Christmas Greeting 2013

At Christmastime

The tides flow out from the Inner Sea                                                                                                                                                    At Christmastime;                                                                                                                                                                                They find their way to many shores                                                                                                                                                   With gifts of remembrance, thoughts of love--                                                                                                                               Though the world be weary and the days afraid                                                                                                                                 The heart renews its life and the mind takes hope                                                                                                                           From the tides that flow from the Inner Sea                                                                                                                                          At Christmastime
               Howard Thurman

I woke up early one morning this fall, long before sunrise.  Suddenly it hit me that I was in my eighth year of retirement.  It was an “OMG” moment. How could that be? That, and the fact that Medicare keeps sending me mailings, tells me that time is going way too fast. I’d heard about this, but had never experienced it as vividly as that morning.

All of this tells me that life is good, full, and more than satisfying.  

Among other things, 2013 was a year of learning firsthand what it meant to be handicapped.  My left knee gave out a year ago and by March had deteriorated to the point where I used a cane, and took way-too-many and way-too-strong--meds to control the pain.  It was humbling to have to take the handicapped seat on the metro or have a young person give up his seat for me. 

On August 22^nd I had a full knee replacement. But, as my aunt taught me, I was grateful to live in a time when these things can be done.  All fall was a time of active rehabilitation.  I told the doctor in May that I would do anything I had to do to get back in the game.  And I did.

But 2013 also brought a very long list of wonderful happenings.  I still live in Mexico City in the winter and like it more and more.   A year ago I was connected with another refugee center and, very long story short, spent an extraordinarily busy winter developing their library.  The center is run by four nuns and their focus is refuge for migrant woman.  Oh, the stories these women carry! 

The casa had about 3,000 books—mostly religious—and the nuns wanted a library developed not only for the center, but as a spiritual center for the larger community around the house.  It was a great challenge, but by early May there were 1,100 books on the rebuilt shelves, furniture culled from around the house was painted and Shazam! we had a library!

Well, Shazam! is really too easy a word.  It was a winter of living full time in Spanish, commuting farther than usual and dealing with the constant pain of my degenerated knee.  But, in the end, I can say that I held my first meeting and gave my first speech in Spanish.  This is not to say I’m fluent.  My goal has always been to speak Spanish—badly.  I’m proud to say that I’ve accomplished my goal.  

Sometimes I don’t think I’ve been traveling a whole lot, but when I stopped to think back that in the three years since my last Christmas letter, I realized I’ve not been too idle.  Glenda, my dear friend and travelling pal, and I visited Sweden, Denmark, Finland, Estonia and Russia in 2011 then returned home via a transatlantic cruise.  Steve and I spent an amazing late August two years ago in Iceland and plan to return.  What a phenomenal country, full of geological surprises.  A year ago I spent a week in Anchorage visiting my brother for his 60^th birthday.  I was blessed with great weather, especially the day I took a 27 glacier tour out of Whittier where it rains 300 days a year!  Later in 2012 I returned to Nepal and India.  I flew to Kathmandu via Qatar and spent several days there.  I liked the futuristic Disneyland quality about the capital, Doha.  The two highlights of the trip, though, were a ten day trip into Bhutan which was simply amazing and Thanksgiving with the elephants spent in Nepal’s Chitwan National Park.  I spent the morning helping bathe elephants in the nearby river, then riding one that afternoon.  It was a most memorable Thanksgiving.

Just last month Glenda and I spent two weeks on a Southern Caribbean cruise. I jumped ship in Cozumel, stayed on the coast a bit then flew to Mexico City where I spent a warm and wonderful Thanksgiving 2013 with the Quakers.   The poinsettia trees were at their peak and the azaleas just coming into bloom. The days were sunny and 72.  It was mighty hard to come home a week later.

I find myself more and more connected to Mexico City.  It’s hard to stay away for too long.  Friendships have formed, my work there is satisfying, and I’m blessedly free of the negative and polarizing politics that have enveloped the USA.  This Is not stay they doesn’t exist there, but it’s not my country and my Spanish is still bad enough so I don’t get  entangled in this sort of thing.

So Christmas comes once more.  For me it is always a time of deep remembrance, of wonderful Christmases with so many people now gone.  I am grateful for another year. 

I  wish you a blessed Christmas.  In a time when we are deeply polarized and relationships are fragmented, it’s a joy to know our lives are lovingly connected and have been for a very long time. 
This Christmastime, the tides of my love flow out to your shores.  My heart is renewed and I take hope in our friendship.

Happy Christmas 2013.

Photos of Caribbean Cruise and Mexico--2013

Disembarking from Boston--November 1st

St. Thomas--November 5th



Orangestad, Aruba

                                                           Cozumel--November 14th

                                                            Tulum--November 19th

                                              Giant Pinata--Mexico City--November 25th

                                   Christmas Markets--Coyoacan, Mexico City--December 4th

 

Sunset over Acapulco Bay--December 1st

 

St. Thomas, the Virgin Islands--November 5th



In the End: In the Very, Very End

In the end, in the very, very end I’d sailed two oceans and one sea—the Atlantic, Pacific and the Caribbean.   I went, as the anthem says, “from sea to shining sea.”

In the end, in the very, very end I found that it’s true that you can’t go home again. I’d expected a flurry of nostalgia when I returned to Playa del Carmen, but I’d changed, and the city had changed so much and had gotten so large that it was hardly recognizable. It made me sad, in a way.  The Playa I remembered was but a shelf of its former self. I’m not sure I’ll race back.

