Exploring Sand Dunes

We started off our day today at the Oregon Dunes National Recreation Area. Mark joined a couple on an exciting high-speed ride up and down some dunes on a dune buggy. I stayed behind with River and Mark said that was a good decision, since the driver caroused over steep sand cliffs. The woman who went with them spent the ride with her eyes closed. Mark enjoyed it though.

We then went to the park, stopping by the visitor’s center for some information, then driving to a viewpoint. On one side, I could walk over small dunes to the beach – a long stretch of sand with waves crashing up onto the sand. On the other side, all-terrain vehicle tracks extended up into the dune hills. I think the best way to explore them would be on a four-wheeler, following a guide who knows the way and with the ability to control one’s own speed.

We then continued on and took a one-mile hike recommended by the visitor’s center. The trail went through a forested area, past water, and led us into an area of vast sandy dunes. I climbed up the tallest one and looked out over a beautiful vista – to the ocean on one side, forested hills on the other, and in between, ripples of sand inclines dotted with coastal grasses.

From there we continued south, heading further down the Oregon coast. I was able to throw off my winter jacket today, replacing it with a light windbreaker. We’ve continued our sunny streak, but as we head south, it’s becoming warmer as well as sunny. My favorite town we went through was Bandon, which had an attractive old town on the bay. It was a nice place to stop for a bite to eat, with several seafood places along the waterfront, as well as shops selling sweets made from the locally produced cranberries.

As we continued toward northern California, we continued to stop at the lookout posts and occasionally took short hikes toward views. We gazed out upon crashing waves, rock outcroppings, mountain promontories, winding roads, rocks formed into arches and natural bridges, rivers entering the ocean, small towns, strip malls and towards the end of the day, the sun falling into the horizon like a half egg yolk.

I love how the ocean is so calm on the Oregon coast, crashing only towards the shore, but extending out toward the horizon in mere ripples. I enjoyed going through one state park after another and how so much of the coast is sparsely populated. I loved the seafood, the friendly people and the lack of sales tax. I liked how large developers hadn’t bought out the coastline, so that there are plenty of motels, modest homes and other small properties with fantastic views. Most of all, I liked the sense of freedom that I felt in Oregon. It’s a great place and one I’d be happy to return to and explore more thoroughly.

We traveled through the first 20 miles or so of northern California. We found lodgings at an oceanside motel on the edge of Crescent City. Crescent City is full of motels, grocery stores and chain restaurants. But it’s also the northern edge of the Redwood National Park, our destination for tomorrow.

Traveling the Oregon Coast

Today we left Portland. I was sad to leave our kind and friendly hosts, Lisa and Greg, but eager to see some new landscapes. We were very lucky during our entire time in Seattle and Portland to see only sunny weather. Our friends joked that we must be carrying the sun with us. I feel like we’re not getting the real picture of the rainy northwest, but I also don’t mind having a three-week sunny vacation.

We drove west from Portland on Route 26, the same road we’d traveled to Timberline yesterday (but in the other direction). It was a pretty drive. We passed through farmland, where people sold salmon jerkey, dried fruits, dried mushrooms, and holiday trees at farmer’s markets. We passed by small, no-name coffee stands, another unique concept to Oregon. We drove in between thick forests. Bright green moss entirely covered some trees, making the branches look like creatures from a fantasy film. On a sadder note, amidst the dense and vast fir forests, we passed by several hillsides razed by logging. Near one of them was a town called Timber. The felled trees and branches fell every which way looked as though a razor had cut through stubble, leaving some forlorn hairs standing. As we emerged from Clatsop state forest, we looked up at an open, golden field and saw a coyote looking down at the road. Behind it, blue mountains covered with thick white grey clouds on the horizon rose up as backdrop.

We arrived at the coast in the town of Cannon Beach, a quaint little community. We drove around looking at the monoliths that emerged from the ocean waters, including one that looked like a haystack (appropriately called Haystack Rock). We drove along the coastal road, looking through tall green firs at the swelling ocean waters a little further out.

Driving down a random road, we traveled through thick, green tropical forest, passed a school tucked away in the natural world, and arrived at a few houses located along the coast. Every so often we passed signs reminding us that we were in a high tsunami risk zone. That was nice to know, but I didn’t know what we were supposed to do should a tsunami suddenly appear.

We stopped at viewpoints along the way to read about the local history and geology and to enjoy the views that appeared one after another. It seemed a little less dramatic to me than the coastline I’d seen south of San Francisco. But instead it appeared to possess a calmer beauty, more self-possessed and soothing.

A bit south of Cannon Beach, at Oswald West State Park, we took a 2.5 mile hike to Cape Falcon. We didn’t make it quite to the end. We were carrying baby and we were afraid of dusk overtaking us. But we did get most of the way through what our Portland friends described to us as their favorite hike. We walked along a path softened by pine needles, the terrain gently sloping, the view of dense forest, creeping moss, fern undergrowth, tinkling streams, a waterfall, and a gorgeous view through the trees of a rounded beach and rocks sticking up near the shore from the ocean waves. The air had the pleasant mixture of fresh forest green with salty ocean scent.

River slept most of the way there, but poopy diapers and hunger caused him to cry for much of the way back. As his cries rang through the woods and a photographer looked at us in silent disapproval, I thought of the biological function of a cry. It’s loud enough not only to alert parents to an infant’s needs, but also to announce to everyone else within earshot – defenseless young human in crisis, please help if you can. The help usually given is disapproving stares at the parents, which guilt them into doing whatever they can to stop the tears. There wasn’t much we could do in this case though, since it was too cold to change his diaper in the woods and stopping to feed him would mean possibly not making it back before dark. So we just had to endure it until we returned and hope that he’d understood.

We returned to the car tired, ravenous, and with headaches. Mark chose a roadside restaurant, The Lighthouse, for dinner. They served great fried halibut and grilled wild salmon in a simple, family friendly interior. Our local waitress told us about her husband who fishes as a hobby and brings back so many crabs fresh from the ocean that she’s sick of them. Each time the neighbors see his boat return, they line up with bags and he hands them out for free. A place where neighbors hand out fresh seafood sounds to me like an attractive place to live.

Our plan was to continue another 26 miles south to Tillamook. We’d look for lodging there and visit the local cheese factories tomorrow morning. Mark commented on how surprisingly empty of traffic the road was. We were tempted by a floating motel we passed along the way, as well as other options with a view of the water. We’ve got a long way to go to San Francisco though and it takes us a while to get going in the morning, so we decided to get as close to the cheese factories as possible.

Perhaps we should have stopped, because we were soon stopped by flashing lights behind us. A cop stopped us for speeding.

“I clocked you going 41 miles in a 30 zone and you passed two 30 mph signs while I had my radar on,” he said. We saw a 40 mph sign about ten feet in front of us, which very shortly thereafter changed to 45. There must have been a short stretch of 30 mph going through a town. The cop drove an unmarked truck and seemed to camp out in that stretch to catch unwary people. I thought it was rather tricky.

“Drive safely and slow down,” he said after giving us a citation. “We need revenue, but not that badly.” Then he turned around and went back to the slow area to trap more people. Funnily, our friend Greg told us we didn’t need to worry about cops in Oregon because the state didn’t have enough money to pay police. I guess they do need the revenue and going after cars with out of state licenses is a good way to collect it.

We found a bed for the night at a Best Western, located near the cheese factory we planned to visit the next morning. With two beds, a large, warm, comfortable space, and the opportunity to dip into a warm whirlpool before sleep, I got some of the best sleep I’ve had in nights, even despite getting up several times to feed River.

Skiing Mount Hood

Less than an hour in one direction from Portland, one reaches great hiking and waterfalls, less than two hours in another direction is the coast, and less than two hours in another direction still, one reaches fantastic mountain skiing.

We tried it out at the Timberline lodge on Mount Hood. The beautiful lodge was built by hand by unemployed craftspeople in 1936 as a Federal Works Progress Administration project. When we arrived, it was half-covered with snow. From the inside, we looked out windows covered with snow at a bluish-white haze. The skiing was very fun – with a lot of lower intermediate slopes, plenty of space (I was often skiing alone, with no one else around), and good powder. It made me miss my regular weekend ski trips in Kyrgyzstan.

