Travel

Being Pleased By Small Things

“Little things please small minds.” That line, spoken in the weary tone of someone forced to deal with annoying and inferior beings, was one of the ways my high school algebra teacher reacted to adolescent acting-up. Since this man soon left teaching in favor of selling insurance, maybe he eventually figured out that sneering at “small minds” wasn’t an effective disciplinary tool.

Besides, he was wrong. As someone who is often pleased by small things, I prefer to see this quality as a sign of a large mind—the mind of someone who is present in the moment, noticing and appreciating the details that can sprinkle enjoyment across an ordinary day. Or maybe it’s just a sign of a quirky mind. That works, too.

At any rate, here are a few of the small things that have pleased me lately:

1. Folding down the back seats in my new Honda CR-V for the first time. The process is such a little piece of tidy engineering. One pull on a strap pops the seat cushion up against the back of the front seat. One pull on another strap simultaneously tips the headrest forward and releases the seat back, and when this is pushed flat the headrest tucks itself neatly into a space just its size against the seat cushion. Quick and easy, and Bob’s your uncle.

2. Spending several—well, maybe a few more than several—enjoyable minutes browsing the Internet trying to find the origins of the phrase “Bob’s your uncle.” It’s British, but no one seems to know where it came from or what it means. Those of you who also wonder about things like this can check out a couple of the possibilities here.

3. Being careful, as usual, not to make eye contact with one of our resident cottontails when I passed it in the front yard on my way out to get the newspaper. They seem to think they are invisible if we don’t look directly at them, so out of courtesy we try not to disillusion them.

4. Watching my just-turning-two granddaughter discover that the front wheels on a push bike were too wide to fit between the coffee table and the couch, and then watching her get it into the space anyway—by turning it around and backing in with the aplomb of an experienced trucker parking at a truck stop.

5. Being amused by an eccentric carrot from the farmers market, which was short and fat at the top, narrowed into a pencil-sized curl for a couple of inches where it must have grown around an obstacle, and then expanded again at the tip. It resembled an acrobat in a very tight corset.

6. Over breakfast at a restaurant in western British Columbia, browsing through a brochure about the mining communities at Crowsnest Pass and realizing that “Colliery Tipple” would be a wonderful name for a very dark ale. (A tipple, by the way, as I learned from my geologist companion, is a structure at a mine where the extracted ore is loaded to be hauled away.)

7. Noticing a beautiful iridescent beetle, gleaming in the sun like a purple opal no bigger than my little fingernail, while we were out walking one morning.

8. And finally, I was especially pleased by one last small thing. While we were squatting in the middle of the street appreciating the beetle, the pickup that came past slowed way down and went around us instead of squashing us like, well, a bug.

Categories: Living Consciously, Odds and Ends, Travel, Words for Nerds | Tags: , , , , | 3 Comments

Romancing the Stone

It’s a beautiful piece of sculpture: two figures, slightly larger than life-sized. A lovely young woman, kneeling as if to pick up the jar she has apparently just dropped, gazes up over her shoulder at a man standing beside her.

He is a step away from the woman, gazing back at her with his hand extended, perhaps beckoning or reassuring. He doesn’t appear to be doing anything practical like giving her a hand up or offering to help pick up the jar. It looks more like he’s encouraging her to look at him.

True, he’s well worth looking at. His thick, curly hair is a bit much, but he’s handsome, with an interesting face and the kind of toned, muscular body that comes from regular visits to the gym. This is obvious to the most casual observer, because the only thing he’s wearing is a strategically-placed piece of drapery.

The electricity between them fairly crackles. The piece is like the cover of a romance novel captured in stone.

Jesus-MaryM-Statue-crop

Of course, maybe romance, like beauty, is in the eyes of the beholder. The kind of love the artist intended to portray is open to question. Because this sculpture, by Bruce Wolfe, (there’s a better picture here) is in the mission church in Santa Barbara, California, and represents Jesus and Mary Magdalene. It depicts the moment he speaks to her, after she has come to his tomb and found it empty.