In the end, in the very, very end I recognize, once again, how much in love I am with Mexico City—especially between November and May.  The days are warm and the nights are cold and the sun shines hot and bright.  Azaleas and poinsettias are in full bloom and Christmas seems to be around every corner. Seasonal street stalls sell everything necessary for a full-blown Mexican Christmas.

In the end, in the very, very end, it was incredibly hard to leave 72 degree days and settle in to a short, dark, overcast December days in the north.

In the end, in the very, very end I was more than pleased with my new knee.  I held up to the rigors of five weeks away and three weeks on the ground in Mexico.  Despite a bit of stiffness, it’s essentially pain free.  This trip was a good choice.  Anything else would have been too aggressive.

In the end, in the very, very end it was a wonderful five week break from the cold and dreariness of late Fall. 

In the end, in the very, very end, it was Great!

From Sea to Shining Sea: Cozumel to Acapulo via Playa del Carmen and Mexico City

Plattsburgh, NY
December 7, 2013

We arrived in Cozumel on a wet, rainy morning.  The entire Caribbean coast was shrouded in fog and mist.  The sky was gun metal gray. It was the first rain we’d seen since we left the Northeast two weeks earlier.

I cleared customs on board ship.  This would be my last day aboard the Norwegian Dawn.

Later, Glenda and disembark.   Poor Glenda.  I dragged here though residential neighborhoods within walking distance of the port.  She tells me she’s islanded-out and so am I.

We return to the boat, grab some lunch, sit on the balcony and enjoy these last moments together.  It’s begun to rain more heavily and we watch passengers running from the entrance of the port to the boat.  I hold off as long as I can.  I have to face this wet but in the opposite direction, with luggage and a day pack.

At 3:30 I really have to leave.  I’m at my limit.  The boat will leave in an hour.  Glenda tells me she’ll be on the balcony to wave goodbye.

When I get off the boat, and far enough away from it to look up, I stop.  I take out my camera and search the decks.  It’s raining harder and a light fog has moved in. Had Glenda not been waving the white towel I’d never have found her.

I blow hugs and kisses and take a photo the make my way to the main street where I grab a taxi to bring me to the guest house I’ve booked online.  I have way too much stuff and there is no way I’m going to slog my way through Cozumel’s  wet streets to find a street I don’t  know.

The guesthouse: the owner is a French woman and a long -time resident of the island.  Her home and the adjoining rooms reflect a clean, French elegance.  To get to my room, however, I have to wade through puddles 3” deep with water.  It’s been raining since May, she tells me.  Everything is sodden.

That afternoon it rains again—thick and tropical heavy.  It’s just best to stay in.

The next day starts off well and I think it’s going to clear up.  I make my way to a scooter rental shop, hand over my money and take off.  I love the other side of Cozumel—the wild side where the sea pounds the coast and there’s no development except restaurants and protected national seashore.

The sky is dark grey, but I’m hopeful.  I make my way out of the main town, cut across the island and reach the sea in about thirty minutes. Since my last time on the island—a mercilessly hot summer’s day—the island’s installed and wide bike/scooter/jogging path that circles the island.  I opt for that.  There’s little to no bike/scooter/jogging traffic.  I drive slowly, stopping periodically to watch the wild sea and to enjoy the views.

About noon it starts to rain—a heavy sprinkle.  It’s also time for lunch so I duck into a restaurant facing the sea.  The rain continues, heavier as I finish my lunch.  There is no escaping the wet. Others on the road are also escaping the rain and finding refuge in the restaurant.  Because the winds are so strong, we are forced into the middle of the building.  It’s also gotten cold—cold for the subtropics.  No one is dressed for this and everyone is soaked.

An hour into this there seems to be a break in the sky.  I figure it’s safe to leave so I get back on the scooter and back out.  Thunder cracks.  Huge bolts of lightning slam into the sea. I hastily re-park the bike and run back to safety.  By now there must be forty of us-all of us wet and cold.  Another hour passes.  By 2:00 pm the sky brightens and the rain lets up.  It now seems safe.

And it is—for about fifteen minutes. Then it begins to pour again.  I’m half way around the island and the only option is to forge forward.

Nicety minutes later, after biking through 8” rivers of water, after dodging cars, trucks and busses and on the narrow bike/scooter/jogging trail and after every part of body is soaked and old,  I get back to town.  This has not been a fun day.

What a disappointment.  I tried—I really did—to find something good about the ride, but all things failed me.

The puddles that I’d waded through at the guest house had now turned into small lakes.  It made no difference.  It made no difference. My shoes were drenched.

I changed my clothes, cranked up the a/c so things would dry, and then called my friend Ed in Playa del Carmen. 

“Ed,” I tell him.  “I’ve  gotta get off this island. Can you meet me tomorrow at the 9:00 am ferry?”

I’d arrange week before to stay with him in Playa for a week.

Well, I was never so happy to leave a place as I was that day in Cozumel.  Navigating road rivers was not a whole lot of fun.

Thank heavens he was flexible.  He met me at 9:45, drove me to his apartment, showed me how to use the washing machine, gave me a key then left for work.  How nice it was to stay put for the day.

Playa: I’d  looked forward to this visit for weeks.  This is a place I’d spent a huge amount of time in during the late 90’s and early 00’s. This is where I lived and studied the first winter I was retired.

At one point this part of Mexico was the fastest growing place in the world.
In 1985, when Steve and I visited on a day trip from Cancun, it was nothing more than a small fishing town with a few hotels and a ferry to Cozumel. Ten years later “the world famous 5^th Avenue” which runs for several miles north was still a dirt track.