Colombia River Valley

Whenever I asked people what to see in Portland, I was unanimously told Multnomah Falls. So our friends Lisa and Greg offered to accompany us there.

We spent the entire day in the Colombia River Valley, just about an hour away from Portland. It took only about a half hour to reach the limits of the city, beyond which further development is not permitted. Then we drove through forest and farmland until we reached the Colombia River.

We climbed up a road to a bluff that overlooked the valley. Wind rips through the gorge, especially in winter, making the river a popular place for windsurfing. They described it as a board attached to your feet and a sail above you. The sail gets caught by the wind, lifting people up to 20 feet in the air. Sounds pretty fun.

We visited a series of fantastic waterfalls. The largest and most famous is the Multnomah falls, where crowds of people lined up to see it, even off-season.

We finished the day in Hood River, a small town filled with coffee shops, sport and art stores. Then we had dinner at our friend’s favorite Portland pizza joint, A Pizza Scholls. “We can’t eat pizza anywhere else,” Lisa complained of the thin crust pizza with truffle oil, “because it just doesn’t compare.” We followed it with cupcakes and truffles from a chocolate shop next door. A nice day full of exercise, nature, exploration and good food in Oregon.

More Portland

On Friday afternoon we met Frederick, a good friend from Siberia who now lives in Portland with his wife. We met for lunch at the Red and Black Café, a vegan café where all the decisions are made as a collective. I had soy yogurt with nuts and granola and an insubstantial Oregonian salad – greens with hazelnuts and apples. At the counter, behind the jars of teas, was a collection cup for the medical expenses of one of the employees. The clientele were young and arty. There was a play area with toys in a corner.

When we needed to change River, we asked about a changing table. They did have one, but if they hadn’t, Frederick said it wouldn’t have been a problem to change River on the table. I told him how the patrons of a Seattle café protested when we changed him (on top of his snowsuit) on our table, after unsuccessfully looking for a changing table. “It’s different here,” he said “People would understand.”

My friend Lisa told me that the attitude in Portland is “live and let live.” Libertarian values are common. People want freedom to do as they please and one doesn’t pay attention to what their neighbors do unless it is causing real harm.

We finished lunch still feeling hungry, so we went to a bakery in a nearby warehouse to get some carbohydrates. That place was vegan as well though. While I like meat, I can do without it if necessary. But I really don’t like going without eggs, milk, cheese and butter. It feels too restrictive and I feel denied.

Frederick was kind enough to show us around Portland. We drove to the northwest, where we saw attractive homes lining a green park area and a vibrant commercial area, filled with art and coffee shops. Frederick told us that many people in Portland have a craft. Whether it’s gardening or bookbinding or ceramics, artisan crafts are a popular way to spend time. It was certainly true of my friends. Lisa and her husband garden, make music, produce silkscreen t-shirts, write, build and create things for the home, and draw. Frederick writes and his wife bakes, binds books, photographs and knits.

We stopped at the Japanese gardens, a quiet area near the rose garden, within a forest of tall, majestic, stately trees. I didn’t like it as much as the Chinese gardens because the China garden was such a pleasant surprise within the urban center. The Japanese garden seemed naturally located within the hilltop wilderness. Nevertheless, it was a pretty and peaceful place, with a rock garden, many Japanese plants and trees, a rock sculpture exhibit, and Japanese architecture and artisanry.

We went to Frederick’s for a cup of tea. He lives in the warehouse district, in a small apartment with windows offering a view in all four directions. Their bed pushes back into the wall and pulls out like a drawer, maximizing space.

Everyone we spoke to said that Portland has been changing and modernizing significantly in the last few years. They said the Pearl district, a wealthy area near downtown, was the first to build up. Then the northwest area that surrounded it followed suit. Frederick thinks the area where he is living will be the next to gentrify, as old warehouses are converted into cafes, shops and apartments.

He and his wife Melody took us to one of the new neighborhood arrivals, a Japanese place called Biwa. The portions were tiny, so I thought we might again leave hungry. But we ordered enough small platters – of chicken, lamb, beef (ah, meat!), shitake mushrooms, eggplant, rice and pork dumplings – that we all left satiated.

From there they took us to a local movie theater. Admission was six dollars, less than I can find in my neighborhood. But my friend Lisa said that was too much, especially if it didn’t include beer or pizza. She said many local theaters include beer and/or pizza in the admission price. Another nice Portland tradition.

We took River to the movie, crossing our fingers he’d behave. He ate and/or slept the entire time, allowing us to watch Persepolis and not disturbing others. The movie, a cartoon film about an Iranian girl, was good, but not as fast-paced as I’d been led to believe by the previews, nor quite as engaging as I’d hoped.

Portland

We didn’t see or do all that much today, but somehow finished up the day tired anyway. My first impressions of Portland are a little vague. I don’t feel like I got a good sense of it. I see it as working class, affordable, with quite a few unique characters and people that are friendly, but don’t come across as quite as happy as those we met in Seattle. Nevertheless, everyone I spoke to so far loves living here.

I started out my day meeting a couple of former classmates for lunch and hearing about their experiences living and working in the city. Neither is from Portland, both seem to be happy living here. Then we drove into the downtown area, where we first stopped at Powell’s books. It’s a city landmark and giant bookstore, with shelves upon shelves of new and used books on every conceivable topic. I walked through the store and was consumed by a desire to read. Seeing so many books just reminded me of how many of them I haven’t read. I longed for long, empty afternoons during which I could read. I’ve had very little time to read since River arrived. The small patches of time I get to myself go quickly to exercise, writing, working, or getting things done. Powells also had an amazing collection of audiobooks and that reminded me that I can listen to books on CD, even if I can’t read the paper versions as much as I’d like.

We strolled through the Chinatown/Old Town area. Apparently, it’s not one of the best areas of town. But for a not-so-good neighborhood, it was much less threatening than the bad parts of other cities. We walked through with a baby stroller. While we did come across some odd characters, we never felt really uncomfortable.

We happened across a Chinese garden and decided to take a look. After paying the $7 per person admission and being instructed to turn off our cell phone, we walked into a surprising oasis of calm and tranquility in the middle of the city. The roar of a waterfall drowned out the sound of traffic. The sweet smell fresh plants pleasantly perfumed the air. The architecture and the furniture seemed genuine, as though we’d entered a small town and quiet secluded garden in China. A small tea shop at the back of the garden sold tea flights, samples of some of the many varieties on offer.

We walked briefly along the waterfront, where a path runs alongside the river, offering views of a giant steel bridge and of the city. It was busy with bikers and joggers, even in the early evening. We saw two women and a young girl there who appeared to be homeless. I felt so sorry for the ragged young girl, that as a child she was denied the security and warmth of a home and stable family.

In the evening, we ate a delicious, healthy, homemade dinner and chatted some more with our friends. So far, I’ve enjoyed the time spent in my friends’ coy and funky house than I have the city itself. But tomorrow we’ll have a local friend in the car with us who can hopefully guide us to the main attractions. So far, I find it a nice enough place, but haven’t fallen in love with it.

Mount St. Helens

Today’s adventure was a drive from Seattle to Portland, stopping along the way at Mount St. Helens. I was only a child when Mount St. Helens blew in 1980, but I remember it happening, as well as how excited I was when someone gave me a vial of volcanic ash from the mountain. So it was great to see the majestic peak decades later, when the growth has reappeared and it is only the before and after photos in the visitor’s center that really capture the horror and magnitude.

We took I-5 south from Seattle. I expected a dull, wide grey freeway. But the scenery was surprisingly beautiful, often lined with trees, with views of farmland, cows, forested hills and mountains. True to what John told us, the traffic moved slowly, going 65 miles per hour, even in the fast lane. We saw several bumper stickers of people with unique characters, such as “I don’t have an attitude problem, you’re just an asshole.” Or “It’s your hell – burn in it,” from a Wiccan driver with a young boy in a carseat.

