Rushin' Around St. Petersburg, Russia

St. Petersburg, Russia
Latitude 59° 53' 39" N
September 15, 2011

This cruise is beginning to feel like “If it’s Tuesday, this must be Belgium.” Four Baltic capitals in five days is way too much!

Take today. I got up at 6:00 a.m. to rush in to the shower before Glenda, then I had to rush in to the Garden Café to grab a bite to eat, then an elevator rush in with others on the same tour we’re on. On the way to the part of the ship for disembarking it was another rush in…this time with Pam and Graden, and Glenda who were also rushin’ around all morning. We were supposed to meet our tour guide at 8:00 a.m. for day one of a two day tour of St. Petersburg. We were ready and on time, but all that early morning rushin’ around was for naught.

It had been a dark and stormy night, the Baltic wild and tempestuous. We were a full two hours late pulling into port. All that rushin’ around for nothing!

Ok, so make lemonade. It was still dark and I anticipated a brilliant sunrise over the city. You know the kind…reds on the canals, reds on the Winter Palace, reds over St. Peter and Paul fortress, reds in the square.

Instead, it was a dark and gloomy morning.

In the end, four hours after awakening, we finally met our guide…Ellena…of Alla Tours. Once on board the minivan we started rushin’ again. She had to make up for all that lost time. Ten minute photo stops. Twenty minutes at St. Peter and Paul Fortress, rushin’ around to look at the tombs of the Romanovs—Alexander I, Peter the Great, and Catherine the Great. I hated rushin’ into the newest annex to see the tombs of the last Romanov’s executed in 1917 and then, after Perestroika, interred there in 1998. I wanted to linger, examine each tomb, look at each stained glass window. But that just wasn’t going to be possible.

All this rushin’ around was making be breathless!

And nostalgic. It was quite unplanned, but I found myself thinking of my parents. It would have been their 66th anniversary had they still been alive. September 15, 1945. The war had just ended. My mother told me she had to travel to Albany to get a wedding dress. My dad was married in his uniform. She was 29, he 33—half again the age I am now.

We counted at least eight wedding parties as we roamed around the city. This was high wedding season, and the “Wedding Palace” cranked out newlyweds seven days a week, twelve hours a day. They were having their photos taken in the gardens of Peterhoff, along the canals in center city, and against the backdrop of the Bay of Finland.

In 1986 my parents had an opportunity to visit the then Soviet Union. That April I was living in Albany, in the final stretch of my MLS. I drove them to a limo service on Wolf Road and that evening they met their tour group in New York and flew off to Helsinki. The next morning, at 6:00 a.m., my aunt called me. “Oh, Dan, what are we going to do?” My cautious, non-risk taking parents had flown right into the start of Chernobyl.

There wasn’t much we could do. This was pre-Internet and pre-cell phone days. We were in touch with the tour company, all was well and the itinerary would be altered. In the end, when they got home, they were tested for radioactivity and absolutely none was on their clothing or bodies.

Twenty-five years later, though, their son’s trip was far less dramatic. The Soviet Union had fallen, the country had opened up and I was in Russia on a two day visa. Our group was tightly controlled, mostly because of the many things Elenna had planned for us, and because we were two hours late getting started. We were frustratingly hustled from one place to the next. An hour at Peter the First’s summer home—the Peterhoff; another hour at Catherine the Great’s palatial palace. I was forever at the end of the pack, snapping photos, lagging behind because of my knee. Once, I got separated from the group and was chided by Elenna for roamin’ off. I felt like the idiot in the group, a real blok head. Da! I wouldn’t do that again. I’d steppe up to the challenge and stay with the others from then on. No stalin’ around for me. Plus, we really did need to stay together. My entrance into the country was regulated by the type of visa that I had and I didn’t want some international incident. Breaking off from the group is a crime, and punishment is severe.

It’s a shame, really, that we had to see the city this way. It had been monstrously destroyed during WW II, and 2,000,000 of its inhabitants had died during the 900 day Siege of Leningrad. Restoration is still ongoing. Now, it is Europe’s fourth largest city, spread out across many different islands, and one of Europe’s most culturally significant. Sixty-seven years after the Fall of Leningrad and billions of dollars later, it’s a visual delight. The Neva River and surrounding canals reflect unbroken facades of handsome 18th and 19th century buildings. We only got a glimpse of the spellbinding collection of Russian culture that was warehoused in some of the buildings.

The Hermitage, for instance, was the Winter Palace of Catherine the Great. Her massive art collection, augmented by other royalty, makes this museum one of the largest in the world. But two hours? We raced through one collection after another, rushin’ from one room to the next. I had a hard time staying with the group. One of the museum guards scolded me for lenin’ against a wall as I attempted to rest my knee. At the end, because Ellena knew the tastes of her American/European audience, she gave us twenty minutes with the Impressionists—the second largest collection of them in the world. Twenty minutes! I’m going to have to rent the movie!

On the second day we spent an hour—an hour!—at the Yusupov Palace. I knew jack about this family but learned that they were fabulously wealthy and their home, on one of the city’s many canals, is notorious as the site where Rasputin was killed. It’s another spectacular display of the very best of European art and architecture that money could buy. It’s easy to see why Russians revolted in 1917!

In between tourist sites, Elenna would rattle off details about the landscape we were passing--cooperative vegetable gardens between buildings, the cherry orchard attached to a pre-Soviet palace, lovely parks and gardens the city carefully tended.

For the most part we had a nice international group in our van—a large smattering of Americans, and a few French. The three sisters from Ireland were ebullient and fun to be with, but a Quebecer in the group was a bit annoying. Perhaps it was a language thing, but he was convinced that the reason the group was rushin’ around at warp speed was because four in the group (us) had tickets to the ballet that evening and were the cause of the acceleration. He was really pushkin’ my buttons and I finally approached him. In the end it was an easy clarification, once I showed him the schedule. He was much more pleasant after that. We’d almost had a war, and peace was so much better.

At the end of day one, Elenna dropped Pam, Graden, Glenda and I at Sadko, an upscale and pricey eatery within walking distance to The Conservatory where we had 8:00 p.m. tickets to “Swan Lake.” This was the first time we’d been left alone all day and the longest stretch of unstructured time since we’d started this two-day dash. It was just plain nice to take our time over dinner and enjoy high quality Russian cuisine in a beautiful restaurant.

Our waiter, however, spoken terrible English and his rough Russian accent was difficult to understand.

“Und here vee have da borscht,” he said when I asked about the dish’s preparation.
“Unt here vee have da stroganoff.”
“Unt here vee have da blinis.”

I was a bit frustrated, but just gave in to a culinary gamble. I decided to play with him and use my very best bad Russian mimic.

“OK,” I said, “So vee it. I’ll have da stroganoff. Unt blinis for dessert."

