Viajo porque debo.

The 405 freeway to China

2011-07-10T12:48:00.000-07:00

I’ve always dreaded the 405 freeway that runs north and south from the valley to San Diego. Well, almost. But, for the past 17 months I have been using it to commute to EF International school in Redondo Beach, where I teach ESL or EFL (your choice). Day after day after day.

This particular life saga began two years ago. Stranded in Nyrita airport in Tokyo for 5 days, I met a guy who had just finished teaching English in Korea. Our discussions led me to the conclusion that reinventing myself as an English teacher could pay for my traveling lust. One is never too old for either.

After an exhausting 120 hours of intensive study the following January: think grammar learned in 3rd grade, resurrected from long, unused folds in your brain- and then some, I got my teaching certificate in Costa Rica. Only the salsa dancing and new friendships kept me sane.

A few weeks later, I came to Los Angeles with the intention of spending just a couple of months because my granddaughter, for reasons best left out, was living here with her best friend. Ahh. I just wanted to be close-to lend support for her if needed. I didn’t want to interfere with her life, but to be a small part of it. With that in mind, I took a job teaching ESL at EF. I intended it to be a temporary one, just for the summer. Ha. Cooper’s living arrangement ended abruptly. Mine too. Suddenly, I rented an apartment and we were living together.

16 months later, our relationship is tattered and torn like an old wedding dress from a bad marriage. I remember the feeling of being lonely in my own house, awake at night, worrying if someone I love is safe. It is not a good one. Our wildly fluctuating emotions have left a wake of sadness, resentment, and anger. I am exhausted.

Cooper will leave in two weeks with her mother, my daughter, Alice, to live in Oklahoma. I hope it will be a healing/growing time for her, because she is a precious, but wounded, adult-child making childish, potentially harmful decisions. I will love her from a distance.

I am heading to Chongqing, China where I’ll be teaching at Chongqing Normal University. With 55,000 students, it is one of the largest universities in China and boasts of having top-notch medical and art schools. Situated on a peninsula where the Yangzi and Jialing Rivers meet, Chongqing is said to be frequently shrouded in daytime haze and fog. The Lonely Planet reports that it is a city that comes alive at night, neon lights giving it a showgirl sparkle. I love sparkle.

The weather in Chonqing is generally hot. The cuisine is hot. The local food: hotpots. I can only guess about that. Eat hot to stave off the heat? Fine by me. Plus, as suggested by a teacher who is leaving, I will buy a bicycle. Goodbye street cleaning tickets, traffic jams & high gas prices. Hello lowered cholesterol & blood pressure. He also reports that my apartment is a comfy two bedroom with washer, dryer, and television. Chinese television! I’m told my students are delightful; that they are eager to learn. Imagine that.

Next July I plan to head north through China to Mongolia for their main festival. I have wanted to ride a Mongolian pony across the steppes since I was 12. The time has come.
After that, who knows? Maybe another gig in China; maybe another country? I have wanted to work at the Limbe Primate Sanctuary in Cameroon. Maybe the primates would enjoy learning ESL or they will teach me their language?

Life is full of possibilities. One thing for sure though, no matter how well organized you are, plans change. The road you take for granted can be heading someplace completely different than you think. So, Carpe Diem or as Poppy New says, " Only wrestle one aligator at a time."

Namaste

Awake before dawn.

2009-04-07T09:53:00.000-07:00

Boy I hate it when I wake up and it’s still dark out. Here in my gully grotto it’s just me and the burro on the hill. Heeehaaaa Heeehaaaa. Hawwww. In the daytime he sounds like he’s laughing but the dark puts a sadder spin on his plaintive rebuznos.

Well, maybe we’re not the only ones awake. Our opossum is probably cruising the hillside, pushing his Pinocchio nose into crevices & sliding through the bars of bodegas to see if some unsuspecting human forgot to lock down the pet food.

A few days ago, in broad daylight, a gray squirrel chased me off my hammock. Scared the hell out of me. I was laying there reading. Suddenly it flew across me-not 10 feet above my head, from tree trunk to tree trunk. There it hung or what ever it is they do with their sharp little toenails, upside down, yelling at me. Now I have mastered some Spanish derogatory phrases but not a single syllable of squirrel. I could tell by his body language and sheer decibel level though, that he was agitated about something and didn’t intend to back down. Sophie, lying in her crumbly cement/dirt hole and I looked at each other and agreed it was time to go inside for a snack. Then last week, heading inside through the back door I was surprised by a long slender Vine snake. It was lovely- sort of a burnished gold and slate green combo. They can make themselves stick straight up like a, well, stick.

Laurel and I took some road trips north and south along the coast exploring villages and new developments this winter. There are so many of the latter. Pretty, yes, but I prefer the coastline before it got privatized for the privileged few. One place, El Tecuan, was a ghost town of lovely homes over looking a wide expanse of pristine beach all empty. It was creepy. I could hear the approaching bulldozers and concrete mixers; if not this year soon. Soon.

Then, we were driving on 200 South when we encountered a white pick-up with a man standing beside it. He didn’t attempt to stop us, but I slowed down. When I did a blue van behind us ignored the fact that we were almost stopped and sped around. At the exact time, a stampeding herd of steers burst over the embankment onto the road. The van spooked them causing them to change course and head straight for us. I was going to back up but there wasn’t even time for that. It was a treat to see the caballeros and their amazing dogs working up close. They definitely saved the day!

My Anna visited me for her birthday in February. It was way too brief but so sweet. I took her to Yelapa where I am moving next year. It’s a several hundred year old village on the south/west end of the bahia. The only reasonable way to get there is by panga; the alternative being a mostly impassible road through the jungle or on horse back. I’ll move into Casita Jardin on my friend April’s compound, Passion Flower Gardens. Yelapa has a web site because there are many gringos there with palapas for rent or retreat. The draw for me is that it is small, has the river, the ocean, and horses and although now there are ATVs and electricity (fast few years), there is still no room for cars. Margaret will stay parked in Boca ready for frequent road adventures and shopping. Sophie, who as I write, has the runs because she drank too much aqua del rio, (poor Perrita) will appreciate the other folks and few dogs that already live there.

This week is the beginning of Semana Santa, Easter Week, here in Mexico. The busiest two weeks of the year. Folks come from all over Mexico to the beaches to party. Small bands, vendors, tents, and pickups full of extended families suddenly abound. Some of them wash in the river and change in the reeds along its edges. It is a reminder for me that little money is needed to enjoy life.

I am going to Zacatecas in a couple of weeks to see/hear Placido Domingo. I’m excited. I’ll stay at Casa Santa Lucia, a refurbished 19th century hotel next to what is said to be one of the oldest and most beautiful cathedrals in Mexico. It’s also one of the oldest and I think the most lucrative silver mining cities and a major site of the revolution. Gary Jennings, writes in his Aztec books about how the enslaved Indians actually lived in the mines. The women gave birth there and then the children, if they lived, became slaves, too. Most didn’t live long. The woman, because they were small and more nimble, carried the silver up the ladders on their backs. Isn’t it true that most man made beauty is so because of somebody’s sorrow.

On that note, I wish you all a wonderful Easter. May the bunny bring you good health, love and joy and the world, peace. -ruby

Ring the bell.

2008-12-29T14:50:00.000-08:00

Christmas 2008

It’s 8am, the gallos and donkeys are conversing in the gully across from what will be our home for the next six months- The 1st floor of a three floor, solid concrete building in the jungle-surrounded by gays, but in a Mexican neighborhood, a block from the beach. The lunatic fringe of Puerto Vallarta.

I’m sitting outside at a table that I scrounged in the yard, along with two chairs in case a guest drops in, from a junk pile along its brick and concrete edges. I found chair pads in the 2nd bedroom.

A few minutes ago a crash-or so it seemed-occurred directly above me in the Cecropia Tree, a lanky, three story tree that has 9 lovely leaves in a circle on one stem that altogether measure about 2ft. in diameter. The rowdy perpetrators are chachalacas, large brown birds with a yellow underside and long, wide tails that are shaped like paddles. They are similar to wild turkeys. Right now there are 5 or 6 of them causing a melodic ruckus. Seconds ago a branch as big around as my wrist and maybe 3 ft. long landed a few feet away from me. I see the beauty of jungle living but Sophie, convinced the sky is falling, went inside.

Last night I met a Canadian couple at the beach who are here for 3months and looking for a reasonable place to stay. He asked me where I was and how much I was paying. I told him 500 dollars. He said, “Is it a dump?”
“Are you an asshole?” I think.
“It is Mexican funky. It has its share of creative wiring with the requisite, unrestrained use of extension cords, bare bulbs, and I believe hot water only in the shower, which is all I asked for, Dear Santa. And oh yes, and it has screens on the windows that mostly cover them, an air conditioning unit that I assume works because it is plugged into the wall, and the obligatory amount of rebar poking out of the outer wall as if it is perennially under construction; in other words, totally charming.”

