She Rocked Out To Wham...

...not a big Limp Bizkit fan.

Twice today I flipped through radio stations only to find that a song I remembered from my teen years was playing on the oldies station. Twice! How old am I?! Geez.

Bertville Goes to Parentville

I went to visit my newly-retired parents last weekend. They moved to Arizona during the summer and were very excited to show me their new digs.


I brought my sun hat from California, not realizing we all had matching hats! The apple doesn't fall far from the tree.


And my pajammies were a cause for goofing off, as well. Back in the day, when I was still in college at the University of Wisconsin-Madison, I gave my dad a UW sweatshirt, which just happens to match my UW pajammies T-shirt.


We saw the sites...


...and I climbed on them.


We also went to a nearby artist colony to browse the shops and see the art. There, I got to do my favorite thing... make fun of fine art and pose with the sculptures!




On the last day of my trip, they took me to Mexico! I had never been. I enjoyed eavesdropping on the Spanish conversations between store owners, and then telling my parents whether or not they were being ripped off. Also, with all this junk in my trunk, I got some rather vocal attention from the locals. I wanted to take a photo with all of my new-found friends, but there was no time. We were on a mission to see the sites. I took a photo of this sign instead.


And the best thing at the end of a long, hot day in the 105 degree desert heat? A quick dip in the pool! Here we are enjoying the sunny afternoon.


I had a blast. And, although desert living is not for me (I prefer my cool, damp fog and rolling green hills), my parents chose a beautiful spot to settle. Just like settlers in the old west. Yeehaw!

To see more photos of my trip, click on this link: Arizona Photos

Smooshy Childhood Memory Moment

The Bay Area is currently experiencing a thunderstorm, the likes of which are extraordinarily rare here.

My office is warm and cozy as I listen to the sound of rain on the pavement outside. The sky went quite dark about an hour ago, and I turned on my desk lamp. It gives off a soft, yellow glow as thunder rolls in the distance. The window in my office is open to let in the smell of newly washed parking lot. I just made some tea.

When I was a little girl, there were often evening thunderstorms during the summer months in Minnesota. I would sit in the warmly lit living room with my family and read a book, while the lightening flashed and thunder grumbled outside. If it was still storming at bedtime, I would watch the lightening from my window for a while before finally closing my eyes and letting the patter of rain lull me to sleep.

As a teenager, if I awoke to a thunderstorm, I would sometimes get up and go outside, just to smell the freshness of the rain and lightening in the air.

Now, as a grown up at my desk in my office, thinking about clients and caseloads and social workers and MediCal payments... my mind drifts back to a time when a thunderstorm was just about the coolest thing around. Suddenly, I feel all warm and cozy inside... and I pause to watch the lightening and smell the air.

I guess I'm still a Midwesterner at heart.

Yaaaarrrrrrr!

Happy Talk Like a Pirate Day!
(I'm obsessed with pirates.)

Conversations with Silica Gel

I just found a packet of silica gel in a suitcase I recently purchased. On the packet were the words:
SILICA GEL
"Do not eat."
Throw away.
And I ask myself... why the quotation marks? Are they implying some sort of irony? According to Wikipedia, they must be. Unless, "Do Not Eat" is the title of an artistic work.

Or, more likely, it is a direct quote from the silica gel, itself.

My Cute Parents

My parents just retired in Arizona this summer. They have become the cutest retired people ever - seeing the sites, visiting nearby towns, and redecorating their new house. Here they are a the Desert Museum today.

Colonialism and Beans

Last week, I went back to my old Peace Corps village in the Dominican Republic.

I hadn't been there since September of 2001, when I went with my father to visit my former adoptive Dominican family. My father and I had spent a few days having fun, and then several more trying to get back to the U.S.A. after September 11. Needless to say, it was a stressful trip.

This time I traveled alone. I spent two days in the capital city and four in my old village of Castillo, which means "Castle" in Spanish. I have never seen any castle there, however.

The Dominican Republic is an interesting place. It's a small country with a very diverse population. It's possible to see a person who looks like he's straight from West Africa shining shoes or a blond-haired, blue-eyed business woman. They're all Dominicans. The mixture of the Spanish settlers with the African slaves they brought over, as well as the native people whom they exploited when they "discovered" the island, makes for a very heterogeneous gene pool. Every once in a while, a wild card shows up. Two very dark-skinned farmers in the countryside have a blond baby. It's fascinating. What is bothersome about this curious natural phenomenon, is that this differing of Dominican skin color is often used to divide classes, much as it is all over the world.

Cousins


It is also a very Catholic country, although, I've met some Evangelicals and even saw a Mormon church in Santo Domingo.

