Mexico City Part Two: Sorry again, Julio

Here comes Part Two.  Mexico City Part One is back here.

A large percentage of life in Mexico City involves sitting in traffic.  If you look at a map, it looks like a short distance from Point A to Point B but don't get optimistic about it -- you're still going to sit in bumper-to-bumper traffic for over an hour and ultimately wish you'd never heard of Point B.

There are tricks for avoiding the heaviest traffic, such as driving only between midnight and dawn.  Those are not the friendliest tourist hours, though, so instead Julio and I just said, "mucho trafico" back and forth to each other for long periods of time while staring at some guy's bumper. At least I learned a little Spanish.

A couple days after our arrival in Mexico, we went to Puebla, a city that should take two hours of driving from Mexico City but took us three-and-a-half.  Mucho trafico.

We were in Puebla as guests of one of Alex's co-workers, who grew up there.  The co-worker, whom I'll call Luis, and his wife introduced me to the cubano in Puebla.  A cubano is a beer poured into a glass containing some thick-ish black sauce at the bottom.  I was suspicious, too, until I tried it, but now agree with Mexico that beer should be spicy.

I mentioned the beer first.  That probably says a lot about me.  There are many other fascinating things in the Puebla area besides spicy beer, though perhaps they're not as life-changing --

There are gorgeous churches

and a street devoted entirely to candy
she clutches pesos in her hand
she is ready

and "mystery tunnels" that lie underneath the city

and the very first public library in the Americas
with books over 500 years old

and our hotel, which was a former convent and had a strange window/door thing
Coco claimed it as her own private entrance
and used it often to dance outside the room

Luis drove us to the nearby town of Cholula.  Cholula's defining feature is a huge hidden pyramid. After the conquering Spanish took control of the area, they covered all the pyramids with dirt and built Spanish churches on top of them. That's really rubbing it in, kind of a dick move there, Spanish.

The pyramid at Cholula, the largest pyramid in the world,

 is partially uncovered

but still mostly covered 

by grass, trees, and a dick move church

I was intrigued by the site but, thankfully, did not understand how one accesses the area until we were already in the thick of it.  If I had known, I would not have gone.

The entrance to the Cholula pyramid takes you straight through the pyramid itself -- as in really straight through the pyramid, far underground, through a narrow tunnel with such a low clearance, Alex had to duck for the duration.

I would have been OK, somewhat, if there had been some breathing room but there are lots of people in front of you, lots of people behind you, all moving very slowly.  I'm a claustrophobe, as I've mentioned before, and being in that tunnel with no visible exit in either direction and no possibility of moving faster and surrounded by lots of people may or may not have pushed me to the brink of socially acceptable behavior.

I couldn't speak.  We had a tour guide with us in the tunnel who spoke Spanish.  After every sentence, Alex or Luis would translate for me but I couldn't respond.  I heard very little besides my internal voice screaming, "We're all gonna die!  This is our tomb!"

Welcome to my hell

It took a full twenty minutes to clear the tunnels.  Those were twenty long minutes.  The only thing that kept my rising panic at bay was my faithful iPhone.  I began scrolling through pictures I'd taken so far in Mexico.  As long as I was staring at something else, and not looking around assessing the reality of my situation, I could avoid hyperventilation, clawing a path through strangers, passing out, screaming, whatever.

Alex didn't understand what was going on with me and said at one point, "I cannot believe you're on your phone right now" to which I replied through clenched teeth, "Trust me, you want me on my goddamn phone right now or else I'm going to embarrass us all very, very badly."  He got the hint, even pointed out a few of his favorite pics on my sanity-saving tiny phone screen.

Once we were through the tunnels, I once again loved the idea of visiting the pyramid at Cholula because the place is really, really cool.

I like you, hidden pyramid
but I never again want to walk through you

It was Cholula where we discovered Lucien is a crabby old man trapped in a young boy's body. There was a lot of walking involved up and down the pyramid and at first it was a few quiet, "Gosh, I'm tired"s but soon escalated into full blown "Ow, my hip, my hip!" as he clutched various body parts and hobbled around.

Here he is bemoaning the fact his "lower back ain't what it used to be."

Lucien's injuries disappeared miraculously after we'd finished the tour and purchased his favorite chili lime peanuts.  Lessons learned at Cholula -- iPhones and peanuts can cure serious problems.

We were welcomed warmly back to Mexico City by Julio and Rosa.  As perfect and helpful as they were during our stay, I found it awkward to have people in my employ hanging around the house.  When Julio was not driving us or attending to car-related issues, he hung out in a little room off the kitchen where he read the paper or watched TV. I felt guilty every time he was in the little room because I worried I wasn't using his time and talents effectively.  If it seemed he'd been sitting in the little room a long time, I began flipping through my Mexico City travel books thinking, "I should find someplace to go right now so Julio isn't bored."

One day, out of Julio guilt, we went to Chapultepec Park, a huge park in the center of town that houses museums and a castle, all of which were closed the day I chose to go.  The kids and I instead played Pokemon Go in the park (trust it, we weren't the only ones) and rented a paddle boat to take for a spin in the pond.

Paddle boats kind of suck.  It's a lot of work for not a lot of excitement.  Lucien and I could no longer feel our legs afterwards because you work damn hard on paddle boats, especially when there's a third passenger whose short legs and tiny feet can't reach the pedals so is no help at all.

Free ride

The next day I asked Julio to drive us to Luis's wife's apartment.  We were going to meet up with her and her kids to take a tour of the canals in the Xochimilco area.  Traffic was particularly bad that day so there was a lot of darting on Julio's part.  He got us to her apartment complex in time but was punished for his effective driving when Coco threw up in the back of the car.  The motion sickness runs strong in that one.

As Julio and I bailed from the car and flailed in a parking lot looking for plastic bags and paper towels, she threw up again.  We never made it to Xochimilco.  We instead went home with all the windows rolled down.  Julio drove so slowly, trying so hard not to upset her sensitive equilibrium yet again, that people actually honked at us.  You know you're doing something way wrong if they're honking at you.