Our first week here we I stayed at my friend Jodi’s. It was a good week. She’s a gem: intelligent, fun to hang with and obviously patient since she put me and Sophie up. Sophie prefers her house. It’s more dependable and has grass, a supreme luxury.

I took the panja to Yelapa to look at possible living spaces but couldn’t see the insides of any of the potential houses. But, Yelapa is always full of surprise and this time was no exception. I met Robert McLane, a writer whose book, Stop War America is an interesting narrative of his years as a marine in Viet Nam and later as an anti-war activist. Reading it transported me back to the complex 60s and 70s that fucked up so many lives, but no one more than the soldiers who fought; men, who when they had returned home, and were safe in the arms of women who loved them, cried in their sleep. One of the men in my life, Michael Reinhart, said he felt ruined, that he felt nothing could ever compare or erase the horror and shame in his heart. Michael went to fight in Rhodesia in the 70s. It would be nice to know if he is alive. Robert’s web site is wwstopwaramerica.com.

I find the struggle to keep in the present difficult when the past keeps popping up its’ intense head.

Sophie and I spent Christmas at Jodi’s with 20+ old and new friends. We stuffed ourselves with delicious offerings from each and every one of us, laughed, told stories and sang. After we got home Sophie and I walked around the neighborhood. I happened upon the Palm Bar down the street from me and remembered that Jodi said it might be a place to do some comedy. As it turns out the owner, Ron, was there and he too, thinks it’s a good idea. So we’ll talk next week. It’s been almost 30 years since I MC’d a male stripper club on Columbus Ave in San Francisco down the street from the Carol Doda’s Condor. Yikes. I may be turning into Moms Mabley. Life could definitely be worse.

As a post script to my last blog that ended in Morocco, I must say that the Leonard Cohen concert I attended at the O2 in London Nov. 13th was the best ever. I mean that. He is a man of grace: a humble poet that makes every word and note move my heart. I sat in the nose-bleed section beside a young Pakistani whose English mom had brought him there. During intermission he said, “He’s really good. He’s a poet and makes excellent music.” While reading Robert’s book I thought of the current senseless war that continues unabated-unless something has changed because I haven’t seen the news for a few weeks- and I thought of some of the words in Cohen’s Anthem that were probably written in the 70’s and still current.

The wars they will be fought again
The holy dove be caught again
Bought and sold and bought again
The dove is never free

Ring the bells that still can ring
Forget your perfect offering
There is a crack in everything
That’s how the light gets in..

That’s how the light gets in…

For my birthday in l976 when my world seemed to be falling apart around me, Larry David Dunn, a wonderful artist in Chicago gave me a pen and ink he had done. He called it the Gypsy Wagon. The wagon is an old wooden one surrounded by light that comes from within. Larry David said it was a portrait of me; that I carry my own light. What a wonderful compliment it was. I have learned that it is what we all must do; let the light shine through our cracks and embrace it –and them.

To everyone, I wish you a new year filled with light, love and a heart full of peace.
-Ruby

Apologies & Moroccan Pictures

2008-11-20T05:35:00.000-08:00

What a surprise to find my box from Morocco on the doorstep yesterday! So it was my mind that conjured up the scenario of anger and distrust; that worked me into a tizzy for nothing; made a mountain out of a molehill as my mother would say. How many times have I done that for naught? I will die with so many partially learned lessons that would have saved me anguish.

Alas, it was the Spanish box that was rifled; that someone opened and helped themselves to a few Christmas presents. Maybe at US customs-some else feeling the trickle down crunch. So my apologies to the Moroccan postal system.

I include the pictures Mohamed sent me. The tannery is the most amazing site with the vats of vegetable based dyes, and the old man and his donkey, not the one I saw but how different could their lives be, and the tiled dome of the mosque in Casa and the inside of another. I think the doors are of the kings palace but don't hold me to it. There's a wonderful sweeping view of the the medina -which one I don't know-and the Hotel Guynemer where I recommend everyone stay when you visit this sprawling city that I only just touched on.

Last but not least, Mohamed Sakami, handsome man, talented chef, and my friend who came to my rescue with pictures when I told him my camera had been stolen, ( I'll ask him for his delicious recipe for tagine & prunes). Thank you, Mohamed.

Crazy or Courageous.

2008-11-09T08:39:00.000-08:00

I have lost all track of time. I know today is Sunday and that I arrived here in Gibraltar midnight Friday. Two trains and six hours Casablanca to Tangier on Thursday, befriended by Miriam and Nadia, two lovely Muslim sisters who were traveling to visit their cousin. Miriam, a nurse, insisted on carrying my bag on and off the train, because, she said, "I'm young. There was no refusing because she was right. So, I shared my sandwich and chocolate with them. Miriam said, "We are lucky."

The several hundred year old Continental Hotel in the Medina that over looks the port was a fairy land of colorful tile & mosaics, arches, and art work. Unfortunately it also sits directly above the parking lot for the numerous cargo trucks that carry African goods to port where they cross the Atlantic or Mediterranean and make their way into our lives for good or bad.

That afternoon my camera was stolen - at the cyber cafe. So every picture I took except the ones on the last blog is gone. The rest will fade from my memory as surely as photographs left in the sun do with time. I am sad. I am also exhausted. Being robbed is tiring in the saddest sort of way.

But, before the theft I let 2 children, Ahmad 10 and his sister Dania 14 show me the way to the Kasbah... after which I gave HER the generous tip & told her to share with her brother. He was pissed. His was a typical reaction of the Moroccan male who feels he is a bit above the female gender-still.

The Moroccan men. They congregate everywhere there is a chair to sit on: benches, around small tables in and in front of the many cafes, along the beach. But rarely do you see a single woman or any women in most public places unless they are with a man or another woman. The men are omnipresent for money at every turn. The touts 'helped ' me - by walking uninvited along side me, or offering advice or to to find the best of anything I wanted: food, lodging, goods... Only one invited me to sit with him for a cup of tea. And I felt myself relax.

The cost of a taxi ride to the same place varied so wildly according to the whim of the driver that the battle began before I got in the cab. In Fes drivers turned down passengers- in Casa, they took as many as would fit and made everyone pay separate and unequal amounts.

On Nov 5 I had a melt-down. In retrospect I feel sorry for the old guy I yelled at but fuck it. I had stayed awake all night to watch Obama become president- crying unashamedly with Jesse. The polls closed at 1am in Casablanca; he gave his acceptance speech at 5am. Since my raging adrenalin would not allow me to sleep I spent the morning boxing up stuff I had bought for friends and went to mail it. With the help of the hotel staff (lovely men, one and all and exceptional it seems to me), I had a box, and got in a cab to head to the DHL office.

At DHL I was told my box would cost $260.00 DOLLARS! Jesus! I left. Carrying the box on the busy street I could not find a taxi for the life of me. So I walked-and walked. Finally a taxi ( with an honest driver)stopped and took me to the post office. At the post office I was told to go round to the side where packages were sent. When I got there a man standing on the steps got in step with me to the counter. After my box was weighed and I confirmed that I was willing to pay $50.00dollars to mail it the anonymous the man took the box. I asked the guy behind the counter, "Who is he?" and pointed to the man with my box. "He works for the post office." he said. "And you will pay him." I said. He smiled. Ha. The man, proceeded to take my stuff out, dump it into another box, tape it and show me where I was supposed to write the address...

When the box was safely (more ha) behind the desk I was given exactly 50 dh change. The man reached out his hand for it. I snapped. I gave him 10 dh which is about a dollar. He pushed the coin back. 50 dh he demanded. I yelled, For what! His voice got louder. The proper clerk behind the counter smiled. Ahhh. We are breaking another tourist-and extra points for a woman. I was ready to cry. Instead, I threw the bill at him. " I hate Morocco!" I yelled and ran into the street. They could care less if I hate the place or not. They got the money. And, since my box full of presents has not arrived in the U.S. I think they helped themselves to the contents.

The crazy bitch. Yell at us.

But then there was Mohamed, the chef at the Guynemer and Amina, a Moroccan woman I met having lunch at La Bodega.

He, besides being an excellent chef is warm and fun to be with. When I got to the hotel Guynemer ( a n absolutly delightful place to stay by-the-way) without a reservation of course, I had to wait an hour or so until they kicked someone out of a room-a man the rumor goes, so I, a woman in need, could have it, Mohamed took me walking aound the central market to while away the time. And he was a staunch Obama fan. And he has emailed me pictures another tourist took . I will get them downloaded soon and share. So enough said, I'm a baby to complain.

And Amina. After my meltdown I went to La Bodega for lunch. A line stretched out the door but I was invited through it by the matre d' to the bar where I had a beer and a plate of tapas. A woman sat next to me. Vibrant, and gregarious, a Moroccon woman who had lived in LA with her husband and son for years quickly became my new best friend. After hearing my sad postal story she insisted on taking me for a wild ride in her lime green little car around the beach area of Casa.

Indeed it was a completely different part of the city than I had seen-so up scale European . To top it off she bought me a grommage and steam at the Hamman before she vanished into the night. Relaxed and with lowered blood pressure, looking no older than 35 I took a taxi back to the hotel. There I listened to the lute player and hung out for several hours laughing, and telling travel tales.

