CHAPTER EIGHTY THREE: PEREGRINATIONS FROM COAST TO COAST

CHAPTER EIGHTY THREE: PEREGRINATIONS FROM COAST TO COAST

When last I wrote, around June 10, I was looking forward to a deep tissue massage from Tammy Crees, whose business name is Rub Your Hide. And Tammy did not disappoint. If you have never had a deep tissue massage, get thee to Tammy in Salinas and get your hide rubbed. You will not regret it. It’s the best present you can give yourself. If you fall asleep on the massage table, don’t be surprised. There are no leaf blowers, no chain saws, no loud traffic noises, no barking dogs – just Tammy’s soothing music and her strong hands and arms working out the knots in your muscles. Mmmm, good. If I could afford it, I would get a massage at the beginning of each day, or the end of each day -- heck, why not at both the beginning and end? I just yawned, even as I remembered the pleasure that comes with sheer muscle relaxation – after a little bit of “good pain” working out the tension in the arms and legs. I had been hiking about 4 miles a day with Zorro and Ruby, and I was feeling really fit. My legs were not cramping at night, but some less-used muscles were feeling a little sore. The massage did the trick – goodbye soreness, hello nirvana. Hey, Tammy, that can be your new motto! No charge, if you want to use it.

Now, as I write on the last day of June under a rainy sky in Solomons, ensconced in Slow Motion’s salon, I’m trying to sort out all the mental “slides” of everything the Admiral and I have done in the month of June. This was our longest stint on land in a year, and I actually stopped gripping the shower floor with my toes after a week or so. Aside from our joyous reunion with Zorro, we accomplished quite a lot. The Admiral installed a new kitchen faucet for Brenda and Royal and fixed their laundry room light. We trimmed and watered the plants and cleaned up after the despicable cat, Tequila, who acts like he’s your best friend, then poops all over the house. We helped our neighbors get the May 2012 ordinance enforced, which should bring no parking signs to the end of Harper Canyon and restore some peace and tranquility for them, as well as make the road safer for our children and animals. Thanks to Bryan Flores of Dave Potter’s office for getting Public Works and Parks to put the signs up – finally. Apparently Public Works had ordered the signs right after the passage of the ordinance, but didn’t tell anyone about it. And the ordinance provided that the Parks Department was supposed to put up the signs, which they didn’t know or ignored. So Bryan got them talking, and the signs were found, and Bryan thinks that the signs will be placed “any day now”. A man called Ivan marked the location for each sign, so that is encouraging. But this is county government, so we’re cautiously pessimistic. At least the “hiking club” of some twenty cars, trucks and SUVs, which were clogging narrow Harper Canyon Road, got the word from the Admiral and others that our dead end road – with a PADLOCKED GATE AT THE END – is not a trailhead for Toro Park.

Other highlights of our California caper: The Admiral made one scrumptious dinner after another, starting with his heralded meatloaf, which is great when hot, but keeps on tasting great in cold sandwiches the next day. This was Zorro’s favorite food, if you don’t count that disgusting beef jerky that the Admiral offers him. The Admiral moved from meat loaf to pulled pork, or the other way around, to a rib roast, to spaghetti and meatballs, to chicken/shrimp/sausage gumbo, to scores of brownies. This was a high caloric trip. Fortunately, Zorro and Ruby wanted to hike at least twice a day, and so I was able to walk energetically about 4 miles a day to keep some of the pounds off.

In addition to the saporific home cooked food and the hikes, I took the opportunity to visit with my friends, Sondra and Barbara, and to celebrate my friend Chris’s birthday with her and colleagues from the D.A.’s office at Paraiso Winery deep in the Salinas Valley. Sondra and Barbara and I went to an indie movie at the Osio in Monterey and then had dinner at a new tapas place nearby. The movie was Before Midnight with Julie Delpy and Ethan Hawke. What’s great about Delpy is that she has exchanged her girlish figure for wide childbirth giving hips and an overall softness not often seen in the leading ladies on screen. Watching this couple age has been rather entertaining. Before Midnight was all about their relationship and whether she still loved him or not. The next movie in this series is rumored to be Before the Early Bird Special – what? God forbid, it’s not a discourse about their various health problems, although a frank, intelligent discussion of the aging process could be enlightening. Zzzzzz.

