Mary Boule: A Eulogy

Good afternoon. On behalf on myself and the Boulé family…thank you for coming today to celebrate Mary’s life.

May and I go back a few years. During the many days we visited these past two months, neither of us could figure out if we met in first grade or in second grade. What I DO remember, though, was the particular circumstance that is my earliest memory of Mary Boulé.

It was story our and Mary brought it a copy of Daniel the Cocker Spaniel. I was mortified, embarrassed. Years late, well after college, when I brought up the event, Mary remembered it well. “I brought it in,” she said, “because I liked you, and I thought you’d like the story, too.”

Even seven years old can misinterpret well-meaning intentions.

Well, that incident didn’t end our friendship. From then on the years melded one to another. Grade school, high school, and even college. We both studied English in Western New York, 40 miles apart, and many weekends Mary would be in Fredonia and I’d be in Buffalo. Her Aunt Margaret became my Aunt Margaret.

We graduated, moved back to Plattsburgh, spent countless hours together. I’ve thought a lot lately of summer days spent at the Boulé camp at Valcour, camping trips on the island and rides into the Adirondacks. I’ve thought of all the hours sitting around camp fires ‘til late at night, and I know in summer that I’ll miss Mary the most.

How does one evaluate a life? One, far more famous, is also being remembered today in this town. [Ron Stafford] Do we judge a person’s life by all his great and mighty deeds, or are deeds plain, quiet and simply sufficient?

Mary led a quiet life, and I really think that life on the corner of Lafayette and Ash, surrounded by Steffan and his friends, was enough. It’s through these kids that many of us have come to realize her greatest legacy.

I’d take occasional days off to sit with her on 5R. We’d reminisce about the old days---summers on the lake, high school and college, our first years back in Plattsburgh, young adults, futures spread out before us. We’d be interrupted by frequent visits from young people—some I knew, but most were strangers to me. There was awkwardness on their part, young as they were, unfamiliar with critical illness. Yet there was a need within them to stand presence with Mary at this time in her life.

“How ya doing’? Steffan (or Parker or Aaron or Sarah or David or Kelly, or, or, or…someone) told us you were in the hospital. Here, we brought you some candy.” Or they’d leave a flower or a plant.

Others told me the same thing. Whenever they’d spend with Mary, young people would flow in. And then the stories…of how Mary opened her non-judgmental heart, let kids tell her their deepest concerns. We learned that kids would go to Mary when they couldn’t talk to their own parents. “Let’s go talk to Mary,” Sarah Remillard told me. “She’ll know what to do.” She was the Mom everyone went to when theirs weren’t home or they just needed a shoulder to cry on. We learned that Mary always knew when to listen and when give to advice—the adult these kids looked to who’d not judge their hair, or their life style, or the decisions they were making. They’d be accepted simply for who they were.

When it came time for Mary to leave—at the end of a gorgeous, early summer’s day—I don’t think it was mere coincidence that four young people were with her at the time. They were there to support Steffan, of course, but they were there,, too, because a huge part of themselves—their second mother—was leaving them.

Steffan…you have to listen to me.

It’s going to take you a life time how much your mother loved you. How joyous she was for you to go to Florida…a week after she’d been given a diagnosis. No holding you back for something so mundane as pancreatic cancer. No. You were always first in her heart and she was always happiest to see your dreams fulfilled. Hold on to this, buddy. Your mother taught you to be a kind and non-judgmental human being. That is her greatest gift to you.

And Aaron…Parker..Kelly…Sarah…David…of you young people who knew Mary as your second Mom…you’ve got to listen to me. Hold on to each other, take here lessons and work them into the deepest fabric of your life. Be the kind, non-judgmental, accepting person she modeled for you. This way she’ll live on, down through the years, in each and every one of you.

How do we judge a life? Not all of us hold office; not all of us bring forth Olympic games or have Middle schools named after us. But we all, each of us, leave a legacy—even the quietest among us.

Mary. Poetess. Songwriter. Balladeer.

Mary. Organic gardener, wild flowers in her hair, feet dangling off the dock at Valcour. Mother. Friend. Peace maker. Secret-sharer of dreams.

Mary. Maker of the world’s best macaroni and cheese, indomitable Scrabble player, a “shoot for the stars” cheerleader of one.

And facing her final battle…a journey she chose share with some of us…eloquent, graceful, dignified. Always smiling, thankful for every kind act. Life lessons to the very end.

Mary loved plants. She’d much prefer a garden plant to a bouquet of store bought flowers. Over the weeks she was in the hospital, I’d bring in single pots of summer annuals—a marigold, a geranium, and this…an impatiens. Even when cancer spread to her brain, she’d be able to tell me, “Impatients: the most beautiful flower…but only in pink.” Her hospital garden brought her great joy and comfort through this difficult spring.