Maybe the intensity between the man and woman is religious. But my guess is that any fan of The Da Vinci Code who believes Mary Magdalene and Jesus were married would find supporting evidence in this beautiful artwork. Or maybe Mr. Wolfe was just following a venerable tradition, going at least as far back as the Renaissance, of using religious themes as a vehicle for portraying the human body with a minimum of covering. Just think of Michelangelo’s “David,” or all those images of Adam and Eve with and without their fig leaves.

On a side note, the first time I saw actual fig leaves on a tree in Turkey, I was surprised. They’re large, all right, but their shape doesn’t lend itself well to modest covering. They look almost like hands with the fingers spread apart. fig leafThere’s a lot of open space in a fig leaf. It would take several of them, layered carefully, just to create a fig-leaf Speedo.

But fig leaves and draperies aside (don’t we wish), I saw this sculpture recently in the company of another woman who, like me, is respectable and responsible and old enough to know how to behave in public. And we came close to getting the giggles like a couple of 13-year-old girls at a Mr. Universe contest. We had to move on to another section of the church before we embarrassed ourselves with our whispered but decidedly non-religious comments.

But not before she summed up our reaction. “Wow. That’s a hunky Jesus. I’d follow him.”

Hmmm. As a strategy for religious conversion, that just might have its merits.

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Kayak Spelled Backwards is Still Kayak

I love water. I drink it by the gallon. I find it soothing in the shower. I enjoy hearing it drum on the roof during summer rains. I even—don’t tell anyone—appreciate using it, warm and soapy, to wash dishes.

Just don’t ask me to dunk my head under the stuff. I like to keep my essential elements in their proper places: water is for drinking, air is for breathing, and I prefer my nose to have free access to the latter. (I developed this firm belief long ago, during swimming lessons on chilly June mornings at the Gregory municipal swimming pool, under the inexperienced tutelage of a teenage boy who kept his blue-lipped little charges in line by threatening to duck them.)

I also tend to believe that little plastic boats are meant for toddlers to play with in the bathtub. If, theoretically speaking, I ever wanted to learn to paddle a kayak, I would be inclined to do so at Rapid City’s own little Canyon Lake, on a summer evening so calm that the resident mallards could use its still water as a mirror. Not in anything larger or more active. Rapid Creek, say, or the Missouri River, or Lake Michigan.

And certainly not an ocean. Oceans have waves. And seaweed. And sharks. Besides, that immeasurable quantity of water is more than I care to get personally involved with.

How on earth—er, on water, then, did I ever wind up out on the Pacific Ocean in a flimsy plastic kayak?

The friend we were visiting in beautiful and charming Santa Barbara, California, had planned the kayaking expedition, and I couldn’t think of a graceful way to say no. I merely hoped secretly for some small act of God—not an earthquake or anything, but maybe a thunderstorm (drought-stricken California could use the rain, after all)—to prevent it. I was like the bride who knows perfectly well she’s making a serious mistake, but she doesn’t know how to back out once all the family members have been invited and the bridesmaids’ dresses have been bought.

God chose not to act. So I ended up on a beach on Santa Cruz Island with a dozen other people who all seemed absurdly enthusiastic about the idea of paddling along the rocky coast in shallow plastic boats.

Learning I would be in a two-person kayak with my partner, equally inexperienced at paddling but at least able to swim, helped. The wetsuit helped. The snug-fitting and reassuring life jacket helped. The guides’ patient, thorough instructions helped. I especially appreciated the part about “you don’t have to go into any cave or channel you’re not comfortable with.”

None of that did anything to alter the fact that, if we tipped over and went under water, I would probably lose my contact lenses and spend the rest of the outing unable to see the front end of my own kayak.

But we didn’t tip over. We managed the paddling with an astonishing degree of coordination. We saw harbor seals and sea lions and dozens of coastal birds. We negotiated the inside of a cave. We learned one can hold a kayak in place by grabbing a stalk of kelp and using it as an anchor. We got safely back to the beach after an hour and a half, with no harm other than tired arms that felt more limp than the kelp.

Am I glad I did it? Yeah, probably. After the fact, it’s always gratifying to know you did something you were afraid to do.

Was it fun? Um, well. . .

Okay, I did grudgingly began to consider the possibility of the potential that, with some practice and some kind of solution to the contact-lens issue, kayaking might eventually begin to be sort of fun.