Pictures... in no particular order there is the stage door, (maybe for lions) and me standing on the stage of Teatro Roman in Cadiz, Robert & I in Madrid, a picture of a picture of a flamingo dancer, horses, and a narrow street in Sevilla, AA poster (something for everyone), Helene and her friend from Beijing in Madrid, the awesome church organ in the spooky, and very imposing cathedral in Cadiz, and the bridge on a rainy day in Sevilla. I really love Spain.

On the ferry to Gibraltar a Spanish buisness man who sat across from me said, "You are a crazy woman to run around Morocco alone." When I got to the Queens Hotel (w/o a reservation of course) at 1am, the night clerk who was Moroccan, checked me in. "You are courageous woman for traveling in my country. You like it?"

Goodbye Spain; Hello Morocco

2008-10-22T03:24:00.000-07:00

Cadiz, in the south of Spain, is a sweet old town. Said to be the oldest in Western civilization in continuous use. Don´t they always say that. Continuous use. So how many towns just lay down and die never to rise again. What I love most about Spain and now Morocco is that they have been conquered over and over again and it has only made the people more resilient, beautiful, and aware that one must live each day to the fullest.

Cadiz is vibrant in the evenings. I love to sit in one of the many plazas and watch the people. Whole families gather. Maybe they´ll have a cup of chocolate or an ice cream. Or just a stroll. My favorite place is in front of the cathedral. Yesterday I hung out over an hour with olives, jamon de espana y the ubiquitous vino tinto writing the stories of my childhood living above my grandpa°s bar in western Pennsylvania. I´m encouraged by my new friend, Robert, but writing about myself seems so audacious and egotistical in view of all the amazing stories we, each and everyone of us, has. At a cafe I met Brian, an Australian man who loved eating and drinking so we had a good night roaming the town trying out the tapas bars. Alas, he dumped me. He wanted to meet the following morning at 6 or some ungodly hour of the morning and I said noon would be better for me.

I took pictures of a young man and his frisky poodle puppy and some boys playing soccer on a riser of something that is being built but is now covered with a tarp. It´s about 5 feet high and they kept having to go over the side to get the ball. No problem. And students sitting on the steps with their computers in front of a cathedral that is centuries old really puts a spin on perspective. I especially love it when the bells ring to remind the catholics who is the boss of them. The church is quite dark inside and gloomy, the perfect place for Jesus to bleed on the cross for infinity. Cadiz is surrounded by a Roman wall that is hard to imagine them building w\o electricity or a big crane. Now I see that building walls is what men did back then- before they had cars to work on.

Next I took the train to Tarifa, the southern most Spanish town on the mainland. When the bus pulled in it seemed as if I had landed into the eye of a hurricane. My umbrella lasted about a minute. I blindly fought the wind up the street and took a room at the first place I came to- the Hostel Dodi. It is an old building that still has its bidet and a tank above the toilet with the chain. It had a nice window and a double bed that I immediately napped in. This city is full of energetic surfers: wind, kite, and water. From here you can see Africa. Well, if the weather were clearer one could see it; I haven´t actually seen it yet. The Internet cafe that I write from is in The Center. You get to The center by walking thru a many centuries old arch that appears to have nothing to offer, but when you pass thru the ancient arch you are confronted by beautiful white buildings that seem to be one but are many set close together, with wrought iron balconies and hanging geraniums and very narrow passageways. Just enough for a slender burro and his cargo to get through.

My first day I had lunch with a young family: mom, dad and two boys ages 5 & 2, from London who had just come back from Morocco. He, Patrick, laughed when he said "one has to buy a rug, and one has to have a guide because if you have a guide the others leave you alone." They also said the Rock was a mess-dirty and slummy so maybe I will pass on that. But still, I will have to fly to London from somewhere.

Next I took the ferry to Tangier, Morocco. By chance I found the internet cafe and believe me; writing is slow because the characters on the keyboard are in different places than I am used to and surrounded by Arabic characters that look like some ours but.. I°ll experiment. You just pretend it°s secret language only we know.

On the train here the woman sitting next to me had intricately hennaed hands and feet for her friends wedding. The train had individual compartments instead of a row of seats. There were five people in mine. Only one spoke English but they all wanted to know who will be our next president; McCain or Obama. Everyone I talk to asks me that question. They cannot believe McCain even has a chance and wonder how we got to be in such trouble? I say I don't know; that I only have one vote and can only work so hard. Some have suggested I pray. I agree to because I think it sets good karma in motion.

I spent 2 nights in Tangier. It is a busy, complex city with an amazing history where you can see signs of the different nationalities that ruled, esp the Spanish & French- & English too a bit. I stayed at Riad Tanja, a former palace or home of a wealthy person of note and now a mid scale hotel. In Fes, Morocco, where I write from now I°m told riads always have a patio and a bitter orange tree.

From Tangier I took the train to Asilah, less than an hour south on the coast. Many people there speak Spanish & Portuguese and are very, sometimes too, friendly. The touts are annoying as hell but can be helpful too for a few dihrams ( 8 + in a dollar) they guide me to places I need like the lavenderia and stor to buy wine. As I rest I hear the men in the mosque praying. I'm not sure how often it happens but it is several times a day and they sound like braying donkeys thqt might be in pain. Thankfully it doesn't last long. The guide I had yesterday in Fes said that if a person does°n have a good voice they should keep quiet because Allah doesn°t need to hear unpleasant sounds. I asked him if he had ever heard of Karoke? He had not. Cased closed.

In Asilah I went to a traditional hammam, the public bath house for a scrub & massage. Jesus. Mary. Joseph! The woman who led me naked except for panties thru three rooms of progressively hotter steam rooms packed wall to wall with Moroccan women and active children was a quasi=moto, sumo wrestler type with short legs, a round body, small round head with eyes that never smiled, and pendulous breasts the size & spirit of prize watermelons left to go soft in the fields.

She filled buckets with water then motioned for me lie on the tile floor. With a green brillo pad glove, she began on my chest. In round motions she scraped the first layer of epidermis from my body as if she were preparing a recently killed goat for tanning. For maybe a half hour she rolled & flopped me to suit herself, scraped even the tender parts of my under arms, jerked my panties up into the crevices of me ass and vulva and rid my body of skin I°ve had since I was six months in the womb. Every now and then she splashed me with a bowl of water from the bucket and took a rest apparently satisfied. This went on until I was ready to tell any truths she wanted to hear. And I paid for this! After, I went to my hotel room and read a murder mystery.

Now, because I am a person of impulse, I diverted my course and am in Fes instead of Rabat or Casablanca. Yesterday I toured the old Medina with a guide and spent too much money. But, Patrick was exactly right; you have to buy a rug and you need a guide so the rest leave you alone. Last night I had dinner at the home of Kalied, a man I met on the train. His sister prepared meat balls with camel meat. Of course with the 49 spices that he said make up the sauce it could have been any meat but it was delicious. All was well until I left and he wanted to kiss me °with passion because he is a divorced man and ...° It is not dull here in Morocco and I take everything I ever said about being invisible back. I may take to wearing a caftan and a scarf. Kalied said he had plans for us. We would rent a car and drive into the countryside.. I called him and we have put off the wedding and intend instead to roam around other parts of Fes. I admit tho, it is nice to be referred to as °my sweet woman° or beautiful sweet woman°..
Today I walked in the rain.

At the Cafe Central a few hours ago a friendly waiter asked me to come in. I said, No, gracias.
As I was leaving an adorable boy ran up to me and took me by the arm back to the cafe. I never could refuse adorable boys. I was one of only 2 or3 customers in the place. We all hung out; waiters, bartender, cook. We talked religion, America, peace, food, and when Jahal asked me to adopt him, and I said it would make his own mom too sad, mothers=almost another perfect country song. Really this place is amazing. That°s us in the last pic before the battery gave out on my camera.

Museo Crawling

2008-10-09T11:07:00.000-07:00

I started writing this at the Tryp Arenal Hotel in Bilbao, Spain, because that was the hotel that was where the bus let me out, now I am in Sevilla in Andalusia in the south. It feels as if a century or so has passed; or as if no time at all exists. From Bordeaux I took the train into Spain. My room at the Tryp was in the attic. Both the bedroom and the bath had windows that open to the sky with about a 30* angle. I especially appreciated them when it rained.

In NYC I visited the Metropolitan where I never got further than the Egyptian wing because I met my childhood friend, Tad, or as he told me long ago that he would rather be called Rock Argentine, for lunch that lasted the rest of the sweet afternoon. Of Course we solved the worlds´ problems.

Then in Washington D.C. I visited Macy´s extensive shoe collection. Then Paris and the Louve. Jesus! Just hose me down. I was astounded at the huge statues that I felt surely would speak to me at any moment; one bunch of particularly beguiling men all had curled penises or is it peni.