And now this has become my metaphor of Mary. Of all the summer flower, impatiens are the first to die, wilting under the slightest hint of frost. I’ll always see Mary in an impatiens because, like this plant, Mary’s life was cut short by her own too-early frost.

Mary. Kool Aid Mom to neighborhood kids. Everyone’s biggest cheerleader.

What a legacy. A legacy that will live down the years in all the young people who transected her life.

What a great way to be remembered.

June 26, 2005

A Rememberance of my Friend Mary Boule

My oldest friend, Mary Boule, died ten years ago today. We'd known each other since we were seven years old—almost fifty years. She was my oldest friend and was very much loved.

I still miss her.

In April of 2005, during Easter break, I had a call from her sister, Carrie. Mary had not been well all winter. She'd complained of stomach pains but her doctor could find nothing wrong. But by spring, the pain had gotten worse. She'd just come from the emergency room where a doctor suspected pancreatic cancer. A few days later, tests in Burlington confirmed the worst. Carrie thought I'd want to know.

And of course I did.

Growing up, I never had a sister, but Mary had been my friend for years and was the closest thing to a sister I had. We'd been friends for almost 50 years and had been through a great deal in our life.

I was devastated. Who wouldn't be. I knew how fast this cancer progresses. I just didn't know how much time we had.

I do not know how she approached this diagnosis with the dignity she displayed. She could have complained, but she never did—to me at least. She could have withdrawn into a depression, but she never did. Whenever I visited, which was just about every day, she was grateful and happy to see me.

Mostly we'd chat about “old times”--high school and “the gang.” We talked a lot about our college years when she was in Buffalo and I was in Fredonia, 40 miles away. We went back and forth often. We reminisced about the thousands of hours we spent together after college, camping trips to Valcour, late, late nights drinking white wine with yellow raisins at the bottom of the glass, campfires at the Boule camp on Lake Champlain and about our young years as neighbors at 134 Brinkerhoff Street. There was no end to what we talked about.

I told my principal that Mary was dying and that I would be taking a day off every two weeks to spend with her. He was a kind and compassionate man who didn't balk at the idea as some administrators would. He understood.

Despite all the chatter, there were long gaps of silence. I'd just sit with her while she dozed, woke up, dozed again. Visitors would come and go and despite the pain she was in, she'd welcome them and be happy for the time they took out of their lives to be with her. But what mattered the most on those precious days was that we were together.

But each week as springtime progressed, I could see that we were losing her. It was hard to watch.

One Friday, in mid-June, I'd come in after school. We had a normal conversation. I told her I wouldn't see her until Monday as I had something going on all weekend.

Seventy two hours later, however, I'd lost her. In that short time, the cancer had gone to her brain. The smart, witty, fun friend I'd known had slipped away. From then on the decline was far more noticeable.

She lived a few more days. All of us who'd been with her through her sickness were with her at the end. Had she been cognizant, she would have loved to see so many of her friends gathered. We played her favorite music, gathered round her. There was nothing more we could do.

Mary died at the end of a perfect early summer's day, a day like many others we'd shared in our lifetime together.--a day full of sunshine, a day where field daisies were in full bloom, a day that had Mary's name written all over it. Sometime after 9:00 pm she died. The funny, smart, talented friend I'd known since second grade was gone.

The hole her death made has yet to be filled. How do you fill a hole from a friendship that lasted fifty years, a friendship built on trust, non judgment and love? What do you do when your oldest friend, the person you've shared the same journey with for so many years, is gone? It's mighty hard not to miss that person and it's almost impossible to fill those shoes.

Three days later I delivered the eulogy at her funeral. My other friend Mary had to accompany me to the podium; it was the hardest public speaking gig I'd ever done in my life.

After the funeral, when almost everyone had left the church, I saw Steve and started to cry. I wept and wept into his arms until there were no tears left. I have no idea how long this went on, but when I came out of it I saw a circle around me—friends--who stood by me in this time of deep grief.

I will never forget that circle of love!

I still miss Mary, miss the bottles of white wine we'd drink, miss the long talks late into the night, miss the rides we'd take into the countryside.

She's been gone ten years today! Ten years. It hardly seems possible.

A month ago I planted an inpatients and have lit a candle next to it that will burn through the day and night. At 9 pm, the hour of her death, I will be at Valcour Dock, where her ashes were strewn on her birthday, two months after her death. I'll devise some type of “boat” that will carry off a candle. I'll throw field flowers into the lake. I'll sit and remember. It will be more bittersweet than sad. I'm selfish enough to still want my friend with me. I lost her too young!