When we reached Mount St. Helens, about two hours from Seattle, we stopped in the nearby town of Castle Rock. We thought we might find something to eat there. But instead we found a sad, dilapidated little community. We later found out that several of the houses there were carried away by the river flush with volcanic debris. One woman described seeing her house picked up by the river, carried upright, then crushed as it went under a bridge and came out the other side in pieces. It makes me wonder what keeps people there. One young woman told me, “It’s because we love this place.”

The visitor’s center showed a short film about the volcano as well as a helpful display. Nearby was a one mile trail along a lake created by the eruption and we walked that, enjoying beautiful views of the snowy peak across the water.

We then drove up toward the volcano, receiving increasingly beautiful views as we became closer. Much of the land is owned by either the National Park or by Weyehauser logging company. Entire hillsides had been stripped of trees and Weyerhauser replanted them with Douglas and noble firs, resulting in whole swathes of green trees of exactly the same size. At the viewpoints, we looked down at rivers with banks still coated with grey volcanic silt. We could only go up so far because the road was closed partway up due to snow. It would be nice to return in summer and climb the mountain itself. But we enjoyed the beautiful drive.

In the evening we arrived in Portland, where we are staying with an old and dear friend, Lisa. She and her husband live in a small, cozy house. The walls are painted mustard, rust, green and brown comfortingly warm and bright at the same time. We chatted about life in Portland, a city they have “fallen in love with,” to such an extent they would not leave to pursue professional opportunities elsewhere.

They told us about the strong bicycle culture, about the incredible recreational activities nearby, about the affordability and the niceness of the local people. The downsides seem to be below average schools (they described this as a result of the low tax, low government services culture) and not a lot of higher education opportunities. They themselves lead a quality of life that I admire and envy. They are home every day by five, grow vegetables in their garden, eat farm fresh eggs, use all natural products, and eat very healthy foods. They have a balance and evidence a contentment with life that I think is ideal.

Tomorrow we’ll explore this place for ourselves.

Seattle Neighborhoods

We were told by some friends that the life in Seattle is concentrated in the neighborhoods, a series of urban villages. So today we used our rental car to drive around and explore them.

We started out in the Ballard area, a former shipyard and worker area with a Scandinavian heritage that is now becoming more gentrified. The narrow streets were lined with Craftsman bungalows, modest and attractive little houses in a variety of colors. We saw these small homes throughout the city and I liked them a lot.

We then spent some time exploring Green Lake, a beautiful lake surrounded by a walking/biking path. Looking out over the calm waters lined with the bare yellow branches of willow trees, I immediately loved that area. It reminded me so much of the lakes in Minneapolis. Even the street was the same – Woodlawn Avenue instead of Woodlawn Boulevard. And there was a Baskin Robbins nearby, just as there was in Minnesota.

After lunch we walked the 2.8 mile loop around the lake. The path was packed with people strolling, biking, skateboarding, skating, walking dogs, pushing strollers, carrying babies in pouches and sacks. This was in the middle of a Tuesday afternoon. I imagined it must really get packed on weekends.

While walking around the lake, I noticed there wasn’t much diversity, with the overwhelming majority Caucasian. I thought it was just the neighborhood, but a friend who had us over for dinner that evening said the city as a whole is not very diverse. The main immigrants were Asians and they have been here a long time already. Another person I met today told me that the demand for childcare is much higher than the supply. So I wonder why this city doesn’t attract more Hispanics or other immigrants.

We then drove through the bohemian neighborhood of Fremont and the upscale neighborhood of Queen Anne before joining a friend and his partner for dinner in their Eastlake townhouse, on the east side of Union Lake.

Bob and Eric have been living in Seattle for a few years and they were able to tell us about the local culture. They told us how the slower pace of life extends even to the freeways, where people will always let others in and the speed rarely exceeds 65 miles per hour, even in the fast lane. They told us about the opinionated, liberal population, how “hell would freeze over” before a Republican would be elected mayor, how all the city council members were elected at large. They told us how this made for lively debate, but in difficulty making decisions. How when a water tower was planned to be constructed in one neighborhood, everyone had an opinion about the size, color, and style. Since all were at large, it wasn’t possible to just defer to the person representing that neighborhood, but instead consensus had to be achieved on all the minor issues.

The film Sicko made the observation that Americans are a passive electorate because they are too afraid of losing their jobs, security, etc. to speak up. It seems that Seattle is an exception, an example of a community where people speak up, debate, and seek compromise. It may take longer and be messier, but maybe knowing their voice is heard contributes to the fact that they seem happier and friendlier than people in many other areas of this country.

Kitsap Peninsula and Bainbridge Island

Curious to see the nature that surrounds Seattle, today we took a trip to the outskirts, to Kitsap Peninsula and to Bainbridge Island. We drove south, past Tacoma, and then onto the Kitsap Peninsula. Several trucks passed us, laden with giant reddish-brown tree trunks stacked in the long cab. We hadn’t gone more than 15 minutes outside of the city when a spooky and romantic mist covered the land, the trees grew thick and the ground was covered in dense and bright greenery – moss, ferns and undergrowth. We’d see much of that throughout the day, trees that grew in spindly shapes covered with moss, forests so green and thick they looked like rainforests. And of course there were the beautiful and frequent views of water – of bays, estuaries, inlets, harbors.

We stopped for lunch in the little town of Poulsbo. It’s nicknamed “Little Norway” for it’s resemblance to the Norwegian fjords. It also had a Sons of Norway clubhouse along the waterfront, Scandinavian shops and streets with names like King Olav 5thVei and NE Jacobson Road W.

We stopped for lunch in a wonderful little café, Magnolia, where we had a view of the fireplace. I enjoyed a fantastic salad, with spinach, sweet potatoes, goat cheese, candied walnuts and dried cranberries. As with many of the restaurants here, the menu is not fixed in stone. It changes based upon the ingredients that are fresh and available.

We saw many homes today in beautiful locations, overlooking calm blue waters, surrounded by dense green forest or privy to both foliage and water views. I think it would be a nice place to have a cabin. But it was hard to imagine living in a place like that. I’m too used to being able to walk to the local shops. It’s hard to imagine getting into a car anytime I’d need something.

We tried to visit some museums, including a Native American museum. They were closed due to President’s Day. But cars filled the parking lot and garage of the nearby casino.

We visited the tiny Fay Bainbridge State Park, where we scampered over pale draftwood and walked along the black sand and pebble beach, looking at the crab and scallop shells that lined the shore. I learned that the Puget Sound has the largest octopuses in the world, as well as the biggest and fastest sea stars. We looked out across the water at Seattle, a beautiful city view framed by a full moon overhead and a sky turning pink.

Poor little River had a tough day. Every time he’d fall asleep, we’d be on the move again. So we returned home by ferry in the early evening, enjoying the view of the sun setting over Seattle. Back at our hotel, River could get some interrupted rest, as could we.

Except for the fabulous lunch, I wasn’t wowed by anything I saw today. But it was pleasant and beautiful. I liked how the water and forests and the Scandanavian people reminded me of Minnesota. I appreciated the bounty of the vegetation and the fresh and delicious food of this region.

Looking at a map, Seattle is surrounded by greenery to explore – Vancouver to the north, the Cascade mountains, numerous islands and waterways, Mt. Rainier to the southeast. It would definitely be nice to come back with more time for outdoor adventures.

Seattle

Twenty four hours after arriving in Seattle we are liking our first impressions. We took a bus from our hotel in the university district to the downtown area. The bus was clean and arrived on schedule. Unlike at home, where it seems it’s mostly the down-and-out that use the buses, here the bus attracted a variety of people – a pair of elderly women, a man reading a newspaper, a young, professional-looking woman, the heavyset women in baggy clothes who carried a radio and told us “I can’t help what songs they play on the radio.”

We immediately noticed the solar power traffic meters and the electric buses, signs of environmental consciousness. A large black billboard announced “babies are born to be breastfed” and baby slings appeared to be just as popular as strollers, indicating a propensity toward attachment parenting. Looking out the window I saw the blue of water, as well as boats and ships with their rigging. There was the maritime aspect. And looking out across the water I saw the snow-capped peaks of the Olympia mountains. I don’t think I’ve ever seen snow-capped peaks in the US and I loved it. It brought me back to Bishkek, where the views of the peaks on my way to work raised my spirits. Only here there are beautiful views of water as well.