Each of us ordered something different—borscht, beef stroganoff, stuffed cabbage rolls, wild mushrooms from the forests around the city, chicken Kiev and blinis, Russian crepes, for dessert. It was great to share all these yummy dishes and to experience this elegant Russian restaurant.

We were certainly putin’ on the Ritz eating at Sadko that night.

By the end of the second day, though, I’d had it. It had been just too much—an overload of art, culture, history, architecture, royal lineages…and walking. We were in St. Isaac’s Cathedral, surrounded by spectacularly lavish gold icons. I was overwhelmed, walked over to Graden, and said, “I’ll be in the van.” Pity! This had happened only once before…in June 1999 in Oaxaca, Mexico, in the tenth month of my one year leave-of-absence trip around the world. I simply had no response to the equally wonderful, but quite different, cathedral in that city. At that point I knew it was time to go home.

Just as in 1999, I’d seen too much and was saturated. I walked out of the church and spent the next fifteen minutes talking with a Florida couple who’d stayed with the driver.

By the time we got back to the boat I was petered out. St. Petersburg was just too big for two days. I wished I’d done my homework more efficiently—spending time in the library, serfin the net and gogoling information about the Romanovs, Peter and Catherine the Great and the city’s role in World War II. The visit felt more like the Siege of Leningrad than a two day leisurely tour. There would be a great deal to read up on if a repeat visit happens. I was glad to get back to the boat just to decompress.
Another time. For now, I’m satisfied that I made it to the edge of Russia, to this gorgeous city, this “Venice of the North.” Now I can check off Russia from my long list of countries left to visit.

But this I can say…I will neva do it again on a crammed two day tour. An hour here and an hour there was just not enough time to do justice to this city.

Wismar, Germany and My Dad

Wismar and Bad Doberan, Germany
Latitude 54° 5' 0" N
September 12, 2011

One of the great gifts my father gave me was a life-long love of trains. As a child, when my Dad was still working for the Delaware and Hudson Railroad, I’d go to work with him, often to a station thirty or forty miles outside of Plattsburgh.

In those days there was still daily train travel from remote parts of Northern New York. Trains would carry freight, and passengers, from Willsboro, Saranac Lake and Lyon Mountain and then connect to trains in Plattsburgh which would move people and things north to Montreal or south to New York City.

I loved spending the day with my Dad. I’d help him inventory cars in the train yard, hang out in the office or play among the containers of freight.

Sometime in the afternoon, if a train were heading to Plattsburgh, he’d put me in the able hands of the conductor or engineer, and I’d ride back home in the engine or caboose or as a passenger. My mother would be waiting for me at the station in Plattsburgh and my day of train adventure would be over. I wasn’t much older than ten, but the memories have lasted a lifetime, and whenever the opportunity presents itself, I always opt for train travel over other forms of transportation.

And so it was that I separated myself from the more-than-pleasant group I’d spent the better part of the day with to spend an hour and a half chugging my way on a 120 year old narrow-gauge steam railway between the Northeast German towns of Bad Doberan and Kühlungsborn. The carriages were more than 100 years old and had been lovingly restored.

It was no epic journey, but it passed flat, spacious farmland full of corn, sugar beets and late summer flowers. Acres and acres of hops, wheat brown, swayed in the soft wind. We were in beer country and this was a staple crop. Several times it stopped in small seaside communities, resorts full of 19th Century homes—mansions really—where German elite summered on the Baltic Sea.

It was late afternoon and ten minutes after arriving in Kühlungsborn I had to turn around. This was the last train of the day and I had no option but to return to Bad Doberman. The journey—an homage to my father—was way too short.

Once there, though, I had a bit of time to roam around the town—the oldest of the German Baltic seaside resorts. This had been East Germany, the Democratic Republic of Germany, the GDR, and for 45 years had been under the tight grip of the Soviet Union, but 20 years after reunification, life seemed quite good. Homes were large and well cared for. Gardens were full of fresh vegetables and flowers, Audis and BMW’s in driveways.

In Wismar, where we’d started the day, we spent a good chunk of time exploring this UNESCO protected medieval village. At one point, we felt time-warped to post-WW II Germany. On the night of April 15, 1945, two of the three exquisite 15th Century churches had been heavily bombed. One, Saint Mary’s Church, was ultimately torn down, “for safety and political reasons” in 1960. In other words, I guess, the GDR would not fund a church restoration project. The other church, Saint George, until 1990, simply lay destroyed and abandoned. Only after German reunification and UNESCO moneys flooded in did restoration begin. How eerie to see post-war rebuilding occurring 66 years after the war ended.

By the time I’d finished all my exploring, it was early evening. The “Norwegian Sun” would not leave until 10:00 p.m. so that gave me a bit of time to explore the beach town of Warnemunde where the “Sun” had landed. It reminded me of an Epcot Center version of Santa’s Workshop—a town made up of cutesy German chalets selling cuckoo clocks, leiderhosen and postcards. It wasn’t a place to linger, although I understand the beach is a major draw.

The day had been full of surprises. I’d fully expected to see a landscape of harsh and gritty concrete and industrial GDR architecture. Instead, villages were full of cobbled streets and pretty red-bricked 13th and 14th Century buildings–square gabled and interspersed with Gothic turrets, orange portals and vaulted arches. The area had been heavily destroyed during World War II, then pummeled by socialist architectural ideals so it was a delight to enjoy this postcard-perfect chunk of Northern Germany.

It had been a day of unexpected treats—WW II restoration, a fun ride on a late 19th Century train and the stunning Medieval village of Wismar. What a great introduction to the Baltic capitals. I’m ready for more.

Here We Go: Part 2 -- Baltic Cruise and a Transatlantic Crossing

Each one of us remembers where were and exactly what we were doing ten years ago today. Ten years! Life has changed for all of us as a result of this...and not just for Americans. Distrust is rampant, paranoia runs deep. Which is why it's a good thing to travel, to get out of our comfort zone and meet loads of people who we think are different from us. But really, they aren't that much different. We all have the same human needs. It's fear that separates us.

And so I travel, making an attempt to meet new people, broaden my scope.

And thus it is, on this tenth anniversary of 9/11, I'm off. Glenda is with me, as are friends Pam and Graden Topping from Vermont. Baltics and a transatlantic crossing here we come! We are aboard the Norwegian Sun, the same ship Glenda and I were on when we rounded Cape Horn in January 2010.