You're still loved, Mary, and still missed. We'll see each other sooner than later, and it will be a joyous reunion.

Five Years Without Mom

Five Years Without Mom

I woke early this morning

I'd been edgy for days

Remembering five years ago

I slipped on some shorts,

Went to the mercado

Bought flowers—roses—your favorite

The old church nearby

Was open for early mass

Images of the Virgin are abundant here in Latin America

I placed the flowers in front

Of the Virgin of Guadalupe

Sat in a pew and thought of you

What more can we do

Place flowers in front of statues

Tend your grave

Honor your memory

Wherever you are

I know you're fine

How many times have I felt your presence

There are times

I wish I could walk into

The house on Grace Avenue

Both of you still alive, young

Baked chicken in the oven,

Your sweet salad dressing you made by hand on the table

One last Christmas

Where the whole white month of December

leapt with the joy of your enthusiasm

Another August day

when you'd spend hours

huddled over blueberries—happily picking away

But these are not to be

Your profound deafness, then blindness--

The loss of will to live

These I remember

It was OK for you to die; it was OK to let you go

I saw how you suffered

and knew you wanted to be whole again

Today I choose to remember

All your life lessons

Love, forgive

Remember those less fortunate

Embrace with joy that which you love

Always turn to God

Those lessons have served me well

Traveling Route 66: My Snake Eyes Birthday

Mexico City, Mexico

April 1, 2015

Double 6's! Snake eyes! 66!

This is the only birthday I've ever viewed with trepidation.

In January 1978 when my father turned 66, he said to me, “I'm now the age my father was when he died.” This was on his birthday—January 2nd—and I remember well him telling me this.

That was 37 years ago. My father lived another 16 years. He'd only barely retired when he reminded me of his father's early death.

I never knew my grandfather, never knew what habits led him to a sudden death by heart attack at 66.

And so while I could have approached this day with real dread, I decided to turn it around and view it as positively as possible.

This is the year I'm traveling Route 66! This is the year for a new adventure.

This is the year that rolling double sixes will bring me good fortune.

And so I started it off the day before with a bus ride to Acapulco. It was the first Sunday of Holy Week in Mexico and I knew it was still early in the week that the city wouldn't be totally overrun with tourists.

I spent all Sunday afternoon on the beach, and on my birthday, which started off cloudy and cool—a bit unusual for the Pacific Coast at this time year, I stayed on the beach until sunset.

For years I've wanted to paraglide and each time I've come to this resort town I've found a reason not to do it. I've always chickened-out. Last year I used the excuse of my “new knee” thinking that the impact of landing would damage it,.

This year I just said DO IT!

And do it I did.

I waited until late in the afternoon when the wind kicked up and I knew that there'd be an easy lift off the beach. I slapped down 250 pesos, put my trust in the guys who strapped the parachute behind me and in the powerful motor on the boat that would whisk me off the beach and out and above Acapulco Bay.

I was not disappointed!

It was only a five minute ride, but it was down as a memorable five minutes. Not quite as exhilarating as a real parachute ride, but fun nonetheless. This is definitely something neither my father nor my grandfather did when they turned 66.

I do not like being 66! I would much prefer being 26, but that it not the way life works. I am so grateful that I got this far and am so grateful the abundance that is in my life.

Recently, I met a family whose 35+ daughter was developmentally delayed. I was told by her sister that during her birth enough oxygen was cut off that it affected her neurologically for the rest of her life.

My mother reminded me many times that when I was born I was a “blue baby.” I do not know if that term is used anymore, but it's the same thing that happened to this young woman. All through my life my mother marveled at what I had accomplished, because my birth foretold another possibility.

I'd never really thought of it much, but meeting this young woman has put this birthday into perspective. As my father used to say, “I'm just grateful to turn another year older...and a year older where I'm well and healthy.

Thank God for all this! Thank God for this birthday. Thank God for another year.

Colombia: Photos

                                                                 
                                                              Bogota, Colombia

                                                                   
                                                               Raquira, Colombia

                                                               
                                                    Villa de Leyva, Colombia

Colombia: In The End

Mexico City

March 18 2015

In the end, Colombia exceeded my expectations.  I'd expected to spend time in Bogotá, take a few days trips out of the city, have dinner with Sandra, but that's not what happened.

Sandra's generosity was overwhelming.  She gave me the gift of seeing far more than the capital and its environs.

There are many things I will remember and many reasons to return.

I will remember the kindness and politeness of Colombians and how often I heard Si Señor, Gracias, para servirle.  What makes the people of some countries nicer than others? I observed this last autumn in Spain and Portugal.  The Portuguese were uniformly pleasant; the Spaniards, however...too much rudeness, too much aggression.