In 2007 when I lived there for four months, the city had grown to 70,000 and condos on “la Quinta” were selling for upwards to half a million dollars.  Today, Cartier and Louis Vuitton have shops on the street and millions of people make their way here every year. The beaches north of town that were wild a free, where its shores bumped up against the jungle, are now crowded with 1,000 room all-inclusive hotels. 

I just didn’t like it.

You really can’t go home again. While it was nice to see Ed and share his home for a few days, I felt a real need to get out of this city and escape to a place less crowded.

So I went to Tulum and spent three perfect days on a quiet beach.  Just me, a few other tourists, a large handful of iguanas and a warm, gentle Caribbean.

After a week I’d had enough and wasn’t sorry to leave.  I’d had enough heat and humidity.  I was very much looking forward to two weeks in Mexico City, thanksgiving at the Casa and the beginning of the Christmas season—la Navideña—in DF.

Oh, DF—el Distrito Federal.  My heart keeps returning there more and more. I realized that when I’m there I rarely think of home, but when I’m home  I’m  always thinking of  Mexico  City.  Just what does that say?  DF in November/December is glorious: 14 hours of cloudless sunshine with poinsettia trees in full bloom.

By the first Sunday in Advent, street stalls open selling all things necessary for a Mexican Christmas.  Whole stalls sell nothing more than hundred of different figurines necessary for a Mexican nativity—a nativity more reminiscent of an Italian crèche than the ones we know in the USA.

Shops sell Christmas trees of all colors—purples, black, orange.  Other shops sell Mexican made, and quite lovely, painted glass ornaments and ones made of straw.

There are live trees, too.  I have no idea where they come from I’ve heard Canada, but the altiplano is cool enough for pines to grow.  I’ve seen Christmas tree farms far outside the city.

Small shrines to the Virgin of Guadalupe are cleaned.  Flowers are lovingly placed in front of the image. Notices are posted telling people that a rosary will be said at the neighborhood shrine. Her feast day is December 12^th, but devotion to her is year-long.

I did get to spend Thanksgiving at the Casa—la Casa de los Amigos.  “Warm and wonderful,” is what I told people.

There were 60 of us—many Americans, but Mexicans as well—people associated with the Quaker community.  Almost  everyone brought something to eat.

I brought the ingredients of Elaine Cranston’s fruit salad—a dish that’s been at the Ladue table for more than fifty years.  There was no deviation from the recipe except pecans in place of walnuts which are not available in Mexico City outside of summer.

How different it is to spend this holiday outside the country.  Within my heart, and the hearts of all the Americans present, it was Thanksgiving, a day set apart from all others in November, a day full of its own memories and traditions, a uniquely American holiday.  But to the rest of the world it was just another day.

Last year I’d spent the day alone, save for the elephants.  What a special day that had been.  I’d started the day helping to bathe an elephant then concluded the day riding one in the low-brush jungle inside of Chitwan National Park in Nepal.
On my last weekend in Mexico I went to Acapulco for the weekend.  I’d not gone “cross-country” and from “sea to shining sea.”

For three days I sat on the beach.  It was hot, humid, sunny and 90 degrees.  Perfect Christmas weather.

On December 1^st, the first Sunday of Advent, I plugged into my iPod and listened to American Christmas music.  It just seemed like the right thing to do.

Now the first of December was covered with snow
and so was the turnpike from Stockbridge to Boston.
Though the Berkshires seemed dreamlike on account of that frosting,
with ten miles behind me and ten thousand more to go.

A year earlier, to the date, I’d escaped the horror of Varanasi, India and sat all day in the enclosed garden of one of the four major Buddha sites in the world.

It was there that I’d had the revelation to leave India early and go home.  I’d had enough.

But this first of December was quite different.  This was a happy Sunday, full of sun, surf and people walking the beach.  Carols played and it was a delight switching familiar Christmas-in-the-winter imagery to Christmas-on-the beach imagery.

Once back in Mexico City I spent an early evening in the city’s historic district. I was walking down Madero, the city’s only pedestrian-only street.  The night was frosty and a cold wind blew down the street.

A December dusk had fallen over the capital.

Suddenly, the carillon one of the oldest churches began to play “Silent Night.”

I stopped walking, moved away from the river of people, and listened.  The carol flooded my memory with Christmases past—of candlelight services and Decembers long ago when I’d listen to Christmas music on records.  I wandered back to a Christmas spent on a warm tropical beach in Thailand and another in Chile—in summer.

And I thought of snow and my parents and wonderful Christmases they produced year after year.
I was lost in the joy of that carol, enjoying every moment it played.

The next day I boarded flight UA 1567, flew to Washington then on to Burlington.  I wasn’t sad, although I was already a bit homesick for warmer days and la Navideña in Mexico City.

November 22, 1963: A 50 Year Reflection

Mexico City, Mexico
November 22, 2013

Can It Be 50 years?  I think this is what alarms me most about the 50th anniversary of the death of John F. Kennedy.  I'm finding it incredulous.

I was 14 and in the 9th grade at Mount Assumption Institute in Plattsburgh.  (The school has long closed its doors and now the building is an aparrment house, but in 1963 it housed around 250 boys--half of them students who lived there full time.  The rest of us came from the envrions of Plattsburgh.  In 1963 I was old enough to remember exactly where I was and what I was doing that day.  I imagine anyone still alive who was in 9th grade that day can tell you the same thing.  I imagine, too, it is that way for those old enough to remember the events of 9/11. 

It was around 2:30 in the afternoon--a Friday just as it is today--and I was in Latin class--one of my favorite all time high school classes.  Brother Francis, the principal, broke over the PA system--something rarely done--to tell us the President had been shot and was dead to an assasin's bullet.

