“Roads go ever ever on
Under cloud and under star,
Yet feet that wandering have gone
Turn at last to home afar.”
The Hobbit
Well, I’m back! I’m thankful I could go on vacation with my hubby (especially since he’ll be traveling a lot for business now), but boy oh boy, am I ever glad to be home! There are no words to express the glorious delight of sleeping in my own bed again. And it’s so wonderful to hug my parents and laugh with my daughter and glimpse my son on his way from his room to the fridge. I am slipping back into my familiar routine like a designer dress, and mmm, mmm, mmm ... it fits like a glove. I even feel a surge of affection for my omnipresent To-Do list (which is already growing by leaps and bounds). However, there is one ugly blot on an otherwise pristine homecoming. Earlier today, the thought hit me, “What am I going to make for supper?”
AARRGH!!!
I need a vacation.
Monday 12 March 2012
Friday 9 March 2012
Last Day
Today is my last day of vacation. Tomorrow I get to spend the whole day on a wide assortment of planes before returning home. How do I feel about the adventure I’ve had? Hard to say exactly. It has brought me moments of pleasure, moments of pain, and moments of pure, unadulterated indifference. After three weeks of it, I find myself a little bit wiser and a little bit wider. But one thing is clear - As I leave here, I realize that the ones I love mean more to me than ever, and I know that when I get home our reunion will bring tears to my eyes.
Of course, after my beloved bed and I are reunited, I’ll say hello to my children and that will be good too.
Of course, after my beloved bed and I are reunited, I’ll say hello to my children and that will be good too.
Tuesday 6 March 2012
People Watching
This is our last day on the cruise ship. Tomorrow morning, we will dock at a city whose name I can’t pronounce, and then we’ll travel to Santiago where we’ll stay two days before heading home.
At the moment, I am sitting by the pool sipping a virgin pina-coloda. The roof above the pool is open, and the sky is bright blue. The water is calm, and the slight sway of the ship is almost hypnotic. It’s a warm, South American summer day cruising on the Pacific. Rob is watching the extended edition of “The Return of the King” on his ipad (with the headphones), and I am alternating between typing on my computer and watching the people around me. A cruise ship is a very good place to people-watch.
I glance up and see the long haired, middle-aged tango master who performed in the “show room at sea” a few nights ago. He’s got to be at least fifty, but you’d never know it to see him move. If I remember right, he’s from Argentina, but he’s performed all over the world, including a command performance for the Queen. I can’t hear what he’s saying right now, but he’s gesturing wildly while he tells a whopper of a story to the two younger men at his table. They are hanging on his every word. Now the tango master is standing up to demonstrate some dance moves, and the guys listening start to chuckle. Apparently, its all part of the story. Wish I could hear it.
Closer to the pool is a young man in a wheel chair wearing shorts and a white fedora. I’ve seen him a few times maneuvering around the ship. I even saw him getting into a tender (small boat) when we were shuttled from the cruise ship to the distant pier. Not an easy feat for someone in a wheel chair. Brave guy. I wonder what his story is.
Oh, look! There’s the older, oriental couple I saw dancing last night. I bet they were ball room dancers at one time. Their dancing was very elegant and upright. Even their fingers when they clasped hands were held just so. Her little pinkie was raised as if she were holding a tea cup. There was very little expression on their faces, but they were beautiful to watch. I thought they were all beautiful, the people dancing last night.
Glancing over at Rob, I notice tears welling in his eyes as he looks at his ipad screen. Yep, he must be getting to the end of the movie. He’s probably watching the part where they crown Aragorn. Or maybe the part where Frodo leaves with the Elves. Rob is a marshmallow man when it comes to movies. You can always count on him to weep openly at the first hint of sappy-ness. Now he’s taking a furtive look around and quickly wiping his eyes, and I can’t repress a smile. Sometimes it’s the gruff ones who are the biggest softies inside.
Well, I guess I should go. I would stay and people-watch all afternoon, but I mustn’t neglect my duties. In the dining room, there is a fifty foot buffet, and there are only twelve hundred people on board to eat it. I must do my part.
Chao!
At the moment, I am sitting by the pool sipping a virgin pina-coloda. The roof above the pool is open, and the sky is bright blue. The water is calm, and the slight sway of the ship is almost hypnotic. It’s a warm, South American summer day cruising on the Pacific. Rob is watching the extended edition of “The Return of the King” on his ipad (with the headphones), and I am alternating between typing on my computer and watching the people around me. A cruise ship is a very good place to people-watch.
I glance up and see the long haired, middle-aged tango master who performed in the “show room at sea” a few nights ago. He’s got to be at least fifty, but you’d never know it to see him move. If I remember right, he’s from Argentina, but he’s performed all over the world, including a command performance for the Queen. I can’t hear what he’s saying right now, but he’s gesturing wildly while he tells a whopper of a story to the two younger men at his table. They are hanging on his every word. Now the tango master is standing up to demonstrate some dance moves, and the guys listening start to chuckle. Apparently, its all part of the story. Wish I could hear it.