Dates Port Arrival Departure

September 11 Sun Copenhagen, Denmark
September 12 Mon Berlin (Warnemuende), Germany
September 13 Tue At Sea
September 14 Wed Tallinn, Estonia
September 15 Thu St. Petersburg, Russia
September 16 Fri St. Petersburg, Russia
September 17 Sat Helsinki, Finland
September 18 Sun Stockholm (Nynashamn), Sweden
September 19 Mon At Sea
September 20 Tue Copenhagen, Denmark
September 21 Wed At Sea
September 22 Thu Amsterdam, Netherlands
September 23 Fri Brussels / Brugge (Zeebrugge), Belguim
September 24 Sat At Sea
September 25 Sun At Sea
September 26 Mon Lisbon, Portugal
September 27 Tue At Sea
September 27 Wed Ponta Delgada, Azores
September 28 Thu At Sea
September 29 Fri At Sea
September 30 Sat At Sea
October 1 Sun At Sea
October 2 Mon At Sea
October 3 Tue At Sea
October 4 Wed Orlando & Beaches (Port Canaveral)

Photos of Iceland

Iceland--August 26th--September 9th, 2011

Jokulsarlon Glacier--South Coast Iceland--September 2011

Berggies on the shoreline near Jokulsarlon  Glacier!

800 year old ice!  Jokulsarlon Glacier--South Coast Iceland--September 2011

Jokulsarlon Glacier--South Coast of Iceland--September 2011

Yes, I was there!

Glacial lagoons were right next to the road--South Coast--September 2011

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Exploring an ice cave--September 2011

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Glacier walk--South Coast--September 2011

Glaciers came right to the road--South Coast, September 2011

West Fjords, Iceland--early September 2011

West Fjords, Iceland

The gorgeous isolation of the West Fjords, Iceland

West Fjords, Iceland--early September 2011

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Snefellsness Glacier--site of Jules Verne's Journey to the Center of  the Earth

Pingeri, Iceland--late August 2011

Rekyjavik, Iceland--late August 2011

In the End: Part I -- Iceland

Reyjkavik, Iceland
Latitude 64°7'52" N
September 9, 2011

In the end, Iceland ranks in the top five of all countries I´ve visited.  It´s simply WOW! 

In the end, we put 2,220 miles on the car.  That is, the three cars that we rented.  After two stone chips cracked the windshield of the first car, we picked up a second one only to have the trunk lock not work.  We finished off the stay with an SUV that was just plain fun to drive.

In the end, we toured the Western side of the country, Icelands´s wild West Fjords in the northwest and the histrionically dramatic, glacier-studded south coast. Our appetites were whetted to see more of the country.  We´re already talking of June 2012 to take advantage of the 24 hour white nights!

In the end, we went as far north as the 66nd Parallel.  Another .33 degrees would have placed us on the Arctic Circle.  Another time!

In the end, things were expensive, but not unmanageably.  We prepared all our own meals, slept in hostels, used our own sleepiong bags, and didn´t go crazy shopping.  Did I really need an Icelandic sweater for $250.00?  Not really.  The one thing we did not skimp on was gasoline. Yes, it was $8.20 a gallon, but who cares.  There are worse ways to spend $565.00.Do we really have any control of the future?  Who knows if we´ll really make it back this way.

In the end, we never made an attempt to pronounce Icelandic.  Who can, with its unpronouncable combinations of vowels and consonant combinations we´d never seen before.  Try to say þjoðeldisbærn, fjarðarglfjufur or vatnajökulsþjoðgarður three times.  We simply made up names for places.  Stykkisholmur and Snæfellsness, for example, simply became Sticksville and Sneffles.

In the end, we were not disappointed.  How could we be with a geologic landscape that simply knocked our socks off.  We climbed active volcanoes, walked on massive glaciers, crossed the largest sandar in the world, wound down and around stunningly beautiful fjords and drifted through a lagoon filled with luminous-blue icebergs.

In the end, Iceland overwhelmed.  Really!  Geysers spouted.  Waterfalls by the hundreds toppled of massive rocks formations.  Black sand beaches stretched on endlessly.  Volcanoes erupted and glaciers glittered!  How cool will all this be at the summer solstice when the sun in the north never sets for six weeks! 

In the end, Iceland had lost 84 minutes of daylight from the time we arrived on August 26th to the time we left on September 9th.  The lush, Irish green fields of late August were beginning to burnish with autumnal gold in the days after Labor Day.  The sun, though still up until almost 9:00 pm, was October-low in the sky.  Autumn was coming.  Iceland was steadily plunging into its long, dark days of winter.  In the West Fjords, which we loved so much, the sun would not rise at all from mid December to late January.

In the end, it was time to move on.  Iceland, this magical land of fire and ice, was wonderful, spectacular, bigger than words can convey.  But, a whole new travel adventure lay in front of me.  It was time to leave.

The Westman Islands of Iceland

Heimaey, Iceland
Latitude 63°26'1" N
September 8, 2011

The Westman Islands had piqued my interest last week as I was drving westward on Highway 1.  Black and brooding, these 15 eye-catching silhouettes could be seen clearly miles and miles away. Heimaey, a 30 minutes boat ride from the mainland, seemed a good way to wrap up my Icelandic stay.

And so, an hour out of Vik, on a clear and windy morning, I sailed to this fascinating archipelago formed by submarine volcanoes around 11,000 years ago.

Heimaey, my destination, is the only inhabited island.  Its well kept homes were architecturally reminiscent of northern California coastal communites. It was an easy place to spend twoo days.

After settling into a hostel (this time with my own room.  The night before I´d fallen off the top top level of a bunkbed.) I set off to explore blood-red Edfel, a 700 foot volcano that appeared out of nowhere on the morning of January 23, 1973.

On my way from town I explored what locals refer to as the "Pompei of the North."  Over a period of five months, from January to July of 1972, over 30,000,000 tons of ash and lava poured over Heimaey, destroying 360 homes, burying them in 50 feet of lava.  More than 1/3 of the town was destroyed, but all 5,200 residents were evacuated.  Five months later, 2/3 of them returned to face a Herculean clean-up operation. Once the fireworks were over, heat from the volcano provide Heimaey with geothermal energy for nine years.

But today, this "Pompei of the North" is a park and trails criss-cross  the lava fields, exsposing, at its lowest levels, remains of homes now under archeological excavation.

My second goal for the day was was climb the volcano--a structure that wasn´t there 40 years ago.  It was a relatively easy climb up a pebbly trail cut into the soft ash as it snaked its way abover the red, raw crater.  The summit, however, was quite another matter.  Gail force winds almost pushed me, a no lightweight mortal, off the edge.  Once on top, I anchored myself to a set of pilings from a weather station.  The views were stunning.  Far out at sea I could see the newest addition to the archipelago--Surtsey--which rose from the waves in 1963.  It´s now a UNESCO World Heritage Site.  I also marveled at the lava flow that had narrowly missed filling in the harbor.  Had it not been for the world-wide effort of firefighters who hosed 6,000,000 tons of cold sea water on the lava.  the evacuation would have been permanent.  Without a fishing industry, there would have been no reason for the islanders to return home.