Time with my friends is essential, and I hope they come to visit us on Slow Motion. Barbara is always on a different continent, it seems, and Sondra works to improve Monterey County for women, when she’s not enjoying the ballet, the opera and the symphony. I love to hear about their adventures. Barbara shared with us that First Granddaughter Olivia intends to be the first “girl President”. When standing outside the White House with her on a recent trip to the Capitol, Olivia announced that she would be living there one day. I had the same aspirations, and I still treasure my sister’s 3^rd grade photo, where she wrote: “To the First Woman President”. I was in first grade at the time. You get the bug early. And if elected, I would serve with distinction, but if it’s not in the cards for me, I certainly hope that my age mate, Hillary, gets her act together and wins in 2016. I’m tired of male leadership, correction: male failure at leadership. Are you with me on this, Sisters? Can even those of you who got all starry eyed over Barack Obama see the need for a real change? This is not about Republicans and Democrats. It’s much, much bigger. It’s the yin and the yang. It’s estrogen and testosterone. It’s Margaret Thatcher and Tony Blair, Golda Meir and Ben Netanyahu, Indira Gandhi and Fill in the Blank. It’s time for women to lead this country, way past time actually, but let’s get this done before the 100^th anniversary of winning the right to vote. Hillary can be in her second term when we celebrate that.

Oh yes, back to highlights of California: One of the highlights was my side trip to Vail, Arizona to visit my sister, Sue, who proved once again that a little chemo goes a long way with her. She was supposed to get a 2^nd round of chemo in mid-June, but the first round in May was so strong and effective that she didn’t need it. Hooray! That’s the upside of being extremely sensitive to all medications. Sue was hale and hearty and ready for some fun. We went to movies in the heat of the day (100 degrees). Shakespeare did not disappoint in the latest version of Much Ado About Nothing. And Jennifer Lawrence was incredibly, palpably heartwarming in Silver Linings Notebook. Who knew that Robert DeNiro was in that movie? Well, of course, those of you who already saw it knew that. But Lawrence is the star. Brad Cooper is far better than expected. And putting this whole story in Philadelphia was the icing on the cake. Not that I’m a big Eagles fan, but that type of team fanaticism is endemic to the Philly Boo Birds. Then there was exhilarating dancing subplot. Not anything like the schmaltzy Dancing with the Stars. This was cool and realistic, especially when Cooper’s character had to do The Lift and ended up with a whole lot of Lawrence’s bottom on his face. Classic.

But it’s not only about going to movies. Oh no, my friend, we had to go to the nail shop for manicures and pedicures. And Sue had to make the perfect holupkies one night, and the best grilled steaks another night, with a visit to Sakura snuck in between. And we watched the giant Argentinian cactus bloom at midnight under the supermoon, the biggest full moon recorded in history. Anyway, it seemed like that. Sue also gave me reading material, like Dan Brown’s Inferno, which kept me awake until 2 a.m., then led to some interesting nightmares. Did I mention Sue’s homemade apple pie? Shame on me for leaving that out. We made a few meals of that delectable pastry. I packed on four pounds during my four day stay, easily and deliciously.

Blogus interruptus – it kills the momentum. I was writing the stuff above on the last day of June, and then it got late and I stopped. So here it is Monday, July 8, already past 9 at night, and I want to post a blog whether it’s done or not. One quick update I can give on the no parking signs on Harper Canyon Road – they are not up yet. Cautious pessimism is quickly turning to cynicism about the workings of county government. Two years since we started campaigning for them, and fourteen months since we got the ordinance passed to authorize them – no signs. Supervisor Potter, what’s up?

Our California interlude has been eclipsed by my niece’s visit to Slow Motion and our morning cruising around the Patuxent River and out into the Bay, not too far because of the 3 to 4 foot waves. That was a great Saturday, June 29. It was supposed to rain all day, but instead it was sunny and breezy and the half day on the bay was perfect, from osprey sightings to easy undockings and dockings (no wind). Gretchen and Jem brought some fresh peaches and cantaloupe and apricots. I added blueberries and we had a refreshing fruit salad. They also brought berry pies, which we barely had room for after the burgers and corn and chips. They were our first guests who actually had the thrill of going out on the water on Slow Motion and getting some sense of what we feel every day we cruise along the waterway or cross a sound or go out into the ocean. It’s exhilarating. We’re not going any great speed – at most 10 miles an hour, but you just enjoy the movement so much more profoundly than in a car or a plane, or even a train. It still feels kind of miraculous to be “walking” on water in a 38,000 pound boat.

We did not have a long time to savor the memories of Gretchen and Jem’s visit, as we packed up to drive to Durham, North Carolina on July 2, with the objective of getting all of Sandra’s apartment furniture and belongings out of storage there and taking it via a Budget rent a truck to her new home in New Orleans. Sandra, one of the Admiral’s twin daughters, had completed her graduate studies at Duke in 2012 and moved back to Kansas City and St. Louis to edit some articles for publication and apply for Ph.D. programs in literature/writing. She also applied to some law schools, inasmuch as her mother and two sisters are both attorneys, and they seem to enjoy their work. When she was admitted to the law school of her choice and offered a full stipend to attend, it was too much to refuse. So Tulane Law School now has a former Ph.D. candidate in its first year law ranks.