Back at home, the kids and I hugged each other and played video games on the Xbox while Julio cleaned up the car. I begged him to let me do it, emphatically and profusely, but he waved me away and said no, no, it's no problem, it's ok.

At least he wasn't bored.


I told you Julio really earned his money that week, and I did not lie.
MJ

Am I lost, Julio?

We spent ten days in Mexico City over the summer, right on the heels of the road trip. Mexico City is the third largest city in the world with a population of 22 million. It's a place that will impress you with its museums, restaurants, and utter chaos.

Alex travels to Mexico City at least once a month for work and has always said, "you gotta come with me sometime, you guys would love it!"  So the kids and I called his bluff this time and got on the airplane with him.  He blinked at us and said, "Oh.....you really came?  You realize I work 99.9% of the time I'm in Mexico City, right?  Just so we're cool, you're gonna be super alone."

That's no problem.  The kids and I can handle anything.  I become much more bold when I'm flying solo with the kids because there's no doubt -- it's 100% on me to get sh*t done and make the memories happen.  I am happy for the kids to see me handle foreign situations because they learn the world doesn't end when you make an ass of yourself.  That last sentence reminded me of our Paris years and now I miss Paris terribly.

We did a house exchange with friends from Seattle who now live in Mexico City.  Their large, private, gated home in a fancy neighborhood in Mexico came complete with a cook, a housekeeper, and a driver.

That's all very nice but look at what they got in return!  They got our house, which does not cramp your space with people taking care of you.  Our home has at least half its electrical outlets in working condition.  Our yard is nice and uneven with many holes dug by Natani -- it's an exciting minefield for potential twisted ankles.  Another nice feature in our house is the "master bathroom" made solely of roughed-in plywood and unfinished drywall.  If you don't mind the splinters of the plywood floor, you can get in there to brush your teeth at the one functioning sink.  It's a space that really lets your imagination soar.

While they attempted to find the can opener in our mess of a kitchen supply drawer in Seattle, I was being driven around Mexico City by their driver, Julio.  Julio is a very kind, smiley man who seemed to vacillate wildly between liking me very much and having absolutely no idea what to do about me. I don't speak Spanish and he doesn't speak English so we communicated with wild sign language, or more effectively, an English-to-Spanish app on my phone, or -- least effectively though my favorite - speaking loudly and slowly in our own languages while staring intensely at the other person.

Having a driver in Mexico City seems like a luxury until you realize they are crucial to your survival. Do not drive yourself in Mexico City.  I repeat.  Do not do that.  There are 22 million people in the city and they all know what to do but you will not.  You're in way over your head, stranger.

There are seemingly few rules on the road; everyone just worms their way into the mess and comes out the other side with minimal honking.  I  have no idea how they do it, looks like a confusing writhing mess to me yet is amazing in the fact everyone seems to be on the same page -- a "we're all in this shitshow together, let's work it out" kind of thing.

Red lights appear to be more of a suggestion than a hard and fast rule.  Julio blew through one and when I asked why he looked surprised and said, "Why would I stop?  There was nobody else there."  If it's a three-lane street, don't be surprised to find cars four across.  I even saw a few people plunge into the huge roundabout in the center of town headed clockwise.  I pointed at them and asked via phone app, "Can they do that?"  Julio laughed, shrugged, and replied, I think, "It is a little harder going that way but sure, they'll make it fine."

Yes indeed, Julio was a lifesaver.  He drove Alex to work in the morning then returned to take the kids and I wherever we wanted to go.  He'd drop us at the touristy places and return hours later to pick us up.

It's an easy idea in theory but proved harder in practice. On our way to the Zocalo area, Julio pointed at a place called Sanborns outside the Belles Artes and said, "aqui!  aqui!" which I understood to mean a place called Sanborns near Belles Artes was the place for pick-up later that afternoon.  I nodded enthusiastically and gave him a thumbs up.  I'll be there, Julio!

The kids and I enjoyed our time in the Zocalo area.  The Diego Rivera mural at the Palacio Nacional was unfortunately under scaffolding but I loved the Templo Mayor, the ancient Aztec temple at the center of the bustling city.

The Templo Mayor ruins in the shadow of the cathedral

That's a wall of sculpted skulls in the foreground

Badass Aztecs

It was monsoon season in Mexico City so an umbrella was crucial for the violent storm that would pop up every afternoon, pass quickly, and leave everything soaked in its wake.  For reasons I don't understand, no one is allowed to take their crucial umbrella into the ruins of Templo Mayor.  Are they afraid of us beating the ruins with our umbrellas?  Beating other people?  Or maybe they just want us to experience life the way the Aztecs did -- if it rains, you're getting wet, pansies.

For whatever reason, my umbrella was confiscated at the entrance.  They also confiscated Coco's fruit snacks from my purse, which troubled Coco greatly.  I forgot both these items at the Templo Mayor entrance after our visit so had to double back later in the day to retrieve them. This caused my kids to grumble.  I love that kid grumbling, can't get enough.

I pantomimed my umbrella back at the Templo Mayor entrance and got it back right away but the fruit snacks were not so simple.  My gestures may have given the impression I wanted to shovel tiny rat turds into my mouth by the way the employees' eyes widened with concern.  After five minutes of intense discussion amongst them, one had a eureka! moment, said something excitedly, and presented the fruit snacks from a small box under the desk. Then we all jumped up and down, excited and relieved for an understanding.

The ruins of the Templo Major pyramid were not excavated until 1978.  

And now it's an Aztec temple hanging out in the middle of a giant modern city.

But my children still found this cactus more interesting.

We ate a late lunch in a nice place overlooking the cathedral.  I ordered ten different things in the hopes of broadening my kids' understanding of Mexican food.  They had a hard time believing Mexican food was more than cheese quesadillas and bean burritos.