I will remember elegant stands of cypress and long allays of eucalyptus as we drove through the beautiful countryside of the state of Boyocá, the brilliant blue of the the altiplano.

I can still see mist climbing the high mountains of the Andes, the sun not yet burning off the thin cloud cover as we drove the highways early in the morning.

I will relish the cool, fresh, clean air of the high Andes and hold dear the new friend that I've made in Colombia.

In the end, I had forgotten the vast, open space of South America, the sheer size of the continent, the distance between cities, the beauty of the altiplano and the Andes.

I had forgotten the richness of Andean and indigenous culture, the convergence of Pre-Colombian culture with the 21^st century.

Thank you, Sandra. Thank you for making this a wonderful trip. I truly am impressed with Colombia and its people.

I will return!

Colombia: El Tren Turistico de Bogota a Zipaquira

En el tren histórico de Bogotá a Zipaquirá: Un viaje con mi padre.

Me siento feliz cada vez que viajo en tren. Llegan a mí recuerdos preciosos de papá, cuando de niño, yo pasaba días con él en las estaciones donde trabajaba.

Pasaba los días explorando las estaciones de tren, escondiéndome en los vagones vacíos, sentado en la oficina de mi papá o ayudándole con los inventarios. Me encantaban esos días. Todavía esas memorias siguen frescas en mi mente.

Al final del día, cuando llegaba un tren con destino a Plattsburgh, mi papá me ponía en las manos del conductor para cuidarme.. Mi papá conocía a todos los empleados y él sabía que yo estaba seguro.

Al final del día, justo cuando llegaba un tren con destino a Plattsburgh, mi papá me colocaba en el lugar del conductor. Como él conocía a todos los empleados, sabía que yo estaba a salvo.

Ya bien en la locomotora o en algún asiento en los vagones entre/de los pasajeros, de todos estos momentos, mis favoritos eran cuando andaba (¿de caminar o estar?) en los cabúses. Siempre que llegaba a casa, mi mamá estaba esperándome.

Lo anterior que relato fue hace muchos años. En la actualidad no hay muchos trenes de pasajeros y dejar que un niño haga lo mismo que yo hice sería probablemente ilegal. Debido a estas gratas experiencias, cada vez que tengo la oportunidad de tomar un tren la aprovecho.

De este modo, muy temprano en la mañana del 14 de marzo, vi a mi amiga Sandra para tomar juntos el tren histórico de Bogotá a Zipaquirá (un viaje de 50 kilómetros y 9 horas).

Yo supe que el día sería muy memorable y también sabía que pasaría el día con el espíritu de mi papá. ¡No me decepcioné! Me sentía lleno de emoción. Podía sentir la presencia de papá en mí. Estaba muy contento cuando salimos la estación de ferrocarril de Bogotá a las 8:36.

El tren se movía muy lento, a no más que 25 kilómetros por hora. Estaba disfrutando un tren clásico con una antigua locomotora a vapor y diesel, con vagones de los años 50 y 60 amorosamente restaurados. Este semejaba a un tren de mi infancia.

Nos movimos lentamente a través de los vecindarios de la ciudad, pasando “casas” de madera y lona, mismas que los indigentes han construido. Dentro del tren yo disfrutaba de un momento de lujo, mientras afuera, los pobres estaban vivían vidas muy diferentes. ¡Qué pena!

El tren seguía su viaje lento a través de los suburbios de Bogotá. Pasamos por campos de vacas, ovejas y jardines llenos de papas. Pasamos por casas muy modernas y casas hechas de ladrillos, por cierto muy feas y no del todo acabadas -casas sin color y sin carácter-, en otras palabras, casas muy similares a muchas de América del Sur donde existen diferencias gigantes entre ricos y pobres.

Había una banda papayera a bordo, música típica de Colombia. Los músicos viajaban hasta Zipaquirá y pasando un cierto tiempo en cada vagón. Hubo un cumpleaños y me sorprendí al escuchar “Las Mañanitas.” Pensé que la canción era conocida solamente en México. La banda cantó tres canciones en cada vagón, música muy similar a la de “banda” en México. Pude haber escuchado mucho más pero eran ocho vagones y la banda canta en cada uno de ellos.

El tren siguió hacía Zipaquirá, una ciudad muy famosa por su antigua mina de sal donde los mineros en los años 40 construyeron 14 estaciones de la Cruz y una catedral dentro de una montaña.

Las minas habían sido usadas desde la época de los Muiscas, los nativos de Colombia en los años anteriores a la Conquista. Los indígenas habían explotado las minas, no obstante todavía existen reservas inmensas.

