Iberia and Beyond 2--Alcobaca, Bathala, Nazare, Tomar and Evora

Faro, Portugal
October 8, 2014
Latitude 37.0333° N

Once out of Lisbon, life quieted down.  And so did the number of tourists.

I'd settled into the small medieval town of Alcobaça and into a hostel where I'd be the only guest for the three nights I was there.  All of which was fine by me.  As much as I'd enjoyed the company of Ana and her family, solitude was just fine, too.

For three days I ambled around the Estremadura countryside in quest of two 13th century High Gothic churches/monasteries, well-preserved Medieval towns and wide Atlantic beaches.

I would not be disappointed.

Once settled in, I explored Alcobaça's magnificent 12the Century Monastery of Saint Mary of Ãlcobaça--a massive edifice that dominated the town.

Inside, the nave was more than 300 feet long but only 70 feet wide.  Somewhere, I'd read that it had been modeled after an abbey in France.

But, at least for me, the best part of the church were the two intricately carved 14th Century tombs--the church's greatest possessions.

Despite extensive damage by Napoleon's troops in 1811, the tombs still showed the finely detailed story of Christ's passion--all carved out of marble.

That evening I strolled the lantern-lit tangle of the city's windy and ancient back streets.  It was the last day in September, but still felt like a comfortable summer's night.

The next day I used the region's extensive network of of bus lines to bring me to Bathala--a town that still conjures up fierce national pride among the Portuguese people because of the a critical battle for autonomy which occurred there years ago.

My goal was the Monastery of Santa Maria of Victory--an extraordinary abbey built to commemorate the 1385 Battle of Aljubarrota--a battle that shared striking similarities to our own Battle of Plattsburgh.

The battle was a decisive victory over the Spanish.  Like the Americans 530 years later, the Portuguese were heavily outnumbered and yet, through a stroke of military good luck, the local army won, thus establishing, for the first time, Portuguese independence.

Construction of the church began three years later and was completed by 1434.

It was all High Gothic and embellished with gargoyles in the shape of fantastical beasties.  A fabulously designed 15th Century stained-glass window cast the interior in a magical light on this hot and sunny first day of October.

What a phenomenal achievement of architecture.  Solid rock had been carved into forms as delicate as snowflakes and pliable as twisted rope.

I stopped in my tracks when I first approached the abbey.  Hot sunlight flooded the ochre-limestone blocks.  The church bristled with flying buttresses, Late Gothic stained glass windows, octagonal chapels and doorways layered with angels, saints, apostles and prophets.  It took my breath away, much like the Taj Majal did the first time I saw it many years ago.

Inside, warm light poured into the church from deep-hued stained glass windows.  A later addition also include an octagonal chapel--lofty and star-vaulted--housing the tombs of Portugal's first king, his sons and Prince Henry the Navigator.

Inside, the Royal Cloisters were breathtaking--tangles of  detailed stone carvings, entwined with vegetation, exotic flowers, ropes, pearls and shells--again all carved out of stone.

The abbey was truly a monument to faith and national pride and a testament to man's great creative genius.

Bathala was a lovely town, made more so the dearth of tourists and the magnificence of what I'd seen. It was an easy to town to linger in for a bit, especially on this hot, cloudless blue day.

In the middle of the week I needed a break.  From Alcobaça I cruised the back roads of the area on my way to Nazare, one of Portugal's prime beach towns.

On my way there, we tooled through rolling hillside villages that offered fine views of well kept homes with picturesque tiled roofs and gardens of bright flowers.

Once in Nazare, I spent a wasteful, yet very necessary, day doing as little as possible in this pretty cliff-backed town along a lovely white beach  One thing I did not do was plunge into the chilly Atlantic.  This part of Portugal is much like coastal California in the summer--hot air temperatures, but frigid waters for swimming.

By Day 4 I packed up and travelled east to the Medieval time-capsule town of Tomar with its rambling 12th Century Convent of Christ safely tucked behind the crenelated walls of the Crusader fortress.

It was my good fortune, once again, to stay with another Ana, this time in her 17th Century home just below the crenelated walls of the fortress above.  With its thick walls, huge bedroom and spacious garden with orange, lime and persimmon trees, I felt right at home.

That afternoon I  headed up the hill to the convent where the Knights Templar held court from the 12th to the 16th Century.  Room after room was a surprise----other-worldly chapels, sinuous and spiralling staircases and splendid cloisters.

Clearly the most famous feature of of the monastery/convent was the chapel's western window--a celebration of Portugal's role in the Age of Discovery.  Snaking ropes, seaweed and cork boat s atop of which floated the Cross of the Order of Christ, all of this carved in detail out of local marble.

I spent another day in  the region doing very non-Medieval things: a tour to Fatima including the  homes of the children and apparition sites.  Two hours were spent  circling a quarry where 170,000,000 million year old  dinosaur tracks had been found a number of year ago.  The trip was made especially nice because of a young couple from BC and their two children who'd come up from Lisbon for the day.

But Tomar had come to an end.  This was the only place that  I'd been to in Portugal where  I'd like to have put down roots-  Perhaps it was Ana's hospitality or her great digs, but Tomar reached out and took hold  of me.

But leave I did and my journey to Evora brought me through Lisbon once again.

I loved lounging on the train, watching the Portuguese countryside roll by.  We passed tall stands of of dusty-Green eucalyptus and grove after grove of olives. Tiny, old villages with homes landscaped with hydrangea and orange trees and white pines buzzed by.

My first image of the this delightful Medieval town  began almost an hour before I'd arrived.  It was late afternoon and a warmth glowed off the fabulously quiet landscape of cork trees that stretched on for miles.  I was crossing the sun drenched and golden plains of the Alentejo--Portugal's almost southernmost province.

At sunset I arrived in Evora and watched the sun, yellow and warm, crawl behind 700 year old buildings.  It was a fine way to wait for a cab that would bring me to the hotel

The next day, Sunday and my only full day in the city, I wandered the cobbled streets--too clean and tidy, I thought. It almost had a Disney feel about the place.  I was reminded of a visit to Quebec City several years when the same thing happened.  The city had cleaned itself up so well that it almost looked artificial.

The day would be sufficient to take in the sites--the cathedral and the finest still-standing Roman ruin in all of Iberia--a 2nd Century temple to Diana.

But I'd seen heaps of old buildings in the previous weeks and what I really had my heart set on was a visit  to 7,000 year old megaliths that dotted the countryside around Evora.  Indeed, these were some of  the oldest remains of civilization in the world.  The Evora Complex are some of the oldest and largest stone circles in all of Europe--older even than Stonehenge--and one of the oldest records of mankind.

I hired a taxi and shrugged off the expense.  How often do you get a chance to see something like this? Our first site was The Cromlech of the Almendres.  More than 90 large rounded stones were placed in a deliberate pattern that probably built for ceremonial purpose or as a primitive astronomical observatory.