I ordered mole and pescado veracruzano and chiles rellenos among others. The kids didn't like any of it, of course, as I should have known.  I felt bad leaving so much food so I did my best.  I ate more that day than I've possibly ever eaten in my life.  I was like one of those people in eating contests that onlookers can only watch silently with gaping mouths. I had no time to talk, just time to stuff, maybe grunt a little.  I did try but much as I love Mexican food, I could not eat it all.  

(In related news, my jeans no longer fit when I came home to Seattle.  Mexican food will do that to you.  But I dare say it's worth every day thereafter you must spend in elastic-waisted pants.)

After lunch I waddled back towards the Belles Artes area with two very tired kids to catch the Julio shuttle bound for home.  I found Sanborns and stood outside in the full sun. It was hot, we were tired, we were wilting.  The time for pick up came and went, after which followed what I could tell were frantic text messages from Julio along the lines of "Where the hell are you?"  I replied I was in front of Sanborns at Belles Artes, like he told me to be, and he said something like, "No, no, you're not."

Text communication was arduous with Julio because I had to copy each message and paste them into my Spanish app.  Then I copied and pasted my response.  It made for agonizingly slow progress with panic rising slightly, knowing something had gone wrong but not knowing exactly what it was. I eventually said, "Am I lost, Julio?" to which he replied, "Si."

We stood in the sun baking like enchiladas (mmm enchiladas) for over an hour as Julio likely had a heart attack somewhere else in town.  I got Alex involved at work.  He called Julio, called me, called Julio, called me, etc. I finally found a couple labeled streets near where I was and relayed them to Alex.  Then my phone battery died.

Despair was imminent when I finally heard someone screaming my name.  Julio was charging at me at a full run through cars. He hugged me with joy, hugged the kids, began apologizing profusely as he dragged us back to his car left in the middle of the street, which was fine because weird road behavior is normal in Mexico City.

As it turns out, Sanborns is a chain and I was standing in front of the wrong Sanborns.  I had come across a Sanborns and stopped walking, not knowing there were other options.  I wasn't supposed to be at the plain brown Sanborns near Belles Artes, I was supposed to be at the Sanborns with the pretty tile on the front on the other side of Belles Artes -- hadn't I noticed the pretty tile on the front of the building when we drove past that morning, asked Julio, still sweating and running his hands through his hair repeatedly.

That was the day we learned all Sanborns look the same to gringas.

The kids and I returned to the house with Sanborns sunburns. We came into the house to find Rosa, the sweetest, most wonderful cook, had made enchiladas in red sauce for dinner because I'd mentioned the day before they were my favorite.  I could not even think about more food after my gluttonous lunch feast but I still did what I had to do. I ate a ton of them that evening. They were amazing.

I wish I could write short but I can't write short.  Mexico is going to be another multi-episode saga. Brevity is not my strong suit; it is as hard for me as walking away from a plate of Mexican food, apparently.

But I will admit this now -- giving Julio some trouble wasn't a one time thing.  It may or may not have happened a couple more times.  He sure did earn his money that week.

In my defense, Mexico City is crazy.
MJ

Ode to a schnauzer -- ain't no love like a dog's love

I heard it as a hoarse whisper as I lay in my bed grappling with the snooze button: "MJ, come downstairs, please, come downstairs."  I sat up in bed pretty sure I'd heard him but since Alex is not the whispering-from-downstairs type, I was more confused than convinced.

I called out, "Alex?  You say something?" and then I heard him again, a loud whisper he was trying to control, "Please come downstairs, just please, now."

Alex is usually balls-out on the volume and doesn't much care who overhears. One of his greatest joys is startling the kids awake in the morning by doing loud things or jumping unexpectedly on their tiny bodies, so why was he worried about waking them now? At first groggy, I was suddenly clear. I bolted for the stairs when the realization hit and my heart sank -- "Shit. I know what this is."

Alex was waiting for me at the bottom of the stairs and his face didn't look right. He said the words I was expecting, dreading --  "It's Oscar. He's dead."

our sweet guy Oscar

Alex and I have been agonizing over our 15-year-old schnauzer's ailing health for awhile.  Oscar's second seizure in as many months happened less than a week before he died.  Alex and I sat with him on the floor as he seized.  It lasted forever plus another forever. We cried and pet him and whispered, "Oscar, I'm so sorry, I'm so sorry."

When the convulsing subsided, Al and I looked at each other and both said "it's time" in the same pinched voice. We could not make him suffer another seizure and by the looks of it, it was to become a regular occurrence. Our vet suspected a brain tumor.

The post-seizure state was a difficult one.  Oscar was disoriented and agitated.  He wanted to pace nonstop but his legs were too weak to hold him up.  He would try to take a step and instead crumple to the ground.  He was only calm when I held him and rocked him --

It was so sad to know we were at the end of the road

but I'm grateful I had this last time with him

because he hasn't wanted to be held in a long time

If you picked him up to cuddle in his old age,
he would look at you with a face that clearly said,

"Put me down, asshole"

Then he would commence with dramatic deep sighing

I made an appointment with the in-home euthanasia group recommended by our veterinarian. We were told he would be comfortable and surrounded by our family and would be put gently to sleep in his favorite place at home. It was scheduled for the upcoming weekend.

We thought we had a few more days to prepare ourselves for his loss.  The hubris of humans, right? Thinking that since we made a plan, that's the way it was going to go.  We went upstairs to bed that night not knowing Oscar's body had other plans, that it was our last night with him in the house.

If I had known, I would have sat up with him all night.  I would have felt his soft floppy ears a few hundred last times and kissed his cold wet nose and fed him grilled salmon.

Oscar puppy

first picture we took when we brought him home

As I sit here writing this on our back porch on a brilliantly hot and sunny day, I asked Alex, "What do you remember most vividly about O-dog?"  He laughed and immediately replied, "the incessant pawing."  It's true; you could pet that dog for hours but the second you stopped, he would sit straight up, stare at you intensely and paw at your leg, your nose, your eyeball, whatever, with impressive ferocity.  Schnauzer will not be ignored.