We got off the bus downtown and headed to Pike’s market, the busy, roiling farmer’s market near the waterfront. It was gorgeous. Stands of fruits and vegetables glistened in all colors of the rainbow. Fresh seafood – scallops as large as hockey pucks, crab legs as long as my lower arm, white fish cheeks, and other items recently pulled from the ocean – sat piled under chunks of ice, waiting to be enjoyed on dinner plates. There were bunches of tulips in bright spring colors, bouquets of dried flowers, tart and sweet dried cherries (I didn’t know Washington was the world’s leading cherry producer), gourmet pastas (think dark chocolate pasta, or porcini mushroom, or sweet potato orzo) and dipping oils (white truffle – yum!), jams, honeys, blueberry syrup and vinegar, homemade goat cheese, artisan baked goods, and even a shop that made cheese on the premises in a giant vat surrounded by curious onlookers.

Unlike the Trenton farmers market, where I once heard a vendor respond to a customer’s inquiry asking what the yellow melon was by saying curtly “yellow watermelon,” here friendliness rang through the air. Musicians played Andean music or upbeat tunes, vendors handed out samples or described their goods with a smile. People stopped to admire our baby, to ask his name or his age.

We noticed the friendliness of the people here immediately upon arrival. Our first stop out of the airport was the Thrifty car rental office. The two employees behind the counter were so kind – giving us an upgrade, offering us a map, suggesting places to see along the Oregon coast, answering our questions, helping us put in the car seat. Even the woman in the booth, spending her Saturday evening in a chilly parking lot, greeted us with a smile as she collected our papers.

We ate lunch at a seafood diner on the waterfront. We were seated at the bar, where we watched the cooks at work. The waitstaff worked as a team, helping each other out. And the cooks worked quickly, efficiently, and seemed both happy and professional, I had the feeling that people seem content to be in their positions. I later heard that people have pretty balanced lives here, that it’s uncommon to work extremely long hours, that most people enjoy themselves on their days off. So perhaps their job is just one part of an overall fulfilling life. Since it doesn’t consume them, they can enjoy it more.

After lunch we walked along the shoreline, past a sculpture garden and to the space needle. We ascended to the top in a 41 second elevator ride, traveling at ten miles per hour. With the wonderful weather, we had an excellent view of the city. Walking in a circle along the observation deck, we looked out over the Olympic peaks, Mt. Baker, and the imposing Mt. Rainier. We watched boats traveling over water and seaplanes taking off and landing.

From there, we took a short and pleasant ride on the Monorail, constructed for the World’s Fair, back to the downtown area. We met some local friends for dinner at a trendy fish restaurant, where the fish surprisingly came from everywhere other than Washington.

They told us that in Seattle, much of the life is in the neighborhoods outside of downtown and suggested we explore those areas. The downtown area did clear out by the time we walked to dinner at shortly before six, and almost felt uncomfortable. So we have lots to see and do in our remaining two days.

The city itself isn’t the most beautiful one I’ve seen (for example, I think downtown Minneapolis is a prettier place) however the life and culture are very attractive here at first glance. I overhead one man on his cellphone calling to tell someone he’d arrived here safely and is having a good time. “Washington DC and Baltimore are looking worse every minute I’m here,” he said. Seattle cast its spell on another visitor besides us.

Arrival in Seattle

We arrived in Seattle late last night after a pleasant direct flight on Continental. The middle seat in between us was open, so we were able to put River’s carseat there and had sufficient room.

Our first stop was the rental car agency. They wanted to upgrade us to a minivan or SUV. Initially I wasn’t interested, but then we figured that the four wheel drive would be useful on the mountain roads. I’m trying to think of that to ameliorate my guilt at using such a low mileage vehicle on the city and coastal roads. It’s very spacious though, which will be comfortable for us during our two week trip down to San Francisco.

We used Mark’s new GPS to get from the airport to our hotel and it took us reliably there. We drive right through the city, a beautiful glomeration of yellow lights with a bright blue dome and flashes of red and green. It looked to me like a toy city, or a cake topping. I thought it was beautiful.

The freeway was a dull grey four-laner, but the rises and falls were surprising to me. I guess I’ve never been in a mountainous highly developed city. That reminded me of the new landscape to explore and made me excited about the adventures to come in the upcoming days and weeks.

Our hotel, the University Motel, is located near the University of Washington, in a neighborhood that seemed a little sketchy at night. Our room brings back college days, ancient furniture, flimsy cabinets, cheap construction. But it’s a suite, with plenty of space (and 3 beds, as well as a kitchen) so it meets our needs well.

Almost on the Road

Tomorrow we leave for a 3.5 week trip. Our itinerary includes Seattle, a drive down the West Coast through Portland and San Francisco, Morelia and Guadalajara Mexico, and Chicago. It’s my first big trip since returning from Bolivia last September. And it’s our first experience flying with River. We’re attempting to inaugurate him into world adventures and are crossing our fingers that he accepts it with enthusiasm.

I’m so excited to get on the airplane, to see the new scenery, to sleep in various hotels, to try new restaurants and cuisine every day, to reunite with old friends and to meet new people, to speak Spanish and to learn. Nine weeks and six days after childbirth, I’m ready to hit the road and to resume my travels.

Recent Stuff

Lessons I’m learning about parenthood:

-The Fisher-Price Papasan swing is the single most useful item we bought.

-Cloth diapering is not as bad as it’s made out to be. We just started about a week ago, using BumGenuiuses. They come in Easter colors, fasten in the same simple method as a disposable, and wash easily in the washing machine. Only drawback is that at River’s size, they make his butt look rather large. But he doesn’t seem to mind.

-Thrush is evil

-Pumping milk is a whole job unto itself

-It’s incredibly rewarding to watch one’s own child develop and interact more and more each day.

-Despite having the wonderful luxury of help, it is still extremely difficult to get anything done, especially when in the house.


Other things happening:

-The Presidential election race is on in full mode here in the United States and I’m heartened to see the level of interest and participation. It seems likely that the next President will be either McCain, Clinton or Obama, any of whom would be likely to reverse some of the horrible policies of the past several years. I myself was unable to vote since I called to register one day after the deadline. Luckily, my chosen candidate won in my state, so I didn’t feel too bad.

-We are preparing to take a long trip down the West Coast and to Mexico and I’m busy packing and preparing for that. It’s going to be a whole different ballgame with a two-month old in tow. But I’m very excited to get on the road, to see friends I haven’t met in a while and to explore new places. The fact that the climates should be nicer is just an added bonus.

-With baby and his added equipment, we need to try harder to pack light. So I bought myself a new little mini-computer, the Fujitsu Lifebook u810. It weighs only 1.5 pounds and functions both as a laptop and a notebook. I love it.

-River and I went to our first post-natal yoga class today. At almost 9 weeks old, he was the youngest one there. The others ranged in age from 3-10 months. It was fascinating to look at the other babies and see what lies ahead for us. Those that sat up and crawled looked so large and developed to me, though I suppose to most people they still look like little babies. I could feel how much each of the mothers in the room loved their babies. I thought about the little boy in foster care one of my relatives is trying to adopt and wished that all children could start off life with such love and devotion. They deserve it.

-I saw a couple good movies lately. The Italian is about a 6-year-old Russian boy, about to be adopted by a loving Italian couple. But he’s determined to try to find his birth mother first. The story is line with the Russian nationalist desire that children not be sent overseas (this belief gained credence after stories of American parents abusing the Russian children they adopted reached the mainstream) but rather retained as part of the narod. But it’s also just a good story about a very determined little boy.