Not important.  What was important was how delightful it was to wander around this rather ethereal place. I just wish I'd had my own car which would have allowed me to linger longer in these astounding sites.

By now my time in Portugal was coming to an end.  I'd spent ten days living in the Middle Ages and in magical places--Bathala, Alcobaça, Tomar and Evora with their extraordinary monasteries with a whole booty of  13th and 14th Century treasures.  I'd drifted in and out of hidden courtyards and curvy, shadow-filled lanes.  Buses transported me up and over rolling hillsides and through quaint villages sprinkled with  with white-washed houses and Stone-walled taverns.

And while I missed, a lot of other marvelous places, I still left Portugal with a pleasant taste in my mouth.  There was still a great left more to see and that is always a sign that a country's visit was a good one.

Iberia and Beyond 2--Lisbon, Sintra and Queluz

Lisbon, Portugal
September 29, 2014
Latitude 38.7138°

It was exactly my first full day in Lisbon and I'd made my way to the Monastery of Saint Jerome--San Geronimos in Portuguese.  It's a major tourist site in the city and perhaps Lisbon's most famous buildings.  It was high on my list of place to see.

What I'd not planned on was two cruise ships being in port on the same day.  Early clues had told me it was going to a busy, busy day!

When I got to the entrance of the monastery the line was long and aggressive.  People were pushing their way in.  Old ladies, hordes of camera toting Japanese and legions of your every day variety of tourist.

So, I backed off.  This was not how I wanted to spend my first day.  I had two months in front of me and this place could wait a bit.

Instead, I entered the 14th century church, toured its gorgeous interior where tree-trunk columns grew to a spider web of a ceiling.  A golden light cast from high stained glass windows cast a warm light on the altar and on the elegant tomb of Vasco da Gama.

I gave the church an hour or so, and figured to hordes would have abated.

But I was wrong.

Just as I was leaving the church, an overly aggressive Asian tourist began to race past me and literally pushed me out of the way.

Instinctively, my right arm went out and slammed into his gut--not something I normally do.

"I was first," I muttered.

He stopped cold.  For a moment I though we were on the verge of some new Sino-American conflict.

We stared at each for a long second or two, but he backed down, let me past and that was that!

What a way to start this nine week trip!

The line was still horrifying, so I just gave up on the idea of seeing this site on day 1.  It was still early in the day, and there was still plenty of time for the cruisers to be in port.  But I knew they'd leave in due time.  God forbid they miss that night's buffet line!

So I regrouped.  I had five full days in Lisbon so there was no need to endure this sort of crunch.  Instead, I spent my day in two lovely botanical garden--a respite form the cruise ship tourists and a gentler approach to seeing this lovely city. I was still tired from a transatlantic flight and lack of sleep for 40 hours.

In subsequent days I deliberately got lost in the labyrinthine Moorish time capsule of the Alfama with its tangled alleyways, skinny terracotta roofed houses and orange-tree shaded patios.  I'd sit for half an hour, read, let daily life pass me by, watch Lisbon's ubiquitous red or yellow trams trundle up the steep and narrow streets.  This was "old" Lisbon and its streets had seen legions of Roman soldiers and foot-tramping Crusaders.

I was reminded of another day, two years ago,  when I followed a similar trail through the sinuous streets of Kathmandu.  It brought back pleasant memories.

And so the days passed quickly.  A weekend day trip to Sintra was a bit of a bust--far too crowded to enjoy its imposing castles and fairy-tale like setting.  I did take a bus trip that brought me round the Sintra area and to Cabo da Roca--the western most po9nt of Europe.  It was a hot, sunny Saturday afternoon and the place was packed, but standing atop the precipitous cliffs that plunged down to a piercing blue sea was a marvelous way to end the day.  I made a huge mental note that if I came back this way I'd spend far longer than an afternoon in the special area outside Lisbon.

On Sunday I needed some quieter diversion, so I made my way to Queluz, just outside of Lisbon center, to the former summer palace of Portuguese Royalty of the 17th and 18th Century.

Well, I wasn't disappointed. It was eerily quiet and I and few other tourists seemed to be the only people there.  I'd seen this place before, but not in Portugal.  It was patterned after Versailles in Paris and the Peterhof in St. Petersburg.  But unlike both of those places, it was a treat to roam to its elegant rooms without others breathing down my neck.  Room after room was filled with original furnishing from that time period.  How it was all salvaged is a mystery.

Outside, the oak-lined formal gardens were just beginning to turn early shades of autumnal brown and yellow.

Overriding my stay in Lisbon had been my very good fortune to stay at the home of Ana Balthazar, who I'd found online at airbnb.com.  Along with her two sons and another guest from South Africa, it was a pleasure to stay in her 6th floor apartment building.

For $28.00 a night in a truly residential neighborhood, I got a comfortable bed, a view of the Tagus River, good people to come "home" to every night and, best of all, a free ride from the airport when I arrived at 7:00 a.m. from Montreal.  More than once she invited me to share dinner with her family and repaid the favor with Portuguese take out.  It couldn't have been better.

I was reminded of my stay in Eastern Europe many years ago when I'd go home with local women who met tourists at the train station and were renting out rooms in their homes.  I was never disappointed and to this day some of my richest travel experiences have been given from some of those kind folks.

By week's end I finally  did get back to the Saint Jerome Monastery.  Blessedly, there were no cruise ships in port.  I was duly wowed by the  fusion of creative vision and moneys procured from discoveries by the early Portuguese explorers that produced this splendid monument--a foretaste of splendors to come.

Early in the evening of my last full day in Lisbon,  I was eating a quiet dinner at a street side restaurant when a bride walked by with a few of her girlfriends.  Dusk was setting over the capital, I glanced upward and saw a brilliant crescent of new moon.  A good sign I thought.  Fifteen minutes later I heard the distant strains of Ave Maria.  I thought of my mother who told me so many times how this had been sung at her wedding (and would later be sung at her funeral).  What a nice way to end the day...a silver crescent of new moon and a hymn with so many emotional connections.

My stay here had  been a good one--rich and full and wanting of more--and this silvery moon bode well for a continued good journey.

And while I would miss Ana and the multiple distractions Lisbon had to offer, I was looking forward to quieter days but equally enriching days ahead.

Iberia and Beyond 2: Here We Go

Plattsburgh, NY

September 23, 2014

Latitude 46.69 N

I am calling this trip Iberia and Beyond--2.  Thirty two years ago I travelled in Spain and Portugal and my journal from that time was called Iberia and Beyond. All trips in my younger days had names. That summer--1982--I flew to Spain, traveled into France and Andorra, then returned to Spain where I then went to Portugal and Morocco.

This trip is a bit less ambitious, but will take twice the time.  There is no longer a need to travel at warp speed--which is very nice.