This explains why the Admiral and I were on the road in torrential downpours in a leaky truck last Tuesday, Wednesday, and yes, Thursday, July 4. What else would you do in a non-stop rainstorm besides drive along the interstate highways in an antediluvian truck which became more and more flooded as we ate up the miles? A mini-Niagara Falls was flowing down the back of the driver’s seat, and the Admiral was not happy. Fortunately, I had brought my very sturdy and extremely waterproof raincoat along. Once the Admiral put it on – as the sleeves stopped between his elbows and his wrists – we were able to divert the waterfall down the back of the jacket instead of down the Admiral’s shirt. That water was cold! I can’t give you a real tour of the places we passed, because we were literally just passing through. Where did we stay? At the Garden Hilton Hotel in various towns in the South. And memo to the North Carolina Governor: Do you call those washboards with interstate numbers drivable? Are you using those roads to get to work? I think not. Spend less time on restricting women’s rights and more time on improving your roadways, please. Same to you Nikki Haley of South Carolina – your roads get a D for maintenance. And not so fast, Governors of Georgia, Alabama, Mississippi and Louisiana – what did you do with your road maintenance budgets? Did you slash all the funds? Did you spend any money on fixing up your roads? You can attack Washington all you want, but next time the President introduces a bill seeking money for improving and modernizing infrastructure, it’s time for y’all to get on board. True, the Budget truck did not have the best springs, but the roads in these southern states are in really bad shape, whether you’re driving a Mercedes or a leaky truck. Why do the taxpayers in these states put up with this? Is this the definition of “small government”? Or is it the beginning of anarchy, with frequent traffic stoppages, multiple accidents, and no one making it to their destination in a reasonable time – think of the carbon footprint alone of stalled traffic gorging on gas and oil. Who does this situation benefit?

As Independence Day dawned, we had left Montgomery, Alabama for New Orleans, with an arrival time of 3:30 p.m. We were supposed to spend the night there and then unpack the truck in the morning. But Sandra called to ask if we could unpack the truck on the 4^th of July, in that the weather report called for, you guessed it, drenching rain on the 5^th of July. Having loaded the truck in the rain, we thought it would be great idea to unload Sandra’s goods under a dry sky. All she had to do was find a mover/loader to work at 4 p.m. on the 4^th of July, Enter twin sister, Sabina, who made a few calls, and suddenly “Dominique” was going to meet us at the NOLA apartment at 4 p.m. to unload. Sabina entered the picture, because Sandra’s car and phone both gave out between Memphis and Jackson. This was beginning to feel somewhat like a cursed trip – is that you, Anne Rice, pulling the strings? But buoyed by the promise of meeting the mover at 4 p.m., we pressed on. We arrived at Sandra’s apartment, and it was not raining, at about 3 p.m. I called the mover and told him he could come early. He said he was running late – all movers run late, as the day goes on. Don’t ever, ever arrange to meet a mover late in the afternoon. If you do something this foolish, expect to wait until early evening for the mover to appear. And sure enough, at about 5:10 p.m., the mover showed up. The Admiral had left to get something cold to drink, so I pitched in to help the two guys haul all the heavy items up a flight of stairs. By 7 p.m., as the skies parted and huge rain drops started pelting Loyola Street, the movers were carrying the last item, the mattress, into the apartment. The Admiral had returned at about 6 p.m. from a 2 and ½ mile trek to and from a grocery store, and he looked red as a beet for the entire second hour that the movers were working. If you have spent any time in NOLA in July, you know that it’s both the temperature AND the humidity that get to you. The rain was actually a welcome sight when it came, and all of Sandra’s property was safe and dry inside her apartment.

We got rid of the leaky truck and rented a waterproof car for the rest of our stay in New Orleans. The next day, after surviving a night at the Garden Inn Hotel next to the Pontchartrain Casino – huge, noisy fireworks and loud, rowdy celebrators – we returned to Sandra’s apartment and moved her desk into her bedroom. Then the Admiral allowed as we had enough time to see a little bit of New Orleans. I opted for a tour of the Garden District. This area is magnificent in its architecture. Who lives in all the mansions? Are they all subdivided into apartments? The grounds are immaculate too. The flowering trees – magnolias, mimosas, crepe myrtles – do they all start with the letter “m”? – are fantastic. I found a book store and bought Sonia Sotomayor’s autobiography for our budding lawyer. Once the tour was over, it was back to the apartment to meet Sandra and show her where we had put things and what we had done. By this time, the Admiral and I were both asleep on our feet, but somehow we found our way to the Doubletree near the airport, where we expected to crash until leaving for the airport the next morning at 7:30. We crashed, after ordering room service (inexplicably their restaurant was closed on a Saturday night), and I was expecting a quiet night, but a fellow in the same corridor started banging on the door of a room at about 3 a.m. – the banging continued for a half an hour. This intruded into our sleep time. The Admiral called the front desk to report the disturbance and was told matter of factly that the man had to bang on the door repeatedly, because apparently his son, who was inside, had fallen asleep and did not respond to requests to open the door. I’m sorry, but a half hour of extremely loud, uninterrupted banging would have awakened anyone who was inside. Did I mention the yelling? This hotel charged $200 per night, despite the fact that it had no restaurant, the toilet was stopped up and there was no rest for the weary because of constant door banging. Remember the name: Doubletree near the New Orleans Airport.