Closer to the pool is a young man in a wheel chair wearing shorts and a white fedora. I’ve seen him a few times maneuvering around the ship. I even saw him getting into a tender (small boat) when we were shuttled from the cruise ship to the distant pier. Not an easy feat for someone in a wheel chair. Brave guy. I wonder what his story is.
Oh, look! There’s the older, oriental couple I saw dancing last night. I bet they were ball room dancers at one time. Their dancing was very elegant and upright. Even their fingers when they clasped hands were held just so. Her little pinkie was raised as if she were holding a tea cup. There was very little expression on their faces, but they were beautiful to watch. I thought they were all beautiful, the people dancing last night.
Glancing over at Rob, I notice tears welling in his eyes as he looks at his ipad screen. Yep, he must be getting to the end of the movie. He’s probably watching the part where they crown Aragorn. Or maybe the part where Frodo leaves with the Elves. Rob is a marshmallow man when it comes to movies. You can always count on him to weep openly at the first hint of sappy-ness. Now he’s taking a furtive look around and quickly wiping his eyes, and I can’t repress a smile. Sometimes it’s the gruff ones who are the biggest softies inside.
Well, I guess I should go. I would stay and people-watch all afternoon, but I mustn’t neglect my duties. In the dining room, there is a fifty foot buffet, and there are only twelve hundred people on board to eat it. I must do my part.
Chao!
Saturday 3 March 2012
A Sweater By Any Other Name
There are a lot of good things about being old. Not having to shop with toddlers. Not having to forego a nap. Not having to pluck your eyebrows. But one of the best things about being old is finally being able to dress for comfort, not for looks. That is how my current uniform developed. I found myself consistently wearing what was comfortable, and now I find that every day I wear jeans, a T-Shirt, and my sacred sweater.
I cannot overstate the importance of my sacred sweater. The original one was given to me around the turn of the century by a friend who got it second hand. At first, it seemed like nothing more than an ordinary sweater, but it was so comfortable that I began to wear it almost constantly. I found that it was a life saver in air conditioned restaurants and malls, and if I did get too hot, I simply tied it around my waist. Wherever I went and whatever I did, my sweater ensured my comfort, and a fierce loyalty began to grew in my heart toward it. Before long, nothing could separate me from the endearingly scruffy looking thing. It was my sacred sweater, and I knew it would be with me forever.
How naive I was! Sadly, wearing the sweater every day took it’s toll on the woolen fibers, and soon the exhausted elbows simply gave up the ghost. With a heavy heart, I realized it was time to bid farewell to my faithful friend. Happily, Value Village came to rescue and provided a successor for only $3.99.
Many years have passed since then and numerous sacred sweaters have come and gone. It has never been easy to say goodbye to a familiar friend and choose a new successor, but each time I have done it. Now I find myself in that difficult place once again - only this time I am in South American and Value Village is a continent away. There are lots of sweaters here in Chile, and my generous husband has offered to pay any price to buy me a new sacred sweater (provided he can burn the old one), but how can I explain to him the complicated process of choosing a new sacred sweater. The guidelines are as strict as the protocols for selecting a new Pope.
The sacred sweater must be 100% wool.
The sacred sweater must zipper up the front.
The sacred sweater must be loose fitting.
The sacred sweater must not be too heavy or too light.
The sacred sweater must feel completely comfortable.
The sacred sweater must not have a hood.
The sacred sweater must be blue, grey or brown.
The sacred sweater must be second hand (or at least cheap).
The reason for the last requirement is simply one of conscience. The lifespan of a sacred sweater is much less than that of a common sweater, and so I like to spend as little as possible on it. Could I bring myself to wear out an expensive sweater? I doubt it.
Thus my dilemma.
Here I am on vacation in South America surrounded by fancy and expensive sweaters. My husband is waiting in the wings with a desperate look in his eye and a credit card in his hand. My dear, old friend - who only intended to be an interim sacred sweater but ended up with a long, distinguish career - hangs in the closet, weak at the elbows and resigned to his fate. I feel his pain, and yet I also feel the collective expectations of my family and friends. I can sense the weight of their hope as they pray for me to come home wearing a successor. But what can I do? How can I claim any of these pretentious, Chilean sweater as my own?
There is only one thing to do. Stop at Value Village on the drive home from the airport.
I cannot overstate the importance of my sacred sweater. The original one was given to me around the turn of the century by a friend who got it second hand. At first, it seemed like nothing more than an ordinary sweater, but it was so comfortable that I began to wear it almost constantly. I found that it was a life saver in air conditioned restaurants and malls, and if I did get too hot, I simply tied it around my waist. Wherever I went and whatever I did, my sweater ensured my comfort, and a fierce loyalty began to grew in my heart toward it. Before long, nothing could separate me from the endearingly scruffy looking thing. It was my sacred sweater, and I knew it would be with me forever.
How naive I was! Sadly, wearing the sweater every day took it’s toll on the woolen fibers, and soon the exhausted elbows simply gave up the ghost. With a heavy heart, I realized it was time to bid farewell to my faithful friend. Happily, Value Village came to rescue and provided a successor for only $3.99.
