Precious Gifts

On Wednesday I received the most precious gifts I have ever had the honour to accept. One of them bit me.

I thought the day would be about giving, not receiving. I went to the home of my sponsored child Frank, in a small community outside Dodoma, Tanzania. We had flown to Dodoma from Arusha in a tiny bumble bee of a chartered plane the day before.

Early in the morning we (I, my Beloved, and a friend of ours) were picked up by Emmanuel and Peniel, World Vision staff whom we had met the day before. After tea at the local W.V. project ofice, and a courtesy visit to the local government office, we finally drove to Frank's village. The road was washed out, so we walked the final kilometer in the blazing sun. Past fields being turned by women and children with hoes, and new struggling crops of peanuts, millet and corn. We crossed a dry riverbed where there were two dug out water holes with a few centimeters of cloudy water being collected in buckets and gourds. As I climbed the far riverbank I saw a small family compound of two mud buildings surrounded by a fence of thorn branches. A little boy ran out of the compound, down the path toward us. Frank. My heart lept. When he reached me, Frank silently looked up at me with his amazing big brown eyes, and gripped my hand tight.

I said: "Habari Frank, naferahi kukutana na wewe." (How are you Frank, I am very happy to meet you.) Not a word in reply. Just a giant smile and a vice grip on my hand as he turned and led me to his home. The next few hours are an intense, joyous blur. I was introduced to Frank's 6 siblings, some half siblings, his sister and her children, his Mama and Baba, and his Grandmother, who I greeted with the respectful "Shikamoo". He showed me inside his house. Three rooms of mud walls, with dirt floors. But walls lovingly decorated with designs in coloured mud by his Mama. The fire pit inside had no chimney, and I imagined the stinging smoke when a meal was prepared. Frank showed me his bed, a woven mat on the ground that he shared with two younger brothers. Tiny chicks wandered about, inside and out, but the adult chickens kept their distance. I soon found out why.

I gave Frank and his parents the gifts I had brought: Food staples, clothing, soap, shoes, school supplies and a football (soccer ball). Frank, who had told me in letters his favourite game is football, showed me his old ball, a piece of foam tied in string. Then Emannuel said that Frank and his family had some gifts for me. First was a water gourd and cup, decorated with my name. Then a carved wooden spoon. And, to my amazement, a beautiful wax-dyed kitengi, a two piece cloth with designs in red, orange and black. How could they afford this? And then Emmanuel announced that Frank's Baba (father) had a gift to show how much he valued our coming so far to visit Frank. I heard a commotion behind me, and Frank's oldest brother cornered and caught one of the chickens grazing and clucking in the compound. A screeching, flapping gift of enraged feathers and beak was put in my arms. And pecked a chunk out of my hand.

Emmanuel explained that the gift of a chicken was an extreme honour, representing a large part of the family's posessions. "I cannot take it" I whispered, "It is too much!"

"You cannot refuse it, it would dishonour Baba and Mama."

"But I cannot take it home to Canada."

"Don't worry, we will take it back to Dodoma, we can sell it and use the money to help Frank's family."

That fiesty gift escaped her leg ties twice in the truck, flapping and squawking her displeasure. If attitude adds flavour she will be one tasty, though skinny meal.

It was hard to say goodbye to Frank. In only a few hours he stole my heart with his quiet smiles. I will forever treasure the memory of him grinning and gripping my hand to take me down the path to his home.

When B and I had hugged Frank goodbye and climbed back into the truck, I looked over at B who had taken off his glasses and was wiping his eyes. I have rarely seen B cry. "Hard to let the little guy go," he choked out. Yes, it was.

For a few hours, two families from very different worlds shared laughter, learning, and love. We exchanged gifts. Our gifts to them were barely a token of the abundance in our life. Frank's gifts to us were an unbelievable honour.

It was a perfect day.

Asante sana rafiki mpenzi Frank. (Thank you very much my dear friend Frank).