At the Local Catholic Church


In the capital city, Santo Domingo, I stayed in the Pension, a hostel for foreigners, where I used to stay as Peace Corps volunteer. I decided to take one step up from my days as a Peace Corps volunteer and got a private room with its own attached bathroom. There was, however, no air conditioning, and the lows at night hovered in the high 80s.

Pension


Most of the Americans who visit the Dominican Republic on vacation stay in places like the Hotel Melia on the malecon, or waterfront. It's no wonder that the Dominicans I meet don't understand that not all Americans are filthy rich.

Hotel Melia


I spent some time taking photos of the sites I had seen several times before.

Mr. Genocide, Himself (Columbus)


His House


Duarte, Sanchez, & Mella - The Founders of the Country


Spanish-Style buildings



And I found something that made me very happy. Recently, I wrote a blog entry about how hard it is to find jeans to fit my big bootay. Found some! Check out the curves on these babies! (Incidentally, I didn't buy them. It was just too hot to fathom trying to get my sweaty self into those tight jeans.)

Bootaaaay Jeans


In Castillo, I stayed with my adoptive Dominican mother, Reyna. Back in 1997, she took me in when she noticed my clothes were never quite clean (washing jeans by hand is difficult), and I was losing weight rapidly (I can't cook).

Reyna Cooking


It was strange being there again because although everything was much different after four years, it felt like I had never left. It was exactly the same and totally different all at once. The Dominican Republic will always be like a home to me. After spending over two years struggling to accustom myself to such a different culture, place, and climate, I know I won't ever be a wholehearted gringa ever again. The culture, both the good and bad, have been incorporated into the way I view the world around me. I can just turn that part of my heart and mind back on when I arrive, and it feels as though I never left.

The weirdest thing was that even though it felt as if I had never left, all of the tiny muchachos I used to school in my house were now great big grown-ups. Some even have children of their own.

And Reyna's son, my ex-boyfriend, Javier, has a wife and a two-year-old daughter, Layna. He named her after me... my middle name is Lynn.

Layna


The best part is, he's a great father.

Layna With Her Daddy


We took a trip to the beach in a nearby town one day. I don't go in the water ever since that time I almost drown in 1997. Javier pulled me out just in time. I still visit the beach, though, because the ocean is so lovely to look at, listen to, and smell.

Beach In Nagua


It was an incredible week. I ate rice and beans. I chatted with neighbors about he evils of government and the price of chickens.

Chickens


And one of my favorites... I took bucket baths by lamplight. There is no running water, so water is stored in large, ten gallon buckets. There is electicity, but it goes off around 4:00pm and doesn't return until morning, so all evening activities are done in the dark. On the upside, this makes for excellent viewing of the stars. When an entire island goes dark in the middle of the Caribbean Sea, it feels like you can see the end of the universe.

Also, with no electricity, something incredible happens. With no television to distract them, people talk to one another, while children play made up games outside in the sun. There is no Play Station, no Saturday afternoon movies on HBO. Just the yellow leaves fluttering down from the old amapola tree. The one who catches the most leaves wins!

It's such an amazing feeling to be able to fit in to a world so different from the one in which I usually live. To be comfortable chatting in Spanish with the tour guides in the capital about the tourists they're leading around, as if I weren't a foreigner, myself. To be loved and accepted by my neighbors as an honorary Dominican, granted a slightly strange one. It is such an honor to be included by such wonderful people.

Neighbor Children Dancing


To see more photos, click on the following links.
Santo Domingo and Castillo

The Airlines Hate Me

I had a lovely vacation in the Dominican Republic. I will save that story for the next entry, since it deserves its own space. This entry is the saga of how I missed my connection in Miami by less than 30 seconds.

My flight from Santo Domingo to Miami departed 45 minutes late. I knew I only had 90 minutes between flights, and I had to clear customs in Miami before boarding my next plane. Thinking it would be better to rebook myself onto a later flight, I stood in line at the ticket counter, practicing some of my seldom-used Spanish words for "flight" and "customs". When I reached the agent, he said that yes, the delay could be a problem in making my connection. I waited patiently while he checked with another agent. He returned saying that his supervisor said it wasn't an issue, and that they would take care of me in Miami, if need be. Dubious, I turned to sit down again, but someone had taken my spot. I loitered near the gate instead.

When we finally boarded and were on our way, the captain said we would only be arriving about 15 or 20 minutes late to Miami to gate E7. Fantastic, I thought. I can still make my connection!