Everyone was stunned, of course.  I suppose if I had been in in a school with girls, tears would have erupted..  We were sent home at that moment and told that there would be no school on Moday--the day of the funeral.  The country immediatly went into mourning.  All activites were canceled.  I'd been looking forard to a dance.  There were always dances in those days--at the YMCA; at the Bailey Avenue School gym and at church halls.  But not this weekend.

At home it was only my mother, my brother and myself.  My dad was in the hospital and would be there for the entire weekend.  To this day I have no idea what he was doing there.  HHe was only 51.  My parents were quiet about this sort of thing.  Something coronary rings a bell.

At 23 Grace Avenue television was highly controlled.  We were allowed one or two programs on Friday night, a partial run on Saturday and only the Ed Sullivan show on Sunday night.  It had always been this way and it would not change all the way through high school.  This didn't stop us, of course, from 'visting' friends whose parents were far more lenient, but by and large, we lived in an almost-TV-free-zone.  (To this day I watch very little television.  In fact, I only owned an ancient black and set hand-me-down, minus cable, when Steve came into my life.  Over the years I don't think that my money has ever contributed to the purchase of televesion set.  It's something I could live without.)

But the TV-use rule was lifted the weeklend of November 22nd-25th.  It's not like there was anything on anyway except the ongoing drama occurring first in Dallas then in Washington.

That Friday was unusally warm and that afternoon it had fallen to me to burn the week's garbage.  We could still do that in 1963.  It would be seven more years before the Clean Air Act put an end to that.  In the back yard were several old oil drums used for buring.  I loved this job.  I could have been a teen age arsonist, but burning the family garbage seemed to satisfy whatever weird urge that lead me to like this job.

Only my mother was working the family business--a telephone answering service--the 'board' as she called it. Perhaps there had been someone there that day, and I'm sure the night person came on duty.  My father would never have lefte my mother with this type of responsibily so I can only assume that his hospitalization had been serious.

Friday's warm weather gave way to a cold rain on Saturday.  We all stayed glued to TV, but that afternoon I walked down to the Sears Roebuck Catalog Store on the corner of Margaret and Cornelia Steet.  The Christmas catalog had come into the house in September and I'd perused it many times looking for potential Christmas gifts. In so doing I found what I thought would be the perfect gift for my brother--a Howdy Doody ventrioquest puppet.

I must have paid fo it up front.  That fall of 1963 I'd somehow gotten a job selling Sunday newspapers to people scattered over a wide range of homes in the north end of town.  I only sold the Syracuse Herald Tribune, but it was enough of a job to put me in spending money for the week.

The puppet would arrive later, which is was it did, becasue I have home movies of him opening the gift then hamming it up in front of the camera.  The camera--itself an ancient piece of machinery--had been given to me as a gift that Christmas or the one earlier.  That camera, and the one given to me a few years earlier, started a life-long love for photography.  (I still have 8mm film converted to VHS and now converted to DVD.  The films--all silent--are the only animated witnesses to a time long gone.


On Sunday I did my paper route.  When I'd finished, I stopped into the hospital to visit my dad.  I had a few papers left over.  The day had turned cold and the rains from the day before had pushed in a cold front--cold enough to skim the pond in front of Physician's hospital with a thin layer of ice.  I ioved all things winter in those days and I remember sitting at the edge of the pond throwing twigs and small pebbles off the surface.  I knew enough not to walk on it.

I'm not sure what was the greater priority--the ice or the visit to my dad, but I eventually got into the hospital.  While walking through the halls some people noticed I had Sunday papers and asked if they were for sale.  I was happy to unload them. I'd just have to carry them down the newspaper distributor's office later in the week for a refund.  This just meant more money in my pocket.  Not that it was a lot, but it was a whole lot more than I was making if I'd not had a job.

When I got to my dad's room I told him what had just happened he encouraged me to try it again the following Sunday. 

Which is what Idid.

That week I went down to lower Bridge Street to the newspaper office.  I ordered multiple copies of the New York News, the New York Times, the Albany Times Union and, of course, a few more copies of the Syracuse Herald Tribune.  I told them to deliver them to the entrance to the hospital.

The following Sunday the papers were where they should be.  I found a movebale cart, arranged the papers, then went door to door on each floor.  No one challenged a 14 year old boy selling newpaper in the halls of the local hospital.

I'd sell the papers for more than asking price. I figured that my door to door service was sufficient reason to inflate prices. 

I kept this job until I graduated from high school 3 1/2 years later and no one in those years ever challenged those inflated prices or my right to sell papers in the halls of the hospital.  The money I earned allowed me to ski each Saturday with the high school ski club.  It put me in new clothes purchased from Merkels and it's probably the initial source of my junk food habit.

In the hospital my dad was folloiwng the nation's drama as well, but I honestly don't remember ever having a conversation about it.  All of us were horrified and Iimagine it was the same for him.

On Monday we watched the funeral.  I remember thinking I would like to be there to witness this. I knew this was a deeply historical event  We'd already been to Washington, DC several times before and I saw no reason why I couln't have done a trip like that on my own. 

On Tuesday we were back in school.  Life went on.  School dances resumed. My dad came home from the hospital.  It wouldn't be for another 14 years that he'd have a first real coronary issue.

I think about all these events because I'm stunned today that 50 years have elapsed since that day.  Imagine measuring years by 50!   Projecting 50 years ahead on that late November weekend of 1963 was unimaginable, just as it's unimaginable to project 50 years ahead to 2063.

At that time I had a clear memory of reading a bit of yellow journalist press about a man who did unnaturally in some lurid sort of way. 

He was in 60's.  Old, I registered.

Even my parents weren't that old.