I remember him sleeping with us in our bed before we had kids.  He would nestle in and snuggle up next to one of us.  The one he'd chosen would always yell, "My God, he's so HOT" and try to scoot over but Oscar would just scoot over, too, and snuggle back in.

I also remember fondly the time Alex decided "all dogs can swim" so threw Oscar into Lake Crescent on a camping trip. Oscar sank like a stone so Alex jumped in after him.  Turns out nope, not all dogs can swim but thankfully some Alexes can.

One time we signed up for a dog charity 5K run.  Oscar didn't feel like walking that day let alone running.  He sprawled out long as his body could go and took a little nap on the blacktop warmed by the sun.  I looked like an idiot standing there with a napping dog on the end of a leash and a bib number pinned to the front of my jacket. Goddamit, Oscar.

We didn't spend as much time with him after the arrival of Lucien -- as the saying accurately predicts, "dogs become dogs again when kids arrive."  We still lovingly referred to him as "our first baby" but he got nowhere near the status of the actual baby.  He hated Lucien, snapped at him a dozen times by the time Lucien was two and bit him once for real on his hand.  I used to put Oscar in our bedroom for hours when Lucien was learning to walk, too afraid he was going to bite him as we celebrated Lucien's earliest milestones.

I really, really hate you, tiny human

I wrote about our journey with him through the years in a previous schnauzer lovefest post.  I just re-read that post and it cheered me a little because in it, I promise to give him a good last few years after getting him back post-Paris.  I think we did that.  I hope we did that, anyway.

Natani's arrival was not his happiest chapter

but sometimes, like above, he would take the bully stick right out of her mouth

and walk away like a boss

I think he really enjoyed doing that 

It's a horrible concoction of feelings, losing a pet at home unexpectedly.  You're in a bit of disbelief and overwhelmed by sadness and guilt.  But in the midst of the emotion storm, the practical side of yourself taps yourself on the shoulder and says, "So I hate to bring this up but holy hell, what are you gonna do with his body?"

Forgive me if that sounds harsh but the whole situation is harsh.  The pet you've loved all those years is gone. It brings you no comfort to touch the body, is in fact horrifying and wrenching because it only serves to remind you how gone he really is.  His body is cold and rigid and hollow of life yet you keep touching him anyway because you know it's the last few moments you ever can.  It's feeling torn between wanting the crushingly sad shell of him gone yet wanting to squeeze out every last second with his tiny body.

The rest of my family shuffled tear-stained out the door to surreal days at summer camp and work.  I sat with Oscar and made phone calls. I called Compassion 4 Paws, the in-home euthanasia service we were supposed to meet just a few days later, and asked them what to do next.  They told me to call a man named Dave to help with Oscar's body and cremation. I'm not sure why it struck me as funny that a guy named Dave was the guy to call for dead pets, but it did.  I started laughing in a semi-maniacal way when I hung up, "Call Dave!  For all your dead body needs, Dave's your guy!" Forgive me, I was not well.

Dave's actually no laughing matter and is solid as a rock.  Dave's business, Heartfelt Memories, is all about respectfully and kindly providing post-life care for pets who pass away at home.  Dave's voice on the phone was soothing like salve on a burn.  His compassion and kind words were exactly what I needed in the moment.  He said he was getting in his car right then and would be to me as soon as possible.

When Dave arrived, he hugged me at the door.  Then he and I sat with Oscar for awhile.  He brought in the fluffiest, softest white blanket, wrapped Oscar and his bed tenderly, and carried him to a large dog bed in his car.  He treated Oscar like a beloved member of our family, not just a dead animal, and for that I am so so grateful.

Dave told me to take my time saying goodbye before he drove him away.  I gave Oscar's soft floppy ears one last stroke, told him goodbye and thank you for being such a good friend to us.  And then the schnauzer was gone.

Circa 2005.  The happiest schnauzer that ever schnauzered

So much more I could say about him, that loving, affectionate, funny, stubborn, and, in his later years, cranky as hell, dog of ours.  There are so many more verses I could still write in the ballad, the love story between a dog and his people.  But I'm going to leave it here.

We love and miss you, O-dog, our pet, our friend, our furbaby.  We hope we gave you in life even half of what you gave us, because then you would have certainly known love in abundance.  We promise to grill much salmon in your honor, to bark with joy at blowing leaves, to take the time to inspect every tree we pass to discern who all's peed on it, and above all, to growl at Natani half a dozen times a day to remind her, always and forever, who was the real boss.

Bye, guy.  And thank you.  You were a very, very good boy.
MJ

The Parks have Personalities -- Part Three

Do yourself a favor and don't start looking through boxes of old photos today.  It's a rabbit hole, one you'll be sucked into for hours and will emerge from clutching fistfuls of old Polaroids and feeling slightly unhinged. That old saying about the passage of time will never be more profound -- "nothing's changed but everything's different."

Our lives look nothing like they did back when we were first married but the changes happened so slowly, or at least so logically, that over time I didn't realize the seismic shifts taking place. How did those people, those friends we adored so much, fall out of our lives over the years?  When was Oscar ever that young and vital looking?  Why didn't anyone ever tell me my haircut was not flattering my face at all, in fact appeared to be openly mocking it?

Along those lines, it did cheer me to realize Alex and I look better today than we did fifteen years ago.  It's taken us this long to figure out our bodies and to develop personal styles that flatter instead of confuse.  Alex used to wear a lot of sweat pants back in the day, while I pieced together cringeworthy ensembles like turtlenecks with dowdy length skirts (dog print of course) and clogs.

Our faces look better now, too -- a few more lines and wrinkles, sure, but a lot more personality and wisdom than back when we looked unseasoned with vaguely vacant eyes and goofy grins.