Hakuna Matata

I have just finished my first 24 hours back in East Africa,in Nairobi. Wearing my husband's underwear. Lost luggage problems. Don't ask! It's not even a local issue, the screw up is at Heathrow, were apparently hundreds of bags are getting left behind by BA because of full flights and not enough baggage hold space. I've been told many times "Hakuna Matata (No worries) Mama, it will arrive." Yes, but this year?

It is wonderful to finally be here. What hit my memory first this morning, as we walked on a path to the market, was the smell. Woodsmoke, lush vegetation, flowers, open drains, and garbage. Dizzying! Then the shrieking of the Ibis' overhead. The smell and the sound must have unlocked some long unused corner in my brain, and Kiswahili phrases I did not remember I knew danced into my head. After all these years Africa still grips my heart and and lives in my veins.

The month ahead will be one amazing adventure. Now if only my panties would arrive.

At the Masai market in Nairobi:


B at the giraffe rehabilitation centre, Nairobi:

Reigning Cats and Dogs, Part 2: Oh Henry!

Henry joined our family zoo Labour Day Monday, 2005. The name of the day should have been a warning.

B and I had talked about getting a young companion for our big old bitch Tika. (No, I don’t mean bitch in the canine sense, I mean in it in the cranky, temperamental, eat-other-dogs-for-sport sense. Bless her heart.) It had to be a puppy, because puppies are the only dogs Tika does not try to mutilate. Actually she also likes male dogs with their equipment intact. She is a motherly, slutty, bitch. We love her.

So we were on the look out for a male puppy. Our other four animals are pound or SPCA rescues, and we endorse them for adopting family pets. However, we needed a very young puppy, a male, and it had to be a big breed to match Tika, who is an 85 pound Lab / Shepherd cross who likes to wrestle. We heard about a 10 week old yellow Lab puppy available, and the timing seemed right, because I would be off work for several more weeks recovering from surgery. So I convinced B that we should just check him out. As we left he said: “Are we sure we want another dog? Can we handle the extra work? What about the extra money?”

“Come on,” I said. “We’re just going to look at him, and check out what his parents are like. We don't have to take him” I assured him, as I loaded a towel-lined cardboard box into the back of our POS car.

“I don’t think I can hold a 10 week old Lab puppy and not take him home” replied B.

(I knew that about you Sweetie. I was counting on it.)

Henry was the only one left from his litter. Perhaps that should have been a warning, not that we would have paid any attention. He looked twice as big as I expected for a 10 week old puppy. That really should have been a warning. But as B predicted, Henry had us on first sight.

The first indication we got of his, um, intelligence, came a few days later, as he walked across the deck and right into the open hot tub without missing a step. And sank to the bottom. He is still no smarter, just bigger. Much taller than Tika. He looks more like a Great Dane or a small pony than a Lab, and nothing like his parents. Either some errant gene that lay dormant for generations exploded to life in Henry, or his Mama was sleeping around.

He is spectacularly stupid, and amazingly clumsy on his long skinny legs. He has chewed 9 shoes, 4 pairs of sunglasses, 3 pairs of reading glasses, a jewellery box, 12 pieces of Tupperware, 5 hair clips, a borrowed book, and a lot of mail. He has eaten plastic bags, flip flops, 6 entire avocadoes, a bag of apples, a shaker of fish food, most of the leaves off my Jade plant, many bananas, and all the pears that fell from our neighbour’s tree. He is an escape artist, and has been dragged back home by bemused neighbours several times. He jumps on our bed and drops on us with a mighty THWUMP in the middle of the night. He is a drooler and a gifted farter.

And we sure love him.

A Letter to Frank

When I met B five years ago he was sponsoring an Indonesian child through World Vision. I have also sponsored children over the years through WV and Foster Parents Plan. So it was an easy decision for us to sponsor a child together. That child is Frank . Frank, now age 10, is from the Gogo tribe in Tanzania. He lives in a desperately poor, drought stricken area of the country where subsistence farmers try to coax vulnerable crops of corn and peanuts out of the barren soil. We have exchanged letters for four years, with help from Frank’s father and a translator. Here is a letter to him I just wrote. In two weeks I will have the joy of delivering it to him myself.