En el corazón de la montaña fue edificada una catedral al interior (enorme). Se inauguró en 1954. De la entrada de la mina a la catedral hay una distancia de 500 metros; dentro se albergan 14 capillas de las estaciones de la cruz. Cada estación fue esculpida en piedra o ha grabada en la pared de roca.

La catedral está ubicada a 200 metros bajo la tierra y es una iglesia católica. Más de 3,000 personas usan la iglesia cada domingo para asistir una misa. La catedral de Sal de Zipaquirá es considerada como uno de los logros arquitectónicos y artísticos más notables de la arquitectura colombiana, otorgándosele incluso el título de joya arquitectónica de la modernidad. La importancia de la catedral, radica en su valor como patrimonio cultural, religioso y ambiental.

Las minas ya tenían tradición de santuario religioso por los mineros antes de la construcción de la catedral, la cual fue dedicada a Nueastra Señora del Rosario que en la religiosidad católica es la Patrona de los Mineros.

Cuando terminamos nuestra visita, tomamos un camión al pueblo de Cajicá, a 15 km de Zipaquirá donde esperaba el tren. Tuvimos tiempo para tomar fotos y comer un almuerzo típico de Colombia: costillas, arroz, yuca y banano. Había visitado una panadería más temprano y cuando salimos del restaurante regresamos para comprar un postre. Elegí un pudín de guayaba con un merengue encima -lo digo enserio, ¡fue uno de los más deliciosos postres en mi vida!-.

A las 4:00 abordamos el tren para regresar a Bogotá. La misma banda que anteriormente tocaba nos entretuvo. Sandra se durmió; yo, todavía estaba emocionado y un poco triste porque nuestro día en el tren histórico estaba terminando.

Ya no hay muchos trenes en las Américas. Han pasado mucho inverneos del día cuando el autor Americano, Paul Theroux, salió de su casa de Boston en los años 70, se encaminó a la Estación de Sur, tomó un tren a la frontera entre México a Panamá y, posteriormente tomó una serie de trenes de Venezuela a Ushuaia, Argentina. Su libro, La Trochita, escrito en 1979, es un clásico del género de la literatura de viaje.

Dos horas más tarde llegamos a Bogotá. Fue un viaje de 50 km pero, también uno de 60 años en el tiempo. Fue un día maravilloso, en el cual compartí mi asiento con mi amiga Sandra así como con el espíritu de mi padre.

Fue un día excitante, lleno de memorias, emociones, de días pasados. Pero, sobre todo, un día en el presente, un día para compartir, un nuevo recuerdo con mi amiga Colombiana.

Al regresar a casa tuve la sensación de un cansancio, pero se trataba de un cansancio satisfactorio. Le di gracias a Dios por el día y casi de inmediato me quedé dormido.

Gracias a Salvadore L., Carlos C., y Wikipedia

Colombia: Tourist Train from Bogota to Zipaquira

Bogota, Colombia
March 14, 2015

Whenever a train ride presents itself, I grab the opportunity—especially when it's a historic train with a classic engine and vintage coaches.

I have precious memories of times with my dad when I was a child. He worked for the D & H Railroad. He didn't have enough seniority in those days to stay in Plattsburgh, so he'd often drive to train stations up to an hour away. Sometimes, during the summer, he'd take me to work with him. I'd wander the train yard, explore the trains that were sitting on tracks, play in the warehouse or just sit in his office.

Often, at the end of the day when a train came through on its way to Plattsburgh, he'd put me on board. He knew all the men who worked the trains, so safety wasn't an issue. Sometimes I'd ride the engine, or sit in a coach seat. Once I remember riding in the caboose.

When the train arrived in Plattsburgh, my mother was always waiting for me.

That was more than fifty years ago, but the memory of those days is still clear and vivid.

Today, however, there aren't as many passenger trains in the US, and it's not likely someone like my dad would be allowed to put his child on board. So many regulations that exist now, didn't exist then.

Thus it was that early on the morning of March 14^th, I met Sandra once again and we headed to Bogotá's historic, 19^th Century Train station and boarded the “Tren Historico” that would bring us from the capital to Zipaquirá, 50 kilometers to the north.

I knew that the day would be memorable, but more importantly I knew it would be a day spent with the spirit of my father. I knew the day would be a good one.

And I wasn't disappointed!

I was very excited. What train enthusiast wouldn't be. The train had a classic 1930's engine and vintage coaches from the 1950's and 1960's. These were the trains of my youth. Immediately, I could see that the trains had been lovingly restored. The windows opened the way I remembered—snaps on the bottom of each side that slid up. The only thing missing were the holes in the toilets that let waste fall out onto the tracks. Not a good idea then and certainly not a good idea now.