Anyway, there's a point to all that rambling up there but I'm feeling stressed about finishing the Road Trip posts. Thankfully I wrote everything below before I went down the rabbit hole, a.k.a the boxes of pictures in my closet.  If I tried to write the post now it would sound more like, "I must cling to these memories of the Rocky Mountains with cramping fingers because very soon everything will be different and I'm going to miss these times with a desperate ache and a mournful longing."

But instead I'll continue with my parks-as-people metaphor, which, while certainly more cheerful, may also be ten times more annoying.  

Rocky Mountain National Park in Colorado is mature and dignified.  It's stoic in its rockiness and wise in its cragginess.  It doesn't pay much attention to the riffraff, can be aloof, is a bit of a loner. Rocky Mountain National Park is like your favorite college professor.  He's super smart, respected by his peers and revered by his students.  He doesn't speak much outside of lectures, has salt and pepper hair and is known for always wearing cowboy boots to class.

We had a "first" on our drive to Rocky Mountain National Park.  For the very first time, the gas pump did not stop pumping once our tank was full, resulting in a gas waterfall (gasfall?) down the side of the Winnie B that ended in a shimmery gas lake underneath her body.  It was also a "first" in that Alex has never wandered away from the pump to go buy a coffee before.  That one will also be a "last."

The gas station attendant took a look under the RV and said, "ohhhhh, man, that's a really big one" which sounded pretty bad so I was confused when he next said,"OK, you guys can start the engine and drive away no problem." I was not excited about a teenager advising me on important explosion-related matters so I balked, I hesitated, I hemmed and hawwed and asked things like, "Are you super duper sure, young man?"

He said the gas was not pooling under the engine so there was no risk   He seemed confident but those were still some heart palpitating moments as I started the engine and rolled the Winnie B over the giant gas lake.

Estes Park, a cute little touristy town, is the entryway to Rocky Mountain National Park.  We were headed there because my extended family was gathering in Estes Park for our first family reunion in over 15 years. My family is a bunch of jokesters and card players.  They're good conversationalists if you like sarcasm and puns.

Our first evening all together again, we sat outside on the resort lawn having a good catch-up chat when suddenly the sprinklers turned on.  We all ran in different directions yelling. My uncle stood on the front porch of his cabin and pointed and laughed at us with a beer in his hand. That sums up our get togethers pretty well.

Rocky Mountain National Park is crowded.  If the park is indeed a smart salt-n-pepper haired semi-cowboy professor, his class always has a waitlist and a bunch of coeds are hoping to seduce him during office hours. The way this popularity manifests in the park is all the parking lots are full so you have to park your car far away and ride a shuttle bus to the trailheads.

that's my cuz and I

feeling excited on a shuttle bus

Aww yeah, we really hikin' now

We did a few family hikes and they were everything you'd expect from the Rockies -- craggy peaks,  jaw-dropping vistas, mountain lakes, lots of marmots. We got to know one marmot pretty well when he tried to steal parts of our lunches.  He was a very bold little marmot.  We named him Sausage.

my uncle photographing Sausage

mysterious smart cowboy professor park

My uncle took to calling Coco "Li'l Goat" for the way she climbed and scrambled over rocks. She's a good climber and she apparently loves it which begs the question, "Why, L'il Goat, do you lie on the ground and whine about being bored whenever I take you to our nearby climbing wall in Seattle?"

One of our family's age old traditions is ye olde water balloon toss.  You pair up, stand face-to-face, and toss that balloon to your partner.  If you make the catch, you each take a big step backwards.  And so on and so forth until there is one team left standing without soaking wet shirts.

Alex and I won the first round but then, just to show off, we kept throwing and taking steps backwards long after all other teams were eliminated.  We did this until I nearly stepped backwards into the creek; we launched our balloon straight up into the sky and it always made its way down with a light plop, unbroken, in our partner's hands.  We were unstoppable. I was also, for the record, wearing tall wedge heels. I'm definitely just bragging now but it may be my most impressive life accomplishment thus far so please, indulge me.

This is me chucking a neon green water balloon to my dad.

I'm sorry, but my tossing form is dynamite.

I hated to leave these funny people

but the road trip beckoned

(and also they had all gotten on planes and gone home)

As the extended family disbanded, the four of us, very weary now from all the travel and hiking and water balloon fighting, drove to Devils Tower National Monument in Wyoming.

Tiny Winnie

Devils Tower is giving the world the middle finger.  It's rebellious and defiant with a touch of alien. Devils Tower is Iggy Pop.  Devils Tower is Kurt Vonnegut writing about Billy Pilgrim. Devils Tower isn't afraid to stand out which is good because it literally stands out from a very long distance.

We immediately went on a hike around the tower in the hot sun without any water.  We made it through the hike OK but all emphatically agreed afterwards it was a stupid move to forget the water -- but then immediately after that we went on another hike through the prairie dog area in the hot sun and forgot the water again.

It's possible that by this time in the road trip, we were quite tired and no longer thinking clearly, kind of how I'm currently feeling about writing this post.

Our final stop was ambitious, especially given our rapidly deteriorating mental states.  As we drove the many many hours towards Glacier National Park in Montana, I could feel Alex glaring at me with his little eyeballs.  It may have been too much, tacking one more park onto the end of the trip, especially one as remote as Glacier.  I cheerfully chatted away, mostly to myself, hoping to distract Alex from how long the drive was taking and how much he hated me in that moment.

Sucked to get there but Glacier was worth it.  Glacier is wild and a little weird, like a beautiful feral child who was raised by wolves but is learning to reintegrate into society.  It's like a Sigur Ros song: foreign and eerie and Icelandic.

The best part of enormous pretty Glacier National Park is driving Going-to-the-Sun Road.  RVs aren't allowed on Going-to-the-Sun Road because the people in the RV would die.  Instead we signed up for a tour on one of the original Glacier National Park open-topped buses, called jammers.