Dear Frank,

Frank, I am so proud and happy to be your friend. From your letters I know you help your family by carrying wood and fetching water. That most of your meals are a thick porridge of corn meal, with some greens when your family can get them. You live in a mud hut you share with many brothers and sisters.

I know you like to draw. I love your gifts of drawings with each of your letters.
You like to draw cars the most, but you have also drawn chickens, a soccer ball, a self portrait and a house for me.

You share enchanting details in your letters. Like:

We have neither a dog nor a cat but there is a brown with white marks dog at the neighbourhood. He is named Poppy. He is a very friendly dog to all people except thieves and robbers. (I hope Poppy can tell the difference!)

and;
I hope you are fine. I am fine and my family is all fine. I dropped out of a tree and my head got injured.

and:
Thank you for the birthday card. You are such a pleasures friend to me.

Despite the hardships you face every day, your serious eyes in your photos are filled with hope. Like all children, you love to play. Football is your favourite game. You have dreams. You like story books, and dream of being a teacher.

You are always so thankful for the little things I send in my letters, like stickers, photos, and post cards. Frank, I should thank you, because you give me a much greater gift: gratitude. Your courage, happiness and dreams help me remember to be grateful for the abundant gifts in my life. And you are one.

All of your letters end with the Kiswahili words: Karibu sana Tanzania, which gets translated as: You are very welcome come to Tanzania. That is an irresistible invitation.

I can't wait to meet you and your family Frank. I will see you soon.

Secret

I have an embarrassing secret vice. No, not midnight trips to the casino, or a crack habit, and I have never made a porn video. It is The Bachelor. I watch that cheesy, pathetic, utterly mesmerizing show. I saw the final episode of The Bachelor Rome Monday night. It made me gag, but I could not turn it off. Prince Lorenzo chose Jen and sent the virgin Sadie packing. After he shed feeble, very fake tears of anguish.

A work colleague of mine shares this furtive habit. Tuesday mornings, there we are, two middle age civil servants whispering over the water cooler.

He: “Hey, pssst, did you see who got a rose last night?”

Me: “Yeah, but what about that cat fight at the pool!”

He: “I know, Karen damn near fell out of her bikini. I could hardly breathe.”

And then this morning, in whispers:

Me: “So Jen won, what a shock”.

He: “I know, it was unbelievable! He gave up the chance to pop a cherry!”

O.K., so my male colleague’s interest in watching this crap may be somewhat understandable. Mine is inexplicable. Maybe I can find a Beat the Bachelor Habit support group somewhere. Monday nights we would gather and chant: “We are powerless over this despicable T.V. program.” Which we would then all rush home to covertly watch on tape. Because the next ONE, well he is a naval officer and a doctor. Gotta go. I feel a swoon coming on.

Today's dream travel destination: Rome

We are Canadian eh!

This is a photo of our deck this morning. Here. In Vancouver. The snow started Saturday, and did not quit until this afternoon. Isn't it gorgeous? Magical in fact. Kids sledding in the park. Christmas lights twinkling on icicles. So crisp, clean and cheerful. Winter wonderland.

Bull. Shit. Sweet Mother of God make it go away. It is not allowed to snow here in November. In fact, sometimes whole winters here are blessedly flakeless. We like our snow to stay up in the mountains where it belongs please. Where we can drive 20 minutes to go play in it, in our designer snowshoes. Then come back down for tennis and a latte.

It took half an hour this morning to scrape the frozen windows and thaw the iced up locks on the POS car. So B could drive to work and drop me off at the packed, late, skytrain. Which was not working properly, having been designed for L.A North, not freakin Antarctica. The radio predicted -13 degrees tonight.

So you see, we are real Canadians here. We get winter too. For a week or so. Which is 6 days too long.

Today's dream travel destination: Skiing Ruby Bowl on Blackcomb Mountain. Where snow belongs.