At least on Canyon Lake.

Categories: Travel | Tags: , , | 1 Comment

Porcupine Corpse a Prickly Issue

I tried to get them to stop. Really, I did. I pointed out the dead porcupine on the edge of the road—quite fresh, too, as far as one can judge these things driving by at 65 mph. It wasn’t the least bit squashed. Its bristling quills, highlighted by the late-afternoon sun, would have been a great temptation to any creator of traditional beadwork.

I thought my sister—the one who sews and quilts and knits and dyes and comes up with so many creative things—might have appreciated a chance to do something interesting with porcupine quills. We had plenty of room in the car; we could have tossed the critter (carefully) into the back and taken it right to her doorstep, which is where we were headed anyway.

Besides, you would think the two guys with whom I was traveling would have jumped at the chance to examine an intact road-killed porcupine. One is a scientist with an interest in natural history and the other one is a law-enforcement student whose career will probably encompass plenty of road accidents. Not to mention that both of them carry pocket knives and know how to field-dress game.

But no. They refused to stop.

I didn’t understand the full extent of the opportunity we missed until I saw the headline in our newspaper’s online edition a few days later: Man does C-section on dead porcupine, saves baby.

The story was from the Associated Press (and no, it didn’t appear on April Fool’s day). A man in Maine saw a porcupine get hit by a car. He had heard that some sort of mineral deposit valuable to Chinese medicine formed in the stomachs of porcupines, so he cut open the dead porcupine to look for it. What he found instead was—not surprisingly, given the time of year—a baby porcupine. He “cut the umbilical cord and thought the baby porcupine was dead until he started massaging it and it began breathing.”

If my traveling companions had only been willing to stop, that could have been us. We might have saved the life of an innocent unborn baby porcupine. Assuming I had been able to figure out the video function on my cell phone camera—which I’ve only used once and that was by accident—we could have even posted a video of the surgery online and become famous.

And we might have ended up with a cute little pet porcupine like this one. Just imagine having one of these critters in the house: climbing the piano, munching on the house plants, gnawing on the furniture, rubbing up against you, snuggling on your lap . . .

Wait a minute. What was the whole point of stopping to pick up the dead porcupine in the first place? That’s right. The quills. Those sharp, pointy, barbed things.

Never mind.

But I bet having a pet porcupine would teach the toddler grandkids a valuable lesson about not rubbing animals the wrong way.

Categories: Family, Travel, Wild Things | Tags: , , | 2 Comments

Pedals to the Metal

The idea hit me somewhere between Last Chance and Brush, Colorado. The former used to be the last chance to get ice cream, but now it isn’t even that, just a place with a few houses and boarded-up buildings where travelers on north-south Highway 71 have to stop before they cross east-west Highway 36. Brush, on the other hand, is a perfect place for a mid-trip break. It has wide, tree-lined streets that make it a pleasant place for a walk, and there’s a restaurant on Main Street where in the past few years the owners and menus have changed three times but the low prices and tiny but clean bathrooms have stayed the same.

Anyway, the idea. Driving from South Dakota to New Mexico and back gives a person plenty of opportunities for thinking. Especially if you happen to be the one driving and your companion happens to be sleeping. This idea came to me on the second day of our recent trip home, as I was marching in place with my feet to restore the circulation in my legs and trying to turn the other cheek in a way that might relieve the numbness in portions of my posterior.

What this country needs is a new kind of hybrid car. One with pedals. Think Fred Flintstone, only high-tech.

Not being an automotive engineer, I’m a little vague on the details, but here’s the concept. Install foot pedals for both the driver and at least the front-seat passenger, rather like those stationary bike pedals you can put in front of your chair to use while you watch TV. Just hit the road, set the cruise control, and start pedaling like Lance Armstrong. Skip the performance-enhancing substances, please. The energy you produce would go to some sort of generator or battery and help operate the car.

The impact on your gas mileage probably wouldn’t be a lot, but at today’s prices every little bit would help. And the biggest benefit would be to your health. If you put the pedals to the metal fast enough, you might even burn sufficient calories to munch on classic road-trip food like sunflower seeds or corn nuts without guilt.