Riding in the Jammer was much more enjoyable than driving the Winnie B because 1) we made it up and back alive and 2) we got a history lesson and 3) the being alive part again.

Dang, Glacier

It got a little odd, maybe, but I do believe we've made it through yet another road trip multi-post series.

And just in time...
because those pictures in those boxes aren't going to cry over themselves,
MJ

The Parks have personalities -- Part Two

In the National Parks-are-a-family metaphor I'm cheerfully beating to death, Capitol Reef National Park in Utah is the happy, lovable, affable youngest child. (I am in no way influenced by the fact I'm a youngest child when deciding which traits youngest children embody.)

Actually, maybe Capitol Reef is more like your favorite cheerful stoner uncle, the one who dropped out of college to travel the world, surf, play in a band, and now lives in a self-built tiny home in the foothills of the Sangre de Cristo mountains.  Everyone in the family chuckles with deep affection when Capitol Reef arrives wearing flip flops in winter, guitar slung over his back, and announces he's late because he was handing out free hugs in front of the 7-Eleven down the street.

Capitol Reef (as a park, I'm now ditching the uncle bit) is laid back, casual, not crowded at all.  It's not just about gorgeous scenery and interesting geology, it's all about the people, man.  Native Americans hammered petroglyphs high into the red cliffs and then, much much later, the first permanent settlers wandered into the area and decided to set up camp.

They were certain they'd found a slice of heaven. I agree with them on that, so much so I've developed a new life aspiration -- I want to be a settler.

I manhandled the Winnie B all over the Western United States
so I could certainly drive that

There were only about ten families who lived in the area at any given time, though granted they were Mormon so those were probably really big families. I wonder if living in such a small community made dating easier?  Since there were only about a dozen or so young people from whom to choose a partner, it seems it would take a lot of bellyaching out of the thing.  It would be less, "I don't feel he truly understands my inner being" and more, "Well, I guess I'll take Ephraim over there, he doesn't look too bad and he plays a nice fiddle."

Some of the pioneer homes still exist, the one-room school house still stands and a charming old barn still houses horses -- the two there now are named Mud and Egg and they help the rangers with backcountry rescue, which we thankfully did not need.  The many orchards the settlers planted are still bearing fruit over one hundred years later. You can pick all you want for a buck per pound.

the schoolhouse

The orchard next to the campsite was heavy with apricots.  Fallen apricots littered the ground so your feet made a squish squish sound as you walked through.  Red-orange juice squirted all over your ankles and up your legs.  By the time you finished, it looked like you had trampled many small animals to death.  Small, round, delicious, fruity animals.

Just beyond the orchard was Gifford House, one of the settler homes that has been turned into a shop that sells bread, pies, and cinnamon rolls the way the pioneers used to make them.  I may have sent the kids over there with a fistful of dollars a few times so hello, extra body weight, welcome to me.

It's OK, I'll need the extra weight to weather the harsh winters as a future settler, and will no doubt work it off come harvest time.  Until then, I await Ephraim's return from the North.  Dude's been gone for two months, he better return with chocolate.

Hearts were heavy as we left Capitol Reef.  It was a slice of heaven indeed.  Hey, we were wondering, can you live in a national park?  We may try.  We'll be the ones rustling in the bushes next to the cinnamon roll place.

Coco now smells like apricots all the time. It was an unexpected souvenir. She is a living breathing Strawberry Shortcake doll thanks to the apricot guts permanently encrusted between the textured ridges of her sandal soles.

The next park was Black Canyon of the Gunnison in Colorado.  Black Canyon needs to chill the hell out.  Black Canyon is that person at the party in the corner wearing all black, talking about meaningless life and occasionally whispering Marilyn Manson lyrics to themselves while staring at a spot somewhere just over your head.

This thing exists only to scare people.  Black Canyon is a slit in the earth, a hole so deep with sheer charcoal gray cliff walls, you cannot see the bottom at many of the viewpoints. The silence is eerie though every once in awhile you catch the sound of the river rushing through the bottom of it, the river that continues to shape it today.  We do not need a deeper scarier Black Canyon so knock it off, river.

I went to Black Canyon as a younger person with my family and don't remember feeling afraid.  I thought it was cool.  But this time, my heart stopped a half dozen times, usually when I saw Coco climb on the first rung of the bolted steel railing around the viewpoint to "get a better look."  I may have yelled at her a bit too harshly because Alex claims my eyes bugged out of my head.

Alex wasn't much help, either.  The darkness and sheerness of the canyon rattled him as much as it mesmerized him.  He's not a phobia kind of guy but as we perched on one seemingly fragile overlook, Alex began half-yelling, "OH my God, is this thing shaking?  Is it shaking?  I think I feel it shaking" so we grabbed the kids by the backs of their shirts and hauled them back to safety as they said, "Guys? What are you doing?"

What are we doing?  We're saving your lives, suckers!

We used to be fearless.  Now we're parents.  

I guess we were all a little on edge at Black Canyon.  When we first entered the park, the ranger gave us a flyer warning of aggressive deer near our campsite.  Many baby deer had recently been born so the mamas were, much like us, startling easy and not keeping their cool.  We hear you, deer mamas, Black Canyon is a tough place to have kids.

Lucien took the deer warning to heart.  Probably too much.  We explained to him it just meant not to approach deer, to give them a ton of space because they were feeling a little defensive.  But each time Lucien glimpsed one (and there were many in the area) he yelled, "You guys, run, RUN, get inside, it's a deer, it's a deer!" in such a panic you'd think he'd spotted a hungry grizzly bear barreling towards the Winnie B.  

We did see some bighorn sheep on the side of the canyon walls, which was pretty cool, but overall Black Canyon is not a park I care to revisit anytime soon.  Black Canyon is intense. That park has got to chill.  Someone spark that park a doobie or slip it a Valium.  It's too dark, brooding, silent and it has killer deer.