That night, the hostel was full of fun people.  I had a chance to chat with a Spanish/Irish couple.  She spoke no English and it was a rare opportunity for me to speak Castillion Spanish--an accent very different from the one I accustomed to.  And for some reason, the more Irish whiskey I drank, compliments of her boyfriend, the better my Spanish got.  But that may just be an illusion.  I´d drunk way too much (something I rarely do) and slept soundly all night.

Thursday morning I sailed back to the mainland and made my way to Rkykavik.  It was my last day with the car.  I slowly retraced my steps back to the capital.  It´s really only a small city, not much bigger than Burlington, Vermont, but after two weeks in the empty of Iceland´s countryside, I was overwhelmed with traffic and people.

That night I settled into my last Icelandic hostel, repacked my bags, and got ready for the next leg of this adventure.

What a time it had been!

Glacial Chill: Southeast Iceland

Hvoll, Iceland
Latitude 63°54' N
September 5, 2011

Labor Day.  Clear, blue skies.  55 degrees.  Early September on the South Coast of  Iceland. I was solo; Steve had flown home the day before to start yet another school year.

In my other life, this was the most dreaded day of the year.  School would be less than 24 hours away.

But this Labor Day there was none of the old anticipation.  Instead, I got up early, left the hostel in Hvoll.  My destination was the mighty Vatnajokul icecap/glacier.  Later in the day, I visit the glacial lagoon of Jökulsarlon.  I had no expectations!

Vatnajökul was 40 miles frm Hvoll and the ride, as all car trips in iceland have been, was nothing less than jaw-dropping and extraordinary.

It was a clear morning (not all that common in Iceland) and from the start I had a clear view of Hvanndalshnukur--Iceland´s highest peak at 6,877 feet--snow covered from top to bottom.  This was a rare treat as I lost sight of it within the half hour.

The drive was magical.  Farm houses nestled in front of gushing waterfalls--water that plunged off the Vatnajokul icecap.  Other waterfalls fell off massive rock formations--massifs really, green and verdant with grass growing almost top to bottom--that fell hundreds of feet.  Sheep, hundreds and hundreds and hundreds of them, grazed in lush green fields.  At almost every bend in the road there would be another glacial tongue sliding off the icecap, very close to the road.  It  was hard not to have an accident!

And then the sandar!  I´d never seen a sandar, and didn´t even know what one was until this Labor Day.

They´re soul-destroying flat and made up of silty sand and gravel that´s been carried on glacial rivers then dumped into huge, desert-like plains.  I was driving through just one part of the sandar--the largest of its kind in the world.  Skeiðarasandur is 600 square miles of flat, grey-black sand with fast flowing rivers. 

And then....Vatnajökul!  I´d had sightings of it for more than 30 minutes.  Mighty glacial tongues would emerge out of the clouds and plunge close to the road.  But at one bend in the road, for an endless vista, I could see the impressive rivers of ice that made up just one small portion of Europe´s largest icecap.  My goal to join a group for a walk on the glacier then hike a circuit of  trails aroiund the Vistor´s Center.

After a brief lesson on how to walk on ice (I grew up in Plattbsurgh, NY, for Pete´s Sake.  We don´t need this type of lesson.) and another brief lesson on putting on crampons, we were off.  We slogged our way into ice chasms and peered into deep, ice-blue crevices.  The ice, though, was grey and gritty from layers of ash that a nearby volcano had dumped on the icecap laste May 20th.  It was slighty underwhelming, but I was standing on the biggest glacier Europe has to offer.

It´s difficult to wrap one´s head around Vatnajökull.  It comprises 8% of the Icelandic landmass and is three times larger than Luxembourg.  If Atlas could pickit up, he´d be carring 3,000 billions tons of ice.  The national park it´s part of contains the highest point in Iceland and has two, highly volatile, volcanoes underneath.  It´s mind boggling!

But one thing I didn´t have a hard time wrapping my head around was the fact that I´d spent $60.00 to climb on ice when I spend much more than to get away from it in the winter.  Strange, the things we do. :)

From Skaftafell National Park, the souther portion of the the glacial national park where I´d done the ice walk, I headed 40 miles east, hugging the icecap all the way.  It was another, simply amazing, journey.  Once, I almost had an accident when I didn´t notice a sheep in the middle of the road.  Luckily, I slammed on the brakes which spooked the sheep enough to get out of the way.  It´s amzing more accident don´t happen with this type of scenery all around.

One of the best things about having a car is the ability to drive off road, wander down a gravel track and see what awaits.  Often we´d pull off the highway, drive a bit, turn off the engine and lay down on soft, almost warm grass.  Traffic was normally so light that that there´d be absolute and total silence.

Thus is was that half an hour out of Skaftafell National Park that I headed down a rocky path.  When I crested the hill I was speechless, almost breasthless.  In front of me was an icy lagoon filed with icebergs of all sizes.  I was stunned and the only thing to do was get out of the car, grab my camera and hike to shore´s edge.

I was at the western end of Jökulsarlon, an 1,800 deep lake at the base of Breiðamerjurjökull--a large glacial tongue of Vatnajökul.  I found a place to sit, a bit higher than shoreline, and just watched--an iceberg filled lagoon in front of me, the giant ice river of the icepack above.  I was fortunate enough to see an iceberg calf, then crash into the water.  I knew I was blessed.

They were wondrous ice sculptures--some small, the size of a large car and larger ones the lise of big homes.  What was amazine was tha all I was seeing was 10% of the total iceberg´s mass.

At shore´s edge small chunks orf ice--bergies--had washed ashore, allowing me to pick them up and break them into small bite size pieces. 

Later, I moved on to the Visitor´s Center, five minutes away from this unexpected wonder.  For $30.00 I  spent 45 minutes on an amphibious boat, slowly circling the icebergs, getting as close as safely possible. 

The larger icebergs were composed of stratified layers of ash and snow.  The ice, we were told, was 1,000 to 1,5000 years old and reading ash layers was tantamount to reading rings on a tree.  The oldest ice predated human habitation in Iceland and the ash was layered from multiple volcanic eruptions.  Icebergs in this lagoon could spend up to five years floating here after calving.  They´d float in the 10 square mile lake, melt, refreeze and would ocassionly topple over with a stupendous splash.

The lagoon flowed directly into the cold, Norfth Atlantic and smallish icebergs drifted under the bridge and into the sea--white submarines off to greater waters.  I wandered down to sea´s edge--sand black and gritty from countless nearby eruptions.  There, freed icebergs crashed against the shore, slowly melting in the 60 degree day.

I walked for a mile or so, westward, towards the weak Arctic sun as it slipped lower in the late afternoon sky.  My ice day was spectacular.  Que dia, as we say in Spanish.  What a day!

The weather held until late day.  It was 120 miles to Vik, my next destination.  I drove into a hard, steady rain.  Passing the sandar, this time grim and foreboding against the rain-lashed sky.  I could easily imagine malevolent trolls of Icelandic myth lurking in black mud hollows. 