Things started looking up on Saturday morning. We had been informed that our seats were upgraded to first class on Delta, the sun was shining, and there were no lines at the security check-in at the airport. This meant, of course, that the TSA agents had nothing better to do than to rifle through the Admiral’s carry-on luggage repeatedly, ripping at the electrical cords and electronic equipment inside it. We were the only “show” at 8 a.m. at the Delta check in line, and it took 15 minutes before the two TSA agents who mauled the Admiral’s bag were somehow satisfied that he was not carrying an explosive device or, God forbid, more than 4 ounces of lotion, in his bag. That was the final insult, after the first insult by the TSA person at the front of the check-in line, who looked at the Admiral as he started removing his shoes and told him that people who were 74 or older did not have to take off their shoes. The Admiral is generally not sensitive about age issues, but come on, 74 or older? Unable to remove one’s shoes? Even the Admiral’s hackles were raised over this tactless comment.

Then we left the ineffable TSA troops behind, as we soared into the air for Atlanta, with the pilot advising us that there would be turbulence the entire way. There wasn’t – either he’s a much better pilot than he thought, or the turbulence report was over-rated. We glided through the Atlanta airport and made our connection for BWI in plenty of time. Take a step back for a moment: before the TSA debacle in New Orleans. I espied a place in the airport that served beignets, my most favorite pastry in the entire world, the reason for New Orleans to exist. I ordered one serving, which contained about 5 beignets, and the Admiral and I got white powder in big rings around our mouths, as we devoured these incredible puff pieces. So, the Garden District and the beignets – this is what I choose to remember about our visit to NOLA in 2013.

At BWI our luck kept getting better. We were met by Sabina and Bryan, who whisked us away to Calvert Marina in Solomons in their air-conditioned carriage. Sabina’s mini dachshund, Violet, who worships the Admiral, would not stop kissing him, and when she wasn’t sitting on his lap, she was sitting on mine, looking at the Admiral adoringly. This girl is simply crazy about the Admiral. We got back to Slow Motion about 5:30 in the evening on July 6, and it wasn’t raining. This was a new phenomenon for us. Everyone had fresh corn and pulled pork – too full for ice cream, thanks to Sabina’s homemade chocolate chip cookies. After many walks with Violet, the dog with the tiny bladder, we went to our air-conditioned cabins. I think I fell asleep before my head hit the pillow. It was great to be home. The next morning, Sunday, we took Sabina and Bryan for a ride on Slow Motion, out to the Calvert Cliffs and back. It was sunny and breezy. There were a lot of boats criss crossing our path, but the short cruise still felt great. Upon our return, the Admiral made a mega-omelet – more like a frittata – so big that we couldn’t eat it all. The key ingredient was the diced potatoes, which enhanced the eggs, cheese, onions, ham, peppers, and God knows what else.

We bade farewell to  Sabina, Bryan and Violet at 12:30. I crashed. I don’t remember much more, except that I talked with Sondra and Andy Murray won Wimbledon. I knew that this coming week we had a lot on our plate. Our air conditioning stopped working Sunday morning in the salon. We can’t expect to survive this summer without it. So we added that to the list of things we needed to fix on Monday, today. Into our lives on Monday morning strode Katie, the Wonder Mechanic, and she has changed the oil, fixed the oil leak and figured out what is wrong with the air conditioner. She is a genius with boat equipment repairs. She also changed the zincs, where it would have been difficult for the Admiral or me to do the work. Katie is not exactly tiny, but small enough to fit into places on boats that are not fit for you or me. And once she gets there she knows what to do! Let’s hear it for Katie, who is worth much more than her weight in gold or platinum or diamonds. We were supposed to head north on Tuesday, July 9, but we’re waiting for the part to fix the air conditioner, which should arrive tomorrow or Wednesday. So in the meantime, we stocked up for the trip, had a WaWa dinner and I settled down to finish this blog. There, I’m done!