Guest writer

I am sooo busy this week. Trying to tie up things at work so I can leave for our trip, starting to pack,freezing meals for my son and my Beloved's neice who will be looking after our house and zoo while we are gone. So I asked B if he would like to contribute a post. Here it is:

I arnt a riter or a speler.


Um....thanks sweetie.
Today's dream travel destination: Summer. In the Okanagan, playing on the lake with our friends. Oh Yeah.

Cappuccino Calamity

Days of endless rain, followed by downpours, interspersed with heavy showers, is taking its toll on Vancouverites. Our usual insufferable cheerful superiority is replaced with surly despondence. This dark morning, as we dripped umbrellas all over each other’s feet on the packed skytrain, shuffled up the stairs at our downtown stops, and navigated huge puddles to get to our offices, only one thought kept most of us from turning around and going back to bed until May. A steaming cup of Java. That magic elixir to fuel the barely glowing pilot lights in our brains.

A few steps from Starbucks I begin to anticipate my Tall Non-fat Misto. (Bucks-speak for half steamed milk, half coffee.) Then I see the sign. CLOSED. Huh? Luckily, the coffee shop in my building is open, so I head in there. “Sorry, we are not serving any coffee. Because of the water quality problem.” Sweet. Mother. Of. God.

Yesterday a “boil water advisory” was slapped on the entire Greater Vancouver District. All the rain has churned up yucky stuff (technical term) in the rivers and reservoirs, stuff that bacteria like to cling to. Water must be boiled for at least one minute. Apparently coffee machines do not actually boil the water, so coffee shops are protecting themselves against us litigious hordes by turning into no coffee shops.

We are not supposed to drink, wash food, or brush our teeth with tap water. I suppose it is good practice for Tanzania. Where I am headed in 3 weeks. Last night my Beloved & I had a “holy shit, we are not ready” moment. At least we will have the drinking water routine down pat.

Today's dream travel destination: Sumatra, where my favourite coffee beans are grown. And I bet I could get a cup.

Hard Boiled Digital

I am nervously waiting for an e-mail from my Dad with a photo attached. Any photo, taken on his new digital camera, downloaded into his computer, and then attached to an e-mail. Dad goes geek! Well, I hope. I have yet to see the evidence.

You see, digital photography is new to Dad. And Dad doesn’t pull off new as well as he does the-tried-and-true. Don’t misunderstand me, he is a very intelligent man, with a master’s degree in engineering. But ask him to do something he has never tried before, and, well….. his normally first-rate brain can all but shut down.

Let me illustrate. Before Dad retired, he made himself the same breakfast every day. A CPR (Canadian Pacific Railway) egg and toast. To make a CPR egg (where he got this I have no idea), you boil an egg for 3 minutes so it is totally runny and the white is barely congealed. Dad had a timer for this. Then slice off the top and scoop the egg into a glass with a glop of butter, salt and pepper. It has to be a clear glass so you can really see how gross this concoction is. Mix the mess up in the glass with a fork, and serve with toast. This was the only kind of egg Dad knew how to cook.

One day, my mother was busy preparing a Christening luncheon. (For my son’s Christening actually, and I was useless to her, rendered frazzledly stupid with figuring out how a newborn baby works. It was new to me you understand.) She had to run an errand, and in desperation asked my dad to hard boil a dozen eggs for her.

“HARD boiled? I’ve never cooked a hard boiled egg. How do I do that?” asked the man with the post-graduate education.

“Don’t be dense dear, cook them for exactly 10 minutes.” Mom left.

So my dad got out a big pot, put 12 eggs in it, filled it to the top with cold water, put it on the stove, and set the timer to 10 minutes. Then turned on the burner. Uh huh. You can figure out the rest. Devilled eggs did not make it on the luncheon menu.