I was glad, finally to pass into soft green pastoral farmland.  Even in the rain it was a soft pleasure to watch sheep, horses and cattle dotting fields and pastures.

The storm finally ended.  That is, I drove out of it into glorious, late-day sunshine.  To my left and right were miles and miles and miles of lava fields, moss covered in various shade of green, their softness belying the hellacious catastrophe that produced them.  (In the spring of 1783, a vast set of fissures opened, forming around 135 craters that took it in turns to fountain molten lava up to 1/2 miles high.  In a period of eight months, 30,000,000,000 tons of lava spewed forth which covered an area of 300 square miles in a layer up to 12 miles thick.  One fifth of the country died  and the remainder faced the Moðuharðini--the Haze Famine--that followed.)

At days end I´d driven twice across the largest sandar in the world, walked on Europe´s largest glacier, sailed in a lagoon full of chilly blue icebergs, walked on a volcanic black sand beach studded with small icebergs and drove miles and miles past mossy green lava fields.

I hugged the ocean to my left and bucolic Icelandic farmland to my right. The day was still fabulous--full of sun, white clouds and and cool winds.

That night, I tucked myself into bed, reliving the wonders of Labor Day.

But the most wonderful wonder?  I didn´t have to wake up on Tuesday and go back to school. 

Yay on that one!

Iceland´s West Fjords

Isafjörður, Iceland
Latitude 66°04'48" N
September 1, 2011

On the map, the West Fjords look like giant lobster claws snipping away at the Arctic Circle. They’re desolate, off the beaten track and very, very far from anywhere else, which is exactly why we wanted to go there

We left Stykkisholmur on the first of September. A three hour ferry would bring us from the Snǽfellsnes Peninsula to the West Fjord mainland. It was a wet ride, stopping once on the tiny of island of Flatey with a year round population of two! In the summer, though, there are a few more and this boat stop not only dropped off passengers but mail, foodstuffs and newspapers as well. We would like to have lingered, but the port town of Brjanslǽkur, on the south coast of the West Fjords, awaited and we knew it would be a long ride to Bildadura where we planned to spend the night.

It was raining when we arrived and the 90 minute ride to the hostel was challenging. At the beginning we hugged the North Atlantic. It was a rainy day, but there was a bleak, mournful beauty about black deserted beaches, black rocks, and an angry sea. We passed small, rain lashed fishing villages and several times we saw steam emitting from the earth. We were clearly in the land of fire and ice.

At the start the landscape was forbidding and unforgiving. Rain slashed over our car as we made our way up long, sinuous zigzags up steep gravel roads, then drop, frighteningly actually, down 14% grade roads with no guardrails and hundreds of feet below us. We’d then be back to sea level. “Take your time, Steve,” I’d tell him. “There’s absolutely no rush!” I don’t image we were ever very high, but even at 800 feet above sea level this far north we’d be in high alpine conditions. There was cold, black volcanic rock, basalt really, lichen the only plant growing. Not far from the road would be patches of last winter’s snow. It was a lunaresque and I was reminded of being on the high, high plateaus of Tibet and South America at 15,000 feet. Such was life at the 66th Parallel. Another .33 degrees would put us at the Arctic Circle!

It wasn’t always grim. The next day was sunny and sort of clean—clear at least for northern Iceland. There was a lovely pastoral landscape. Sweeping green fields were dotted with sheep. We were forever driving defensively, always on the lookout for errant ewes and rams who lingered by the side of the road.

In the mountains, snow never truly lost its icy grip. Vestiges of last winter lingered still in hollow mountain pockets. At this elevation lava fields, thousands of years old, were covered in multiple shades of green—from soft olive to an almost electric lime.

At sea level, though, especially around the sheltered fjords, late June flowers abounded. Fields were full of tansy, pin cushion flowers and heather. An aromatic variety of Arctic thyme and low lying lupine were everywhere. Grasses, not much higher that 6”, swayed in the soft wind.
In village gardens and around isolated farm houses we say delphinium, daisies, rigosa roses, thistle and bee balm.

It was the fjords, actually, that brought us here. There are many and we stopped often along the road to see them closely. Occasionally a car would go by, but mostly it was quiet. Silent. Not a sound but wind and wave. This silence was astounding, something we rarely experience. By the sea we’d see loons, snow geese and white, wild swans. Once we saw a colony of seals basking on a rock under a cold Arctic sun.

Away from the sea we saw almost tame Arctic foxes, their fur blue/brown this time of year. They were curious and cute, but we kept our distance.

Only 7,900 people live in the West Fjords. Farms were isolated and far from each other. All were sided with corrugated steel, unattractive but durable and water tight against the almost year round harsh weather. Their roofs were often painted bright blues and reds, a nice contrast to the often wet, dreary weather.

The land was wide open. Sometime we saw sod-roofed homes—old structures the current owners had not torn down—reminders of another, more distant and far harsher time when residents of this part of Iceland really had to contend with serious hardships.

Always, there was water. Our greatest treat was to ride on the long side of fjords, round the end then retrace it on the other side. Often, half way, the land would open up to a wide glaciated valley, still snow covered in the distant high peaks. We were, after all, very, very far north.

Away from the sea, in high mountains passes or on the flat prairie-like open spaces, was gushed forth everywhere. It tumbled hundreds of feel off glaciers and fell in long, snake-like cascades off high mountains ice packs. It rambled and rushed off high plateaus in narrow ribbons of silver and white.

It veiled itself off mountain cliffs--torrents falling in into clear, cold Arctic pools and thundered in wide sweeps over 300 yard rocky scarps. It sliced through ancient rock formations, falling in a series of waterfalls. All these waterfalls were amazing!

Both of us are drawn to water, so this West Fjord journey was a journey of liquid magic and wonder.

As we travelled into the northern portion of the West Fjords, the landscape softened. We´d wend our way down and around fjords then climb a mountain road to 500 feet or so, stop the car and admire the view below. The fjord would be cold and blue, massive rock massifs flanking them on each side. Icelandic fjords can be long and wide or short and narrow--blue fingers separating huge cliffs. We were in awe.

Sometimes we´d find a path and walk over moss covered volcanic rock. Tussocks of grass mantled the landscape, clinging to life on this treeless taiga.

On our third day, well above the 66th Parallel, the land opened up, undulated in waves of Arctic grasses or moss covered lava rock. The sky was prairie blue and the almost temperate air felt as if we were in high desert. Wild and free mountain streams tumbled off the plateau in clear, cold rivers. This was a spectacular end to our stay in Northern Iceland.

"Raw," said Steve, as we exited the West Fjords. "Raw and natural, clean and empty. I feel as if I´ve been very, very far away."

It was raw, as well as natural, clean and empty. But to that I´d also add pristine and pure--almost edenic, almost perfect.

We knew we´d return.