Sicko has already received plenty of media attention. As an employee of a European company, I already know and understand the differences between the American and European social systems. I already benefit from the long vacations and the humane maternity policies. But to see that the United States is surrounded by countries doing so much better in meeting the needs of their citizens – Europe, Canada and Cuba – was very disheartening. I especially found the free childcare and free university education amazing. Right now, in my family, we are spending close to 20% of our take home pay on childcare and savings for college education for just one child. Should we drop from two to one incomes, it would be a third of our income. Should we have more children, even more. So while yes, those countries (esp. Europe and Canada) may have higher taxes, they also have so much more freedom. They don’t have to make decisions at any point in their lives just because they are desperate to retain the insurance or the benefits they need for their children. They are free to make choices of where to live and where to work because it is the right decision for them or their families. They may have reduced incomes throughout their lifecycles (due to the extra taxes) but they still live at a comfortable level and they don’t encounter the serious resource shortages that occur while attending college, while having and raising children, or while entering old age. That income smoothing seems likely to reduce stress, which would improve health and happiness, and yes, they do live longer.

Russian Dancers

I recently attended a spectacular performance by the Moiseyev Dance Company. It’s a group from Russia that was founded by Igor Moiseyev in 1938. Anna Kisselgoff of The New York Times described him as “one of the greatest choreographers in 20th-century dance.”

Moiseyev, as Ballet Master at the Bolshoi Theater, arranged a successful festival of national dance in 1936. The dance troupe grew out of that. Since its first performance, it has traveled to over 60 countries.

At the beginning of the performance, a short, silent film was shown highlighting Moiseyev’s life. It was amazing to see black and white video of two rapidly twirling circles of dancers in Moscow, identical to what we’d be seeing on a brightly lit stage 70 years later. It was amazing that he could begin his career during the height of Stalinism, yet escape the terror and continue to successfully produce his works. Most impressive was his evident vitality. The video of Moiseyev dancing over moving bars on his 80th birthday made the elderly viewers around me gasp in awe. He looked more pale and fragile at his 90th and 100th birthday celebrations, but he was still out in the public. “He lived a full life,” an old man near me whispered to his wife when it was announced Moiseyev died in November 2007 at the age of 101.

What a legacy to leave behind, a group of 65 strong, vibrant and talented dancers, dressed in colorful national costumes and bringing joy to the packed auditorium. The first half of the performance, which consisted of dances from various areas of the former Soviet Union was amazing. The precision of their movements was stunning, the difficult moves impressive, and the costumes gorgeous. I liked less the international parts of the performance. I just didn’t think the Russian women had the Middle Eastern exoticness to jut their hips out in an Egyptian dance, nor did the pairs have the Latin American verve needed for the Venezuelan dance. When they stuck to who they are and where they came from, they were stunning.

Watching the dancers of course made me recall my time living in Russia. I realized that living in Russia was like living in a bipolar society. Encounters with bureaucracy, depression, callousness and rudeness alternate with encounters of kindness, hospitality, genuine friendship and innocence. Both types were of an extreme I rarely experienced in other countries. The dances, switching between pulsing music, bright colors and rapid movements and simple tones and elegant, thoughtful movements, reminded me of that.

Baby Passport

We received River’s passport today – just over a week after submitting the application. We used the express service, but I was still amazed, based on the long delays I’ve heard about recently. Kudos to the Passport office for getting its act together.

The passport is quite beautiful now. Every page has an etched drawing of an American landmark – much more impressive than when I got my passport.

The funniest thing about it is River’s photo. It took us three days to get a picture of our one-month old that complied with all the rules – face forward, white background, no adult body parts showing. I don’t think the people who came up with these rules ever tried to take such a picture of an infant.

I took him in one day and the clerk said his eyes also needed to be open. It was impossible to do that, plus all the above. When we had no success after an hour or so, she suggested coming back the next day. Mark returned the next day after River had been fed and napped. He got him to open his eyes but he had to hold him to keep his face forward. The tip of Mark’s finger appeared in the picture and the passport office rejected it. They told us it would be OK if his eyes are closed, but no adult body parts can be visible, even if they don’t obscure the face.

So I went back again. The CVS employee put River on a piece of white cardboard paper on top of the counter. Of course his head fell to the side and he began to wail. He only cries with his eyes closed. We walked out with a picture of his eyes scrunched shut and his mouth in a wide, open O. It looks nothing like him on a day-to-day basis.

Now it’s embedded in a beautiful passport, under an elegant eagle, and will serve as his identification for the next five years. Just imagining him as a four year old showing that photo to a border control agent as his photo ID cracks me up. Even now, it’s hard to see how it will be used as identification. But in any case, he’s officially prepared to begin his world travels and I’m excited on his behalf.

He made it to Bolivia, Ecuador and Germany while still in the womb. His first trip on an independent passport will be to Mexico this March at age 3 months.

The Berkshires

We took our first trip with three-week old River over New Year’s. Before the birth, we’d been contemplating a trip to a Vermont cabin. More experienced friends recommended we choose a place closer by, within a four-hour radius. I think that was good advice and I’m glad we followed it.

River did a great job in the car, at restaurants, and at the museums, generally sleeping whenever we were out and about. So that gave us more confidence about the three-week upcoming trip we are planning.

We based ourselves in the town of Lenox. The area was rather hoity-toity and expensive, not my usual getaway type of place. But I was so eager for a change of scenery I would have gone almost anywhere.

Freecycle

Yesterday the first snow that stuck on the ground fell in New Jersey, just days after the bulk of the trees fell from the leaves. Today violent winds blew, throwing the excess leaves across the road in a frenzy of activity. We will now officially have a winter baby.

I recently discovered a great new resource called Freecycle. Mark’s co-worker recommended it to us as a way to get rid of unneeded things and made sure they go to someone who needs them. It’s also a way to get used stuff you need for free.

In preparation for the baby, we moved the TV to the living room. I figured I’ll be spending quite a few hours at home, and wanted the option of entertainment via DVDs borrowed from the library. But we didn’t have a DVD player.

I first looked at the classifieds and at Craig’s List to see if I could find a used one for sale nearby. Nothing. Then we figured we’d buy a new one, though neither of us were eager to do so since we didn’t need anything special. Then I remembered the Freecycle recommendation and decided to check it out. I didn’t see any DVD players available. So I posted an ad saying we could use one. Within 24 hours, I’d received two responses. Today, we drove eight miles and picked up an Emerson VHS/DVD player that meets our needs perfectly. The prior owner says it eats VHS tapes but that the DVD portion works fine. The cost - $0.

I was so impressed, and grateful, that I posted another ad today offering a brand new portable desk that we never got around to using for free. At least 15 people responded wanting this item. I told the first person to respond that I’d leave it outside for him to pick up. Cool. Less unneeded junk around the house for us, no need to transport it to charity and no need to add to landfills. And someone who wants this thing and can put it to use gets it for free.

It’s a wonderful way to mediate supply and demand, to circulate items to the places they are needed with a minimum of transaction costs. I’m grateful to whoever got it off the ground.

Bolivia

I watched another movie about Bolivia today, the third in a triad of depressing films about the country (The Devil’s Miner, Our Brand is Crisis and Bolivia). This is an Argentine film about an illegal Bolivian immigrant who comes to Buenos Aires in 2001, at the height of the Argentinean economic crisis. He has left his family and three daughters in La Paz, unable to work there after the “Yankees” burned the fields where he used to work on a combine. The fields grew coca, among other crops.

He’s a hard-working and polite man, doing his best for his family. But the majority of the clients in the lower-middle income restaurant he works at are also unemployed or facing serious financial difficulties as a result of the crisis. Not very accepting of other races to begin with, tensions mount when foreigners are given work and locals remain unemployed.
It’s a stark, simple movie, filmed in black and white, never for more than 3 days at a time due to budget constraints. But it’s effective, not only in portraying the situation in Argentina and the case of the common Bolivian migrant, but of highlighting the tensions of immigration in many countries, of the dichotomy between what is better for the individual and what is better for the national society.

Bolivian Strife

Today I spoke to a former colleague in Bolivia who told me the office and the country are shut down again due to protests. The topic is still the relocation of the government from La Paz to Sucre, the same issue that was causing commotion in August. It’s sad and difficult to see to see such continued strife in a country that needs unity and economic growth.