Tonight I off for Lisbon and two weeks in Portugal. From there I cross into Spain for three weeks visiting the Moorish gems of Seville, Granada and Cordoba. On October 18^th, I'll meet Glenda in Madrid where we spend a week before boarding the SS Norwegian Epic in Barcelona on October 26^th for a two week Atlantic crossing. From Miami I fly on to Mexico City for two weeks, with a five day interlude to my favorite Mexican beach town—Zipolite. I'll arrive home just in time for Thanksgiving—the first time I've been home in late November in three years.

If you're reading this, wish me God speed.

The Summer of 1974

In the summer of 1974 I was 25 years old and had just finished my third year of teaching. In late June of that year I embarked on my first truly solo adventure that would, in the end, define travel for the rest of my life.

I had a one-way ticket from Montreal to Jasper, Alberta, a wallet full of travelers' checks and a well-worn copy of an ancient National Geographic article about the Canadian Rockies.

My father dropped me off at Windsor Station a few days after the school year ended and at 5:00 pm, on a late June afternoon, I took off, alone, on the then Canadian National daily Montreal-Vancouver run.

In 1974 I was a far different traveler than I am today. I'd packed enough picnic fare—hard boiled eggs, banana bread, baked chicken—to last me the forty eight hours it would take to get to Western Canada.

There are many aspects of this trip that are lost to memory, but what I do remember is that Jasper was my goal. I'd not really thought much about what I'd do after that, nor did I give any thought to getting home. I was able to live very much in the travel moment and not worry too much about what would happen tomorrow.

I was totally ill-prepared for this trip. Forty years ago there were not guide books, no blog posts, no Internet sites. I should have known to bring a warm jacket, but I didn't. Instead, I had a long sleeve flannel shirt and a thin cotton hoodie, one pair of jeans and one pair of shorts,

I did have, though, good hiking boots, warm socks, a fine backpack, a warm sleeping bag and a more-than-sufficient cook set.

Three days after leaving Montreal I arrived in Jasper, Alberta. I had a tent, a good sleeping bag and an open sense of adventure. Somehow, I found a free campsite on the fringe of town that was located on the banks of a river and loaded with other young people. A place like that might not exist today. There were o terrorists roaming the countryside and well all felt safe. Cities set up places like this for young people. It was a good time.

There were not facilities, no showers. Maybe there was a port-a-potty but that another one of those things I don't remember. All of this was perfectly fine with me. I was 25, it was the 70's. There was still a residue of hippie in me to embrace this sort of thing.

I fell in love with Jasper almost immediately. I bought a hiking guide, hooked up with other hikers, and spend days and days roaming the trails of Jasper National Park.

Once, with four recently graduated high school kids, we hiked deep into a nearby valley, pitched out tents on small islands and in too-fast-running river. It rained. We hunkered in. Looking back on it, it was such a foolish thing to do. The river could have flooded and we'd have been washed away.

But we were young and invincible and, honestly, I don't think any of us even thought of this possibility. I'm sure “flash flood” had never entered our vocabulary.

We'd seen bears earlier when we'd hiked other trails. All of us were from urban areas and didn't have a clue, but we knew enough to let the bears know we were coming. When we were on the trail the five us, one at a time, would shout...”Stay away bears!! Stay away bears.” We did this all day long ever four or five minutes. “Stay away bears!” It probably did the job.

Days later, after leaving these guys, and hitchhiking to Yoho National Park, I hiked into a gorgeous mountain lake that still had vestiges of ice on its fringes. It was early July and weather was perfect. I'd spend my days hiking over snow fields, climbing to look outs much higher up that where I was tenting. Mountain goats roamed the steep slopes above me. The days were brilliantly blue. Often, in the distance, I could hear avalanches tumbling down summer mountain sides.

I stayed so long in Yoho National park that I ran out of food. Taking a lead from other hikers, I hiked down the opposite side I'd ascended, found a resort and begged the restaurant staff to sell me some food. I came back with eggs, bread and a few bottles of Pepsi—even then. :)

I have no idea how many days I stayed in this gorgeous place, but I finally had to force myself away from the Canadian Rockies. The Summer I was there was simply perfect and one day rolled into the next-days spent hiking, meeting new people, enjoying the grand beauty this place had to offer.

From Yoho, I hitch hiked from there to Vancouver. The journey wasn't direct of course. Because I was always part of another hiking group and because we were young, our drivers often invited us to stay in their home. Thus I saw part of Alberta and BC I'd never have seen otherwise.

I lingered a few days in Vancouver, sleeping in a youth hostel nearer the beach. It was here that one of three anti-American sentiments was directed at me. Several of us were sitting on the beach one evening when a few aggressive, possibly drunk, Canadians wanted to know where we were from. I was still an innocent traveller and we told them the USA. They started to pick a fight, hurled anti-American sentiments at us. Luckily we got left with no ensuing damage.

After Vancouver I took a boat to Victoria, where I sailed yet again to Seattle and stayed with our family friend, Lucille Rabideau who'd moved back to Washington two years earlier. In Seattle I had a bed and three meals a day and a roof over my head. It was wonderful.

A few days later I moved on to Portland, Oregon then hitch hiked to Surf City—many miles to the west. Surf City, then, was a place of miles long, cold beaches, few homes and quiet isolation. I imagine it's quite different today.

It was 1974 and there were fewer regulations in place. I found a sand dune, and set up camp. At night I'd unroll my sleeping bag, make a “pillow” out of clothes and snuggle in under the starts. At dawn I'd wake, the sleeping bag's surface wet with dew. I'd let it dry out, then repack it. I spent my days roaming the beach, hanging with other young people who were camped out in the dunes.

I stayed almost a week. Once a day I'd wander into the local diner and order lunch—and use their bathroom to take a “shower.” I wasn't so much as dirty as I was salty, and this once a day bathing was enough to keep me clean. Once I met a local family who offered to bring me to their home and let me use their shower. I gladly accepted.

Each day I'd stroll for miles on the beach. The water was too cold for swimming, but there was plenty to look at in the water—crabs and starfish. In small eddy's cold water marine animals made their home.

I'd climb sand dunes that looked like small mountains. One sand dune was popular for hang gliding and I'd watch person after person fly off the hill. One woman tried, and immediately fell, rolling down the dune. An ambulance was called. She did no move. I've often wondered what happened to her

Evenings were spent around a campfire. Someone had caught fresh salmon and we cooked it over the open fire. It was one of the few times in my life when I enjoyed fish.

Twenty years later, in the summer of 1994, Steve and I returned to Surf City. For me it was a journey back to a place that had meant a lot of me twenty years earlier. We stayed in a motel. Very little had changed. We walked the beach and the trails that had been built in the sand dunes. I pondered how I could possibly have spent week living in my sleeping bag, sleeping in a sand dune. It was a wonderful journey back to the past.

From Surf City I hitched a ride to the Highway 1 and almost got arrested doing so—not for hitchhiking, but for walking on the wrong side of the road.

