not a normal Sunday was the one hour wait for a bus then a two hour bus ride to the site. Normally this should take less than hour, but traffic was thick. The bus let us off at least half a mile from the site, which meant we walked the rest of the way. This was all part of the fun energy, as all sorts of vendors lined the road. Shamans, too, practicing their craft, were available for a sprititual cleaning. All three of us paid ten pesos for this.
Our goal was to climb the pyramid and be part of the Spring celebration. I'm glad we didn't have too many other goals, as the line was two hours long. It snaked along two sides of the pyramid, climbed to the first level, then snaked through another seven lines. Glenda was only able to get to the first level. She'd just gotten to Mexico City and she finally met her match with the altitude--500 feet higher than the capital.
But Gerardo and I finished. We raised our arms to the sun and picked up its special energy in this very special place on this very special day. We had out photos taken, and lived in the moment of this incredible day.
Later, we met Glenda on the first level. She was at least on the pyramid and that was enough for her.
But that was the end of our pyramid climbing. Officials were moving people out and we were unable to get to the Pyramid of the Moon.
On our way off the site, we stopped in the adjoning town, San Juan de Teotihucan, who holds its annual fair during these early Spring days. We ate bad Mexican carnival food--deep fried bananas smothered in condensed milk and chocolate sauce, and cotton candy.
It was full night when we arrived back in Coyoacan--dirty, hot, dehydrated, but full of the fun and energy that only can happen on the first day of Spring at Teotihucan!
It was a great day!
Mexico City, Mexico
The Pyramid to the Sun,
at the great Aztec city of Teotihucan, 50 miles north of Mexico City, is the third largest pyramid in the world, and on the first day of spring it's overrun by thousands of New Agers, all dressed in white, who climb the pyramid to absorb the Sun's energy from the summit. But this year, March 20th, 2011, the first day of spring was not only on a Sunday when it's free for nationals, but the day before a national holiday. (If spring arrived on a Tuesday, as it did four years ago when I first experienced the Vernal Equinox here, about 20,000 people would show up.) This year, though, because of the long weekend, it's estimated that 800,000 people came.
800,000!
That's just 200,000 people short of a million.
I just love the excesses of Mexico City. And so it was that three of the 800,000 were me, and my dear friends Glenda from NY and Gerardo from Mexico City, who's been my guide more than once for the best this city has to offer. We got a late start--not a good thing.
Our first indication that this was not a normal Sunday was the one hour wait for a bus then a two hour bus ride to the site. Normally this should take less than hour, but traffic was thick. The bus let us off at least half a mile from the site, which meant we walked the rest of the way. This was all part of the fun energy, as all sorts of vendors lined the road. Shamans, too, practicing their craft, were available for a sprititual cleaning. All three of us paid ten pesos for this.
Our goal was to climb the pyramid and be part of the Spring celebration. I'm glad we didn't have too many other goals, as the line was two hours long. It snaked along two sides of the pyramid, climbed to the first level, then snaked through another seven lines. Glenda was only able to get to the first level. She'd just gotten to Mexico City and she finally met her match with the altitude--500 feet higher than the capital.
But Gerardo and I finished. We raised our arms to the sun and picked up its special energy in this very special place on this very special day. We had out photos taken, and lived in the moment of this incredible day.
Later, we met Glenda on the first level. She was at least on the pyramid and that was enough for her.
But that was the end of our pyramid climbing. Officials were moving people out and we were unable to get to the Pyramid of the Moon.
On our way off the site, we stopped in the adjoning town, San Juan de Teotihucan, who holds its annual fair during these early Spring days. We ate bad Mexican carnival food--deep fried bananas smothered in condensed milk and chocolate sauce, and cotton candy.
It was full night when we arrived back in Coyoacan--dirty, hot, dehydrated, but full of the fun and energy that only can happen on the first day of Spring at Teotihucan!
It was a great day!
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