And then the Guggenheim in Bilbao. What an amazing place that is. It is not boring in the stuffy sense of museos. Gehry (am I right on this?) made a museo that opens up space and forces the stuff in it to say.. hey. look at me!!! Aren´t I pretty! come on. have your picture taken with me. Love it!!

My French was very limited: wee, nohn, parlyvu english?, au revoir, mercibeaucoup, see vu play...you get the picture, and having realized too late that Paris is a lonely place for a grandma-even a bold, gregarious one like myself, traveling alone, I was excited to get to Spain where I know a few more words.

But, in Bordeaux. I met Graham Taylor, at the Cafe Des Artes. I first noticed his Nikon and then when we talked, his blue eyes. Turns out, Graham was staying at the same hotel as I. The next two evenings we spent at a jazz club located conveniently in the hood by our hotel. We sucked down our vodkas-his with coke-yikes; mine a martini with flavored vodka in a Pilsner glass to start, until at my urging, Graham explained to the sexy waitress that the vodka should be plain; at least that´s what I thought he was talking about as he leaned over the bar with a perfect view of her lovely cleavage.

There was no music because it was Monday, so we talked and talked. I let him talk some. I´m glad too, because Graham is not only smart and funny, he is 29. He holds the view of most of the people I´ve met, that Bush really fucked up the state of affairs of the world with his war and that the education system-both his in England and ours-in America, sucks, is boring, and not conducive to learning. We decided that history is not boring, history teachers are boring. Show Mel Gibson movies for God´s sake; Make some animated cartoons, teach geometry on a pool table...

And I met Helene and her friend from Beijing. Lovely women who also give me hope for the future of the planet. I hope to see her next year in her home town.
And did I mention that Putin is now my age? To celebrate he had himself videoed doing his black belt karate chops in his bare feet. What a showoff. My feet are prettier.

After Bordeaux I took the train to Spain. I was so excited to be going where I would be able to understand the language and actually voice my needs with several parts of speech. Everything was good until I got to San Sebastian. They do not speak Spanish in the Basque country. It is said to be similar to the Celtic language with a lot of hard consonant sounds. Whatever. Gergurfff is not easy on the hearing aides. But that´s not the point. In San Sebastian I got on the wrong train. I was rescued by a business man who put me in the proper place to catch the correct train but alas I got on the wrong train again. This time the train was going in the general direction of Bilbao, with only one change, so I stayed on it.

These trains in northern Spain are one gauge trains. Remember the little engine that could-well, as this one was chugging up a hill it couldn't. So it stopped. After a few minutes we all exited the train in the back, jumped onto the tracks, and walked on the tracks several blocks to the town and then to the station where we waited for a bus that drove us to Bilbao. A burly women helped me carry my heavy bag along the tracks. Then, as I said, I stayed in the hotel where the bus let me out. Life is simple really. What traveling does is remind me not to fight it..to flow.

Jump to Barcelona. the first night there I wandered down the street to the Liceu Opera House to get info. 102.euros later I had a ticket and was sitting in the 2nd balcony center. Despair, God, love, abuse.. the whole story sung in arias.. the place is known as the most opulent opera house in all of Spain. It didn´t move me to tears but the singing was good even if it wasn´t Placito Domingo who is my very favorite -ok next to Sean Connery. And then the Museo de Picasso. Who knew he got into potting after all those other periods. You see, age is just a thing that gets you warmed up as you go along.

I ended my stay in Barcelona with a Gaudi tour.. Jesus. I am in love with this man. He used broken concrete and tile pieces as no other has and toppled the right-angle architects on their ears. Sensual, colorful .. like snorkeling thru a building, weightless, surrounded with color.

I´ve been sampling the tapas. Good thing I brought Rolaids. Last night I had pescatitos fritos..little fried fish.. the not-so-little bones got stuck in my throat causing coughs that even vino tinto couldn't´t wash down. So more bread. Nobody seems to be fat in Europe but I don´t know why. bread bread bread.

Madrid. First day there I chilled by watching a John Wayne movie on tv in the hostel which is quite nice because it was the only English channel I could find. My own three story walk up room with bath and a complicated tv that I haven´t figured out yet.

That night I sat at a cafe and watched the people. So many of them had black suits and red ties. I thought the Mormons were convening. Some of them had what looked like they were carrying their own pool cues but they were probably flutes-maybe very long flutes. I wondered if the Mormons were infl¡trating the pool halls. Anything is possible. When I followed them I found that they were part of a private concert and was summarily stopped at the door. Ha. Private Mormon concert bettya. Walking around I saw the Museo de Jamon or Ham Museum. What a concept. And I went into a place that had cheap sweet clothes from India. If I had ANY room in my suitcase I would at least buy a couple of shirts but ...ok maybe. there are English version movies in the center parque near me- o.v. for original version, so I can spend an eve watching am American movie.. Ninos in Pajamas ..reyes.. I´m not sure what it´s about but it sounds right up my alley..

And them there was Madrid. The Prado is lovely. Velasquez, Goya, ... you name a Spanish painter and he was there. But stuffy..like most. And on the way from there I was at a news stand fixen to buy an English language paper because I wanted to read about the debate and a man behind me said, Are you really sure you want to read that.´His name is Robert. We soon found ourselves laughing, and dining, and listening to jazz. He is a writer from NYC and has convinced me that a one woman show is possible. See. Anything really is.

OK rough, but minutes are up and here goes!

Mommy

2008-05-10T08:28:00.000-07:00

Grown don't mean nothing to a mother. A child is a child. They get
bigger, older, but grown? What's that suppose to mean? In my heart
it don't mean a thing. ~Toni Morrison, Beloved, 1987

I love this quote. They must be out there, but I don’t know a single mother who considers age a factor in the art mothering. It’s what gets us in trouble with our kids.
“Mom! I’m an adult! I don’t need your advice, criticism, lecture, opinion, counsel or presence"…….Ahh. Sad is the mother who believes this.

Yes, we need to step aside while they make their own mistakes, sometimes we need to push them into the risky unknown and then hide our angst while they explore it, and we definitely need to get completely out of the way when they tattoo their bodies or pierce their nose for some ungodly reason, or take a same sex, different race, conservative, or liberal, lover. (Or any other element disagreeable to us)

But like Mother Earth, we need to BE there, obvious and evident with our love, our wisdom, & our support. We need to tell them the truth; teach them to both give and receive, and respect. There isn’t much mention of wisdom in our society in the United States. Maybe some adult kids think they can get wisdom on the web, or they don’t know that it comes from living and that we have it and are willing to share or even that they could use some.

I remember after Reagan fired the air traffic controllers, my mother, Alice, was afraid to fly so she took the train from Pennsylvania to California to visit me and my kids-her beloved grandkids. The trip lasted three days; she was in her 70s so I know her back must have ached something terrible as she sat looking out the window at the passing scenery or read a romance novel that transported her back to her youth. I don’t know what she thought about as the Zephyr rolled away from the lush Allegheny Mountains into the mid-west plains, and over the forbidding Rockies. I wish I did but she quit writing a diary after she lost her virginity at age 18.

All I know is what I thought. Even though we had a hard time when we were together-in person-head-to-hard head, my mom and I were in love. I never lost sight that she gave me life; I counted the hours and minutes until her arrival. I made sure Kirk was home, that there was gas in the car to pick her up, that the house was somewhat tidy and that the kids were presentable.

I was 44 when the train pulled into the Martinez station. Just like in the movies, the passengers spilled out of countless doors all at once making it difficult to spot a single person. But, finally I saw her soft gray hair at the top of the steps. As I ran to her I yelled, “Mommy!”

Mourning, Celebrating, Remembering, & a New Name.

2008-03-23T05:05:00.000-07:00

When I read in the paper last week that most of the humpback whales were heading north I felt a pang of melancholy-a bit like when my children left home. I remember mornings when the kids were little. I would look at them a minute before I woke them up. My heart would fill. Then when I wasn't yelling at them because they couldn't find their books, or homework, or didn't take the dogs for a walk, I'd watch them interact: Alice methodical and prepared trying to help (or discipline) Anna for dawdling & playing. I would laugh because they were so consistently opposite and interesting.

Almost every morning the past couple of weeks I've watched the whales frolic out front while I drank my morning coffee. Who said you can't weigh a ton and be graceful! The humpback whales are acrobats of the sea, breaching, sky hopping,and flob tailing. Yesterday afternoon I watched with glee as one flob tailed for about 1/2 hour. Over and over, at least 20 times,(I lost count) she lifted her massive butt into the air and crashed her gorgeous obsidian flukes that glinted in the sunlight onto the water. Voyeurism is exhausting.

The male humpbacks are the Pavarottis and Domingos of the sea.They sing these eerie, beautiful, and complex songs that are said to last up to half an hour and are repeated continuously for hours. Ten or so years ago when my daughter, Anna, got married in Maui her husband, Dave, I think it was, was swimming and heard them singing. When he told us I plunged into the warm water and listened. For a minute or so I heard it; a brief U Tube concert. Next year I will be ready with some snorkeling gear so I can hear a whole song.