A State Trooper stopped me.

“Let me see some ID, please.”

Check

“Mr. Ladue, do you realize you're walking on thew wrong side of the road?”

“But, sir...where I live I'm doing the right thing.”

“Occupation?”

“Teacher”

“Height?”

“5' 8”, I guess.”

“Weight?”

etc., etc., etc.

I got a warning, in duplicate, which I still have.

Once on the coastal highway a beat up old pick up from the 1950's picked me up. On board were a motley crew of other hitchhikers, all heading south. Everyone smoked pot. The driver would occasionally get out and ask someone to take over. God only knows how stoned these drivers were. The things we do when we're young!

The ride lasted many hours until I got off in the city of Brookings, on the border of northern California. Another guy, Mike, got off with me. Together, we found ourselves a place on the beach, set up camp, prepared meals by night. Each evening he'd pull out his guitar and other campers would join us.

During the day I'd make my way into Brookings to “shower” as some restaurant and pick up a few supplies. Life was extraordinary simple.

We left Brookings, crossed into California, and hitchhiked south. By now July was coming to an end. A whole month had passed living in my tent or under the stars. It had been wonderful.

Mike had been born and raised in LA and was on his way home to visit family for the summer. We were both 25 and both of us were teachers, we so had a lot in common. He introduced me to the redwoods, and later to a group of friends living in Berkley and Davis where we stayed for a few days.

From Davis I flew on to LA for $29.00. Thank heavens for good travel journal keeping. I'd never know that figure today.

I knew some folks from the church I was in Plattsburgh who'd been stationed at the Air Base there and had relocated back to California.

I stayed with them for about a week, sleeping on the sofa, being awakened one morning and told to leave the house because there was an earthquake. I can still see the entire neighborhood standing in the middle of the street, in their pj's or underwear.

Their church had a day trip to Universal Studios and Disneyland and I took advantage of both opportunities. It was in Glendale, where they lived, that I first got introduce to Baskin-Robbins ice cream. Everyday I'd walk down to the shop and bring back enough for all of us.

By now it was getting towards the end of August and I really had to think about getting home. I'd flown by the seat of my pants the entire journey and had never really thought much about the return trip home. But school was going to start in two weeks and I really had to get back to Plattsburgh.

My LA friend suggested we go to the airport that night, bags packed, and surf the airlines to see what was available. Which is what I did. I had a credit card, and bought a LA—Cincinnati red-eye that stopped in Denver and Chicago. From Cincinnati I bought another ticket to Albany and then from Albany to Plattburgh. Imagine trying that today!

From the airport in Plattsburgh I walked all the way home. I was back “on the road” one last time. I entered my apartment that had been shut up since I'd left in June. The daisies I'd picked on a beautiful June day were dried out in a waterless vase. The paint job I'd started in the kitchen was still unfinished.

Immediately I went in to trip withdrawal. All those splendid summer days were now behind me.

School started a week later and life returned to normal.

For months after I returned I'd show my slides to anyone who'd sit through them. I did it so often that I'd memorized my narrative.

Occasionally, in some form of “out west” nostalgia, I'd pull out my cook stove, sit on the floor of my living room and cook a typical Summer of 1974 dinner—instant rice and package of soup mix and a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. Sometimes I'd even take out my sleeping bag, place the mattress pad , and sleep on the floor.

My journal records names of people I met, people who's lives transected mine for a short period, people who came and went that fantastic summer 40 years ago.

Have you had a good life, Robert A. Oliver? Where are you now Ellen Schaeffer? Did you fulfill your dreams Paul Wolger? Sadly, my journal barely surfaces the context in which I knew you, but our time together was good enough for me to record our time together.

Forty years have passed. I never once made contact with anyone from my journal, nor I have heard from them.

But all these people life on is what I learned during that summer—connect, enjoy each other's company, disconnect, move on. It's the way of travel then and it's the way of travel now.

What I did learn in that summer so long ago has held e in good stead in all subsequent travels.

My ability to leave Plattsburgh alone, navigate new countries, roll with the unexpected, change plans at a minute's notice and adapt to all sorts of different situations were all skills I learned, unknowingly then, during that eight week trip.

It was truly a landmark summer--one I still remember--even more so this summer, its 40^th anniversary. I had traveled to the center of my soul and ht summer has lingered in a corner of my memory for a very long time.

I will never travel that way again—not that I can't, but more that I don't want to. What's good for a 25 year isn't necessarily look for a 65 year old.

Still, it's nice to image how easy it was to sleep in city parks or in sand dunes along the Oregon coast.

I think there is a moment in young adulthood, or a series of them, when a door opens and the future in.

The Summer of 1974 was one of those moments.

Forty years later I still smile on that summer and am grateful beyond words for what it taught me.

Eulogy for Catherine Keyes

Is it good now, Kay? You're free. You're free at last.

It must be great.

But it's not been good, has it Kay? It's not been good for a long time.

It's been a long, long time since I've been able to tell you a story, Kay.

But I know you're well now—whole. And I know you're here with us—your spirit, sharing this celebration of life.

So here goes, Kay. I want to tell you a story. I want to tell you a story about you...and me..and the day you died.

I'd not slept well that Monday night, always waiting for the phone call that never came. It wasn't a surprise, then, that I woke up early, before the sun. So, at 5:00 a.m. I biked to the hospital.

The sky was a turbulent, cloudy gray and the wind was blowing wildly. I half expected the sky to break loose and soak me before I got to your room.

You were restless, that early gray dawn, Kay. Your lungs telling us all that the end was near. It was brutally difficult to see you in such pain. As I held silent vigil, I could see two Kays in that bed—the physical Kay, whose body wanted release from the discomfort, and the restless, spiritual Kay whose spirit was crying for release.

From your room, high above Plattsburgh, I looked out at the emerging morning—a dawn of thickening clouds and mighty wind. Energies outside your room were picking up speed; energies inside your room were dwindling by the minute.

I didn't expect to see you at the end of the day. I said goodbye, left, and biked to a nearby restaurant and sat...trying to make sense of it all, this mystery, this suffering, this enigma we call death.

Biking home, the morning's turbulent energy was stronger, more furious. Rain threatened, but I knew it wouldn't. A front was pushing through—pushing the rain, the clouds, and you, too, I imagined, out and beyond.

You were never far from my mind, Kay, those first few hours in school. Outside my library, the front had passed, the sky was breaking, the day had turned from gray to blue.

Mid morning, I wasn't surprised when John called, confirming was I knew. You'd just passed, pushed out with the clouds into the great blue yonder.

I spent the rest of the morning in silence, struggling with your pain, the ugliness of death. Surprisingly, it wasn't your death that grieved me. I was happy for your release. It was the struggled living that grieved me most.

It wasn't until later, as I wandered up the hall, that I was finally able to connect the dots to this puzzle.