I suppose the argument could be made that this might distract the driver. But I don’t see that pedaling would be any more of a distraction than radio station surfing, listening to audio books, refereeing fights among the kids in the back seat, or moaning about your aching legs and backside.

The engineers would need to work out a few little details, like how to transfer energy from the pedals to the engine, and where to put the pedals, and whether they would need to be retractable, and how to easily adjust them for different-sized drivers. But, hey, solving little problems like that is exactly the kind of challenge that engineers love.

The hybrid pedal car, for better gas mileage and healthier traveling. It’s an idea whose time has come. And I’m sure an entrepreneur wanting to start a factory could get a great deal on a building in Last Chance, Colorado.

Categories: Travel | Tags: , , , , , | 2 Comments

Small Wonders of the World

One of the reasons for traveling is to see the wonders of the world, both natural and manmade. The Taj Mahal, say, or Egypt’s great pyramids, or the Great Wall of China. So far, my record on this is not outstanding. So far, the only grand and glorious “wonders” I’ve visited are the Grand Canyon and the marvelous huge redwoods at Muir Woods. I’ve been to the Empire State Building, too, which was cool enough but not exactly wondrous. Maybe you have to see it with King Kong.

But smaller wonders are a different matter. Even ordinary travel can be filled with those, if you only think to look. Take our most recent drive to New Mexico and back, for example. Here were just a few little wonders.

Along I-25 south of Colorado Springs, the ditches are edged with stout fences apparently designed to keep deer and antelope from playing on the highway. Yet every few miles there was what seemed to be a stile. Each one was a little artificial hill, with a gap in the fence at its top. From top to bottom on the side facing the highway was a short line of posts and rails, not connected to the fence, the purpose of which was not immediately obvious. It would seem logical that these gaps were intended to guide migrating critters toward underpasses, except there weren’t any underpasses close to them. So what were the stiles for? We wondered.

One morning we sat waiting for our breakfast at a chain restaurant I won’t name, except to mention that it sounds like a new piece of technology from Apple. We saw one of the waitresses coming across the parking lot. She was obviously on her way to work—carrying a takeout cup of coffee from a fast food restaurant. Why didn’t she just get coffee at work? I wondered. Then my own cup of coffee arrived. I took one sip. So much for wondering. It was immediately clear why the waitress brought her own.

We were driving along a highway in southern Colorado—one of those roads with signs warning you “No Services Next 75 Miles” where seeing two other vehicles in a ten-mile stretch feels like heavy traffic. We caught sight in the rear-view mirrors of something coming up on us, much faster than our sedate and legal 65 mph. Not a semi, or a convertible, or even a pickup. It was a train. Usually, in this part of the country, trains are long caterpillars of heavy coal cars—impressive, but not exactly speedy. As this one rushed past us, we saw that its two engines were pulling a meager string of only five Amtrak passenger cars and two baggage cars. No wonder it was moving so fast. We did wonder, though, where the passengers came from and where they were going. And did anyone looking out the windows notice our car, with its South Dakota license plates, and wonder the same thing about us?

An even more interesting wonder along that same highway, though, was the spectacle of the trotting tarantulas. Every half-mile or so we’d see another one, making a beeline (if I may use that term for an arachnid) across the road toward the northwest. Were they fleeing from some predator? Making a seasonal migration? Why did the tarantulas cross the road? I wondered.

So, of course, when I got a chance I looked it up. Apparently in the fall, male tarantulas in search of romance set out on treks in search of like-minded females. They sometimes walk steadily for as much as 50 miles looking for potential mates, who meanwhile are sitting in their comfortable burrows, no doubt munching chocolate and reading romance novels, waiting for Mr. Right.

But why do the males only travel in one direction? Do you suppose they are all headed for the same female? Maybe they’re answering some sort of tarantula personal ad. “Lonely black widow, cute and fuzzy, seeking adventurous, athletic guy for sixteen-legged fun and potential fatherhood. Apply in person. Unsuccessful candidates will be eaten on the spot. Successful candidates will enjoy one blissful encounter and die shortly thereafter.”