Into the Crater: the Snaefellsnes Peninsula, Iceland

Snǽfellsnes Peninsula, West Iceland
August 30, 2011 Latitude 65˚4' N

Descend into the crater of Yocul of Sneffels, which the shade of Scartaris caresses, before the kalends of July, audacious traveler, and you will reach the center of the Earth. I did it.

Arne Saknussemm

Unlike Arne Saknussemm, who left the enigmatic message in Jules Verne’s Journey to the Center of the Earth which took place on this peninsula, we were far from audacious travelers. What with a fully loaded 2011 VW Golf, unlimited access to Diet Coke, and no time limit of July 15th, we set out from the charming town of Stykkisholmur—a village of quaint maritime charm that came from a cluster of wooden warehouses, homes and stores that dated from the mid 19th Century.

It was a fine, sunny day and we were in no hurry to complete the circuit around the torpedo shaped Snǽfellness Peninsula. We had 120 miles to go and whole, long, sub-Arctic day to do it in.

We zigzagged our way through the broad and stunning Breidafordur fjord. It was mid week. School was back in session and no one was on the road. We stopped often—to take short hikes, to sit on the tops of cliffs that looked out over the sea to take in epic vistas. From these jagged cliffs we could observe eagles soaring above us. Sadly, we were too late in the season for puffins who come here to breed by the millions. They’d already left for warmer waters.

At the far end of the peninsula, after an hour or so of viewing mountains shrouded in wispy fog, the sky opened up and Snǽfellsjökull, the dramatic peak Verne selected as the setting for his tale, came into view.
We were lucky. Very, very lucky! After passing crunchy lava fields for what seemed like forever, we rounded the peninsula and there, in front of us, almost cloud free, was Snǽfellsjökull—the Snǽfellsness glacier. Long before Arne followed the advice from a 16th century Icelandic text, the dramatic peak had been torn apart when the volcano below the ice cap exploded. The volcano subsequently collapsed into its own magma chamber, forming a huge caldera—and…the entrance to the center of the Earth.
Well…we were no adventurers and there was no way to the summit except on snowmobile. It was September, the season was over, due to the lack of snow this late in the summer. Oh, well. Another time.

Beneath the glacier’s icy grip, the road smoothed out to the south, passed interesting sea-sculpted rock formations and continued onwards along the broad southern coastal plain, hugging, at times, huge sandy bays. At one, we stopped to watch a newly married couple having their wedding day photographed with an 18th century church and the craggy coastline as a backdrop.

At one point we hiked down to the sea and found a beach of golden sand—incongruous against an icy north sea. The sun may have been strong, but it was no beach day—at least by my standards.
Back in Stykkisholmur, we lingered over dinner, splurging at the “Five Fish” café. Dinner with a view of the harbor was mighty expensive: forty dollars for lamb and thirty dollars for chicken. Meals this far north are pricey.

It would be the only meal splurge in Iceland. From now on we’d prepared our meals at each hostel we’d stay at.
At 10:15 I went out on the deck of the hostel. It was still dusk and the northwest sky was still light. I summoned Steve, and we sat outside, watching dusk turn to dark—almost 11:00 pm. A full three hours later than northern New York at this time of year.

We never did find the entrance to the center of the Earth, but we’d had a fine day retracing the steps of Arne Saknussem—five centuries later.

Reyjkavik, Iceland

Reykjavik,  Iceland                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                      Latitude 64° 7' 52" N

We left Boston on time at 2:20 pm on Friday, August 26^th.  Not wanting to miss our flight, we caught a 6 am flight out of Plattsburgh, arriving in Boston by 7:30 and then waiting six hours, busying ourselves with reading, using the free Logan Wi-Fi and each of us taking a long walk while the other waited with luggage.

The first two hours of the flight were marvelous—flying first over the deep bays of Southern Maine, then straight up the St. Lawrence, over Quebec City, and exiting at the Gaspe.  It was a clear, gorgeous afternoon.  Beyond the mouth of the river, we flew over Labrador, Newfoundland then hugged the Greenland Coast when it finally got dark. 

We were prepared for a cold, crisp night, but exiting the airport at midnight to temperatures in the high 40’s was more reminiscent of mid November than the end of August.

Welcome to the 64^th Parallel!

But at least for Day 1, we were very fortunate with clear, sunny skies holding over the country’s capital, Reykjavik.  We lingered at the harbor, climbed to the bell tower of the National Cathedral, marveled at prices ($2.50 for a single ear of corn, $8.00 for eight strawberries, $4.00 cups of coffee and Diet Cokes).  I marveled at choices on the menu, foods touted at “typical Icelandic dishes”—fish covered with sheep head jelly, mashed fish, fish stew, tweezed fish, fish soup, fish balls, minced fish, dried fish and whale.  I’m not a picky eater, but when it comes to meat and animal products, I draw the line with the unfamiliar.  Thankfully, I brought a good supply of gluten free pasta and assorted sauces. 

After a long time negotiating restaurants, we finally found a place where Steve could get fish and I could eat a hamburger. 

It’s the end of summer, but this far north the days are still long, with temperatures in the low 50’s, with the sun not setting until after 9:00 pm.  At the summer solstice, in the deep south of Iceland, where Reykjavik is located, there is only four hours of twilight night.  In December, though, the sun doesn’t rise until 11:00 am then sets at 3:20 pm.

But we aren’t here at Christmas time and our long first day harkened back those gloriously long,      mid- June days at home.  It’s nice to have it twice in a summer.

I was exhausted.  Our travel day to Reykjavik was long and I slept badly the first night.  For me, it was an early night.  Two weeks of Iceland lay ahead and I was ready to get it started early the next day.

Here We Go: Part I -- Iceland

Boston, Massachusetts
Latitude 42.58" N
August 26th, 2011

Here we go! Bags packed, first flight taken from Plattsburgh to Boston. Seven hour wait for Iceland Air flight to Reykjavik at 2:30 this afternoon. Free Wi-Fi at Logan International. Yay!

I’ve said this before, and it bears saying again….sometimes the hardest thing about traveling is just getting out of town.

This was not an easy summer—neither relaxing, nor lazy. It seemed as if all I did was jump from one thing to another. Of course, this is not new. There was a time I thought retirement would be one long, lazy summer day, but I was wrong. It seems as if I try to cram as much into a day as possible.

But, we are past that. The multiple things on my list to do are checked off, and we are now just waiting.

Waiting for what?

For the next two weeks I will be in Iceland. Steve, unfortunately, has to return on September 4th. I’ll stick around for five more days, and then fly on to Copenhagen on September 9th where I’ll meet Glenda and friends Pam and Graden Topping of Shelburne, Vermont. On the 11th we pick up a 24 day cruise that will go as far north as St. Petersburg, Russia, with stops in Tallinn, Estonia, Rostock, Germany, Helsinki, Finland, Stockholm, Sweden, Amsterdam, The Netherlands, Bruges, Belgium, Lisbon, Portugal and finally to the Azores. After a five day, port-free cruise through Atlantic waters during the height of the hurricane season, it will ultimately drop us off in Florida 24 days later. From there I pick up a car, revisit the state and a few people I know. On October 15th I drop the car off in Miami and come home via Mexico City. I’ll return to Montreal 10 weeks from today.