The train moved slowly out of the city—no more than 30 km an hour. We slowly slipped out of the center and into suburbs. Homeless people had set up shelters of wood and plastic near the tracks. It was a disturbing contrast—those who had were sitting in the luxury of this classic train, and those who didn't have were watching us pass by.

There was band on board that played music typical to Colombia—papayera. It sounded pretty Mexican to me, but was unique to this country. They'd play several selections then move on to another car. I was surprised to hear them sing “La Mañanitas.” I thought that birthday song was specific just to Mexico.

The train moved on towards Zipaquirá—a small city famous for its cathedral excavated within the heart of an old salt mine. We passed fields full of cows, goats, sheep and the occasional llama, a reminder that I was in South America. We also passed countless fields of potatoes—a major crop in this part of world.

.

By 11:00 we'd arrived and boarded a bus that would bring us to the mines. Three hours later we would meet the train in the town of Cajicá where we'd re-board and return to Bogotá.

The mines had been heavily exploited by the Muiscas—the Pre-Colombian people who lived in the area before the Spanish Conquest. Even though it has been well-excavated, there are still vast reserves within the mines.

It was during the early 1930's that miners first built a small sanctuary within its vast interior as a place for their daily prayers asking protection to the saints before their work day had started. In 1950 construction began on a bigger project that became known as the Salt Cathedral. It's one of Colombia’s great treasures and is dedicated to Our Lady of the Rosary, the patron saint of miners.

From the entrance, it takes about 30 minutes to walk the 600 feet below street level to the actual church. Along the way, miners had carved out the 14 stations of the cross. Some of the crosses are carved out of marble, others out of salt. Some are carved directly into the wall, Along the way strains of Ave Maria can be heard. Colombia is very Catholic!

It's really quite moving.

When we emerged back into the sunshine, we caught a bus that brought us to the small town of Cajicá. The trained had repositioned itself and we had time to stroll through the town, take photos, and have a reasonably leisurely lunch. More meat. More rice. More yucca. More fried plantains. I mean, really...where do these people get their vegetables? I was rapidly moving into vegetable withdrawal and wanted nothing more than a salad.

After lunch, we wandered back up the street towards the center where we'd seen a pastry shop. Not that we needed anything, but earlier I'd seen this guava pudding concoction that looked very appealing.

And very appealing it was indeed. It was a rich guava cream, covered in the richest meringue I've ever eaten. I was actually sorry to finish the dessert and a return visit to Cajicá is on my list of the top five things to do when I return to Colombia! It was really one of the most memorable desserts in my life.

At 4:00 p.m. we re-boarded the train for the return trip to the capital. The same band entertained us. Sandra fell asleep. Poor thing. She'd been on the go for almost a week and I knew she was in sleep deprivation. I was still excited, but a little sad as well. This wonderful trip was coming to an end.

There are not many passenger trains in Central or South American anymore. The few there are tend to me tourist-related like the one we were on. We were a long way from the day when the American writer, Paul Theroux, left his apartment in Boston in the mid 1970's, walked to South Station, boarded the Lake Shore Limited to Chicago, changed trains and headed for Laredo, Texas where he crossed into Mexico and rode from there all the way to Ushuaia, Argentina.

Theroux's journey brought him through multiple countries, all on a train. When he was done, he wrote one of travel literature's great classics—The Old Patagonian Express. I really must reread it.

It had been an astounding day. While I shared my seat with Sandra, there was actually a third person in our group in the form of the spirit of my dad. How could I ride a train like this and not have him with me? It had been two trips, really—the physical 50 km. trip to Zipaquirá and Cajicá, and it had also been a metaphorical trip—a trip back to my past, back to the days when I went to work with my father, back to my boyhood.

Such a precious day!

Colombia: Villa de Leyva--el Desierto Alto de Boyacá, Colombia

Villa de Leyva, Colombia

13 de marzo de 2015

Latitud 5º 39' N

Aún ahora las palabras “Villa de Leyva” generan en mí un rango de sensaciones. De todos los lugares que visité en mis seis días en Colombia, fue el lugar más especial.

Decidimos dedicar un día a este pueblo y sus alrededores.

Villa de Leyva es un pueblo de 5,000 habitantes, muy pequeño, pero lleno de cosas por hacer y ver. Fue fundado en 1572 y desde entonces ha sido un lugar popular para vivir y descansar. Es casi un ejemplo perfecto de arquitectura colonial perfectamente preservado. Localizado a 2,140 metros sobre el nivel del mar tiene un clima muy agradable; es seco, ya a su vez es saludable y amigable.

Por supuesto, hay museos e iglesias, pero quisimos pasar el día afuera. Era un día típico—cómodo con nubes blancas en contraste con el azul profundo del altiplano. El día brillaba.