It’s possible that the unwitting, lovelorn guy tarantulas find the reward worth all their trouble. I hope so. But I wonder.

Categories: Travel | Tags: , , , , , | 2 Comments

The Comforts of Camping

Ah, camping. Dozing in the shade, relaxing with your family, sitting around the campfire, making s’mores. It all sounds so laid-back and leisurely.

It is, I suppose. After you’ve done all the work to get ready for it. Digging out the tent. Finding the tarp and the tent stakes and the sleeping bags. Finding room for the lawn chairs. Remembering to pack all the camping stuff that isn’t only camping stuff—like towels, sunscreen, bug spray, and a clothesline. Oh, and don’t forget a flashlight. And soap. All of that is before you even start thinking about food.

While the idea of camping is about leisure and relaxing, the reality is that making it happen takes a lot of effort. Camping isn’t for the lazy.

I seldom go camping myself.

(If any conclusions are drawn from the two previous statements, I really don’t want to hear about them.)

Then, of course, when you get home, you just have to unpack all that stuff and put it away. I did that part this week, after my extended family’s annual reunion last weekend. As I was draping the tent and the sleeping bags over the railing of the deck to air them out, a whiny little voice in my head popped up for just a millisecond. It said, “But I’m doing all this work, and I didn’t even use this stuff.”

It’s true; I didn’t. My son and his wife, who flew in for the reunion with their two little kids, slept in my tent. So I hauled a carload of stuff across the state, but I missed the actual camping.

I wasn’t there for the first night’s thunder, lightning, and heavy rain. I didn’t get to experience the second night’s rain, high wind, and broken tree branches. Instead, I was a few miles away, all by myself. In my motel room, with its hot shower, its dry bed, and its nice solid walls.

Alas. Oh, dear. Poor, poor me.

Does anyone need to borrow a tent for next year? Just call me.

Categories: Family, Travel | Tags: | 8 Comments

The Birds

Picture this idyllic scene of early spring in southeastern New Mexico: The western sky is streaked with the orange, gold, and pink of a glorious sunset. We are standing in a residential neighborhood on a calm evening, watching a flock of birds as they come in to settle in the treetops for the night. As they circle above us, the last rays of the sun touch the tips of their outspread wings with bronze.

Amid all this loveliness and serenity, why am I fidgeting so uneasily, wishing the garage beside me had broader eaves so I could move closer under its shelter?

Because the birds soaring over our heads are vultures. Dozens and dozens of them, circling in a holding pattern and then swooping down to land in a row of trees along the edge of a well-kept back yard.

The vultures settle onto the very tops of the trees, even though it would seem the branches there would be too slender to hold them. There are so many that the treetops are edged in black like an old-fashioned letter announcing bad news.

Each time a few new birds land, a ripple of grumbling goes through the flock. The ones already perching either resist the arrival of the newcomers, shift position to make room for them, or take off to rejoin the circle above the trees. Meanwhile, more birds keep coming, and coming, and coming. They seem to be auditioning for a remake of Alfred Hitchcock’s The Birds. All that’s missing is the ominous background music.

And I’m getting increasingly nervous. We’re just standing there watching, for Pete’s sake. The obvious risk of hanging out underneath a large number of large birds is bad enough. But these are vultures. While we’re gaping at them, we are not moving. Staying that still, in this case, seems like a really, really bad idea. There are more than enough buzzards above us to carry off our carcasses like the winged monkeys from The Wizard of Oz.

(Which unfortunately reminds me of the joke about the buzzard who checks in at the airport, carrying a dead armadillo under each wing. “Sorry, sir,” the ticket agent tells him, “Only one carrion item per passenger.”)

Sorry.

But these buzzards are no joke. We were told that they aren’t permanent residents, but are only passing through. Their visits last two or three months, though, so they have become a serious nuisance. Not only are the birds big, bold, and plentiful; they are also protected by law. This makes getting rid of them a challenge.

Still, I can’t help but wonder. What would “chile con vulture” taste like? And would it be better with red or green?

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Paying Attention to What’s Behind the Curtain

In the interest of furthering the study of human behavior, here’s a scientific survey question for you:

Suppose you were traveling and had stopped in a small town for lunch. The restaurant was a pizza place/coffee shop/sandwich shop with knickknacks for sale in one corner, obviously doing its best to stay in business. Its home was an old building that had clearly seen various enterprises come and go in its lifetime.