It was finals' week and our middle school students were coming out of classes, shouting, racing. Their young bodies were crying out to finished with this day, their exams, this school year. Crying out for summer vacation to begin.

And then it hit me! What I was witnessing in that school hallway was the same thing I'd witnessed hours earlier, in your hospital room, that early, bleak, break of day. Like these students trapped in school, your spirit was trapped in a dying body. Both of you...these adolescents and your dying spirit...were screaming for release.

“Get out,” your spirit was saying. “Get out. It's time to break free. It's time to go home.”

“Get out,” these kids were saying. “Get out. It's time to break free. It's time to go home.”

This epiphany was comforting, liberating. And it all finally made sense.

That afternoon, Steve and I left for Lake Placid. We all needed a break, to move on, at least for a day, to green trees and verdant mountains...to life.

The day was a marvelous blue, early summer-cool, fresh. There was no structure to the afternoon. We wandered in and out of shops on Main Street. We sat by the lake to enjoy the view. We chatted about you and the memories we had. And we contemplated,, together, your life, your illness, your passing.

Suddenly, while sitting there, gazing at the dwindling light, an image came to me—sudden, joyous, full of energy. You. Running. You as a youngster running through a meadow. Laughing. You were laughing...riotously, boundlessly—the laugh of someone so full of life, so free—of someone having so much fun that laughing was the only way it could be expressed.

I knew you were letting me in on a joyous moment—you, running through the fields of heaven, free—free at last.

The image was so real, so vivid, so absolute that I knew you were letting me share that first, sun-filled afternoon with God.

And so, Kay, I say goodbye. I will hold dear the memories of long ago, before the dark years, before we lost you in life, and now in death. Way back...

--Skiing at Whiteface and Jay Peak;

--Cinerama and Joe's Steak House;

--Drive-in movies on summer nights;

--Wonderful weekends in the Laurentians.

I thank you, Kay, for all you did in those earlier years.

And I thank you, too, for teaching me to the end that death is part of life, and that all spirit longs to go home, that in the end we all return to God.

And I thank you for allowing me the brief image of heaven's fields and you, running free and happy. It's good to know that you are well.

I like holding that Lake Placid image of you—you running through summer meadows, running through the eternal summer fields of heaven.

That's the image I will hold of you—jubilant, happy and full of life.

September 7, 2003

People Remembered: Aunt Catherine Keyes on her Centennial

June 18, 2014
Plattsburgh, NY

There were three people present at the moment of my birth: my mother, of course; my Uncle Bill—my father's first cousin, Dr. William Ladue who delivered me; and my aunt Kay—my father's middle sister, Catherine Keyes who was, according to my mother, a “trained nurse.” I never did

understand that term, and I think it's long gone out of fashion.

Had my aunt lived beyond her 88 years, she'd have turned 100 today! A century.

My aunt's name was Catherine Ladue Keyes and, like my dad, her older brother, she was born “on the farm” on the Durand Road in Beekmantown, New York on June 18, 1914.

Her parents had both been born and raised in Beekmantown. Her dad, Charles, was one of two brothers—both born in the 1880's. William left the farm for medical school and Charles stayed on, bought a nearby farm, and settled down with his new bride—Maude Boutillier—a.k.a Butler. Even today, the Butler Road is a 21^st century reminder of my grandmother's family, Acadians who'd been expelled from Nova Scotia years earlier. Ultimately, her branch of the family emigrated south from St. John, Quebec and settled in Northern New York.

In May of 1910, my grandparents, then in the 20's and single-handedly working the farm, brought up from New York City a young Willie McGuth. Willy had been trained in agrarian skills at the Westchester branch of the Great Catholic Protectory. Not all boys had stellar experiences on the farms of New York State, but this young man did. When my dad was born in 1912, Willie had been living with them for two years and was, for all practical purposes, my grandparent's son. Both my dad and Kay, as we all knew her by, only knew Willie as their older brother, and not a farm hand. (Many years later, in the twilight of my aunt's life, when her mind would slip in and out of dementia, the memory of this young fellow was strong and positive enough to have her tell me...”I always loved Willie.”) He was, and always would be until his death in the mid 1950's, their older brother. That love would flourish for almost 90 years.

Early in the 1990's, when most of my elderly relatives were still well, I took Kay back to the family homestead in Beekmantown. It had recently been remodeled and probably looked better then than it did 100 years earlier. The property extended past Route 11 and beyond the Tastee Freeze. Kay told me they had fields of corn and dairy cattle. For some reason, at that juncture of her live, she still had that peculiar French Canadian patois, “We malked the cyous,” she happily told me. Her first cousin, Dr. Bill Ladue, was also with us. “Tell him how we used to spend summers with you.” Life on the farm stayed with Kay and my dad and their cousins, until the end of their lives. It had been a happy place and an important part of their lives.

Five years after Kay was born, a third child came along—Margaret. It was shortly after that that my grandparents moved into Plattsburgh.

My aunts and my dad went to St. John's Academy and Kay would have graduated sometime around 1932. She went on to nursing school in Plattsburgh and for all my life Kay worked at the local hospital in Plattsburgh. Four times in my young life I was hospitalized—first in 1956 when I broke my leg, and three times for surgery. Each time I remember Kay being with me. I took it for granted that she would be there, never appreciating what a gift that was. I'm sure she pulled a few strings to be present with her nephew in his time of need.

Sometime in the early 1940's she met and married my Uncle Earl Keyes.  Today, I have regrets about this man.  I never really knew him.  How did they meet? He was originally from Fulton, NY, so why was he in Plattsburgh?

In their living room on Palmer Court were two small photo albums of pictures taken during World War 2 when he was stationed in the South Pacific.  Never once did I have a conversation about his time in the Navy and I never once asked him his story.  He died in 1987, long before I even thought of wanting to know the stories these men carried. 

In 1949, two weeks after I was born, their son, John, came into their life.  He was an only child and because we were the same age, I was often included in family outings. 

Kay was fond of cats, golf, gardening, skiing and Florida  Every summer she'd have tomatoes growing on the side of her garage and I think she spent as much time as possible on the golf course as possible.

My fondest memories of Kay involve Drive-in movies and skiing. Summer nights, she'd pack me and my cousin John into the car and we'd head to one of the summer-only theaters that surrounded Plattsburgh. This was the late 1950's into the 1960's when the Drive-in was at its zenith of popularity.

She'd pack drinks and popcorn and we'd happily spend a summer's night watching some double feature.

Back in the day, a long time ago, I'd be invited to Montreal with Earl and John.  In my memory it was always a Sunday afternoon when we'd take off.  Our Mission: Cinerama.  Cinerama was a type of film production popular in the 1950's and 1960's and it was only shown at theaters with a specially designed screen.  Films were so popular that they roll into town for months on end.  In those days, before 1967, before the days of Oh Canada as the country's national anthem, Canada still paid  loyalty to England.  Before the film the British National Anthem would play.  We'd stand and people would sing God Save the Queen. Only then did the curtain to the screen open and the film begin.