Hace 120 millones de años, Villa de Leyva, estuvo en el fondo del mar. Y la región es conocida por sus fósiles marítimos. Es uno de los mejores lugares en Colombia para encontrar fósiles.

Fuimos a un museo que contiene un fósil de 12 metros de un Kronosaurus— un réptil que se parece a un cocodrilo. Este fósil era un “bebé.” No puedo imaginarme a los adultos.

Había un museo con muchos más fósiles de hojas, flores, serpientes, amonitas y dientes de tigres.

Después de visitar el museo, tomamos el camino a un lugar que se llama “Observatorio Sola Muisca” o “El Infiernito”--un nombre usado por los españoles para asustar los nativos. Hay más de que 50 monolitos clavados en la tierra, de carácter fálico, funerarios y astronómicos.

Hace 2,000 años, este sitio fue usado por los Muiscas para determinar las estaciones del año. Los monolitos fálicos fueron usados en los actos culturales celebrados en honor al sol.

Me encantó este lugar, localizado a 4 km de Villa de Leyva, y 300 metros arriba del valle. Fuimos las únicas personas que estuvieron en el observatorio. Había un silencio profundo, yo podía escuchar el sonido del viento, el cacareo de los gallos y, ocasionalmente, un coche subiendo el camino en la distancia. En frente de nosotros, podía ver los senderos al subir los cerros y vi también las faldas de las montañas. Podía oler el aroma de los eucaliptos el sol de mediodía.

Pude ver muchas variedades de árboles de Boyacá—robles, sauces, pinos y muchos tipos de cactus.

Estaba muy contento de quedarme en este lugar, pero era tiempo para seguir nuestro día en Villa de Leyva. Manejamos al Convento de Ecce Homo. Es un edificio de adobe y piedra, fundado en 1620 por los dominicanos. De nuevo, fuimos los úniicos y tuvimos acceso a todo el convento.

Los frailes se fueron del convento hace muchos años. Hoy es un museo y un hotel. A mí me gustaría pasar varias noches aqui. Con las vistas, el aire fresco y el silencio, sería un buen lugar para descansar. Los jardines estuvieron llenos de flores—nochebuenas, jamaicas, bugambilias, margaritas, geranios, adelfas y amarilis. En una latitud de 4º norte con un altidud de 2,200 metros, casi todo puede crecer.

Hay dos curiosidades en el convento. Primero, el piso en la entrada está construido con cientos de fósiles de flores, hojas y amonitas. Dentro del convento, hay una serpiente fosilizado de cinco metros. ¡Es fascinante! 

Pero, las nubes amenazaron una tormenta y podíamos sentir gotas de lluvia. Salimos por Villa de Leyva. Pasamos granjas de patatas--el cultivo más común aquí. También había granjas con cultivos de maíz y tomates. Pasamos burros, cabras, ovejas, vacas y colmenas.

Esta parte del mundo no conoce las estaciones del año, no conoce tiempos de frio o de calor. Los días son iguales todo el año—casi 12 horas de luz y 12 horas de oscuridad. Probablamente las granjas pueden producir más que dos cultivos en un año.

Llegamos a nuestro hotel en tiempo para tomar un descanso corto. Esa noche, caminamos al centro del pueblo, a la Plaza Mayor. Elegimos un restaurante con un balcón donde disfrutamos una buena vista de la plaza y los edificios antiguos.

Al final, empezó llover—una lluvia poderosa resonando contra las piedras en la plaza y goteando de los aleros del techo del restaurante. Fue casi mágico.

Esperamos hasta la lluvia terminara y regresamos al hotel.

Pude haberme quedado más tiempo en Villa de Leyva, subiendo los senderos, andando en bicicleta en los caminos alrededor del pueblo, buscando fósiles.

Pero, tenia seis días en Colombia y no había suficiente tiempo de quedarme en esa hermosa comunidad. Aunque Villa de Leyva era mi tipo de pueblo era tiempo salir.

Supe que regresaría!

Colombia: Villa de Leyva--the High Desert of Boyacá, Colombia

Villa de Leyva, Colombia                                                                                                                 March 15, 2015                                                                                                                               Latitude 5.63º N

Even now, the words “Villa de Leyva” bring back a flood of warm, lovely memories.

Sandra and I left Bogota with the idea of spending one night in this lovely old colonial town of 5,000 people. But as things change once you get to a place, we actually spent two nights in a splendid, old hotel that had been beautifully restored. It was mid week and we were the only guests. Wednesday would be “Villa de Leyva” day, so we started early.