Still on singing. Sitting in front of me on the beach a few days ago were two teenage girls. One of them sang for the other who listened intently, nodding her head in approval. This kid sang bluesy Mexican tunes with Amy Winehouse gusto. I was happy to just sit and watch her appreciate her own voice enough to share it.

Puerto Vallarta is partying again. The catholics here mourn during Semana Santa, the week leading up to the Crucifixion then everyone parties for another week -for Pascua, to celebrate the Resurrection. How could you not applaud the concept of rising from the dead? The beach is a giant swath of color, music, dancing, cooking and mayhem.

When Sophie and I were slogging through the surf Thursday, I thought about the summer vacations me,my mom and her friends-all sexy, vibrant women, took to Lake Erie. We stayed at The Village, a motel on the beach that had a series of weathered clapboard cottages with tiny kitchens. But the real draw of The Village was its nightclub with a large dance floor and a full-on orchestra: trumpets, saxophones, trombones,drums, bass,a piano...These women LOVED to dance.

I have a vague recollection of Smiley, the orchestra leader's Irish charm. But it is my mom who would never forget him. You see, she had his child.

I remember that trip as being a fun one. I was 9.Me,Mom,her friend Tacy, and my dog Niki, drove Mom's Ford Skyliner 2500 miles to Santa Monica, CA. There are no pictures of Mom on that trip but I remember her wearing loose mu mu type dresses. She had naturally large breasts so the combination kept her swollen belly well hidden. The day she gave birth, Tacy and I were at Grauman's Chinese Theatre on Hollywood Blvd. Tacy sobbed so loud during the movie, Shane,that I was embarrassed. Of course I know now that she probably didn't even notice the sad movie; she was crying for her friend who was giving birth to a daughter she would never see.

Mary Leslie Sten,pumping with irreverent Irish blood was given to a Swedish family. The reason, I found out when I was 40 something; when mom's dark secret burst forth, was that Mom refused to see her child grow up condemned and ridiculed for being illegitimate. She alone would pay the price of her own sin.

There are pictures of Tacy and me and one with me and Tonto. When we left Pennsylvania I had great hopes of seeing Roy Rogers,Dale Evans or Gene Audrey but was happy with Tonto dressed in full Indian regalia. I took souvenirs back to all my friends. I would rather have had a sister.

At 11 o'clock on Good Friday, my friend, Laurel and I joined the procession of Christ to Calvary. The route here goes from Woolworths to Our Lady of Guadalupe Church over part of the mountainside. This is no easy trek. It involves two very steep hills difficult to climb in sturdy shoes carrying a bag of groceries much less barefoot lugging a heavy wooden cross-not to mention the Roman guard hitting and shoving you because you aren't moving fast enough.

Laurel and I caved after the first hill. We took the lowland route directly to the church steps. Waiting for the procession we had a conversation with a family from Walnut Creek, CA, whose kids go to a Catholic school, about some new commandments the pope has made. The woman said she wasn't a particularly good catholic but she didn't think that he could do that-that they were probably amendments to the commandments. Amendments to commandments. Whoa. Maybe he has finally listed pedophilia as a bad thing.I read somewhere recently that he said women should be more like women than men or something to that effect. Fine with me. Keep your penis but I'm serious about equal wages and having control over my body. I marched the soles off my shoes in the 70s so my daughters and granddaughters would have choice and equality in every aspect of their lives. Personally I think that even the gentle Christ would have a difficult time with some of the rigid rules the Pope imposes on women.

Last week I got a surprise email from Jon Hammond,Tehachapi's unofficial historian and expert on flora & fauna. He honored me by giving me the name Tavi Nomo'o, which he said, means Sun Woman in the Kawaiisu language, the area's indigenous Indians. He said the name reflects my bright spirit and my current sunny surrounding. How sweet is that!

It's Easter Sunday. The church bells are ringing. If I hurry I'll have time to put on my new Easter outfit with the matching shoes and sombrero & catch the 11 o'clock service.

God Bless Us Everyone. -Tiny Tim or maybe Timmy. I can't remember.

"It's a shallow life that doesn't give a person a few scars."
-Garrison Keillor

Paz en tierra.
Ruby Tavi Nomo'o

Estados Unidos & back

2008-03-12T19:20:00.000-07:00

I've been back from the Estados Unidos a couple of days now. It's good to be home. My own crazy home. From the PV airport I took the local bus into El Centro but couldn't bring myself to lug my heavy bags full of essential Trader Joe & Ikea stuff up the hill to Camp Aldama, so I took a cab. The whole tab: 450 pesos or $4.50. I dumped the stuff inside and sprinted across town to get Margaret from Liana's locked parking area. I waited an hour for someone to show up with a key. But it was a good hour. Dana & Mark Zellar, an expat couple, from NYC, were singing Broadway tunes in an art gallery across the street for a fundraising benefit: " If I were a rich man...la la la.. The place was packed and folks spilled out onto the street. Sweet.Come to find out the gate only looked locked. But who cares about that.

I feel heady with my new legal-to-drive status. Under the dappled sky lit by a quarter slice moon, I headed up the Rio Cuale to Paso Ancho to get Sophie. I bumped and jolted over cobblestones many of which I'm certain were last anchored into the street around 1912. I zipped along, dodging people, critters & hot carts of roasted papas and plantains. I dipped into culverts and leaped over speed bumps that are called topes or sleeping policemen here, as if Margaret were Chitty Chitty Bang Bang. Not even the dumpster diving horses were fazed. Many people let their livestock mosey around town at night and collect them in the morning as they do on the Lions Trail from Tehachapi to Bodfish.

Carolina, the primo dog sitter in Paradise, has a lively, colorful, bungalow that she built herself. The dogs share the space with her; no outside kennels for her guests. It's the Regency complete with grass for rolling and your own bed. This evening in addition to Sophi, she was hosting three chihuahuas, her adorable mutt, and a rowdy golden retriever who just wanted to play, dammit. Sophie tolerated the crowd like an aging great aunt.

On the way home I stopped at Rizzos, the local market that caters to everyone. After asking three different clerks for leche de soya we finally found it. Soy Dream-SoyMilk Original Classic USDA organic. The boy read the label. "Soymelk. soymelk." Si, I said. "Milk - leche." Ahhh." I threw it into the cart and headed thru the aisles for peanut butter to go with the bunch of celery I had found. Celery on steroids. Truly, the stock or bunch is as long and thick as the calf of my leg. I am not lying. But, all of the Mexican peanut butter I could find seemed to be a product of the US but had added sugar. Why is that? Finally, I found Laura Scudders Natural Peanut Butter. Yes!

This morning, in the light of day, I saw the prices of my coveted items. Soymilk: 62.42. Over six dollars for soy milk. Jesus, Mary & Joseph! And the peanut butter with nothing but fuckin' peanuts: even more 63.26. Good thing I'm wealthy.

I've only been gone six months and all the kids I know have grown like they ate one of Alice's magic cookies. My grandson, Avery, still 2 til April, aside for asking, "Grandma, What you doin?" a zillion times a day is so-so grown up, he has formed definite opinions. "No. I not using the potty. Not now. It's not so good." We bonded in train town.

I loved visiting with my friends and their families. Michelle and Miranda, Stan, Sabrina and Miles. I kept Stan up way past his bed time. We met at the famous Holy city Zoo comedy club on Clement St in San Francisco, maybe around 1980. What a treat.

And Tehachapi is home. Since I was ten I've never lived anyplace where I feel so loved. And my friends know how to play. Well, just look at the picture. There is Pat, Kathy, & me in the Bouldin's hot tub. Dave is our personal 'pool boy.' Cindy took the very tasteful, don't you think, picture. Not one nipple showing. How did she do that? Dave, delivering libations, including the aged, pure agave tequila Kathy requested I bring from Mexico said, "Being pool boy is lots of fun." I admire him most though because he is a man who weeps from the force of love for his granddaughter, Lilly.

Cooper, my granddaughter, who is a young woman of 14 now, wrote her name in the wet concrete on the stoop at Falling Apple Ranchita when I bought it-6 years ago? Some of my son's ashes are at the Kirby's: most of them are in Pennsylvania nestled in a box Steve made in the 7th. grade. Annette, my partner in crime, my sister. Family. Sisterhood. It's a true thing in that small mountain town.

But I got off the track.

The Lathams came over and helped us drink the tequila. One shot at at a time, it was gone. Poof. The following morning, the lovely tequila showed it's class by not a single one of us having a hangover. When I was 5, my grandpa took me on a train to NY where I attended my first horse race." Always bet on class, Honey," he advised. He was a wise man.

Where did the time go?On Coronado Island I stayed in Cooper's room as I usually do. This time we planned for our Hawaii trip this summer. And we had sushi twice and Vietnamese food. It was like having a three day sleep over with a good friend.

My daughter, Alice, is a photo maven. Her walls are lush with photos that evoke memories for me: my son laughing with Johnny Cash, Alice, age four or five, pushing her younger sister and friend Marvin in the stroller. Her arms are straight up because she can barely reach the handle, striding. It's a b&w photo I took and printed in our basement, in the old days.