The drive from Black Canyon to our next destination -- my mom and dad's house, I'm comin' home, mama -- was through many hills.  Hills are hard on an RV.  Hills are also hard on any cars stuck behind an RV.

I grit my teeth as cars pile up behind me. This is why RV owners wave at each other on the road.  We are each others people, must stick together and support each other as we piss off cars by going 30mph on a 55mph road.  We'd go faster if we could, I swear.

Alex and I have taken to quacking at RVs coming the opposite direction because RVs often resemble a mama duck with a string of impatient ducklings trailing along behind her.

I've got a third and final installation of the neverending road trip tale. I hope I write it someday because it involves my extended family throwing water balloons at each other.  But for now, we're off on another vacation, this one to a country where I don't speak the language and will be often alone with our kids because Alex is going for work and we're tagging along.  I'm sure everything will be fine and if it's not "fine," I hope it's at least funny.

We're going to end this with Coco being awesome

in a place I'm hellbent on settling even though it's already settled.

Don't ever give up on your dreams.

Quack quack,
MJ

The parks have personalities -- Part One

We're back from Road Trip 2016 and much to Alex's relief, I did not bring home another dog this year.

This is where I go when I've done something bad

 They can't see me here ha ha ha.

Life post-road trip is a bit dull.  I've returned to sweeping up dog hair twice a day, to paying bills, to getting the kids where they need to be, to fearing the garbage disposal. That last one has been my truth for years. I wince every time I hit the switch for the disposal, brace myself for the sound of crusher blades on silver heirloom spoon or whatever else has had the misfortune of falling down there.

Sometimes I stick my hand down in before turning it on to make sure nothing lies in its bowels. Those are tense moments. I cringe, convinced the blades are about to spring to life by themselves and pulverize my hand.  Alex has observed my disposal song and dance many times and often comments on my contorted facial expressions; he has rightfully observed the appliance appears to cause me great anguish.

Here's Lucien as Donald Trump.

Can't unsee that.

We left on our road trip the morning after Lucien's guitar camp performance. Lucien brought down the house with a Justin Bieber parody he wrote about Justin Bieber being in love with a potato.

There was a five-year-old boy named Ziggy also enrolled in summer guitar camp.  Ziggy enjoyed doing his own thing; he liked to wander off stage suddenly or stop playing his guitar in the middle of a song to have a good look at the ceiling for a few minutes.

Ziggy did a solo.  He stood center stage, stared at the floor and played the same chord softly and repeatedly for twenty seconds or so.  He stopped mid strum and walked off to do whatever. The camp director jumped onstage and said, "And that was Ziggy performing a tribute to the great state of Ohio!"

My sister, Auntie Raba, attended the recital, too.  Upon the conclusion of Ziggy's tribute to the great state of Ohio, Raba and I were hopelessly overcome by the giggles. We laughed as silently as we could, tried so hard to stop but could not get our shit together.  The giggles got worse every time Ziggy moseyed up the aisle past our seats, hands in his pockets, as camp counselors fruitlessly called for him up on stage. I couldn't look at Raba for the rest of the recital for fear of snorting aloud.

We kissed our menagerie of animals goodbye early the next morning and hopped into the Winnebago. The road trip plan was ambitious this year: nine states, eight national parks and over 4000 miles to travel in 16 days.  It didn't start out so jam packed.  The problem with planning these trips is there is too much to do in the areas we're visiting.  I think, "Well, if we're already there, we should go see THAT and then if we're near there we should see THAT and do THAT and then of course THAT THAT THAT THAT."

Our itinerary grows more and more dense and soon allows only a handful of minutes at each place. Then Alex is over my shoulder giving me the stinkeye and telling me my plans are "not very relaxing."  

I never know where to stop, likely because I long to never stop at all.

We did not tire of national parks even after eight of them back-to-back.  It was the opposite. They were fascinating and only grew more so.  Each one had its own flavor, its own personality.  The vibes were different, the visitors different, the landscapes and light and colors different.  Most of them were so wild and surreal, it didn't feel like visiting eight different national parks; it was more like visiting eight different planets.

We take national parks very seriously

Lassen Volcanic National Park in Northern California was our first stop.  Lassen is beautiful but not in a jaw-dropping kind of way.  It has interesting geology (four different types of volcanoes in one place, sweet) but doesn't blow your mind. It's a lesser Yellowstone with some active geothermal features on a much smaller scale. It has an edge but stops short of being scary.

Me and Ms. Cokes hanging in front of a bubbling mudpot.

If all the national parks were a family, Lassen is the stereotypical eldest child.  It's responsible, solid, dependable, does what it's supposed to do without being flashy. It's a straight-A student, a class president, is likable but doesn't push boundaries. You'll walk away wishing Lassen would let loose just a tad, show you some crazy, dance on a table sometime.

We were at Lassen over the Fourth of July holiday weekend so were far from alone.  It was crowded with people darting everywhere and parking spots parked several cars deep. We couldn't pull over at most of the popular viewpoints so had to settle for the B-and-C list viewpoints.  Instead of an impressive cascading waterfall, we pondered a large rock.

Driving a motorhome is a bit like being a turtle.  Your house is on your back.  It's convenient to have your dental floss at the ready when you need it (and you never forget your sunscreen or bug spray) but it's also cumbersome to carry everything you have around with you.  You're big, bulky, not very agile.  If there's no room for you at the park viewpoints, well, there's no room.  You're a house and can't exactly squeeze in.

We did nudge a few people aside to visit this slushy lake

Lucien bullshitted his way to junior ranger status at Lassen.  The junior ranger programs at the national parks are on point; kids collect a booklet at the visitor center and complete the park-related activities inside.  They learn about conservation and recycling and how to act responsibly around wildlife. They then turn the booklet back in, answer a few questions posed by a ranger and raise their right hands to pledge to take care of the national parks and remain curious about the natural world. They receive a plastic badge and a handshake for their efforts.