Now Dad, I can see your pained expression. You are thinking, “How long will I have to live with the damn hard boiled egg episode?” Forever, Dad. It’s a family legend. And, in case you are wondering, Mom gave me permission to write about you. “Sure you can write about your old parents” she assured me when I was visiting last week. You were at choir practice. Now Dad, don’t say “But I was not there, so it’s not like I actually decided…” Yeah Dad, it is. Making decisions for her husband is a wife's privilege after 50 years of marriage. Does it work in reverse? Hell no.

I’m waiting for that e-mail photo Dad. Forget the eggs. I have faith.

Today's dream travel destination: Kerala, India, where my parents will be travelling in a few weeks, and the reason for the new digital camera.

Remembrance Day in Chester

At the end of my business trip to PEI last week, I stopped in Nova Scotia, to visit my parents in Chester. They have lived in this little jewel of a village on the Atlantic for more than 25 years.

On this visit, I was there for Remembrance Day, Nov. 11. It was a glorious day, with unseasonably warm sun twinkling off the ripples in the harbour. I walked to the village cenotaph, which shares a tiny park by the shore with the bandstand gazebo. It seemed that most of the town, and all of its dogs, had come to share the annual memorial ceremony at 11:00 am.

When the kilted piper played the ritual Lament, the profound stillness and unexpectedly plentiful tears in the crowd moved me deeply. Even in this little village, far from the flashy, dignitary-stuffed ceremony in Ottawa, war is all too real. The first wreath was laid by a local mother who recently lost her son in Afghanistan. The minister of my parent’s church, who led us in prayer, will be deployed to Afghanistan shortly as an army chaplain from the Reserves. November 11th is no longer just about our grandparents. We again are sending our young men and women overseas to die in a brutal war. (Do not get me started, not today.)

The Chester marching band made up in enthusiasm what they lacked in precision as they led a parade of veterans, sea cadets, volunteer firefighters, scouts, girl guides, and the Legion-sponsored peewee hockey team through town to a church service. That concluded the somber, or rather sober, part of the day’s rituals.

The local Legion was the hub for the rest of Remembrance Day. This is one of two days a year the Legion welcomes non-members. The women's auxilliary put on a buffet spread. My father's choir provided the entertainment, an afternoon performing sing-along war tunes. "It's a Long Way to Tipperary", "Pack Up Your Troubles", "White Cliffs of Dover", "You'll Get Used To It". I sang along. I know the words to these songs, but where and when did I learn them? The audience singing got louder with each $2.50 glass of Keith's. All the seats were taken, so I stood at the back near the bar. An elderly man with a row of medals on his navy blazer shuffled up.

"How are you then Jimmy?" asked the woman tending bar.

"I'm some dry Dorene."

"Another Keith's then?"

His grin was all the answer needed.

Today's dream travel destination: The lovely village of Chester, Nova Scotia, Canada.

Table For One

"Will Madame be dining alone?"

When I first began business travel, these words made me quickly scan the restaurant to see who was staring at the big "L" on my forehead. I just knew they were thinking: "Pity, she has no friends." "What, can't get a date?" "Huh, looks like she's been stood up." "Loser!" I would eat dinner at my little table feeling the heat of the million watt spot light over my head. (Yes, my ego was that big!)

Now I know better. I might still suspect people are thinking those pitiful thoughts, but I don't give a shit. One of the few advantages of aging is getting over yourself. So that dining alone on a business trip is not torture, it is a treat. An hour or so of blissful peace. Courtesy demands that my cell phone be turned off. Smiling people bring me artfully prepared food and drink, and clean up after me. I read the local paper. Issues and events that matter to people in different places can be fascinating, enlightening, or hilarious. I bring a book for back up. And, best of all, my employer pays for it.

Last night, as the waitress put a plate of PEI mussels in front of me, (steamed in Guiness and garlic, yummy,) I felt a twinge of guilt for my Beloved at home. He is dealing with the houshold grind and chaos while my whims are catered to.

The guilt fades with every succulent mussel. By dessert time, guilt shmilt. This is bliss. Sorry Sweetie.

Today's dream travel destination: Where I am, but do not have time to explore. Prince Edward Island, Canada.