Yesterday I watched a fascinating movie about Bolivia called Our Brand is Crisis. It’s about the 2002 Bolivian presidential elections. One of the candidates, Goni, who had previously served one term as President, hired a U.S. political consulting firm, GCS Consulting, to advise him on his presidential campaign.

I’d heard of Goni while I was in Bolivia, heard how he was raised in the U.S., became the President of Bolivia, then fled to the U.S. after protests that drove him out of office. I’d seen leftover signs of support for him, especially in the rural Cochabamba region, where his name was still spraypainted onto walls and bus stands. But I hadn’t much sense of what type of a person or a President he was, nor did I have any idea that a group of Americans was so involved in the election. It seems from the movie that Goni definitely could not have won without the assistance provided by this consulting firm. The nagging question remains – would it have been better for the country had he not won?

The methodology used by the firm was quite impressive – endless focus groups and careful statistical studies to read the mood of the people, to understand what they wanted, and to instruct Goni how to deliver. At the same time, they also worked to discredit Goni’s two main rivals – Evo Morales (currently the President of Bolivia) and Manfred. Through carefully constructed messages, they were able to help Goni win by just a hairline. The final results were Goni 22.5% of the vote, Evo Morales 20.9% and Manfred 20.8%. No one candidate received more than about a fifth of the vote, an indication of divisiveness even more powerful than that in America.

Evo’s campaign was unexpectedly helped by the U.S. ambassador at the time, Manuel Rocha, a man James Carville (one of the consultants) called an idiot. Rocha made the following speech shortly before the election, linking Evo Morales to Osama Bin Laden:

“It’s unbelievable but true. A few weeks ago Evo Morales claimed the US embassy threatened to kill him. This vile accusation is totally false, an absolute lie. The U.S. has threatened to kill one man: Osama bin Laden. Perhaps Evo Morales, with his tremendous lie..wanted to show his solidarity with that assassin and terrorist. Evo Morales also said in a speech…that if he is elected…he’ll stop the US anti-coca program..I want to remind Bolivians California will only buy your natural gas if Bolivia is not involved in cocaine. Citizens of Bolivia. Open your eyes. The future of your children and families is in your hands.”

Goni joked that perhaps Rocha was actually Evo’s campaign manager, since after that speech, Evo’s support increased. “It’ll make me happy if he keeps talking,” Evo said. In focus groups, people responded that the ambassador’s speech made them more likely to vote for Evo. “It brings out the rebellious part in us,” said one man. “So now because we’ve been attacked and because I feel rebellious, I’m going to vote for Evo Morales.”

I try to imagine an ambassador of any other nation making a speech to the American people before an election and telling them to open their eyes. I don’t think such a condescending tone would go over very well with the electorate.

So Goni won by a hairline, but his victory didn’t last long. His reputation for arrogance continued and people continued to feel he didn’t understand or represent them. I was surprised to hear that his Spanish was about as heavily accented as mine, which seems to make it difficult to integrate among one’s followers. He didn’t seem to really understand or care about the poor and was extremely reluctant to communicate directly with or move among the poor. Under pressure from the consulting company, he sent someone else out into the communities to listen to the people, but didn’t do it himself.

Within seven months, the government was in crisis. Goni wanted to sell natural gas via Chile, but the people were against it. They considered Chile an enemy since losing their coastline to Chile in the 1879 war. And Goni raised taxes on all salaries above 880 bolivianos a month (about $100 a month). The consultants thought the tax should have been raised only on salaries about 5,000 bolivianos a month (about $500 a month), which would have avoided making the very poor even more poor. And finally, the people didn’t see progress on the creation of jobs, which was the number one issue during the election.

These problems led to street blockages and protests, led by Evo Morales. Goni used troops to clear the streets, resulting in the death of about 100 people. Forced to leave office, his vice-president took over for 20 months, but didn’t have much more success.

In December 2005, Evo Morales was elected with 54% of the vote, a landslide not seen since Bolivia’s 1982 return to democracy.

Now of course, two years later, there is a lot of criticism of Evo’s policies (especially in Santa Cruz, where I was). It’s true there are real downsides to having a poorly educated national leader, for pandering to sentiments of the majority rather than promoting technically strong plans that will have actual impact. But I learned from the movie that the large, poor, indigenous Bolivian majority is not going to understand or support economic plans unless they are explained and sold to them. That any candidate who wants to hope for success in Bolivia needs to take these people seriously.

One Week Until Due Date

Our due date is one week from today. For at least a week now, we’ve been living in the very unique and interesting situation of complete uncertainty. We took refuge in the statistics that 85% of first-time deliveries are late. Surely, we’d be in that 85%. So we mentally oriented towards December 5th or later as the arrival date of our new infant.

However, a scare last week, during which we thought it was coming, juggled the psychological bits. Now we know it could be any day. It could be today or it could be almost three weeks from today.

This means that if there is something we want to accomplish – we must do it now because we don’t know if there will be any time tomorrow. It’s pushing Jim to work hard at work to get his major deadlines out of the way ahead of time. And while I have less responsibility at the moment, I’m also trying to make progress on some of my larger goals. I try to make sure that nobody is waiting for anything major from me because at any moment I could become incommunicado.

It means that all social arrangements are made on an as-available basis. Sure, I’d be glad to have lunch next week, but only if something unexpected doesn’t happen first. Let’s be sure to confirm the day before.

While I still get out for a daily stroll, and still make it to the gym for a light workout almost daily, I’m getting to the point where I don’t want to venture much more than an hour from home. I had thought about meeting a friend in New York City this weekend, but am now rethinking it. Do I really want to face a three-hour trip back should the moment unexpectedly arrive?

As someone who usually plans ahead, this helps me to live more in the moment, to be more accepting of my inability to control things, which I suppose is just the beginning of parenthood. But this situation also helps me to understand people who choose elective c-sections. Many of the books I’ve been reading criticize this birth by convenience. I tend to think that nature will usually make sure the baby comes when it’s ready. But it actually is quite difficult for a woman and a partner to essentially put their lives on hold for up to month. I’m lucky in that I’m able to work from home. Others, especially those with physical jobs or long commutes, probably need to take leaves. But with the stingy leave policies available in the U.S., 3-4 weeks leave before a birth (while this is standard in many parts of the world) means an even shorter period of time is available after the birth. I can see how people would rather set the birth date and conserve all of their leave time to spend with the baby.

Of course, choosing elective surgery because our leave policies force such choices is not a good sign of the priority placed on women’s health. I would hope that, like in Germany and in many other countries, 4-6 weeks before the birth and 8-10 weeks after the birth would be a normal and standard leave. I would hope that the opportunity to work at home before the birth would be made available to more women. But until then, I can see how people are tempted to end the expectation and the uncertainty and just get it over with.

A Tourist in Medical America

Yesterday, Thanksgiving, was unseasonably warm. I took my favorite stroll and soon put my jacket into my backpack, comfortable in just a t-shirt. I saw people jogging in t-shirts and pants, and others strolling in light, open jackets. The leaves are now a darker shade of magenta and mustard-yellow, with more brown branches mixed in. It’s still beautiful and brilliant, but a different hue. It’s like gazing at a different, but marvelous, painting every week.

Today we had our 38/39 week prenatal appointment. We’re getting to the final countdown. As someone who has never spent a night in a hospital, I find the frequent medical visits and the upcoming hospital stay to be a form of cultural tourism, especially given the troubled state the U.S. medical system is currently in. We’ve chosen a strong hospital and some of the best doctors available locally. But still, some of the overall problems of the system – the following of norms that haven’t been proven as effective and the emphasis on cost over quality of care - are still easily apparent.

Everyone who gets an epidural at the local hospital has to be hooked up to a fetal heart rate monitor. I’d read that when these monitors say everything is OK, it is OK. But when it says there’s a problem, it’s often mistaken. I asked the doctor whether there was any means of verifying a problematic signal from the fetal heart rate monitor.

He said no, that various methods had been tried, but none were reliable. He said he wasn’t sure why the U.S. had signed on to this technology and these procedures, but it had.

“So what do you do if it indicates a problem?”

“We do a cesarean, but 9 times out of 10 it proves to have been unnecessary.”