Many years have passed since then and numerous sacred sweaters have come and gone. It has never been easy to say goodbye to a familiar friend and choose a new successor, but each time I have done it. Now I find myself in that difficult place once again - only this time I am in South American and Value Village is a continent away. There are lots of sweaters here in Chile, and my generous husband has offered to pay any price to buy me a new sacred sweater (provided he can burn the old one), but how can I explain to him the complicated process of choosing a new sacred sweater. The guidelines are as strict as the protocols for selecting a new Pope.
The sacred sweater must be 100% wool.
The sacred sweater must zipper up the front.
The sacred sweater must be loose fitting.
The sacred sweater must not be too heavy or too light.
The sacred sweater must feel completely comfortable.
The sacred sweater must not have a hood.
The sacred sweater must be blue, grey or brown.
The sacred sweater must be second hand (or at least cheap).
The reason for the last requirement is simply one of conscience. The lifespan of a sacred sweater is much less than that of a common sweater, and so I like to spend as little as possible on it. Could I bring myself to wear out an expensive sweater? I doubt it.
Thus my dilemma.
Here I am on vacation in South America surrounded by fancy and expensive sweaters. My husband is waiting in the wings with a desperate look in his eye and a credit card in his hand. My dear, old friend - who only intended to be an interim sacred sweater but ended up with a long, distinguish career - hangs in the closet, weak at the elbows and resigned to his fate. I feel his pain, and yet I also feel the collective expectations of my family and friends. I can sense the weight of their hope as they pray for me to come home wearing a successor. But what can I do? How can I claim any of these pretentious, Chilean sweater as my own?
There is only one thing to do. Stop at Value Village on the drive home from the airport.
Friday 2 March 2012
Shopping in Port
This store doesn’t open for an hour?
It isn’t quite what I was want.
Maybe it will be cheaper somewhere else.
Should I go back to that other store?
I wish I had my visa card.
Does anyone speak English?
If I buy this, I won’t have enough for that.
Why didn’t I get it yesterday!
How many pesos is that?
I’ll never find anything.
How do you say “bathroom” in Spanish?
Maybe she’ll like it.
What is this thing?
I think I’ve already been in here.
You’ve got to be kidding!
I assume this is the crosswalk.
What can I get for ten pesos?
I can’t believe I haven’t got her anything yet!
Is he talking to me?
This is crazy!
I hope that’s not my cruise ship leaving.
It isn’t quite what I was want.
Maybe it will be cheaper somewhere else.
Should I go back to that other store?
I wish I had my visa card.
Does anyone speak English?
If I buy this, I won’t have enough for that.
Why didn’t I get it yesterday!
How many pesos is that?
I’ll never find anything.
How do you say “bathroom” in Spanish?
Maybe she’ll like it.
What is this thing?
I think I’ve already been in here.
You’ve got to be kidding!
I assume this is the crosswalk.
What can I get for ten pesos?
I can’t believe I haven’t got her anything yet!
Is he talking to me?
This is crazy!
I hope that’s not my cruise ship leaving.
Thursday 1 March 2012
Prayer Beads
It’s a beautiful day. The seas are calm, and the M.S. Veendam is slicing through the Southern Sea like a large, metallic swordfish on steroids. I am sitting in the ship’s library typing on my laptop while at the table beside me a table full of women chatter away in a language I can’t understand. The table is covered with craft supplies because they are making prayer beads. Apparently, they are progressive Muslims from eastern Canada. (That’s what I overheard.) Right now they are having a conversation with an elderly Catholic woman from Australia about how their muslim prayer beads compare to the rosary. She is asking them a lot of questions, and I almost wonder if the conversation is getting a little heated. Perhaps not. They are just trying to understand each other, I guess. Wow! The Catholic lady just asked them if they pray to Mary. What a question! But at least she has the guts to ask. I wouldn’t. I’d be more likely to listen silently to every word and type their conversation like a spy - kind of like I’m doing at this very moment :-) Now one of the younger Muslim women is telling the Catholic lady that all prayer beads serve the same purpose. I guess in a way, I agree. We are all trying to talk to the Creator.
I guess the real question is, is He trying to talk to us. If so, I have a feeling he wouldn’t bother with beads. I think he’d just come himself.
I guess the real question is, is He trying to talk to us. If so, I have a feeling he wouldn’t bother with beads. I think he’d just come himself.
Tuesday 28 February 2012
Hurricane Cherie
I survived a hurricane yesterday. Well, not a hurricane exactly, but the captain did say there were “hurricane force winds”. The waves were up to 40 feet high. Our ship was rocking and rolling like an Elvis impersonator. My hubby, Rob, popped a gravol and felt fine. I took one too but still felt green around the gills. Staying horizontal was my only relief, so I stayed in bed all day and watched National Geographic. It wasn’t much fun. But thankfully, we are in much calmer waters today, and I have suffered no lasting effects from my ordeal. Except for feeling instantly nauseous whenever I hear the words “National Geographic”.
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