And now I'm 64, and Medicare is breathing down my neck.  Now I'm older then either of my parents were on that day 50 years ago.

Today, I know things would be different.  In 1963 the nation came to a stop.  People were sad.  I think if our current president were assasinated, there'd be celebrations in the street.  Today we hate with a vengenace I don't think existed fifty years ago.  There was no Fox News spreading lies in 1963.  There were no pundits ready to stoke up people's emotions with lies and mistruths. Maybe it's naive on my part to think that way, but we're so fragmented today that it's not likely the nation would behave in the same way it did in 1963.

The world was far less polarized.  Perhaps there was a 'them vs. us' mentality, but I think 'they' had more manners and respected the loss 'us' experienced.  Maybe I'm wrong. Maybe it's an illuson to think 1963 was different.  Maybe I'm just looking at that time from the eyes of a small town 14 year old boy.

All we saw that weekend in late November 1963 was a beautiful young woman and her two small children--widowed and fatherless--walking behind the horseless carriage carrying the coffin of a young, handsome President.

We've lost something precious in those ensuing years. There is nothing wrong with innocence.  There is nothing wrong with not knowing every negative detail about someone's life.

50 years!  This is what spooks me the most.  I have a cousin who will celebrate her 50th wedding anniversary in a year.  My own 50th high school will be in less than four years.

Now there is far less time than there is more.

At times--usually early in the mornng when I can't sleep--this weighs heavily on my mind.

But it makes me grateful as well.

I write this on a two hour flight from Cancun to Mexico City.  This follows a two week Southern Caribbean cruise and a week on the Mexican Riviera.

The 14 year old boy skimming stones and twigs off the hospital pond that weekend long ago could never have imagined all he'd have waiting for him

While waiting for the fight, I noticed a slogan on an aircraft of an unidentified airline: 'Live the dream' it said.

A friend reminded me recently that I've had a very good life, an envious one, he said.

And, yes, it has been good.  Very good.  And while I don't relish Medicare as my primary health insurance, I realize I've had 20 more years of life than the young President killed 50 years ago today.  Almost 25 more than his young son who, as a child, saluted his father's coffin.  I've even had more years than his young widow.

I have lived the dream and my friend is right.

It's been a very good life.

And we need benchmarks like this to see to recognize these things.

El Caribe In the End

Playa del Carmen, Mexico
November 17, 2013
Latitude 20 30' N

In the end, we sailed so far latitudinally south that we were a mere 14 degrees from the equator. Two more days we´s have been in Spring instead of Autumn.

In the end, I traveled a total of 3,750.9 nautical miles from Boston to Cozumel.

In the end, I will miss most the company of Glenda.  But I´d also miss the fleeting, casual onboard frienships.  People like Jean and Normand of Massuchusetts; two friends, Sean and Mike, traveling together from Boston; and Colin and Gwendolyn of the UK and James of Alberta our sea-days trivia partners.

In the end, I will miss the warm, moist air that enveloped my body each time I´d sit on our 8´x¨5´ balcony--my window to the sea.  I spent hours of pleasure gazing at an exaggerated sky, the deep blue of the Carribean and the wonder of watching God´s restless, creative spirit move about the Earth--the rauch that encompased flying fish, and sooty terns, the occasional dolphin and the constant movement of the seas´s surface, the wind and yellow-warm sun--evidence, to me--of God´s spirit on Earth.

In the end, as much as I think the journey´s over, it really isn´t.  There are still three weeks to go--a week in Playa del Carmen and two in Mexico City.

In the end, I didn´t want to give up the security of the ship.  Let´s face it...the most pressing act in any cruise is making sure you get back on board in time.  Absolutely nothing is required of any passenger.  On the other hand, at least for me, there´s minimal sense of adventure.  While I love going for the ride and spending days at sea, it´s a poor substitute for travel.  A year ago I wandered down isolated trails in Bhutan, spent hours observing Hindu festivals in India and bathing and riding elephants in Nepal.  This year I got to spend eight, highly regulated hours in a port.  It's hardly enough to scratch the surface, but it was the best I could do this year.

In the end, though, it was enough and I'm happy I was able to do it.

El Caribe: Journey's End

At Sea
November 11-12, 2013

We had gone as far south as we would go.  From Aruba, the ship shifted course and we sailed due north for the next two days before we would arrive in Cozumel on the morning of November 13th.

Both days the sea was a deep cobalt blue.  Little wavelets broke to small, frothy white caps.  Each day I was up in time to watch the sunrise.  I'd sit on the balcony, Diet Doctor Pepper in hand, and marvel at this daily ritual.  (For some reason I had sufficient and good energy to get me through the day, but I was in bed at 9 pm.  Some company, I told Glenda.  I was fast asleep many nights when she would return from the casino. A really party goer I'd tell her.)  From our balcony, as far as I could see in any direction, was an unbroken vista of sky and sea.  Broken only my a straight line horizon and giant white clouds rising high above.  Flying fish still broke the surface and sea birds still hovered above.

It was 1,000 glorious miles to Cozumel: 62 sun filled hours.

For two days I parked myself at the very front of the ship.  The days were blistering hot and, considering the location, there was pitifully little breeze.  But it was quiet and away from the crowds.  All around me I had full command of that which Id come to love and would soon have to leave.

I was a bit sad when we arrived in Cozumel.  Who wouldn't be.  The Norwegian Dawn had ensconced me in comfort for twelve days.

But this holiday was far from over.  There was still a week on the Mexican Caribbean coast and two weeks in Mexico City.

The cruise door had closed but another was opening.

I was home to Mexico!

El Caribe: A Day at Sea: Mid-Journey

to be written............