Unfortunately, when we arrived in Miami, the gate was already occupied, and we sat on the runway for 10 minutes... just waiting. Normally, 10 minutes isn't such a big deal, but I only had 90 to start with... and the pilot had previously taken away 20. Then, plus another 10 minutes for the gate to free up, and another 15 minutes for everyone in the front of the plane to get a move on... well, I was really pushing the clock to the limit.
90 - 20 - 10 - 15 = 45 minutes

When the boisterous children in front of me had cleared the way, I practically leaped off of the plane and scampered in the direction of customs. I flew through the passport line with record speed and found the baggage carousel assigned to the flight. I was down to 30 minutes; my next flight was currently boarding, but I maintained a positive attitude. I can so make it in 30 minutes! I waited for the belt to start turning and deliver my bag to me. And waited. And waited. And swore under my breath. And waited some more. I considered taking off without it and having American Airlines mail it to me, but thought better of it. If they couldn't even get me somewhere on time, how long would it take to receive my bag if I left it behind? Eventually, the moving belt delivered, and I went running off in the direction of the customs officials. More boisterous children in line ahead of me! Only 15 minutes left!

Five minutes later, I was off and running to recheck the bag. The woman at the rechecking station looked at me and said, "San Francisco?" (Side note: How did she know? Do I look like a gay hippy?) I nodded frantically. "Sorry, honey," she lamented, "that one's done."

Nooooooo! I promised to get to the gate really fast. I jumped up and down rapidly... likely to prove my stamina, but I couldn't tell you for sure. Apparently, she bought it. "Okay," she said, "you have 10 minutes to get to gate D46. Run!" She pointed like a sentinel from behind her checking station.

I took off dragging two suitcases behind me, stopping everyone once in a while to glance around at my surroundings, then taking off again. I felt cartoonish. I imagined dust churning up behind my heals as I sped away.

I ran and ran and ran. My arms ached from hauling the bags. My legs buckled from the unplanned sprinting inserted into my lazy, plane-riding day. My lungs burned from this sudden abuse. I was thwarted many times along the way by long lines, officials asking me to remove my shoes, and people eating ice cream in the middle of narrow hallways. I almost knocked over an old, foreign-looking lady. Welcome to America where we trample our visitors.

I had been running for what felt like miles and miles, when I rounded the corner and saw gate D37. "You have got to be f*cking kidding me!" I blurted loudly. As a bounded passed, I saw a woman with two young children scowl at my foul language. Bite me, lady. I'm late.

As I neared the final stretch, I could see gate D46 far ahead, but my arms were numb from lugging my bags and would likely fall off at any moment. I dashed up behind a random passerby, and blurted, "Excuse me, sir, can you help me? I need to get to my gate, and I might die!" I left one of my bags and ran on without even wondering if he was following. Thankfully, he was.

"When does your plane leave?" I heard him yell from somewhere far behind me.

"Now!" I yelled back. "Don't leave! Don't leave! Don't leave!" I chanted loudly as I tore down the corridor.

I reached the gate just as they closed the airport door to the jetway. The man behind the counter looked up and said, "Sorry. You just missed it." He was so nonchalant about it. I was devastated!

"But," I stammered, standing there with my shoes still untied, my jeans tucked up accidentally into one of my socks, my damp hair sticking out of its thrashed ponytail at awkward angles, disheveled and disappointed, "I ran so far! I'm never late to anything! It wasn't even my fault!" I paused for a breath. "I ran so far!"

He was unmoved. He began typing into his computer without looking up. I leaned over the counter, gasping for breath like a dying fish and sweating little pools onto the cool, orange surface. I burst into giant, crocodile tears. I lay there sobbing and panting with my torso draped across the check in desk. It wasn't pretty.

When I had calmed down a bit, the man behind the desk said, unsmilingly, that he could book me on a flight connecting through Dallas to San Francisco, where it was schedule to arrive at 11:19pm. I had expected to be home by 8:45pm, but I took it, knowing I didn't want to spend the night sleeping under the plastic chairs in the lobby.

He handed me two new boarding passes. I looked at the boarding time on the first ticket. 5:56pm. Hmmm... I looked at the clock on my phone. It said 3pm. That's California time. Let's see, in Miami, that makes it... 6pm! Augh I cannot miss two flights in one day! What gate?!

E7.

No really. This time, you have got to be kidding me. I kicked my adrenaline back into gear and took off toward where I began almost an hour ago. I made it to the gate just as they were doing the final boarding call. The flight was relatively empty, so I spread out across three seats and gazed out at the sunset. I had made peace with the rerouting my trip had incurred, and decided I would buy something in Texas that I could wear out two-stepping. I deserved it, damnit.

And then, once I stopped sweating so profusely, I exchanged smiles with the cute cowboy in the seat behind me. Texas ain't so bad.