She has a Ruth Bernhard nude print. (she gave me one a few years ago for Christmas). Beauty in a box. There was a woman who knew light. She could see. What a wonderful photographer. Ruth just died in the last year or so. She was 101! Ruth Bernhart. Wow.

And I love to shop with my daughters. Alice has this eye for detail that I've never had. Franz, her dad, said I was knitted with a big needle- loopy. I'm not sure what his point was? Maybe it had nothing to do with detail.

Today, from my window I watched with binoculars as a mom whale taught her baby to breach. I can tell you it takes many belly flops, patience and perseverance to become a ballerina. The mom swam around her while the baby repeated the moves over and over. I bet they were out front at least 15 minutes, just doing these maneuvers. After they left two more showed up within the hour. It was a trip.

"Damn the lights. Watch the cars. The lights never killed nobody." -Jackie
"Moms" Mabley

Paz en tierra

& have a raucous St Paddy's day

Ruby

Independently wealthy

2008-02-26T07:53:00.000-08:00

Between dances at the noisy Roxy bar last week John, a neighbor of mine, leaned over and asked, "Are you independently wealthy?" I thought for just a second. I have a great family, good health, and enough money to do what I want without being piggy. "Yes. I am, I said."

Margaret's sticker is in California. Enough said.It cost me almost $500.00 US. At least it was just money. I was an idiot. The bitch went to the bank while I waited for her in her office. There's a red flag.

I've been in Mexico 6 months, mas o menos. I came with the intention of learning the language and culture. I can only claim to have completed a small section of a Mexico for dummies course, but I like it here.

There is a looseness about Latin life that suits me. They close the streets, sometimes several days or even a couple of weeks at a time for parties. Strangers smile & speak to me for no particular reason other than to connect I think.

Acceptance beats out perfection: comfort-pretension. That goes for their sexuality too; non of that puritan, bull shit, stifling, don't-touch-yourself-down-there stuff. If my ass hadn't slipped down to behind my thighs somewhere I would be wearing skinny spiked heels to thrust it a few inches higher myself. I am now a Birkenstock woman.

I love that I can buy one egg. Of if I smoked, 1 cigarette, or 3 slices of Oscar Meyer lunch meat. And a small slice of cheese that is called cheddar but it's clearly not. The same with Parmesan. Mexicans could care less that the EU courts say only Italy can call Parmesan cheese, Parmesan. Fuck Them. Mexican Parmesan comes from Uruguay. I wouldn't mess with them about what they name their cheese either.

I'm still a scavenger. Not that I dig through the bastura. Isn't that word better than garbage? Bastura. But, like yesterday when I saw this nice reed basket...it's seems a shame to pass up something perfectly lovely or useful just because someone else didn't like it. Think about it. The luckiest of us will never outlive our usefulness or beauty and hopefully we'll be used over and over til we wear out. And, I nabbed a cool, wooden box for a night stand.

It seems everyone dances here. Dance-bailar: salsa, tango, and maybe the it's the Mexican two-step I see the abulitas doing in the park to the spunky sounds of the official city 12 piece orchestra playing in the gazebo. The kids start young. Friday evening as my friends and I sat around a table on the sand watching the sunset, a little girl, maybe 6, danced on the pier. Moved by the Brazilian blues quartet playing in the open air restaurant near by, she dipped & twirled. It was only when she partnered with the lamp post that we glimpsed an even wider range of possible dancing options to choose from.

And sing-cantar. Drunk or sober, good or bad, anywhere, anytime, Mexican people lift their voices in song, especially the men. Arias, boleros, mariachi, or cantos de amour: a capella, or accompanied. It's a wonderful thing.

And besos-kisses. Kissing is done passionately as it should be. We're not talking pecks on the cheek here. In the park, on the malecon, or waiting for traffic to move, night or day, couples both young and old submit to emotion & lust without shame or fear of reprisal. It makes me want to grab some old dude and throw him to the concrete, I swear.

Was Mark Twain Mexican?
"Dance like nobody's watching; love like you've never been hurt. Sing like nobody's listening; live like it's heaven on earth.

Mexican neighbors are are solid like their houses with backbones of re bar. Built to last. They are hard working survivors: of tropical weather, 500 years of oppression by the Spanish, and rampant gringo infestation.

I don't profess to understand the violent elements of this society: bullfighting or the bloody pitting of gallos or dogs against one another. Yesterday two hombres carried off two unsuspecting, handsome gallos from my neighbor's yard. One man stroked his lovingly as he walked up the hill. The executioner giving you a neck massage before he whacks your head off. In this case, throws you into the pit for combat.

Urban women here have gained Independence pretty much like the rest of us in the western world but rural indigenous women are fighting an up hill battle for any rights at all. But, they are fighting. I read about Eufrosina Cruz, a 27 year old Zapotec woman who recently ran for mayor of her village in the mountains of Oaxaca. The male elders tore up all of the ballots cast in her favor. I tried to reach her through the paper, The News, to send her money but even that failed. Maybe the traditional Indian form of government, usos y costumbres (uses and customs) that got legal status 6 years ago, I suspect to shut them up, are in cahoots with the local media. Nothing would surprise me. I don't care what anybody says, every country is corrupt.

What I haven't heard here in paradise, except from a neighbor who is a retired Canadian, is whining. It just isn't done. Get off your ass and do what you have to do. No quejandose.

My friend Linda visited for a couple of days. I introduced her to Yelapa, an old coastal village that finally got electricity 4 or 5 years ago. You get there by panga, a 16 or 19 foot boat. On the way over two Humpback whales swam along side us for a couple of minutes. We were thrilled.

If you go there, wade across the river, hook a left at the wide dirt path, and look for Passionflower Gardens on the right. It's my friend, April's place. Oh, my goodness, she can cook. But, that's not all. She can read your tarot &and make you laugh. How cool is that.

"Do you know there's a road that goes down to Mexico and all the way to
Panama? And maybe all the way to the bottom of South America where the
Indians are seven feet tall and eat cocaine on the mountainside? Yes? You
and I, Sal, we'd dig the whole world with a car like this because, man, the
road must eventually lead to the whole world. Ain't nowhere else it can
go-right?" -Jack Kerouac
Paz en tierra.-ruby

Birds, the beach, and an occasional surprise.

2008-02-05T10:10:00.000-08:00

It's super Tuesday and the first time I haven't voted since 1961. Do I feel guilty? Only if Obama loses by one vote.

Good things come to those who wait? Maybe. Mostly it sucks. Waiting in lines for stuff: the bank, grocery store, a toilet. And the good ones: the birth of your child, Christmas morning when you were a child, your birthday before you were 30...

Yesterday I watched brown pelicans circle above the surf, fishing. When they see lunch they plunge head first straight into the water. The first time I saw these magnificient birds was 34 years ago. I was on a summer road trip in Mazie, our burgandy and cream VW bus, with my three kids and two teenagers. We were staying at a friend's beach house on Santa Maria Island off the west coast of Flordia on the Gulf Of Mexico.

Besides playing in the warm, phosphorus water that turned our bodies a magical silver, my favorite place was the pier. A hubbub of fishing activity, brown pelicans circled overhead ever viligant for an easy meal. They were as guileless as Hansel and Gretel-never suspecting some of the fish they sought were already caught. What? Fish close to the surface just sliding along?

So the magnificant birds plunged, swallowing both the fish and the line.Predictably they were then dragged on to the pier where the pelican was held down by several people who extracted the fish. Usually the pelican flew away a few minutes later-confused by what had just happened. I don't know if any of them learned their lesson or if they thought the experience was a one time thing. Someone told me that pelicans eventually go blind from the force of the water on their eyes. That is a bum deal.

The Bald Eagles on Homer Split in Alaska are about as bad. On a tip from a fellow drinker at the local American Legion hall in Stuart, I watched several eagles hover above the Homer pier waiting for salmon parts-mostly fins and heads to be tossed to them or into the water where they could just scoop them up. I was disappointed because I thought our national bird was classier than that but feeding yourself & a couple of chicks is not easy regardless of status.

My new Spanish tutor dumped me. I admitted to not being the best student ever but told her that I thought my enthusiasm would overcome my lack of disclipline. She wanted me to write Enero & Agosto 10 times & wasn't satisfied with my answer when she asked me what people do in other countries when they can't speak the language? I casually mentioned that I married my algebra tutor back in the old days, that he obviously hadn't been so picky when it came to academics.

I want to be like Sophie. When a perfectly coiffed standard poodle strutted by her on the beach this morning she didn't even raise her head. She is absolutly comfortable in her own aging skin.

Sitting on a beach chair in the sun I counted how many men I saw adjusting their balls in an hour. 11. I noticed that adjusting and spitting are highly public functions here. My mother would be appalled. Rest her soul.

Last week my Mexican doorbell rangout. Standing outside was handsome Ivan Gustavo. As you might imagine, I was thrilled. " Ivan, I called out over the railing, good things do come to those who wait! Here I am waiting for my car and a good looking, hunk-o- man appears! Lucky me." Driving isn't everything.