El Caribe: Barbados

Bridgetown, Barbados, Lesser Antilles
Latitude  13° 06' 
November 7, 2013

We´d been to Barbados before.  It had spoken  well to us then and I knew it would be a good revisit.

This year, however, the weather held out for us, unlike three years earlier when it drizzled off an on for most of the day.  This visit was marked by a hot, sunny day.

Barbados would be the largest of the islands we´d visit on this trip and we wanted to maximize our time with a tour to the west coast--the Caribbean side--of the country.  We´not visited in 2010.

We skirted out of Bridgetown, the capital, and headed up the western coastal road--Barbados´ most developed side.

We passed fabulous mansions facing the sea, expensive condominium complexes and luxurious hotels where some rooms rent for $3,000.00 a night.  More than once we wanted the driver to stop at some of the many powdery and palm fringed beaches that slipped into a turquoise green sea.  Tiny multi-colored cottages dotted both sides of the road.

At times the van passed through shady groves of frangipani, royal palms and old stands of mahogany.

But it was only 20 miles from Bridgetown to the northernmost settlement, Speightstown, on this side of the island.  And while we had driven slowly it didn´t take much time to reach our destination.

From Speightstown we headed inland through rolling hills dotted with old colonial plantations, tiny, brightly colored villages and past great fields of sugar cane and citrus.  We wound down country lanes, passes dairy farms ad groves of mangoes.  Low craggy hills were shaded in multiples hues of green.  It was a lush scenery made more beautiful under a warm yellow sun.

We could have been in England as we passed villages with names such as Oxsford, Portland and Windsor.

At our highest point--Cherry Hill--we finally stopped to admire the vistas that unfolded in front of us.  Before us was the wind-battered Atlantic coast with its fine ribbons of white sand beaches.

On our descent we passed the island´s only working sugar mill--the last remaining witness to a time when many like it processed the abundant sugarcane grown on Barbados.

My altimeter read 1,700´ at the vista point on Cherry Hill.  We we dropped off it it was on a long, sinuous highway that would bring us to sea level.  We were now in the Scotland District--a locale on the island the British said reminded them of the Scottish highlands.  It wasn´t a stretch of the imagination.  This interior was full of low, gentle undulating hills--velvet smooth and olive green.  It was hard not to enjoy the views.

Once on the east coast we stopped in the charming sea-side town of Bathsheba.  It had a characteristic feel ab out itself that could have put it in New England, New Zealand or Vancouver Island. I felt as if I´d been there before.

The cottages faced Barbados´ longest stretch of beach--now a natural preserve.  The waters here were more turbulent than north Caribbean side.  We could see surfers waiting to ride the waves.

By now it was time to return to Bridgetown.  We left the Scotland District.  The coastal road back to the city was sided with sea-grape, Australian pine, bananas and magnolia.

It was still early and kids were still in school.  Kids were outside during their lunch hour and each student wore the same school uniform.  Boys were playing cricket in nearby sports fields.

We returned to the city and Glenda and I lingered a bit in Bridgetown.  I especially liked the historic church of St. Michael and All Angels which was first constructed in 1665.  Inside were marvelous old memorial tablets to many early British settlers who'd died on or near the island. Many recorded how perilous it was to venture to the colonies more than 250 years ago.

Sacred to the memory of the above named officers who, 

having faithfully served king and country, 

fell victims to this terrible climate during the years of our Lord 1816 and 1817.

Sacred to the memory of Lieut. J. W. L. Patton who died at Trinidad 

of yellow fever on the 24th of August 1853.

Despite its moneyed west coast luster, it would be to  the interior of the island I'd most like t o return.  There was still so much more  to see.  How nice it would be to explore,more closely, the rolling hills of Scotland or spend days hiking trails along the windy Atlantic coast.

But all that would have to wait.  The Norwegian Dawn was due to set sail at 5:00 pm.  There would be, at least, on more full day at sea before our next two islands--Curacao and Aruba.

I was looking forward to them as well as another full day sailing on the blue Caribbean.

El Caribe: St. John's, Antigua

St. John's, Antigua
November 6, 2013
17* 08' N

I liked Antigua right from the start.  A low fog carpeted the low lying parts of the island as we were sailing into the harbor.

We disembarked as soon as we could.  A steel band greeted us as we walked into the city of St. John's.  Earlier, we'd a very nice couple from Massachusetts--Jean and Norman--who joined us on an island tour.  Unlike or driver from the day before who'd used the roads of St. Thomas as his personal racetrack, this driver was courteous and kind and took his time.

We were in a small bit of England with left hand drive and currency that reflected loyalty to the Queen.

Antigua is only 90 sq. miles and there's really only one , rather narrow, circle road.  We passed Candy-colored villages of tiny homes painted pastel pinks, yellow, blues, purples and greens.  Of in the distance, a higher elevations with sea views, were the homes of wealthy expats who wintered on the island.  One property, we were told, was on the market for $32,000,000.

We passed tiny inlets that wound around a craggy, corrugated volcanic coast.  Tucked away in these inlets and crags were 365 beaches--one for every day of the year.

Columbus landed here in 1493--his second voyage to the New World.  It's been popular ever since.

Antigua has extended periods of wet and dry.  By this time of the year island was green, beautiful and tranquil.  We saw abundant crops of banana, papaya, mango, plantains, breadfruit and pineapple.  The latter was small and sweet and takes a full 18 months to grow.

Donkeys, some wild, sheep and goats as well as cows and chickens grazed small farms.

Antigua dripped with atmosphere.

