The Farmer's Wife Abroad {Drive}

One of the best, most unexpected things I loved about Bonaire was driving into Kralendijk for shopping! Ivan had told me before we got there that the buildings were put up and THEN streets made, not the other way around. He explained that they were random, confusing, curved into cul-de-sacs that were unadvertised, one-way sometimes but not others...so I was a little nervous about getting around on my own because as most of you know, I'm directionally challenged and can get lost in a Target store (even if I've been there before). I wasn't really scared about getting lost on Bonaire because, hey, it's an island; if you drive long enough, you'll eventually get back to the point you started because where else are you going to go, right? But I was worried about taking too long and not getting back in time to make a meal.

Amazingly, though, the streets and roads worked for me on Bonaire. After a few days, I decided it must be because that's how my brain is wired...random, confusing, one-way sometimes but not others.  There were no traffic lights so there were roundabouts which everyone was very efficient in and I found great fun! (In Montana, no one really knows how to use a roundabout so they're kind of dangerous actually. But on Bonaire, they worked like a charm.)

The drivers were generous and easy-going.  One of the things I learned was that the horn on the car is not used as a "weapon" to flog other drivers when they're not moving fast enough.  It's a form of friendly communication...one quick tap means "you've got the right away so take it" or "I'm coming around the corner so pull to the side", two-quick taps means "thank you" or "hello".  Bonairians are not in a hurry and they don't expect you to be either.  I figured out that if I drove as though I knew where I was going (even if I didn't), they'd assume I knew where I was going. This is the only time that has worked for me, and I don't know if it was because they were indulgent of idiots or they actually figured I was in the know.

(They also didn't worry about things like losing cement bags off a truck or people falling off the plastic yard chairs out of the back of their pickup truck going around a corner. These things might happen. Or they might not. No worries!)

Here's my little blue rental car, Bonnie:

She was zippy and nimble, and about as big as your average kitchen table (including the trunk). 

I loved driving her, and if I lived in a town, this is the car I'd want...you wouldn't want to take her on long road trips (more than 20 miles), but for errands and small grocery runs, she's perfect. 

For the first day and a half, the radio was stuck on some station that played Katy Perry and Rhihanna. It was dreadful.

And I tried EVERYTHING to change it.

I told Marc (the villa caretaker) about this travesty, he reached in and magically pushed the same button I had been pushing, "voila!" - Bonaire station!  

No worries, then. 

Bonaire's music is fantastic, mostly because you never know what's coming. Mostly it's a Cuban sound, but one morning I got astonishingly bad covers of classic rock done by Central or South American artists. Another morning, the Catholic prayer list was aired and I'm quite sure that each permanent resident of Bonaire was covered by name, individually. Either that or it was the yearly updated birthday calendar.  I don't know for sure because my Papiamentu is limited to "bon dia/bini", "dushi Bonaire", "danki", and "por fabor". 

I drove with my windows down all the time because the island air was soft (as opposed to the harsh cold of the car air conditioner) and I could see and hear the world better. 

It also enabled me to pull over and take pictures very quickly.

Some of these were taken when I pulled over, some were taken when someone else was driving, but here are some of the things I saw around Kralendijk on my daily jaunts to town. 

This was an outdoor mobile of hats and helmets that was on my main drag.

I don't know if they were trophies from road workers and bikers eliminated by this guy or what, but it made me laugh!

And right across the street from the mobile was this mural...which also made me laugh! 

There was what appeared to be a private residence a little further up the road with about 5 cannons mounted on or in its rock walls! 

PIRATES!

(I have no idea, but they may have been reproductions. )

You can't see, but this boat was used as kind of a porch/deck for the folks who lived in the yellow house.  As I'd drive by, the old guys sitting there would look and nod.  I'm sure they knew EVERYTHING about who was doing what in Kralendijk...

I really wish I'd stopped here, because I was curious as to whether it was a fabric store as well as an alteration shop. It was on a big corner of the road back to the villa and I never saw anyone there, so perhaps the business was no longer running.  (While we were there, a medical school closed its doors abruptly, just up the street from this alteration shop.)

This is on the side of a building that housed a radio station!  Murals everywhere! I loved that people painted their houses whatever they wanted and that if they saw a big blank wall, they'd fill it with art and not advertisement for the most part.

The next three pictures are of the TOP building which houses several businesses as it turns out, but the TOP market was the one I shopped at downtown for specific products such as Diet Coke for Doc. It had a surprisingly large inventory of American products.

These murals are done by the Bonaire artist Henk Roozendaal. I love his work and if you like it, too, connect to his website HERE for more images.

This is the back of the stands at Municipal Stadium which is where I was told a World Cup was played but I had my doubts, so I looked it up when I got home.  The games were finals for the Caribbean Football League from what I can understand which is a branch of the International Football League.  (Soccer is a very confusing wad of leagues and I'm still struggling to make sense of it. The complication with the Bonaire football was that it was legally considered a Dutch team, thereby messing up an already convoluted system. I believe they have it somewhat sorted out now, but prior to 2013 they were trying to figure out where they belonged in the big picture of the football world.)