Afterward, we'd walk over to Joe's Steak House.  "Listen to what they order," my mother would tell me.  "Then check the menu and order something that costs less."  A good lesson.

In the winter, she'd take my cousin and I to far away places to ski—Whiteface and Jay, places I never went with my parents, who had less discretionary income than my aunt and uncle who both had professional jobs and an only child.

Once, or maybe twice, I was invited on a family weekend to ski in the Laurentians.  We'd leave early on Saturday mornings, ski both Saturday and Sunday, then head home. One of those times fell on February 2nd and for whatever reason, I still remember it each year.  I remember the thrill of staying in a motel, of skiing trails I'd never skied before and of John and I sledding in the evening.

Such pleasant memories!

During out Senior year in college, both Kay and Earl retired.  That first year they left after Christmas. The next year it was after Thanksgiving. The following year they left after Election Day.  Each year they'd leave earlier and earlier.

They lived in St. Petersburg and it was only after my uncle died that my aunt moved permanently back to Plattsburgh, a move I don't think was necessarily a good one.

By the early 1990's it was evident that she should not have been living on her own.  She moved into an assisted living facility, but by the end of the 1990's she was at Meadowbrook Nursing Home.

I'd visit here often and, as one year led to another, I'd have to determine where she was in space and time.  Mostly she was at the end of her career, still happily working at the hospital.  Both John and I were still in college.  For the most part, thankfully, it was a good place she was in.

It wasn't easy visiting her.  She was deeply unhappy and often prayed to die.

But I know that is not what she wanted. She prayed to die, long before she died. She spent too many years in a nursing home, so when the end came it was a blessing.

One day, in late May 2003, I got a phone call  from the nursing home.  Kay had had a heart attack.  It was Memorial Day weekend and I was free of work for a few days so I stayed with here in the Emergency Room.  Her prognosis wasn't good.  I called my mother and the two of us gathered around her as the priest administered the Last Rights.

But Kay was tough and she lasted for almost two weeks.  I'd go to the hospital after school and I think I was one of  the few people she still knew.  I'd hold her hand, pray with her and spend  some  time.  She'd lost the ability to speak, but the ability to stay connected with me.

It was hard to watch this, but I knew it's what she wanted. Her prayers were being answered.

The end came on June 10, 2003.  I remember my cousin calling me at school to let me know.  And while I was sad, I wasn't sorry.  She'd been very unhappy for a very long time, and I knew this is what she wanted.

I still miss you, Kay.  But I know you're better than OK and that's all that matters.

Happy Birthday!
Happy 100!

2-2 Berlin--Home Sweet Home in Mexico City

The first time I went to Coyoacan, an old colonial part of Mexico City south of the historic center, where I've lived for the past four winters, was on a late mid-November afternoon. Leaves were at full peak color—brown only—and the sun was low on the horizon behind me. As I walked down Berlin, the whole street shimmered in burnished gold. Sun rays slanted through the trees and tinged the front of old colonial houses.

I loved the first impression I had of the street, and over the years it has played itself out over and over again—always early in the morning and again in the late afternoon. I always felt I was living in a country village instead of a colonia in the middle of one of the world's largest cities in the world.

That was four years ago. Then, I moved in for three weeks. It was only seven months after the death of my mother and I was still mourning the loss. It had been a beyond-stressful period—both physically and emotionally. I was in Mexico City at the end of a two week cruise form Boston to Cozumel and a week on the beach in Playa del Carmen. I'd come to Mexico City to begin working at the Casa, and to celebrate Thanksgiving with them. I just didn't want to be home.

By the time I moved into the apartment I was beginning to feel normal, and I have clear memory of a conversation with someone that this was the first time in many months that I was beginning to relax and feel my old normal self.

That was November 2010! I left in early December but not before asking the owner of the house if the apartment was available the following winter. It was, and I returned two and a half months later.

I loved my life there—so simple and free of the complexities of Plattsburgh. That winter, a friend came down. The first thing she commented on was the meager amount of clothes hanging on my clothes rack.

“Is that all you have?” she asked.

“It is,” I told her, “and it's all I need.”

I was spending my days working in the Quaker library, reading up on Quakerism, attending “meeting.” I was learning to live with less, and liking it more and more.

The apartment itself wasn't much more than a square concrete cube, painted white with tiled floors and windows on three sides. It was flooded with light—sunlight during the day and moonlight at night. Outside were two patios—one private where I had a small table and two chairs. A spiral staircase, entwined with white Christmas lights, ascended to a rooftop winter garden—an azotea in Mexican Spanish. It equaled the size of the apartment and over time I'd been allowed to change and introduce new plants to the collection. I had two cactus, a hibiscus, an azalea bush, three geraniums, a large pot of lavender and two large pots of herbs—cilantro, chives, oregano and basil. There was always enough to share and plenty for the Saturday morning vegetable stew that I'd make to last me for several days.

The apartment was in a phenomenal neighborhood.  The backyard of the apartment butt up against La Casa Azul--the childhood home of Fridha Khalo.  I often marveled how the universe conspired to give this space, so close the home of Fridha and her husband, Diego Rivera--the two most important artists of the 20th Century.

Winter 2011 ended, but I'd made arrangements to be in Mexico city the following November and I got to live there during the first Sunday of Advent. People were buying trees in shorts, Christmas in a warmer climate. I loved it!

From then on I'd book the apartment a year in advance. I was happy there—a happiness that came from engaging work at the Casa, a new body of friends, and the weather—almost always perfect. Winter days were in the low 70's, full of sun with very low humidity; nights dropped into the 40's that required warm blankets. I rarely had arthritis in my neck—a problem that had plagued me for too long, nor did I ever have a problem sleeping in that space.

Living there, I´d established a comfortable routine.  I´d wake around 7:00 a.m. spend the morning reading the local hometown newspaper, check emails and possibly prep the dinner I would eat much later.

By 10:00 I´d leave and take the 20 minute bus ride to the Etiopia metro stop where I´d often stop at my favorite bakery, El Globo, for a pastry and Coke. 

The metro ride was a time of quiet amidst an often crowded train.  I would read two or three Psalms, center myself spiritually, then pray for a whole list of people.  Then find my way to the Casa or, later, to CAFEMIN. 

At least once a week I would take the day off and spend it at a museum, or in Chapultepec Park or at Oaxtepec, one of the many resorts 4,000 feet below Mexico City in the warmer state of Morelos.

But it was ¨work¨ that centered my time in Mexico´s capital.  Without the two refugee centers, I´d really have had nothing to do.  I´d long ago given up being in tourist in DF.  It was home, just as much as Plattsburgh was home.

By 7:30p.m. I was usually back in the apartment.  Evenings I´d listen to jazz, gather up my laundry, Skype with home, read, watch a film and then settle into bed by 11:00.