On the Road Again

Hell is a 5 hour, fully loaded, red-eye flight from Vancouver to Toronto. Stuck in a window seat next to a large snoring man. Oh to hell with correctness, he's a lard ass, overflowing the middle seat. Don't people his size have to buy two seats? And he's a smoker. He reeks of the last nine or ten cigarettes he must have desperately chain smoked before boarding.

It is past midnight, but I cannot sleep, and the movie sucks. This is a work trip, it's not even anywhere fun like our approaching adventure. I read the in-flight magazine. Then the French Version. I. Am. So. Bored.

Wise fliers avoid alcohol and drink lots of water. Screw that. I order a beer, hoping it will make me sleepy. It doesn't. I have another. Not totally ignoring flying wisdom, I have been sucking back my bottled water too. Now I desperately have to pee. To do that I have to get past my two sleeping seatmates. I wake them, and they graciously get up. By the time I come back, lard ass is asleep again. God I hate the window seat, but it was all I could get. I am claustrophobic, and get antsy any time I am not in an aisle seat; at football games, movies, the bus, whatever. At a funeral I would wrestle the grieving widow if she tried to move me down the pew. "So sorry for your terrible loss, but you will only get me to move by prying my cold dead hands off this seat." Oooops, bad analogy.

The beer and water was a very poor idea, requiring 2 more trips to the toilet. By the third trip, my seat mates are ready to throw me out the door. I am tempted to let them. I still cannot sleep. The crummy movie has been replaced by a business report. SWEET MOTHER OF GOD, GET ME OFF THIS AIRPLANE!

Finally, I fall into blissful slumber. Ten minutes later we land. I stumble into Pearson International airport transit area. The time is a quarter to too fucking early. I have two more flights and six hours of travel before I reach my destination: Prince Edward Island. That's O.K. From now on I have aisle seats.

Today's dream travel destination: Anywhere in this airplane:

Reigning Cats and Dogs, Part 1: Henry & Oliver

Pets outnumber humans in our household 5 to 3. How that came to be still baffles me sometimes. Tika and Henry are the dogs, Squirt, Snuffy, and Oliver the cats.

Henry and Oliver have been best friends from the first day we brought Henry home as a puppy 13 months ago. It’s an unlikely match. They are from enemy species. Henry now weighs 85 pounds and is still growing. Oliver weighs 9 pounds, if he has had a big breakfast. Oliver is the smartest creature in the household, humans included. Henry is spectacularly stupid. (My Beloved, always the optimist, says Henry is gifted and just needs to mature a little. Nonsense. The only thing he is gifted at is farting. I mean Henry, not B. Although, when we have taco night…….well, never mind.)

In spite of their differences, they adore each other. Oliver gets Henry. In return, Henry smothers Oliver with drooling, doe-eyed devotion. They sleep together. Wrestle and play together. Take walks together daily, Henry on his leash, Oliver voluntarily running along side. Rain or shine. When their paths cross in the house or the yard, they stop whatever important dog or cat work they were pursuing to give each other a little lovin’ and affection. Oliver rubs up under Henry’s chin, Henry licks and nuzzles. Oliver comes out of these sessions soaked in drool.

If Henry and Oliver could go to the UN they would demonstrate profound lessons about acceptance, understanding, and triumph over prejudice. Humankind would learn to live in harmony. And drool, and fart.


Today's dream travel destination: UN headquarters, New York

I love Halloween

Before B and I bought this money-sucking pile of bricks and cedar, I lived in a hip, pretentious neighbourhood near downtown, full of young professionals, a sprinkling of retirees, and chic gay couples. Not many children. My son’s elementary school was the smallest in the district, with less than 200 kids. (Unfortunately that’s not the explanation for why every successive principal there knew me on a first name basis.) We got a few trick or treaters on our street, but only because an NHL hockey player lived on the next block. Halloween in the area went unnoticed. Well, almost. The waiter at the sushi restaurant up the street put on a costume.