I then asked about the period we could stay in the hospital. It’s generally two days for a standard delivery, 3-4 for cesarean. But the timing is based on the time one gives birth. If you give birth at 11:59 p.m., you have to leave at 10 a.m. two days later, for a stay of about 36 hours. If you give birth 10 minutes later, you get an extra 24 hours.

I’d heard that a doctor could write a note saying that the patient needed a longer stay and then they could at least stay the full day, rather than having to leave by 10. I asked him about this and he said it depended on the hospital need for beds. If they need the bed, you can’t stay longer.

“So it’s not up to the doctor?” I asked.

“No.”

“Nor does it matter whether the patient needs the additional time?”

“In the past, people generally stayed in the hospital 24 hours and most of them seemed to do just fine.”

That was the first indication I’d heard that the current standard of two days is somehow generous. The mouth of a Chinese friend fell open when we told her the standard stay is two days. She worked as a pediatric nurse for 26 years in China and never heard of such a thing. There, as in many parts of the world, ten days is more the norm.

Not to say that I want to stay ten days. But it’s unfortunate to think that people are pushed out before they are ready, before their milk has come in and they’ve learned how to breastfeed, before they feel ready to take care of both themselves and the new, needy being. I wonder if more support and care early on would affect the rates of post-partum depression.

GIfts and More Gifts

This afternoon I turned on the TV for background noise and ended up on Oprah. It was an episode called My Favorite Things, during which Oprah shows all of her favorite goods for the holidays. It was basically a one hour advertising session.

The episode was filmed in Macon, Georgia, where 40% of the population is watching Oprah on any given day. Makes me wonder how the people of Macon have so much free time that almost half of the population has time to watch daytime TV.

Oprah gave all the products she reviewed on the show to the audience members. Of course, it was nice for them to receive all kinds of free things. But to see them (mostly middle-aged women) jumping up and down, fanning themselves, kissing each other, and looking like they were going to faint at the sight of a free refrigerator, or worse, a couple of free cupcakes or bars of soap, was pretty depressing.

The holiday season is already well underway and it will only intensify later this week. The big day of shopping begins on Friday, on the day after Thanksgiving. After people give thanks for what they have, they run out to get more. The local drug store began to stock Christmas candy on the same day they removed the Halloween candy.

I’m glad that during my first holiday season in the U.S. in years, Mark and I won’t be celebrating Christmas. While we will buy gifts for relatives who celebrate the holiday, for us, we’re going to replace Christmas with New Year’s as our big celebration. We’ll spend Christmas as a quiet weekend at home – no pomp and no stress.

The First Snow and I Become a Cord Blood Donor Reject

Today the first snow fell. It seems early to me for New Jersey. But it was so startlingly beautiful that it captured my attention and even led me outside to photograph it. When I looked outside my office window, I saw thick, fluffy white flakes drifting down in front of the brilliant red, orange and green leaf collage that composes my view. It didn’t stick to the ground but just fluttered through the sky – a magical white blanket – then disappeared. It now feels like winter.

Today I received the disappointing news that my application to donate our baby’s cord blood to a public cord blood bank was rejected. After doing quite a bit of research on the options – saving it in a private bank, donating it to a public bank, or throwing it out – Mark and I had decided to donate it. It was a decision I felt good about. It doesn’t hurt, it could help someone else, and if by chance no one else needed it, it might still be around if someone in our family developed a need.

I stopped donating blood after I was told by a blood collector I had the surface veins of a 90-year-old. So I was happy to have found something I could donate. I filled out the veritable mountain of paperwork required of donors and sent it back. Out of the many, many variables, the only question I marked a yes to was having spent time overseas. I have lived overseas for much of the past three years. But I didn’t expect that to be a problem. I’m in very good health, as the many boxes checked no indicated.

Guess I was wrong. They rejected me because I was in Bolivia and there is malaria in the Santa Cruz region. I told them I was in the city, not the rural areas and that I never heard of a malaria case among the people I came in contact with over five months. While I have taken anti-malarial medications in other countries due to the risk, in Bolivia it was so close to non-existent that I didn’t take anything, nor did the other foreigners I came into contact with. Even if, by chance, malaria came to the city, I was there during the winter, when mosquitoes just weren’t around. And if I had acquired malaria, wouldn’t I notice it by now?

Most importantly, malaria can be easily tested for. Why throw out a donation when they could just do a test and verify that I don’t have malaria. Last week, the medical director agreed with me. He said they would warn the doctor of a potential recipient of the risk and that doctor could order a malaria test. But apparently he consulted with his supervisors and they didn’t agree. Because today he called and said they couldn’t take the risk.

I wonder if it has to do with the recent case of the HIV-tainted organs donated by someone who acquired the disease shortly before dying. Similarly, they think I could have acquired malaria recently and not realize it yet. But in this sad, but single HIV case, the only one in more than a decade, everyone except the patients knew the donor was high-risk. The opportunity was there to order an HIV test before doing the transplants. It was just a failure of communication. It’s too bad that there is so little confidence in the communication structure of the donor system that it’s considered wiser to discard a potentially life-saving donation than to ensure that the appropriate information, documented in the reams of paperwork, is passed on to the people who need it.

Indian Women - Young and Old

This afternoon we went to visit a photo exhibit by Fazal Sheikh called Beloved Daughters: Photographs. The exhibit was composed of two parts – one highlighting widows, who lived in a community where they devoted their lives to Krishna. The other was about young girls kidnapped or tricked into prostitution or women who were burned or otherwise abused in marriage.

The stories were so sad. A few of the widows had supportive families and voluntarily chose a life of abnegation and devotion to God. But others were cast out by their families, devoid of any protections once they no longer had a husband. One was married at the age of 5 to a boy who was 12. While the marriage was never consummated, when she lost her “husband” she was never able to marry again and had to live in this commune of widows. Another was thrown out by her husband after a neighbor raped her while she was home alone. Others were cast out for producing only female heirs. Another had problems when she couldn’t conceive, so her husband took a second wife. Just then, she became pregnant. The second wife was jealous. When the husband died, the second wife set the bed on fire, killing the child and burning the woman over half her body.

The second part of the exhibit focused on the younger women – the children and teenagers abused and roped into prostitution, the young wives killed or burned because of abusive husbands or insatisfactory dowries. The saddest photos were those of the very young girls, well under ten, rescued from brothels. They had greasy hair, wide eyes, glittering shoes, and traces of makeup. The exhibit also reflected the valiant work done by some NGOs, such as one founded by two women, both of whom had daughters burned to death, to offer protection and safety to the victims of these crimes.

Sheikh, the recipient of a MacArthur genius award, focuses his work on displaced peoples around the world. He reminds us, as India moves ahead into the global economy, that ancient prejudices deny rights to many and that only through awareness and activism can such injustices be halted.

Neverending Fall

Fall here is neverending and so beautiful. Now the trees that have turned color glimmer solid shades of red, orange, auburn or yellow – giant firecrackers lining the road. It’s like driving through a pointillism painting, with each leaf an individual dot.

From the window of my home office, I look out at boughs of deep red, over orange over green. I find it deeply soothing and am grateful for all the trees here. It adds enjoyment to any drive, walk or even afternoon daydream.

Today was a rainy, windy day. In the morning, I parked under a tree. When I went to retrieve the car in the afternoon, leaves had fallen onto the car and the water made them stick. All over the car – on the hood, the roof, the windows and the doors, beautiful yellow leaves clung, like an elaborate decoration. I found it disappointing to see many of them blow off with the wind as I began driving.

As we made the long descent from fall into winter, Mark and I are also preparing for a new season in our lives. There are less than three weeks to go until our due date and today, we saw signs that the process of labor is beginning. Just as the leaves explode, then fall off the leaves, our baby is now fully developing and is preparing for its descent. Whether we are ready or not, a new season is approaching in our lives.

Blue Man Group

Tonight we attended a performance of The Blue Man Group. It’s been around a while and has gained quite a bit of notoriety, but I never knew exactly what they did. The concert, How to be a Megastar, was put on at a local stadium and drew quite a crowd of people willing to pay the $65-100 ticket price.