Humor is reason gone mad. -Groucho Marx

Paz en tierra. -Ruby

Esperando

2008-01-25T11:54:00.000-08:00

Esperando: waiting, hoping, expecting

Yo estoy esperando. I am waiting. Yo espero. I have hope. I am waiting and hoping and expecting - for a letter from customs.

Last week sophie and I went to the post office to see if it was there, maybe forgotten on a shelf somewhere. Really we went because I feel I have to DO something besides wait.As we walked I practiced my spanish on her. " Yo estoy esparando para una carta de aduana en Mexico. Sabe usted esta aqui?" close enough. I am waiting for a letter from customs. Do you know if it is here? The postal clerk looked. It was not.

My problem is that Margaret, my mini cooper, has been in quarantine since Dec 17.

It happened like this. I was driving my Dutch friend, Sasha, and I to the cinema. She said,"Vers yur ticker fur yur kar?" I said, "What sticker?" "Da oun dat ya ned ta driv en Mexico?" "I don't know. Noone gave me one." "Ohh, I thk dats bad.I thk dey cud tak yur kar avey frevr widoud da ticker."

That is bad.

Sasha was right. They could. For forever. So, I paid 350 US bucks to a woman to write up the proper paper work which will result in permission, in the form of a letter that allows me to drive back to the border legally, to get the sticker. I will have 5 days to do this.I don'tknow if those 5 days are from the day the letter is mailed or the day I get it. She said I could expect the letter to arrive in a month-mas o menos. That was December 17th so it's already mas. And getting more mas.

I'm not good at esperando. Most Norte Americanos aren't.We expect quick service. When it doesn't happen we get bitchy.Quick is not the Mexican way. I am struggling to adjust. On Friday my neighborhood post man was coming out of the building as I was going in. We spoke in spanglish. He asked me to tell him what it was I was looking for. He promised to watch for my letter. He got my phone number and said he would call when it came in. Yo espero.

As soon as the letter comes I will leave Sophie here and drive north for a turnaround trip for a fucking sticker. To southern California it takes three days. Amazing. What century is this?

A few blocks from me a faded sign reads: Maria Calendaria Authentica. Who knew Marie Calendar was Mexican?

My new favorite food is alote or esquite: corn in a cup. They boil corn kernels in big vats then spoon the hot corn into plastic cups: a little mayo, queso, lime, & some hot sauce.yum. And homemade ice cream: vanilla, coco, or another one I forget,and long skewers of grilled shrimp or fish fillets squirted liberally with lime, and fresh fruit and cucumber sticks, on the street! I love the street food.

In addition to the kid who bangs on the pan behind my departmento, and the gallos and barking dogs and very loud even for me music, there is someone tonight playing the tuba. I kid you not. It's been going on for over an hour, BOM bom BOM bom. bom bom Bom, bom.. It's not bad tuba playing. Just different. I never lived next to a tuba player before.

My neighbors are eating the pigeons. I've watched several pigeons come and go from various cages on the wall of the house behind me. It wasn't until I saw a woman stroking one and then put it back into a small cage that I got suspicious. When I observed them throw out corn meal to fatten them up I was certain.

My suitor from Guadalajara called me last saturday night. It was the 3rd or 4th time he's called and I've missed them all. Sunday I decided to call him back. I went to Lianna's so she could interpret for me if I needed her to. With the speaker phone on I asked " Es esta reyes? I asked. He said, "No." It's incorrecto or something to that effect. Wrong number. Wrong number? He hung up. I think he panicked. I'd used the redial so it couldn't have been the wrong number. The lying bastard. I called back. A woman answered. She said she was his wife. Lianna did most of the talking." She asked what did we want? Who were we?" Lianna said, Nada. Nada. and hung up. I wanted to call back and say, " I am a woman he calls, a woman he met in a bar." are you really his wife?

What is up with that? Why would a carousing man give a woman his phone number where his wife lives-which he did, and why would he call this woman on a phone that is apparently a home phone? Color me perplexed.I will never understand men.

Our cold spell is abating. If anyone has the notion to visit the weather is perfect. The bay is dotted with white sails. You can have my undivided attention porque yo estoy esparando.

paz en tierra,
ruby

"You were born with wings. Why prefer to crawl through life?" -rumi

fgt

Camp Aldama

2008-01-13T18:01:00.000-08:00

Camp Aldama is arriba on Calle Aldama above the Pacific and the malecon. The street stops-but doesn't end when it runs into the concrete wall that keeps the dirt of the hill from collapsing. At that point Aldama Privata continues up the hill by the way of steps that I'm sure go all the way to heaven and Emilio Caranzza begins where Aldama ends by making a sharp right and going south to Gringo Gulch.

From my west window Camp Aldama has a lovely view of the ocean, roof tops, the sky, and into the neighbors windows if you care to look. From the roof the view is spectacular. Out the back the view is east into the hills and of the houses stacked on top of each other. the amazing thing is they have all been built by hand. Burros, prodded by a huffing and puffing man with a small stick or rope that switches their butts when they falter, haul the sand and bricks up the steep hill to be made into concrete and walls by the amazing Mexican builders.

Directly behind me, one story higher, I had an exhibitionist for a few weeks. After some procrastination I got my long lens ready to take his picture-but he hasn't appeared lately. The neighbors are loud. One man sings the same notes as the gallo crows. It's not as pleasant a sound coming from a man. Dogs bark, chickens cluck and crow, & children scream. The Mexican doorbell is standing in the street yelling or whistling. All household essentials are sold through the streets: water, propane, honey, flowers..I am sure there are other goods I am not aware of. Reyna owns the launderia where I have my clothes washed.

My dpartmente is a one bedroom with a bath that has a shower with enough warm water for a quick washing. That is the only place there is hot water. My shit is mostly too large for the toilet so the plunger is indispensable. there is no TV, no oven and glacial ice has overtaken the small fridge. But, the bed is comfortable & the space conducive to work & reflection plus the requisite siesta I have gotten used to.

Puerto Vallarta is not necessarily old Mexico. It is populated with many gringos from Canada and the States both as permanent residents and tourists. Several very large cruise ships arrive and depart every day. because of the large influx of English speaking folks it is taking me much longer than I imagined to learn Spanish.

There have been several issues of note that I will post in the next few days: Margaret did not have the appropriate paper work so is in quarantine. I visited Guadalajara and some of Michoacan over Christmas with my friend Susan and my friend Xochili invited me to Mexico City to spend Three Kings Day with her family last week. The humpback whales are here for birthing and fucking. I have seen them from my window once so far. Mexican men apparently have no concept of seduction-at least the ones I meet. This very evening I sat beside one in the main parque to listen to the orchestra play favorite Mexican songs that most people knew the words to.

Before I learned his name he asked me if he and I could walk to my house. I said no. He said porque? I said I didn't even know his name. He shrugged. Perhaps I have it all wrong. Maybe names aren't important. At my friend's house, her dad grabbed my crotch at each opportunity and wanted to take me to a hotel or just to bed me in his house. No. I said.. Porque? he asked. I am not comfortable. I said. I hardly know you. He shrugged.

I guess I'm a picky Norte American bitch. At least with my diminished libido I don't care much. There is a man-Reyes, that I met in Guadalajara. He strikes me fancy but when he calls he is apparently either drunk or can't think of something to say in English or simple Spanish. it will be a minor miracle if we ever see each other again.

My book is coming along as much as possible considering my limited disclipline and organizational skills. I have met an angel named Yolanda. She runs a wonderful place for disabled kids, Pasito de Luz. I plan to spend time there raising money and holding the children.

I love sitting on the beach with my friends having a drink, listening to music while watching the sunset and walking along the malecon the weekends when the clowns are performing in the entertainment pit, and the food: corn in a cup with mayo and hot sauce, aqua fresca, made in a big gourd with nuts and fruits for a buck! The people smile at us -sophi and me. Especially the kids love the big dog. I say, no muerte alot so they aren't afraid. That seems to be enough.

The folks in the picture are: Lianna, yo y Sophi having drinks in the Rio Cuale before dinner, an old woman in Michoacan taken by Susan, GI Joe in a lancha de coco, the upside down dog barks thru the quadrafoil (sp?), Quimixto beach I think, and the pier in Pv where we watch the sunset and get the panja for Yelapa and Huichol ninas.

Enough now. hasta luego. rubi

Buddha at Falling Apple Ranchita

2007-07-22T12:56:00.000-07:00

Summer vacation has ended.

2007-07-15T20:17:00.000-07:00

My 3 day outing to the Kern River Valley with Cooper and her friend Robyn, both 13 was mostly sweet.

I enjoy spending time with my friend Sherry who put us up in her lovely home over looking Lake Isabella. She and I passed the 3 day road trip test last Nov when we drove across country to Nashville then me on to SC to see my grand daughter, Ireland, born which I missed by 5 hours.