Just outside of town, and up, were two museums containing a wide variety of marine fossils. Imagine. We were close to 8,000 feet in altitude and yet the museum we visited housed an almost perfectly preserved fossil of 12 meter baby Kronosaurus. There were other fossils in the museum—ammonites, imprints of leaves and grasses, crustaceans. 130,000,000 years ago, before tectonic shifts, Villa de Leyva was a sea bed. This area of Colombia is noted for its easy availability of fossils and has been a center for research for some time. Across the road from this museum was a research center that was used by interns studying Paleontology. We were given a tour in both English and Spanish.

From there we climbed higher up the road to a 2,000 year old grouping of monoliths. I'd never seen a monolith in my life until last October when I visited three sites in Portugal. And now, this...a continent and an ocean away.

The grouping was about the size of two football fields. Twice a year—in March and September, when the monoliths cast no shadows, the monoliths were used to determine the time of year to start the planting season. Some of the monoliths were phallic in shape, so there must have been some ritual associated with renewal and it is thought that religious festivals occurred. There is even an almost perfectly preserved funeral mound.

What is most interesting is that this grouping was almost identical to ones I saw near Evora, Portugal, last year. Fascinating how parallel ideas emerge more or less at the same time civilizations away from each other.

Again, we were the only people there which made the place even more appealing.

It was noon and the sun was warm and inviting. We took advantage of the nice day and walked the trails around the site. We were in a large valley and all around us were mountains that easily topped 10,000 feet. The air was dry and I could tell the area around Villa de Leyva was arid. Cactus grew in abundance. There was a deep silence to the place.  Off in the distance, I could hear an occasional car climbing the narrow road. I could hear the crow of roosters from a nearby farm. The smell of eucalyptus permeated the air in the midday sun. All around us were large numbers of cactus, willows, oaks and pines. The place just oozed atmosphere.

In front of us lay the valley floor of Villa de Leyva. Rising up from the village were the trails and winding paths that zigzagged up the hills and mountains.

The whole place was rather magical.

But the day was waning and storm clouds were moving in and there were still two more places on our list—The Convent of Ecce Homo and the small village of Santa Sofia.

The convent was founded in 1620 by the Dominicans and was only recently vacated. Again, we were the only visitors, and we were in no hurry to leave this spectacular place. What greeted us as we entered the building was the floor to the entrance that was “paved” with hundreds of 130,000,000 million year old fossils—leaves, flowers and ammonites. Inside, was a 15 foot fossilized serpent. Simply amazing!

Since the departure of the brothers, an external addition has been made to the convent. There is now a hotel on the grounds with beautiful gardens surrounding the few buildings. Oleander, hibiscus, poinsettia, geranium, daisies, and amaryllis were in abundance. At this latitude and this altitude almost anything can grow. What a beautiful place this would be to spend a few days. Add a bike and it would be a great place to take off on the many trails that criss-crossed the area.

But it was late afternoon and we could see storm clouds building in the mountains before us. We still had one more place to visit—the little village of Santa Sofia, further up the road. We arrived at the end of the school day and heaps of kids were mingling in the town square. They could be kids anywhere—sitting with their friends, young couples making out, younger kids playing football.

Sandra went off in search of something. I found a bakery and bought some yet again tasteless Colombian bread and a bottle of juice. I sat on a bench in the square. It was sprinkling lightly but I was under a tree and the rain didn't affect the wonderful view of kids playing and interacting with each other.

Being the only gringo in the lot, I attracted a bit of attention. three boys approached me wanting to practice their English. It was bad, but I had to admire them. Most kids that age are loathe to open their mouths.

By now it was getting darker and at this latitude night falls quickly. It was only a 12 kilometer ride back to Villa de Leyva, but it was raining and we both felt better to leave before nightfall. On the way down I had an opportunity to observe, more closely, the numerous farms that dotted the countryside. Many of the crops—tomatoes, potatoes, corn--thrived in large “greenhouses” made of plastic. I'm not sure why they were covered the way they were. Perhaps the sun was too strong. Perhaps hailstorms had the potential to ruin crops.

Once back in Villa de Leyva we rested before walking into the center for dinner. We were the only two guests in a nice restaurant that overlooked the vast square. Again, it was a meal full of carbohydrates—a piece of meat, yucca, fried plantain and rice.

During our meal it began to rain—heavily. I don't think this is a common occurrence in this part of Boyacá. All the staff gathered on the balcony to watch rain splash the square. It was a lovely sound as it bounced off the roof of the restaurant.

By the time we were finished eating, the rain had stopped. The lights of the village glistened against the wet cobblestones. It was a beautiful sight.

No sooner, it seemed, had we arrived when it was time to leave. Villa de Leyva was a place that beckoned to stay longer, explore its trails, ride a bike to Santa Sofia, search for fossils.

But our time was limited and we had to leave. Sadly. But this town had my name written all over it and I knew I'd be back—sooner than later.