It was a multimedia show led by three men with blue, bald heads and blue hands. It involved a variety of instruments made from unique materials, artistic lighting and jokes. I didn’t bring my camera, thinking I might not be allowed in with it. But so many people had cameras and phones that one of the Blue Men indicated that people wave their lighted cell phone screens, rather than cigarette lighters. That created the odd image of many lighted consoles gleaming across the stadium, swaying back and forth.

Now into my ninth month, I’m getting to the point where I might need to soon replace my long nature walks with treadmill strolls at the gym, with a toilet nearby. While my walk today was physically difficult, the scenery is quite amazing. Many leaves have now fallen, leaving more trunks. This adds more brown to the otherwise red, yellow, orange and green landscape. Leaves float on the still water, making a carpet alongside the dirt path. People come out to photograph the geese or stop their cars to take pictures of the beautiful scenery. It’s really magnificent.

Extended Autumn

Fall in New Jersey is a beautiful season. Having grown up in the Midwest, where trees changed color rapidly and winter quickly moved in, here I appreciate how the fall comes gently. I can watch the subtle daily changes in the colors and the gradual fluttering of the leaves. And we benefit from the moderate, cool temperatures for an extended period of time, as Indian summer transitions into frost, we set up our heating system, pull out the blankets, and take the air conditioners out of the windows.

Yesterday I took a walk at sunset and saw a scene so beautiful it caused a woman to stop her car and come out to take a picture. I walked across a bridge over a lake. On one side, the cloudless sky was a deep blue, the trees lining the blue water a patchwork of yellow, green, orange and red. On the other side of the bridge, a soft cottony carpet of clouds covered the sky. The clouds were a deep pink and violet and they reflected this color onto the water. Combined with the colorful trees, it made for a vision so vibrant it was magical. I could look back and forth from the calm blues and autumn tones on one side of the bridge to the wild pinks and purples and shadows on the other.

We took out our air conditioners today. That gives us more window space and more light. It also seals away the outside air better. With the heat from our recently repaired oil furnace wafting upwards through the iron grates, we feel warm and cozy. I think of all the people, all the families, who have inhabited this house over the past century or more.

We had a lead inspection the other day. The inspector found lead, but told us it was under 10 layers of paint and probably at least a layer of paper. I imagine all the history hidden behind the walls. What kind of walls did different families look at? What kind of life experiences did they have here? What kind of memories did they create?

There is one small reminder of a former resident on the stairs leading down to the basement. A single brown, tie-up shoe that once fit a toddler, caught on a ledge in the stairway, covered with a thick layer of dust. That person whose little feet once ran across these same floors could well be an adult by now. No one seems to have had the heart to remove the evidence of his former presence. Soon a new person will begin its life in this house that has been a home to so many others. While we will probably move away before the baby forms any memories of this place, it will remain in the pictures, in its history, as the place it first called home.

Recent News

I’m not doing a very good job at keeping this updated. I guess the things I do day to day in the States just don’t seem as worthy of a blog entry as the weekend adventures I had in Bolivia.

I will soon enter my ninth month of pregnancy, so I’m duly inflated and it’s now obvious to all passerbys that I am indeed pregnant. I recently had to order my third, and hopefully last, set of maternity clothing after a very rapid growth spurt. We had the second of our two baby showers and are pretty close to acquiring all the goods we think we need to care for baby. We each have quite a list of other things to decide and take care of in the next month, including pretty critical things, like settling upon a name. There are also more menial tasks to manage, like deciding what kind of diaper to get. Who would have guessed that I could spend four or five hours researching cloth diapers? Admittedly, after the first few hours, it definitely feels like a waste of time. If you have the stamina to try it, it’s much more difficult than it sounds. There is an incredible variety of goods, brands and models – so much that it’s quite overwhelming.

My parents recently came out and we took them to visit Cape May, the bed and breakfast capital of the country. Even off-season, the small ocean-side town is still busy on weekends. We stayed in an ocean front motel and took a trolley tour of the town. The guide pointed out the highlights among the numerous Victorian houses and painted ladies. The best part of our visit was eating. We enjoyed a spectacular meal of boiled lobsters, shrimp, mussels and clams at The Lobster House Raw Bar, eaten with fingers and pincers and bibs. The next morning, we made our leisurely way through a five course brunch at The Alexander Inn, a bed and breakfast oozing Victorian decoration.

This evening I attended a performance of the Georgian National dance troupe. I’ve always wanted to go to Georgia and watching the performances only heightened that desire. I wanted to bring out a bottle of Georgian wine, drink it to the sounds of the accompanying three accordions, and dance the night away in merriment.

The dance troupe was so large it looked like an army was taking over the stage. Sometimes, with their boots, sashes and swords, the male dancers did look like an army, swashbuckling across the stage with amazing grace and precision. The bright costumes and emphatic movements made it look like scenes from a storybook being created onstage. The women moved with such grace I imagined they had wheels under their long gowns rather than feet. The men could jump and leap from their toes, their knees and their hips.

Reaction to Tragedy

Today I walked a half hour to an appointment. As I neared my destination, I saw that one road was closed, blocked with cones and a truck and guarded by a man in a vest whose job it was to direct traffic away.

I imagine it might have been hard for some of the drivers to understand where they needed to go and some of them might have complained. I heard the white-bearded man in the reflective vest scream at one driver. “Take a left, then another left, and another left and maybe you won’t die!” he yelled, so loud I could hear him a half block away.

When I walked through the closed area, I saw a bicycle with a crumpled front tire lying on its side in the middle of the road, as well as several dropped plastic bags that had broken at the bottom from the pressure of a fall. An empty red Jeep was on the side of the road.

It looked like all the people involved in the accident had already been removed. But the block was crawling with police and men taking photographs and using what looked like land survey equipment to measure the scene. Perhaps someone had died and thus upset the guard.

It was amazing to me to see the entire street blocked off for over an hour and what looked like a small army mapping out all the details, which will probably later be used in court. I imagined what would happen had there been a similar accident in Bolivia. I’d guess the victims would be lucky if medical care arrived quickly to take them to the hospital. Maybe there would be an exchange of contact information, maybe the driver of the car would cover the medical expenses. But it’s hard to imagine that cars would stop for long, that there would be so many public servants available to spend time documenting the situation, or that the victims would receive any compensation for pain and suffering.

Into the Heartland

Today I traveled to the Midwest, taking my last journey by plane during this pregnancy. I transferred in Detroit and was impressed by that airport. It has a great indoor fountain where water shoots up out of holes and across the fountain into others, looking like thin silver minnows jumping across a pond of black water. The number and pattern of jumping sprays varies, allowing one to stare, mesmerized, at the dance.

I had a long walk between gates, but I enjoyed looking at the art, the shops, and the restaurants. One shop sold nothing but dog-themed items. I wonder how such stores are able to stay in business. Or are there really so many people who love dogs that they want to buy the dog-o-poly boardgame or fancy bones during their airport layover?

In Chicago I rented a car and got another General Motors. This was the same car I got last time I chose the cheapest rental model. It feels to me like a hearse, long and tall and dark, hard to see out of and with the feel that it’s made out of plastic. It makes me wonder who the target buyership was for this car when the engineers presented the model to management.

The outskirts of Chicago don’t excite me too much. I drove at least 15 minutes from the airport down a road filled with stoplights every block or so. An endless array of shops, fast food, gas stations, and box warehouse stores lined both sides of the street the entire way. It was flat, developed, commercialized and ugly. I longed to go past a block of parkland or a pond or lake. The freeway took me into farming country, but as soon as I reached my destination, I again drove down roads lined with traffic lights and shops, an endless strip of consumer.

I stopped at one of the box bookstores, Barnes and Noble. There I was surprised by the size of the religion section. It took up almost a full wall, plus several racks. There were rows of Christian Inspiration books, as well as a full two shelves on Religious Fiction in addition to the much smaller non-fiction section on eastern religions and other, more analytical texts. I gathered that was a sign of the reading tastes of the local population, hungry for Christian spiritualism and for novels that promote their values and worldviews in their characters.