Suppose, in this old building, the restroom was in the back. Way in the back. To use the facilities, you walked down a dim hallway, reassured that you were on the right track by a paper sign with a hand-drawn arrow. You turned right, crossed a corner of the kitchen, and found your destination.

It certainly didn’t look like a public facility, except for the “Restroom” sign on the door. Inside, it was much like the bathroom in someone’s home, with not only the basics of stool and sink but also a bathtub covered with a shower curtain.

With that necessary background, here’s the survey question:

Did you look behind the shower curtain?

I did. Of course. How could anyone not peek?

I was surprised then, when my traveling companion’s response to this query was, “What shower curtain?” In defense of his lack of curiosity—a failure to observe that was really quite shocking in a man who has devoted his career to science—he said, “I was a man on a mission.”

Obviously more research was and is required. So far I’ve asked one other person, who happens to be female. She said, “Of course I’d look.” She didn’t think her husband would look, though he wasn’t available to ask.

So all this did was raise another question: Is peeking or not peeking gender-related?

If it is, then is that due to psychological factors? Maybe women are more hyper-vigilant in unfamiliar surroundings and hence more likely to check potential hiding places. Maybe women are more observant, or more curious.

Or maybe the difference—if there is one—is physical. A man who is “on a mission” might be preoccupied with necessary details like aiming and accuracy. A woman who is sitting may have more chance to observe her surroundings and more time to look behind any curtains that happen to be at hand.

It’s also possible, I suppose, that a writer is just inherently nosier than a geologist.

But these are merely suppositions and can’t possibly be validated or disproven without much more data. So I need some input. Would you have looked behind the curtain?

Oh, you want to know what was back there? Sorry, no naked lady. No lurking criminal. No dead body. Just a bunch of paint cans and cleaning supplies.

But if I hadn’t looked, I would have never known.

Categories: Just For Fun, Travel | 4 Comments

Going for the Goal

For those of you who care about the significant international issues of the day, here is an update from my source in Istanbul and Amsterdam. Today’s report concerns an issue of great importance to the traveling public—the latest in sanitation technology.

In other words, they’ve been upgrading the urinals at the airports again.

We reported previously on the “imbedded fly” strategy that, by providing a target for precision aiming, supposedly increased the cleanliness of men’s rooms at Amsterdam’s Schiphol Airport by 80%.

Now, according to my source, flies are being replaced by golf holes. Not literal holes, just strategically placed images in the porcelain. The picture of the golf cup, complete with little flag, provides what presumably is a more appealing target than a fly. At least for certain users. It seems to me that the younger ones—from about age eight to, say, 35—might find the fly more fun.

In Turkey, however, the technology has been taken one step further. My source did not experience this personally. However, he saw it on Turkish television, where it was a featured news story for several days.

It’s the “soccer goal” strategy. This features a moving target—a little red soccer ball that a precisely-directed stream of, er, ammunition can actually push toward a fixed image of a goal so the shooter scores a point. Presumably the real goal is improved restroom sanitation. This could backfire, I suppose, if the scoring player throws both arms into the air and shouts “Goal!”

Not only is this a major technological breakthrough, but it could be a hit all over the world, especially in bars. “I need another beer—I haven’t scored a goal yet, and I’m out of ammunition.” Just imagine the impact on beer sales. There are even possibilities for competitions to supplement games of darts and pool. A reality show is just waiting to happen here, folks.

There is even a benefit here for women. For years we’ve been complaining about the inequities in public restrooms. Women always have to wait longer. At a concert, for example, when the lights come up for intermission she’d better be out of her seat and making a mad dash or she’s going to spend the whole interval waiting in line. Meanwhile, he has ample time to stroll about the lobby, get a drink, chat to friends, or lounge in his seat reading the fine print in the program.

If the whole soccer-ball thing catches on, that could be reversed. She might be the one waiting for him. “Sorry to take so long, honey. I just had to finish the game.”

 

Categories: Just For Fun, Travel | 1 Comment

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