But our current neighbourhood does Halloween, and I love it! Yards are elaborately decorated with dead and dying souls, goulish lights, even sound effects. Check it out:


Yesterday evening started with the tiny adorable bumble bees and bunnies in their Daddy’s arms, who were far more interested in our dog Henry than candy. “Goggie! Goggie!” (Tika, who pees in fright at the sound of a firecracker was shut up in the basement.) Then we got so many princesses, Sponge Bobs, vampires and witches I had to raid B’s chocolate bar stash. Almost last came the young teens with ‘tude and cell phones. And finally, an hour after the last of them, the doorbell rang again. By then it was my bed time, and I crankily went to the door.

On the porch are two guys about 17 years old. No costumes. Grinning hugely. “Trick or treat!” Should I offer them a chocolate bar, or a beer? Sarcastically I ask: “So what are you?” They immediately drop to their knees. “We’re midgets!” Now they are laughing out loud, madly pleased with their scam. I try not to smile. Then one of them stares at the plastic skeleton we have hung by the front door. “Whoa, dude!” he says, taking its boney hand, “You should have been nicer to the lady.”

Dudes, you made my night.

POS car*

*Used with no permission from Adam Sandler, who wrote the song,“Piece of Shit Car”.

Five years ago, when B and I joined our hearts, households and wordly possessions as common-law spouses, we each contributed vehicles to the joint assets. I brought in a brand new very cool Acura RSX. B brought in a GMC Jimmy of a “certain age”. Not decrepit, but if she could go to bars she would certainly be labeled “cougar”. Past her “best before” (or as the English say, “sell by”) date. But I suspect this bitch was a lemon long before she came into my life. B is inexplicably fond of her.

I……..hate…..this…….vehicle.

She has four wheel drive, a useful feature, I grant you. But the first time we were absolutely depending on 4WD, driving up a very steep old logging road to get to the Tricouni Meadows trail head, the 4WD died. Resulting in an extra 5 km of hiking (each way) on a near vertical, clear cut logged slope on a scorching day. With our friends whom we had promised a gentle Sunday hike in beautiful mountain meadow scenery.

The “check engine” light in her console goes on and off randomly, with no cause any mechanic has been able to determine. In spite of the fact we spent a king’s ransom on a new tranny. It lights up frequently when we are 100 km past the nearest town or service station. I then feel a sense of impending doom. No Sweetie, not adventure, doom.

The windshield wipers stop whenever the bitch feels cranky. Which is usually on the freeway at 110 km per hour in a downpour on our way to a party. Then the person in the passenger seat (me, because I would rather wrestle a grizzly bear than drive this unmaneuverable box), has to hang out the window and reach around the windshield to give the wipers a flick. I arrive at the event with wild, dripping hair and melting mascara rivers.

But as much as I hate this POS car, every time I look at her, sitting smugly in the driveway, I am reminded that, with the bitch, came a man with the most loving, generous heart that ever beat.

Recently, in response to my whining, B brought home some catalogues of shiny new S.U.V’s.

I threw them out.

Today's dream destination: Where there are no cars. Lillooet Lake, British Columbia, Canada.

Morning mayhem

“Hit the snooze button again.”

“No, we can’t, it’s past time to get up.”

“But it’s so freakin dark out. And raining.”

“Yeah, but it’s late.”

“Yeah but I’m nice and warm, come cuddle” pleads my Beloved.

I hit the snooze button. Twice.

So the morning routine is even more frantic than usual. Showering is an 8 ½ minute well choreographed ballet. My B passes me the razor and I shave his neck. He then knows exactly when to soap my shoulders as I lift up my hair after conditioning it.

Things really pick up after that. Quick, take the dogs out to the yard. Feed the cats. Remember Snuffy needs her food watered down so the chances of her puking it up again are only fifty-fifty. Find matching socks. “Damn, where’s my other black shoe?" "Maybe Henry got it again". “You ready?” “Almost.” “Let’s go, we are really late now.” “I just have to grab my lunch from the fridge.”