By the time I dropped her off at The Farm we could have gotten married but alas, we are both glaringly hetero. During our trip we found out that BOTH our given names at birth were Cheryl Ann, we are both Leo & Sheep according to the Chinese calendar if you believe the place mats where the pork is glazed neon red. (maybe more on that trip later)

Cooper and her friend Robyn were good kids except for having that irritating sense of entitlement that comes from parents and grandparents who indulge them excessively; an attitude that I find hard to tolerate. Robyn actually complained to Cooper because she had to help carry the food cooler and my chair-after I had bought them new tubes and driven them there, bought the rafting tickets- blah blah.

But we had fun. They tubed through the jutting rocks down the river, paddled with gusto in the grade 2 & 3 rapids when the guide said paddle and Rose, Sherry's lovely daughter and her b-friend, Brandon, took them to a rock that was so high they looked like miniature people from the bottom but still they courageously jumped into the river (Cooper always 1st of course) and had a blast.

The following week Cooper and I headed to Vegas. It's pure delight to view this cuidad de avaricia (one of the 7 deadly sins but I prefer slothfulness) through the eyes of wonder that a child has rather than my own wearied & jaded vision. I did feel pangs of jealousy when she said that she and her friend planned to come back and that "they were going to ride all of the rides." I asked, "Why won't you ride them with me?" With a look that stated my question was stupid, she said, "It's different. You're my grandmother." Ahhh. It's my money and generous countenance she appreciates.

We sat with a Chinese family to see Dirk Arthur's Extreme magic. The magic was fine, even good but the use of gorgeous rare tigers in Las Vegas makes me nauseous. Men have such egos.

We even viewed Siegfreid & Roys garden zoo with the lion and tiger retirees from their show. They were all napping because retirees can do that at their leisure.

In the small building where garden zoo there is a large cardboard cutout of the two men in their heyday. Roy is wearing sexy black leather pants and a white shirt with the buttons open to his nipples and is straddling a large gorgeous white tiger. I asked the docent how Roy was doing and where the tiger that mauled him was. She said, "It's here somewhere, but I've never seen it." I'm thinking buried.

Go see LOVE. The choreography, costumes, acrobatics, and of course the Beatles sound track makes for a truly feel good, spellbinding evening.

The next day we had lunch at the Top Of The World-isn't that just like Las Vegas to compare their five star restaurant with the arctic. I had the 2 martini lunch. 2 martinis and a bowl of lobster bisque. Cooper had a virgin pina colada, a chicken Cesar salad & a sculpted chocolate replica of the Stratosphere.

Instead of going to the Grand Canyon we went to the Fashion Mall. The thinking here is that the GC will be there and doesn't change much but fashions go and come with such rapidity you need to be quick. It was interesting. I cashed out my Christmas Club $ that had reached a big 80.00 and gave it to her- I will be long gone come Christmas. She spent most of it at Wet Seal, a clothing store that specializes in teen garb-cute, short, revealing, stuff that did not give my matronly body even the illusion of perky.

In Macy's matron department I tried on an orange cotton, wrap around dress. Cooper looked at me. "Yur kidding. Right?" I bought it.

I wore a simple black linen shift with slits on the sides to LOVE. She said it wasn't very hip. Which poses the questions. How long exactly do we need to be hip? The dress breathes, covers body imperfections that don't exist in her world, and in my life inevitable vino tinto stains. But I've decided to shorten it. It will be hipper. And the legs are good; the ankles still shapely.

We toured the Hoover Dam. Enough said.

She is home and I've decided this was my last summer as hostess of teenagers. But, Cooper wants to go to England. That I can do. Another year. After I've recovered.

Viajo porque debo.

2007-07-05T13:24:00.000-07:00

"When I was very young and the urge to be someplace was on me, I was assured by mature people that maturity would cure this itch. When years described me as mature, the remedy prescribed was middle age. In middle age I was assured that greater age would calm my fever and now that I am fifty-eight perhaps senility will do the job. Nothing has worked. . . In other words, I don't improve, in further words, once a bum always a bum. I fear the disease is incurable."
- John Steinbeck

My first trip alone was in 1958. I was 15. I flew from my small town of less than 250 people in the mountains of Pennsylvania to Montgomery, Alabama to visit my cousin, Larry and his wife. The plane landed in Atlanta. Because of mechanical problems it stayed there. After several hours of boredom & hard seats in the airport I decided to take a bus.

I was one of the last to board the packed Greyhound bus from the depot in downtown Atlanta. I scrunched down the narrow aisle past ruddy white faces sitting in all the available seats to the back of the bus where there was an empty one. I asked the black man in the seat next to it if the seat was taken. He shook his head no. As I settled in, a white man in the middle of the bus stood up and yelled at me. "What are you doing sitting with the niggers?" he screamed. I remember his red, mad face hovering above the backs of heads and the silence. People knew he was trouble. I grew up in an Irish bar so I wasn't afraid of much plus my mother had married a man whose face got red when he was angry-which was often.

"You want me to take your seat and you can stand?" I asked him. Faced with the option of standing or standing up for what he believed, he backed down muttering something about fucking Yankees. I asked the man next to me if he wanted me to move. "No, Ma'am. It's fine where you are." I felt embarrassed and ashamed, like I had caused his outrage somehow.

Segregation had been glossed over in my small mountain school. Our emphasis was on learning the dates of events not digging for reasons. Or maybe I just didn't learn it. But on the bus I learned that my school was short on truth; that they had glossed over the substantial facts and gave us the Cliff notes; that there was more to it than the red face yelling at me & that being close up and personal was the best way to find out the real truth.
In Montgomery the closest movie house to my cousins was for colored folks. I didn't realize it until I tried to buy a ticket and was told I was in the wrong place. My movie house was blocks away. The lady let me stay. I sat in the back.

In a few weeks I will be 64. My life has been motored by a series of impulses. The first significant one occurred a year after my trip to the
South. In the spacious back seat of my mom's 1959 two toned salmon V8 Dodge with the push button transmission, I exchanged my virginity for Kirk, a child who was quadriplegic the 43 years of his life. Each day's decisions were mostly fueled by the amount on energy I woke up with or the needs of my children: not vision, planning or specific goals.

I was 12 when my Grandpa died. The event taught me that I had no control; that life would do what it wanted with me. As stuff came and went: husbands, money, even the children, I learned to tuck and roll to keep us safe.

I landed here in Tehachapi because one night after working the pledge line at KPFK I met Sandy, a free style, mountain muse. She promised to send me a post card inviting me to Mountain Festival-a weekend of music in the Tehachapi mountains two hours NE of Venice Beach where I lived-and where developers had summarily kicked me and my daughter and grand daughter (Alice & Cooper) out of two residences. Stung by their ruthlessness, when the post card came I was ready.

I was enchanted by the music, the people at the festival. Cindy Latham greeted me with a smile & wide open trust. Pat Seamount offered me a piece of pie from a pumpkin she had grown and baked herself. It was clearly not Venice.

A few months later I bought Falling Apple Ranchita. It was not love at first site. She was a homely little 1965 tract house. But, she had everything on my list-just not the way I imagined: privacy, a view of the Sierra Nevada mountains, a towering, bountiful, Golden Delicious Apple tree in the fenced back yard, and a fireplace I dubbed Darth Vader for its imposing darkness and ominous hood.

I gave her an extreme makeover. Her garden, Dave Boulden says, "has more bugs than Guam." It's lush, intimate and aromatic. A Nicaraguan hammock hangs under the apple tree. Buddha meditates above the small fountain that creatures wild and tame use. My first concord grapes bloomed this year- two pods of them. Magnificent cannas imported from Venice and Hermosa Beach by me & my friend Linda command your attention.

I love my friends here. It is home as much as anywhere has ever been. But, Kirk is gone. He flew away with the full moon a couple of years ago. I rocked him into the next world then we celebrated his life with a two day Irish wake after which Annette Kirby, Sophie & I headed the procession carrying his spent body to the crematorium in her VW Vanagon; his sisters & their families followed behind. Kirk is no longer spastic; he is free. He has freed me.

Now it is time to move on. Last winter was too cold-I was too alone. My fingers grew stiff as I wrote my memoir, as I laughed & cried my way through my life, gnawing on old, buried bones, reliving both the good & the ugly.

One afternoon as I cruised the web looking for Spanish immersion classes it occurred to me I should immerse myself by moving to Mexico. I told my daughters, and my friend Cameron. Before I could list it, Cameron had bought Falling Apple Ranchita. It was swift. Like my life. Like death if we're lucky. No time for mulling. Pack up your shit, don't worry about the potholes and head south. Once a bum, always a bum.

Cooper, my 13 year old grand daughter was here to write her intials in the fresh concrete when I moved in. She is appropriately here as I get ready to move. We went white water rafting last week and are going to the Grand Canyon & Las Vegas in a few days to see LOVE. That she even knows the Beatles songs is lovely don't you think. She is 13. I am 64. We are on different pages but both learning, both exploring. A toast to us all.

May the road rise to meet you May the wind be always at your back May the sun shine warm upon your face, the rains fall softly upon your fields and until we meet again May God hold you in the palm of your hand.

2007-06-25T11:56:00.000-07:00