Lucien, however, found a way around the system, as I fear Lucien will always do.  He half-assed his Lassen badge.  When the ranger asked, "What are two things you learned at our roadside exhibits?" Lucien responded, "I saw two deer."  Alex and I glanced at each other -- not only was seeing two deer not in any way related to Lassen's roadside exhibits, but as far as we knew he hadn't even seen two deer at all.

I'm watching you, kid.
Don't lie to the national parks.
We take the national parks very seriously.

After Lassen, we drove straight into the middle of Nevada.  Our route took us across the state on Highway 50, which is known as "the loneliest road in America."  It's an appropriate label.  We didn't see anyone in either direction for well over 200 miles.

For me, it was heaven, a road to myself and scenery on all sides. For Al, it was nerve wracking and he got antsy.  That's the difference between an introvert and an extrovert on a roadtrip; when it gets remote, the introvert goes warm and cozy but the extrovert worries there's no one to talk to.

She shares my intense love of being in the middle of Nevada while wearing hilarious glasses.

I mentioned in my last post my apprehension about having Alex along this year. The kids and I have a well established routine on these trips and I was concerned Al was going to unknowingly cramp my style.  My worrying was for naught.  My Al was a perfect traveling companion, a co-pilot to my pilot, a cheerful lunch-maker and podcast-finder as I stepped on the gas and covered major ground.

The only annoying part was he kept saying somberly, "MJ, I feel we're at a crossroads...." every single time our rural highway intersected another rural highway.  It was funny the first time but got old fast.

The second park was Great Basin National Park in middle-of-nowhere Nevada.  If we're still sticking with the family metaphor, Great Basin is the middle child with a hefty case of middle child syndrome. Every ranger with whom we chatted mentioned (with a sniff) that Great Basin is the least visited park in the U.S. national park system.  Great Basin is trying to get noticed but its placement in the world is making it hard.

Our park campsite was dotted with prickly plants and strange bugs.  Lucien shoved Coco ahead of him as they set about exploring the tall brush around the campground.  I hollered, "Lucien, stop making your little sister go ahead of you all the time!" and he responded, "Well, in my defense, if someone's gonna fall on a cactus, it's gonna be her."

Al wanted to eat dinner in the tiny town at the park's entrance that night.  He was insanely curious about it. Who lived in a town three blocks long, with no other towns around for a hundred miles?

We first stopped at the "grocery store" to stock up.  There were only three aisles in the grocery store so it was a quick trip, made even quicker by Alex continually whispering in my ear, "She scares me" about the woman standing behind the checkout counter. The woman never said a word to us but watched us the entire time with charcoal-rimmed eyes.

The restaurant across the street was called The Electrolux and featured several vintage Electrolux vacuum cleaners hanging from the ceiling.  It was a cute place, quirky but warm and brightly colored. A gruff older man welcomed us, seated us, handed us menus.  He took our drink order.  I wanted a beer so he handed me a bottle opener and directed me to a fridge in the back to choose and open my own.  I really liked that, made me feel at home.

Alex ordered a cocktail so the man walked behind the bar and made him a drink.  I jokingly said to Al, "Is this guy gonna make our food, too?" just before he took our order, walked into the kitchen and began cracking open cans.  Yes, he made our food, too.  And it was awful.

Bad food aside, we liked him so much.  His no nonsense, no apologies, no frills self was refreshing in its honesty.  The guy is just doing his thing all alone in the middle of nowhere in his vacuum cleaner restaurant.

Great Basin National Park is certified by the Dark Sky Association.  There's no light from civilization to interfere so the stars are brilliant come nighttime. It's mind blowing how many there are up there, who knew?

We attended the Great Basin astronomy program after dinner where we viewed powerful things through telescopes the size of Lucien's body.  The astronomers showed us Jupiter and its four moons, Saturn and its rings, the M13 star cluster, and the something-something nebula (it was very very late by then so the details got fuzzy) imploding on itself or whatever.

When we returned to camp after astronomy, we laid on the picnic table at our campsite and stared up into the sky.  We saw a handful of shooting stars. which made Coco squeeze me and say, "I saw my first shooting star here, Mom!  I'm never, ever gonna forget that!!"

I smiled and thought, "Girl, you're six years old.  It's very likely you're going to forget it, and soon, but I love your optimism."

The Lehman Cave tour is the star attraction of Great Basin and worth every minute and every dollar, even if you're a semi-basketcase claustrophobe like me.  Trust it, you'll be so entranced by the caves you'll forget you're stuck under the ground in a suffocating hellhole with no obvious escape route.

You're a weirdo, Great Basin, but we like you.

Our third park was Bryce Canyon National Park in Utah.  If Lassen is the oldest child being solid and dependable and Great Basin is the middle child with an inferiority complex, Bryce Canyon is their snobby popular neighbor -- male or female, it doesn't matter, it just knows it's better than you.

Bryce Canyon is more stunning than you can imagine but it knows it's more stunning than you can imagine.  Its admirers are numerous; there are people hanging all over it despite its $30 entrance fee, one of the highest in the national park system.  Posted warnings about full parking and overflow lots and crowded trails are in your face before you've even passed the entrance.

Bryce Canyon doesn't have to work hard for its visitors. Its importance is unquestioned, its beauty unparalleled.  It's impeccably maintained.  Everyone wants to be enveloped by its particular brand of special and hugged by its hoodoos.

Bryce Canyon, you preening snobby gorgeous bitch.

The hike we did was nearly four miles.  It's the longest hike Coco and The Loosh have ever done yet there was no complaining.  That's the magic of Bryce.  When even a six-year-old says, "Daaaamn, this place is amazeballs," you know you've found a natural winner.

Even if you are far from the only one who knows it.

I've got three parks down out of eight.  Well shit.  I thought this would be one post but I can't do that to anyone tenacious enough to still be reading.  I had no idea I had this much to say.  But I guess I can be quite wordy.

Oldest sibling and middle sibling and snobby neighbor down.
Other characters to follow.
MJ