And then I hear a groan from the kitchen: “God damn cat! Snuffy puked all her breakfast on the floor again.” I run to the kitchen. My B and I look at each other, look at the clock, and yell:

“HENRY! COME HERE BOY! …………..Good work buddy.Good Dog”

Today's dream destination: Auckland, New Zealand, where the days are getting longer and brighter, not shorter and darker.

Lumps and Jiggly bits

I could not put it off any longer. I’ve procrastinated. Told myself I would deal with it when I loose 5 pounds. Made do with items that should be in the dusting rag bag. I had to take care of this before leaving on our trip. Finally, today, I dragged my ass to…
The Swim Suit Store.

I went to the specialty (read pricey) swimwear shop down town. I found a suit I liked, put it on, and stepped out from the little fluorescent-lit torture room to the three way mirror. SWEET MOTHER OF GOD! There were lumps and jiggly bits falling out everywhere spandex meets skin. Straps disappeared into flesh canals. The worst part is, I am not overweight. Well, not by any rational standards. Sure I’m 10 or 12 pounds more than I was at 20, but that does not account for all the loose stuffing that has appeared increasingly every year since I’ve been travelling the wrong-side-of-40 road.

The saleswoman took one look at me and began bringing me suits. “Try this one dear, many of our mature customers like this style.”
“MATURE? Bite me lady!” I wanted to yell.
I tried on the next suit, and faced her inspection. “Hmmmm” she said, “I think we need a little more bust support.”
I looked at her incredulously. This came from a woman whose matronly bosoms could only be supported by a load of re-bar and 20 years of brassiere engineering research & development.

I had to admit though, she knows her work. Each successive suit she brought me was a little better at camouflage and gravity defiance. Finally, at suit 15, we had found one that I would not be completely mortified to wear in public. Except I did not like the brown and gold colour much, and the pattern even less. I longingly picked up the lovely peacock blue suit I had started with. The price tag was $80. No, I could not spend $80 on a totally unflattering swim suit to wear in an impoverished country.

So, the saleswoman rang up the brown and gold suit. HOLY SHIT! And I thought the blue one was expensive. I guiltily put it on the credit card instead of Interac, so I have a month or so to prepare the Love-Of-My-Life for the shock.

Later, I e-mailed my girlfriend an account of the ordeal. She, being mathematically inclined, explained that there is an exponential relationship between the age of our body and the price of the swim suit needed to show it in public. Design miracles do not come cheap.

Today's dream travel destination - Somewhere I would never wear a swim suit:

Screw the leaking roof

In six weeks I am going to Tanzania. Back to Tanzania, for the first time in 32 years. I lived in Dar Es Salaam as a teenager. I have dreamed of going back, vowed to go back, but there were always too many obstacles. Time, money, career pressures, single motherhood. Five years ago I met the
Love Of My Life and forever travel partner. We bought a big old house and created a new household along with my teenage son, 3 cats and a dog. Then there were new obstacles, house renos, mortgage payments, leaky roof, a new puppy, the garden…

Not that we didn’t travel. Mexico, New Zealand, Thailand, backpacking in the Cascade mountains, and kayaking in Haida Gwaii. But not Africa. “Too expensive,” or “It would take too much time off work,” we said. “Some day” we promised each other.

Until I veered a little too close to death. Way closer than I ever want to be unless I am over 90. In the summer of 2005 I had to have difficult open heart surgery to repair a wonky valve. Followed by 3 more surgeries to deal with complications. Seven weeks in the hospital. Then months giving myself I.V. drugs twice a day at home.
One night, when it was clear to me I was actually going to live through this, I said to my darling LOML, “Screw the leaking roof, let’s do it.” His eyes lit up. He grinned.
“No, not THAT, I mean let’s go to Africa.” (How did he think the leaking roof was connected with…never mind, the male brain's short circuits will always astound me.)
The timing wasn’t fair because LOML was so grateful I was not, well, dead, he would have agreed to a trip to Pluto. Luckily, I requested Tanzania.

Our roof is going to leak a little longer.

Today's travel dream: Serengeti Park, Tanzania.