After we'd pretty much circled the island with the driver's running narrative of things Antiguan, he dropped a large group of us off at Turner's Beach for the remainder of the afternoon.  This was no hardship on an early November afternoon when the sun was still high in the sky and summer warm. The beach was a picture-perfect crescent of white sand-  But curiosity beckoned.  There was a tiny peninsula and beyond it another beach.  Knowing that most people will walk as little as possible, I walked the narrow trail across the point and found another strip of similar beach almost free of people.  For three hours I enjoyed this small treasure, the gentle lap of a calm sea and a hot Caribbean sun.

Back on the boat we sat on our balcony.  I commented to Glenda how much Antigua reminded me of Easter Island.  In the distance I could see the craggy, volcanic spine of mountains, slopes gently climbing to their low summits.  Antigua is volcanic in origin.  On both islands there is rich, fertile soil and always, far of in the distance, small volcanoes rose above the black, lava strewn surface.

It felt good to be back in a place similar to a place I´d so enjoyed.

By 4:15 we slipped out of the harbor.  Unlike the tumult of St.Thomas, this island beckoned for a much longer return visit.

I´d like to linger in the small villages, chat with locals, hike some of the trails the island has to offer, discover some of the 365 beaches and eat food local to the island.

But the Norwegian Dawn would not wait.  We had 300 miles to travel.

By the next morning we would be in Barbados.

El Caribe: St. Thomas

Sant Thomas, Virgin Islands
Latitude 18 20' N
November 5, 2013

Roaming through the streets of St. Thomas gave me pause for reflection and a bit of nostalgia. 

My parents did not do a great deal of traveling, but they did come frequently to St. Thomas the 1960’ and 1970’s with friends of theirs.  They’d take a week off in March and fly to this American protectorate for a week in the sun.

They were hardly beach people and I know nothing of their ventures here.  I do know that a distant cousin of mine lived here one time and my mother spent the better part of a day tracking her down—something harder to do in the days before Internet and cell phones.

I’m sure their visits were different from my all-too-short time on the island.
We were excited.  This was our first island, and after being onboard ship for three days, it was nice to put feet on soil.

We picked up an island tour.  ‘Four hours,’ we were told.  The driver, who later turned out to be a blow-hard transplant from Illinois, used the island’s main circle road as is personal racetrack.  Frankly, I think he wanted to get back as soon as possible to pick up another van full of people.  It was left hand drive but driving was on the left, which I thought odd seeing how we were, technically, in the United States.  It was slightly horrific.

It didn’t help that we were trapped in this van with Mr. and Mrs. ‘We Have to Tell You Everyone About Ourselves in as Little Time As Possible’ from Somewhere, Massachusetts who’d started cruising and let everyone know just how many islands they’d been to, what beaches to avoid, all about their kids and grandchildren (as if any of us cared), their church trip to Italy where it had taken four years to sell enough cake and cookies to make the pilgrimage, and the fact that they weren’t married because ‘why should I give the state of Massachusetts money just to marry him.’  I wonder why people need to share so much?  Thank god they got off at the second stop—a nice beach they’d been to before.  Oftentimes silence is best.

Twice we stopped at picture-perfect beaches—ribbons of white sand with an aqua colored sea lapping against their shores.  The day was never intended to be a beach day, so it was OK just to sit on the shore and enjoy the vistas.  The islands we could see off to our distance belonged to Tortola which were British territories, which probably accounted for driving on the left side of the road.

We drove through a verdant landscape and through small settlements of Caribbean hued houses.  Twice we stopped at lookouts high above the island.  To the east we could see St. John’s and further out the island of Tortola.  It was a clear and sunny day under a hot sun—the first intense heat we’d had on this trip.

Once the tour—hardly worth the $30.00 we paid—was over, we spent the rest of the day touring the streets of the island’s capital—Charlotte Amalie.  It was here that we came face to face with the island’s rich history.

I would like to have explored more deeply the island’s interesting past, understand more about Columbus’ failed attempt on the island  and the ultimate conquest of it by the Danes who held on to it for more than 200 years until it was sold to the United Sates for $25,000,000.00 in 1917. 

Under the Danes there was a large Jewish population and the capital is home to the second oldest Synagogue in the Western Hemisphere.  We wanted to see it not only for its historical significance but because its floor is layered in sand to represent the forty years of Exodus.  What an interesting architectural idea.

We made our way off the main street, climbed two steep hills, and found the synagogue not only open but preparing for a Bar Mitzvah.  What good fortune. The boy and his family, off another cruise chip, had arranged with the rabbi for this rite of passage.

All of it was really quite wonderful and, for me, the highlight of the island’s visit.  The family, as well as the rabbi, made us feel welcome and invited us to participate in the ceremony.  We declined and I’m sorry I did that.  This was an opportunity to experience something I’d never seen.

We wandered slowly back to the boat, stopping every once in awhile to browse in shops.  It was also a good place to stock up on a 12 pack of Diet Dr. Pepper and make phone calls home without assuming horrible charges.  We were, after all, still in the USA.

Most places beckon to return, but, for me, St. Thomas is not one of them. I wearied of hucksters on the street trying to sell me something.  I tired of the heat and I felt saddened by the many unemployed young men on the street doing nothing.

Perhaps if I’d been tucked away at a resort on a crescent of Caribbean beach, I’d feel differently, but for now I’d give this island a pass.  If a cruise ever brings us to the area again I’d make my immediately to St. John’s for the day.

I wasn’t sorry to return to the boat.

El Caribe: Three Days at Sea

At sea
November 2-3-4, 2013

I'd gone to bed so early the night before then slept remarkably late on this first day at sea.  I woke to a  luxurious feeling of impending relaxation.  Three days at sea with no ports between Boston and St. Thomas.  My goal was simple: do as little as possible.