Weekend mornings were the times I'd stay in until noon. I had a pleasant routine: I'd wash the floor of the azotea, water the plants, head to the mercado nearby to buy fresh vegetables and a large bouquet of unopened lilies. (By Wednesdays the buds would open and the apartment would be full of the heady aroma of exotic Asian lilies.) I'd come home, make up a pot of vegetable soup, arrange the flowers, then leave for some Saturday afternoon outing.

Life was comfortable and that comfort added to my happiness.

I was almost always alone in the apartment, but I was never lonely. It was impossible to have more than one person for dinner, and the times I did I'd prepare a simple meal and we'd eat it at the table on the roof.

It was from the roof—the azotea—that I stayed connected to nature. I could see volcanoes to the south and stars by night. I was surrounded by trees—poinsettias when I'd arrive in January and jacaranda when I left in May. Palm trees and huge live oaks dotted people's back yards. It almost felt as if I lived in a village, in the country.

By day I'd listed to “The Point”--my favorite radio station out of Vermont. No matter the month, it was almost always sunny and mild in DF.  During the winter it was fun to listen to ski reports, school closings and weather alerts from a place I'd gladly left behind.

As the years flowed on, I came to realize that 212 Berlin represented more—much more.

I'd built a new life for myself in Mexico City—a life free from Plattsburgh. Here, I wasn't an ex-teacher from NCCS. No one knew who my parents were.

“Oh, you're Howard's son,” In Mexico City I was free of that. I was Dan, or Daniel, and the friends I'd made accepted me for who I was now, not who I was yesterday.

This realization came over many months—years actually. While I was still my essential self, I now existed separate from who I'd been or what I'd been expected to be in Plattsburgh.

I came to see why people move away and start a new life. It would have been extremely easy to do that.

But things change, and time doesn't stand still. As winter 2014 turned to spring, I felt more and more that it was time to do something different.

And so I looked for another apartment, found it for the following year, and moved out of the place I'd lived in for four winters, four springs, and two autumns. Over that time I'd lived there for more than twelve months, more than a year.

When I did leave, at the end of April 2014, I was overwhelmed with sadness. The place was so full of memories, as all personal living spaces tend to be.

When everything was out of the apartment, with luggage waiting below, I followed a ritual I'd done for more than forty years. Years ago I'd read a passage in the novel A Separate Peace that has stayed with me throughout the years.

“From my locker I collected my sneakers...and gym pants then turned away,

leaving the door ajar for the first time, forlornly open and abandoned,

the locker unlocked. This was more final than the moment when the

Headmaster handed me my diploma. Schooling was over now.”

Just before leaving for the last time I opened the door to the back patio, opened the front door and left. Since reading that passage years ago, I've done the same thing in each place I've lived.

Over the years, I'd also added my own twist to this ending. Each time I left a place I'd lived in happily, I'd trace all the walls with my hand. I think it was a form of leaving behind a spiritual essence of myself. “I lived here and it's part of me.” Marking these walls was a way of maintaining my presence in the place.

For me, these acts were more final than the taxi ride that would take me away from this place I'd called home for four years.

My time in the apartment was over. From that moment on 212 Berlin would be a memory.

Stories from the Front: CAFEMIN and the Winter of 2014

They come to CAFEMIN one at a time—singly or in family groups. They come from Guatemala, Honduras, Venezuela. They are alone and rarely have enough money. Each has traveled a different path to get here, to this refugee center in Mexico City. They have all left behind stories, some more horrific than others. They are all starting over. All come with nothing but their suitcase and the clothes on their back.

They are refugees, potential immigrants to Mexico or Canada or to the United States. Already they are hated and despised by the most radical on the Right Wing of their country’s politics.

Here are a few of their stories.

Maria January 28th, 2014

I have never met Maria, but I do know her two sons. The boys are 10 and 12 and are living at CAFEMIN without their mother. The boys, along with their mother and two younger sister, have been living at the center throughout the fall. Like many we see, they are Honduran. Two weeks before I arrive I'm told that the mother left Mexico City and traveled to the US border where she handed over her two youngest children to border officials who then gave them to an aunt waiting on the other side. These children were born in the USA and have an American father.

The boys, on the other hand, have a Honduran father, and will have to process into the United States in the conventional manner.

Mom has left them behind. At least she knows that they are safe at CAFEMIN. Once she knew her two daughters were safe, she returned to Mexico, and hired a coyote to lead her across the desert separating Mexico with the USA. She will enter the country illegally, if she survives the crossing. Many have died.

For weeks there is no contact. The nuns, who have to maintain psychological distance between themselves and their clients, are more concerned than usual. The two boys are still at CAFEMIN and no one knows when or how Mom will make contact.

And then one day there is contact. Mom has entered the US—illegally of course. By now the boys are living elsewhere, perhaps with extended family in Mexico City or have entered into the Mexican foster care system. Hardly the best thing for them.

By May, when I leave, everything is still in limbo, but I often think of this woman. WE know that life in Honduras has become intolerable...and dangerous. What could be so bad to drive this woman to escape, leave everything behind, including her two sons, to reach a place where she knows she will be safe.

It's a problem few of us will ever have to face.

Carla February 8^th, 2014

Maybe she’s 35. No more than 40. She’s alone. How she got to Mexico City from Honduras is a mystery. She tells me that she had a good job in Tegucigalpa, the capital. But there is more to her story, and as the winter unfolds she tells me…

She tells me she watched her mother shot dead in front of her several years ago. She tells me the assassins shot her in the head and left her for dead. She tells of surviving but then living in fear. She tells me of her decision to left her entire known world behind her and come to a country where she won’t be targeted.

She does not tell me these stories overnight. They unfold over the course of two months. She’s helped me, more than once, in the library.

One day I come, another Monday, and she’s gone. The nuns have done what they can to get her papers in order, find her enough money to live on until she can find a job, help her find an apartment.

Then she’s really on her own. At least she speaks Spanish, yet she’s left her first world behind, then the security of her second home at the refugee center.

Roberto and his family Feast of St. Joseph, March 19^th, 2014

Mom is in her ninth months of pregnancy. They already have two children—a sweet and gentle little boy who’s no more than two years old and a daughter who’s five or six. CAFEMIN is joyfully buzzing with activity. The nuns—Sisters of St. Joseph--have hosted a breakfast and dinner in honor of their patron saint. There is a festive air about the day.

Roberto and his family have come from a small village in Honduras. They've escaped. “He saw too much,” Sister Mirian tells me. Drug cartels are destroying the country, and country that was already on the brink before these warlords took control. In November they decide to leave. They have little money, no form of transportation. They walk...she pregnant, he carrying the littlest child, who often had to walk...over mountains, through jungles.

Somehow they get to Mexico and arrive at CAFEMIN just before Christmas. Here they are protected, fed, sheltered. For the three months they live at the Center they are primed by the Refugee agencies as to what to tell the Americans at the border, where they will seek political asylum.