This has been one difficult trip to pack for--multiple eco systems, a variety of social situations. Cold weather in Iceland, proper clothing for a long cruise, then warm weather in Florida and cooler temps in Mexico City.

We are fortunate to be leaving today.  Hurricane Irene is pummeling her way north with Boston as a direct Category 2 hit on Sunday.  But today...it's clear and 79 and the view from the Icelandic Air lounge is lovely--a tranquil harbor, neaer the sea, at high tide.

I know I should be excited, but that will come later. A long time ago I learned not to create any expectations, and that has served well over the years. Each place is a new discovery, free of pre-conceived ideas.

Life is good. I am blessed beyond words and I am never unaware of this privilege that has been afforded me. Thank you Gracious God.

Next stop…Reykjavik, Iceland

A Year Ago Today

April 9, 2011
Mexico City

A year ago today Mom died. After eleven days without hydration, even longer without food, her heart simply could not go on any longer, and by 1:00 pm her breathing became dangerously labored, until it finally gave out at 1:35.

Vicki and I and one of her aides were with her, surrounding her and letting the words “I love you” be the last earthly words she’d hear. For years I’ve read “In Memoriams” in the newspaper. They often start with, “I can’t believe it’s been a whole year…” Well, now it’s my turn to say that. I cannot believe it’s a whole year since our lives changed in a dramatic way.

I’d grown increasingly anxious as the week progressed, wondering how I would respond to this day, being so far from home, being alone. But, in the end, I’ve been OK. Those who care and matter the most have been in contact. I’ve deliberately performed small rituals that, while for my mother, are really for me.

The first occurred yesterday when I made way to the gorgeous church of St. John in the center of Coyoacán. I attended Mass, and when that was finished sat very still and recited the Rosary.

This is not my tradition, but it was a gift I gave my mother every early evening in the nursing home. At the beginning, she would recite it with me, but as she weakened the task fell to me. If others were in the room, or came in during this time, they would join in.

For me, it was a time of great quieting, and I came to look forward to this time of the day. The last time I said the Rosary was a year ago on the evening of the 8th. I have often wanted to say it, but never did. Friday seemed the perfect time to say it again.

I have not cried for either of my parents in a long time, but that morning I did. Hot and salty, the tears quietly ran down my face. And, yet again, I could feel my mother sitting right next to me, her hand on my leg as she’d often do when I was upset.

It was a healing time, and when I left my heart was gladdened, and I just knew that that was the right way to start this first-year vigil. My day was made more perfect by this small act.

Today, Saturday, the anniversary, I got up earlier than usual, walked to the flower mart on the corner and bought a dozen gladiolas. “Glads” were my mother’s favorite flowers, the flowers that graced the church at her wedding, and were always a part of her home from late summer into autumn.

I placed them in front of the image of Our Lady of Guadalupe at the gorgeous Baroque Colonial church in the center of town. I could just here say to me: “Don’t buy me flowers when I’m dead. Buy them for me now.” Well…I did buy them for her when she was dead and that’s the way it was. It was an act that I did for myself, one of the grief rituals I needed to move forward. She’d have been happy with idea that gladiolas had been placed in a beautiful church in front of “Our Lady.”

By 10:30 a.m. I was at La Catedral Metropolitana—the huge basilica in the historic heart of Mexico City. Way back in February I’d arranged for a Mass to be said for both my parents. Their names, as well as others, were mentioned. She would have liked that, too.

Just before Mass, my only true friend here in this city, Gerardo, showed up and sat down next to me. I almost cried when I saw him. He had been so supportive a year ago that I acknowledged him at the reception for my mother. And here he was today, showing support again in this quiet manner.

After the Mass, I lit two candles…one for mom and one for dad.

And then I sat and kept silent vigil until 12:35 pm—the hour of her death here in Mexico City. I sought out one of the quiet chapels where I could be alone. Gerardo left me by myself, but he returned at the end of my vigil with a bottle of Diet Coke! That’s a true friend!

I thought of my lifetime with her and my dad, of holidays and picnics and rides into the mountains. I meditated on all they taught me and the great gift I had of being born into that home.

I thought of Mom’s flower gardens and of Dad’s vegetable gardens, and the joy that each of them got from cultivating the earth. I can’t help but think of them tending God’s celestial gardens, joy abundant.

I thought of the complexities that made her the person she was and how those complexities played out to those in her immediate circle—complexities that were not as evident with persons she knew peripherally. Judgment has been directed at me by some of those people who saw Rita Ladue as some mother/goddess. It was not always easy to be her son.

It was somewhat fitting that the church was abuzz with activity—another Mass had started, a group of babies were being baptized, a small wedding was going on in one of the chapels and a family group of farmers, campesinos, were having their farm equipment blessed by the same priest who said the Mass of remembrance. Faith is for the living.

Nothing I did that early afternoon would have any effect on either of my parents. They were, simply, rituals I did for myself.

1:35 passed. I had been living in the land of the dead too long. I left the church, and moved back into the world of the living, into the energy of Mexico’s capital, on a warm early spring day. I was happy. I’d done what I needed to do to make sense of her death a year ago.

My mother was a complicated woman. She had a chameleon affect on people and could be different things to different people, which is why so many of us have multiple experiences in our relationship with her. Sadly, there was always a tension between us, from high school on, and I must honestly admit that I miss none of that.

But there are many times I miss her. I miss the times in the gardens at Lake Forest where we had five raised beds, growing tomatoes and carrots, cosmos and zinnia. The rhubarb I planted for her is doing well. Perhaps I should sneak over, dig it up, and give it to someone who’d appreciate its lineage.

I miss her macaroni and cheese, and apple crisp, but I have the recipes to carry on the tradition.

I miss our weekly visits to the chiropractor and then to McDonald’s or Friendly’s for breakfast.

I know she loved me, and I loved her. It was not easy for either of us to express this.

But she is gone. Just like my Dad is gone. I miss both of them, but know that they are fine and in God’s good hands. That in itself is a great blessing.

Through the past 365 days I have run the gamut of emotions—from deep anger for a variety of reasons that became so severe by Fall that it required counseling. My emotions ranged from flat/blank to deep resentment to intense joy, and everything else in between.

I felt alternately surrounded by support and love and, at the same time, totally abandoned. There is a deep feeling within me that I will never see some of my cousins again. How sad that death, which should unite, often separates.

My mother’s illness in the months preceding the death did incredible damage to my body, and it wasn’t until early December when I could say that my body felt “normal.” Seven months.