By noon we were far out at sea, somewhere off the coast of Virginia and sailing south.  The winds at been fierce the night before and had not abated today.  The sea was menacingly rough and sky was slate grey.  It was a good day to stay indoors, read, sit on the balcony and let this marvelous aquatic world go by.

But this foul weather was OK.  We were heading south to places where light was white and days would be  warm.  By late afternoon we'd traveled 325 nautical miles.  Already the air was warmer.

I had been reflective all  day.  Fifty years the day before was the day my grandmother died.  Ten years ago before the day my cousin John got married to Tina in Lake Placid.  A year earlier I'd just flown from Nepal to Bhutan.  Oh, the excitement of that flight as we flew along the spine of the Himalayas, past Mt. Everest then  swooped into the fabled kingdom of Shangrila.

But that was then,and a journey of  that caliber would not be possible this year.  I was grateful I'd been able to do it and know  I'll be able to do it again.  

Just not now.

By sunset the sea was still turbulent but clouds had begun to break.  I sat for a  long time on the balcony--my  first ever on a cruise ship--and watched day turn to night.  I felt the great ship push through the waves and marveled at the great expanse of sky and water.  It would be something I never tired of.

Periodically, I’d see Venus—low and glittery in the night sky—until clouds pushed it away. 

By day’s end I’d managed to fulfill my goal of doing nothing, but I was still exhausted and in bed by 10:00. 

November 3, 2013                                                                                                                               Off the coast of Bermuda   

35˚ 50’ N

For whatever reason I’m in a more than good sleeping cycle.  In the weeks before the surgery and for more than a month afterwards I never slept well.  So falling asleep to the roll and sound of the sea than sleeping a full eight hours was a gift.

Long before I got out bed I knew we were in calmer waters.  We’d left the storm behind us.  I could barely hear the sea slap against the ship’s hull.  When I stepped onto the balcony it was a clear and sunny day.  The sky was exaggerated and powerful clouds scuttled by.  Small, frothy waves crested the surface of the water.  Gone were the angry 12 foot swells we’d experienced for the past 36 hours. 

It would be a fine day and I knew exactly how I’d spend my time.

We were miles off the Atlantic seaboard, somewhere east of the Carolinas.  The ship’s log said we’d traveled more than 700 nautical miles from Boston.

The day promised to be a classic day at sea, and despite three pages of shipboard activities I was going to be loyal to my promise to do as little as possible.

By late morning, after lingering over breakfast, with Glenda, I found myself poolside.  I slathered sunblock on my pale skin and settled back to do little more than read, write, people watch and gaze out at the endless expanse of sea and sky.

Earlier in the day two freighters, heading north, passed the Norwegian Dawn, their decks piled high with large cargo containers.  Just a few days earlier I’d read a travel book—Grounded by Seth Stevenson—about these ships.

We each of us are our own container chip, transporting our various cargoes through the ocean of life.  At ports along the way we may stop to pick up a new lover, a spouse, a child.  At other ports we unload precious items—friends move away, relationships end, parents die. 

Even when we’re lost in the deepest fog, we must try to keep our watch, not to be the cause of ay tragic collisions—do what we can to keep our cargo safe.

All around me on this sunny Sunday on the Atlantic were passengers and crew alike—close to 3,000 souls--all precious cargo, each with his own dreams, fears, sadness and joys.

At a very late dinner the night before we’d been chatting with our waiter, Aristotle, from the Phillipines.  I told him I imagined that there were all sorts of dramas occurring below deck, drama we ass passengers never see.

He’d recently married a fellow crew member, but when she got pregnant it was too difficult to continue the demands of shipboard employ and returned to her family home.  I knew he missed her, and knew he mourned not being home for the birth of his child.

‘I’m just one of the many dramas in the crew quarters,’ he smiled. 

Earlier, Glenda had met woman—not yet 60—who been widowed unexpectedly in March.  They’d been married on a cruise 25 years earlier and this was supposed to be their 60 to each other for her 60^th birthday which would be later in the week.  But she was doing this alone.  She’s told Glenda she’d been trembling with fear at the prospect.

The collective cargo on this ship—anniversaries, birthdays, maybe a wedding or two, the recent loss of a loved one—was all unknown to the majority of us.

 

None of us would know the cargo our neighbors onboard were experiencing.  All the more reason, I reflected to walk gently with all we meet.

November 4, 2013

At day break I checked our coordinates: 25˚ N and 1,000 nautical miles south of Boston.  We were on line with Key West, rapidly coming our of the Atlantic and into the warm Caribbean.

It was another beautiful day--clearer and sunnier than the day before.  The calendar read mid-autumn but we'd returned to summer!  Large white clouds sailed by briskly.  I sat on the balcony and let this beautiful world go by--a seemingly endles stretch of sea and sky.  Often, a frenzy of fish would break the water's surface.

By now the days were blurring.  There'd been no landmarks to break up the voyage.  It was warm.  I could be in the Indian Ocean, it could be July or January depending on where I was in the world.  I liked this!

Had I not had access to the 'Captain's Log' on your stateroom TV, there would be no way of taking stock of our progress.  Hour after the ship sailed stolidly through the waves of a tranquil seas.

But we had made progress.  By mid-afternoon we were at the 22nd parallel and more than 1,3000 miles from Boston.  My skin, November pale when I'd boarded, was tanning.

For three days I'd not been bothered by allergies.  For three days I did nothing more than sit by the pool.

Three days earlier I'd set a very low standard for myself and was proud, at day's end, to have accomplished all I'd set out to do.

Not much, and that was perfectely OK with me. 

The next three days would be busy enough!