What I do not know is that this is the family’s last day. After lunch, we gather in a circle around the family. A priest is at the center and he blesses them, asks God's safety upon them as they travel to Matamoris, on the Mexican/Texas border. Almost everyone is crying. It's hard to say goodbye to people you've lived with intimately for three months.

I am not involved with this family, but I gather with the group. I'm able to observe this small drama from an emotional distance.

The metaphor of what I'm seeing isn't lost on me. The whole event has a strong Biblical overtone. She's pregnant. He's responsible for the care of his wife and two young children. Like Joseph, whose feast day we are celebrating, he's now charged with a form of exile—traveling not to Egypt, but to the United States. The nuns and refugee agency who's helped them all along act as angels. Like the Holy Family, they are escaping, too.

We hear from them until they arrive at the border—36 hours later. And then...nothing.

All we know is that they crossed the border. It is assumed that the US has taken the initial steps in granting them political asylum.

But it's as if they've been sucked into a black hole.

It is one of the hard things about CAFEMIN. We never really know what happens to people once they leave.

David                                                                                                                                         February 20th, 2014

Robert is as American as apple pie, but he's classified as stateless.

He tells me he was born in Mexico about 70 years ago, lived on the streets and was ultimately brought to Texas by a Mexican family, is educated there, then returns to Veracruz where he's been living for the past forty years. One day, about two years ago, he says, the Mexican authorities ask him for proof of residence. He has none. He then falls into the “system,” is ultimately sent to Mexico City where Refugee organizations try to piece together his story.

There is no evidence of this man in either Mexico or the United States. He has no passport, no proof of birth in either place.

We become friends, although, in time, I learn to keep my distance. There are huge holes in his stories.

He speaks no Spanish, which is hard to believe, considering he's lived in Mexico for forty years. He says he was from Texas, but he's got a solid Philadelphia accent. He seems far more educated than he says he is.

We have lunch together one day at the end of my time at CAFEMIN. He tells me he's living on the street. I know he's reliant on a soup kitchen for his main meal. We are both Senior Citizens, and I feel his predicament more the week I turn 65. I have Social Security and a great pension. I have assets, both liquid and in good investments. He has nothing.

The Aid agencies have given up on him. There are too many discrepancies in his stories, too many times he's contradicted himself. I want to ask him...”what are you running away from, what is it you're not telling them?”

But I don't. Like all my relationships with refugees, I simply accept them for who they are and for what they are willing to tell me. I have long ago learned to do what the nuns do...provide shelter, provide a safe place to live and bestow upon them love and dignity.

I cannot imagine myself, who I see in David, in this situation.

Macario and Tere, Lili and Derek                                                                                               March 24th, 2014

So few Americans come through CAFEMIN that when they do Sister Mirian always tells me.

They are from Venezuela, and because Macario is American it's become too dangerous to live in the country he's called home for ten years. They leave everything behind—her family, his dad. Their home and jobs. Madero, the new “president” has made it too precarious for the family to continue living in Maricaibo. They leave on one of the last international flights out of the country.

I come to love this family—all of them—and of all the folks whose lives have intersected with mine at CAFEMIN, it's these people I miss the most.

On the Saturday before Easter I am included in the Baptism of their two children. There are dressed in white—Derek in a snappy white suit and Lili in a lovely white dress. There is something very special about watching older children take this sacrament. Unlike a baby, they have some idea of what is happening.

All day Macario has been cooking, and that evening there is a party for the twenty guests who've been invited. A long table has been set in the center of the compound. We ate spaghetti and salad. There are balloons and a big cake.

Because it's Easter, I have baskets for the two children. I've been telling them that the Easter Bunny--el conjejo de Pascua--is a friend of mine and that maybe he'd come to Mexico if I asked him to. Like all the children who come through here, there is no culture of the Easter Rabbit, so it's always fun to introduce him.

At a lull in the party, I shout down. Vino el conjeo, vino el conjeo. The Easter Bunny's come. They race upstairs to the library and attack the goodies he's left behind.

Later, when I see Macario, he tells me they were on a sugar high for days. A happy, happy memory.

There is great hope for this family. Because of them is American, the “system” will take less time. Interestingly, it's the children who will need to petition the US government for their mother to come to the United States.

I know we will keep in touch.

Los Mutilados                                                                                                                                    April 8th, 2014

A few day before the “mutilados” arrive, I'm asked if I can come in early to help out with feeding a large group of Honduran men who've come to Mexico City in hopes of meeting with the president, Pena Nieto.

“Mutilados” is not a word I know so I have to ask around. It's a cognate, I learn, but why on earth would I think of anyone as mutilated. Just who are these mutilated ones?

I'm stunned when I arrive very early the next morning. There are, perhaps, 40 men—mostly on the young end. Each of them has lost a limb, or limbs. Talk about politically incorrect language. Calling a group of people “mutilated” is beyond my scope of correct usage in English, and even in Spanish I'm told it's crude. But that's the term they go by.

I”m more than curious, so I seek out Mauricio. He's got the scoop. Each of these men had been on a train somewhere in Mexico. They were riding the train illegally, assumedly heading north to the Mexican/American border. When they were discovered, each had been thrown off the moving train. They tell of the many, many more who died on impact. They are the “lucky” ones—the ones who didn't die, the ones who survived the loss of a leg, or an arm, or two legs and an arm, or a leg, a half a leg.

The whole story is hideous, and I'm shocked that this sort of thing still exists.

They have traveled in a group--all of them walking or relying on transport from generous folks.

They've given DF advance warning, and the entire scope of Mexico City media has descended on CAFEMIN. They've even been given limo service to get around.

All the want is to meet the president, tell him what happened, and ask that it doesn't happen again. The media seems to be on their side.

But they never do meet with the president. They get close, but never into his office.

I'm told it's a public embarrassment to Mexico. The government offers them money, free houses, a visa to come and live in Mexico. But that is not what they want. They want the promise that this will not happened again, but apparently that's not promised.

The day before they leave, a massive rain storm blows in. No one can leave the compound. Wind howls, rain descends in sheets. Then, as soon as it begins, it changes...to hail.

Hail descends in huge balls. The entire compound is covered in inches of white stuff.

There's so much it looks like snow.

So what's a child of the north supposed to do with this?

I start making small snow balls and begin throwing at the kids. They pick up really fast. We have a hailball fight. Everyone laughs. I built little hailmen. I hand one to Sister Mirian, who's from El Salvadore and has never seen anything like this. She doesn't know what to do with it and immediately drops it. The kids begin pelting her with hailballs.

The mutilados join in. We're all laughing hysterically. This is just way too much fun.

All of these people have an impact on my life. Over the winter I've had glimpse into the lives of people who just want a better life. None of them want to leave their country. No one them want to leave their families, their friends, their support groups.

But they do. And they move on.

Because they have no choice!