I have been extraordinarily blessed to be able to grieve with my cousin/sister, Vicki, whose relationship with my mother was more mother/daughter, and with Steve, who’d become her son through the illness. I cannot count the times that we’d meet at Koffee Kat, chat, rehash the story, tell it once again.

I was hungry by the time I got out of church. I invited Gerardo for a lunch of his choice—Kentucky Fried Chicken. I asked him he had any plans. “Let’s go to La Ciudadela,” he said. I only knew the place as a very old, and quite handsome, colonial building, with two large, pleasant parks adjoining it. I’d never really spent any time there.

But I was in for a treat. What I did not know is that the parks next to the Ciudadela teem with dancers from 9:00 a.m. to midnight on Saturdays. In all, I counted eight groups. Sensational salsa, jitterbug, tango. A large group of Aztecs doing a ceremonial dance. What caught my eye, though, was a small group lesson of a Mexican variation of tango called Danzon. We both watched a bit then the instructor caught my eye.

“Join us,” she said in English.

“Hablas Español? “Si.”

Where are you from? “Nueva York.”

"Una aplausa,por favor."

And then the whole group applauded the gringo and his Mexican friend joining the group. I had to love the instructor.

Two hours later, a hundred different steps later, several dancing partners later, 25pesos poorer for the lesson, multiple promises that I’d return next week, and worlds and worlds away from the somber rituals of the morning, I left exuberant and happy.

What a day!

I said goodbye to Gerardo, let him know what a gift he’d given me—not only with his presence at the Mass in the morning, but with the gift of dance all late afternoon and evening.

I was tired—physically and emotionally. As I drifted off to sleep, I asked myself if I would have changed anything from the past eighteen months? Not a thing, I thought.

It is true that what doesn’t break us makes us stronger. I am a much better, stronger person for what I went through a year ago.

Do I want to go back to any it? Never. But I regret nothing, and that is the greatest blessing.

But I do want to return to Danzon.

I’ve just got to remember…1, 2, 3… 4, 5, 6… 7, 8, 9… 10…11

How to Celebrate a Birthday

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!

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!

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!

New Year's Greeting, 2011

Happy New Year, 2011

Dearest Friends,

Early December, 2010. I’ve been living in Mexico City for the better part of Fall, working with the city’s only Quaker community. I’ve been reading, slowly, a Quaker meditation entitled Plain Living: A Quaker Path to Simplicity, as well as the poetry of William Blake.

The days are magnificent—warm, sunny, cloudless, and blue. Christmas has been emerging all around since mid-November. It’s a magical time. A couple of times each week I make my way to the city’s largest park, Chapultepec, and then slip into a tiny, hidden corner of the park that I’ve come to call el rincon mas cerca al cielo—the corner closest to heaven.

It’s mid morning and there are only three of us here this warm, December day. The caretaker always plays music; this morning it’s soft, moody and New Age. I lay on my back on a park bench, and look up at the canopy of trees above me. It’s still autumn here and each time there’s a slight rustle of wind, leaves rain down.

The music, the leaves and the brilliant, quiet sunshine have set the mood. It’s very still. For no particular reason, I turn my body and face an elm tree. All of a sudden, I spot a black chameleon sliding down the broad trunk. He spots me, not quite four feet away, and the two of us stare at each other for almost half an hour. Butterflies flutter around the base of the tree. The ground is covered in browns and yellows. This is one of those “easy to live in the moment” moments.

I am face to face with Blake, and one of the meditations I’d read the night before. I realize, in this small moment of time, that I am passing through glory, a glory of which others in the park are probably not aware. Blake’s poem, Auguries of Innocence, runs through my mind:

To see a world in a grain of sand,
And a heaven in a wild flower,
Hold infinity in the palm of your hand,
And eternity in an hour.

This moment is not an accident. In the form of a chameleon, I am witness to the glorious, mysterious world of God’s creation; in the butterflies surrounding the elm, I catch a glimpse of heaven. For this brief moment, I get to hold infinity in the palm of my hand. Had I not been reading Blake, nor read the Quaker meditation the night before, I’d probably not be experiencing this at this level.

This is an enormous gift, and I want to share the meditation with you at this early start to 2011.

“Glory surrounds us from birth. It encircles us as we draw air for our first tentative wail, and unfolds us as we empty our lungs for the last time. And in between those two breaths , we dwell in the midst of this glory: in the joys and struggles of nurturing personal relationships, the wisdom and suffering of aging, the detachment of death, the heartbreak of grief. And through it all we are sustained by keeping our eyes wide open to the wonder that is always around us.

The opportunity before us in every moment is to choose to live awakened lives—as children of awe, truly alive in the midst of the simple grandeur that surrounds our days. The art of plain living is to engage life as a process of opening our hearts and maintaining a vigilant awareness of the streams of glory encircling our lives.”
My wish for you this year is that you see the streams of glory encircling your life, that you live life awakened, and that your heart be open to experience the simple wonder that surrounds our days.

On another note, it’s been four years since my last Christmas form letter.

FOUR YEARS! That letter was written my first year of retirement when I was still struggling with the idea that retirement was little more than the “black hole of nothing.” HAH! That’s not been the case.

Since then I’ve worked as a long term Spanish teacher for more than a full school year, spent two winters living and traveling in South America (Chile top to bottom, a cruise from Santiago to Buenos Aires around Cape Horn, several months living in Buenos Aires, Uruguay, Paraguay, Bolivia and Peru), and have made multiple trips to Mexico and am now living, off and on, in Mexico City, working with La Casa de los Amigos (www.casadelosamigos.org), organizing and restructuring their 6,000 volume library. I happily live, off and on, in Coyoacán, a great neighborhood ten Metro stops from the job.

Steve continues to work (I’ll be 70! when he can retire); his parents continue to live near us, and more and more our lives intersect—in good ways. Steve will return to Mexico City with me in February and, together, we’ll take a close look at real estate.

My mother’s death, on April 9th, unleashed, as those of you who’ve gone through this, a torrent of unexpected emotions. Through her final weeks, I was surrounded and supported in an extraordinary circle of love. The blessings, through all this, outweighed the difficulties. I felt blessed to have such a wonderful group of friends, and to see, as Blake later says in the same poem:

Joy and woe are woven fine,
A clothing for the soul divine.
Under every grief and pine
Runs a joy with silken twine.

I am a fortunate man!

It’s easy to see the years as complex and problematic, focusing on what is wrong instead of what is right. I was blessed to read the meditation when I did, and then to experience such gentle glory in the park that day. Since then, I’ve been able to see glory in many of the small things in life. I hope you do, too.

For those of you so inclined, you can follow my life and travels in my blog: http://danladue.blogspot.com.

My warmest greetings for a wonderful new year ahead. May it be full of blessings and all good things.

Happy New Year!

Dan