 I took this picture so you could see the width of the streets and their groovy trucks. This was located right before the downtown one-way puzzle.

And I want the Farmer to build me this mailbox.

Is it not the coolest, most tacky thing you've seen in the last month?!

This is the top of what used to be Fort Oranje which was built in 1639 to defend Bonaire's harbor. After a long history of different uses it was renovated and restored in 1999 and is now used for government offices.

 Ah, the traffic signs...
The top blue with a slash through it does not mean you may not enter but that you may not PARK there. Also, beware the trucks that this entrance admits.

The following are a series of murals that were done on a wall across from the airport on the way back into Kralendijk. They seem to be done by different artists who are proud of their island and its culture. I loved them! (Especially the ladies on the beach...)

I'll end the post here because it's getting rather longish, but you get the idea of what it was like to drive to and through the capital "city"!

The Farmer's Wife Abroad {FLAMINGOS! And other birds...}

Here's the thing:

I didn't really care about flamingos at all for most of my life until my sister-in-law Pam gave me a couple for Christmas quite a few years back as a joke we shared due to my living in a trailer house. I planted them at my mailbox where they became a landmark for UPS drivers, neighbors, and visitors from far away places (Missouri).  Over time, the joke became a motif, a motif became a fond signature, and by the time I flew to Bonaire, the signature had become a passion.  

It's the anti-Montana ranchwife thing, these pink birds. 

To be situationally correct, I should be relating to sage hens, sharp tail grouse, meadow larks, or even Canadian geese, but instead the flamingos capture my heart and imagination.  Perhaps it's because I've always felt born out of place here, so flamingos on the prairie are a symbol of that. 

Or they're just stinking cool. 

I mean, REALLY! 

BIG PINK BIRDS!

Who doesn't think they're cool?!?

(My friend Willa McGillicuddy who lives in Florida doesn't think they're cool. She thinks they're mundane. But once I explained to her that it would be like a Floridian having moose as a passion, she comprehended immediately.)

(And now I've gotta send her some tacky Montana moose mugs. She'll be groovily out of place in the swamp and we'll all be happy.)

One of the big pulls for this job was to see flamingos in real life.

And one day...

I did.

These were my first flamingos.

I was driving home from grocery shopping in Kralendijk on the day after we flew into Bonaire and casually looked to the northeast as I drove past some lagoons near the highway, saw some pink things on the water and realized

THOSE ARE FLAMINGOS!!!

Blessedly, there was a pullout right there for people who wanted to go to the marina on the west side of the road, so I slammed on my brakes and whipped in. 

(Even if there hadn't been, the people on Bonaire would have given me a few minutes to take a picture, given a gentle one-tap honk, and away we would have gone.) 

This was as close as I thought I'd get, and it was good enough.

My heart was happy. 

A couple days later, I had the opportunity to go with the group on a dive session/island tour, and we ventured into the wildlife sanctuary on the north part of Bonaire. 

And THERE, I saw flamingos close enough to make me have tears in my eyes and take about 200 pictures.

Here they are...

Soak it up.

Their knees bend backward.

I couldn't stop watching that! 

I'm getting all weirdly sad and flamingo-homesick posting these pictures. (Perhaps because it's COLD and threatening to snow here right now.)  

But flamingos weren't the only birds on Bonaire.

There were parrots (which are called "parakeets", no matter what they looked like). 

Let me give you this description of the birds near our villa:

the doves would be the white collar office people who quietly commuted to work every day and spoke in genteel tones. The parrots, however, would be the rednecks of the neighborhood.  They wore loud colors, said derogatory things about each others mamas while shoving each other around in the trees, and were generally bad mannered but in a good natured sort of way. 

I hung out with them every morning after my run, over coffee, but whenever I tried to take their pictures they acted as though I was going to post the images on "Parrots of Walmart" and flew off  as fast as they could. 

Here are some parrot pictures I managed to quickly snap during my outings on the island...

This picture just illustrates their form and habitat without the distraction of color...

(I'm a sucker for black and white, especially in silhouettes.)

This fellow was one of the boys in the 'hood.  He didn't mean to settle long enough for me to snap his picture, but once I did, he hung around for a little while, chewing on berries.

Wild parakeet near 1000 Steps dive site.  They're hard to pick out because their foliage matches the trees!

My boy from the 'hood; he figured out I was doing the ugly American paparazzi thing and left. (But dig those pretty coverts!)

And then there were the pelicans...

They were fond of showing off during sunsets, dancing and diving in the brilliant ending to each day.

Lastly and leastly were the little foragers of the beaches, tiny piper birds who made me smile with their industrious picking of scruff.

He looks like the flotsam and jetsam he's picking through, doesn't he?

I almost missed him for the good camouflage! 

Their delicacy charms me, always.

I missed so many Bonaire birds! But perhaps I will return and they'll be in the sequel.

 

The Farmer's Wife Abroad {Creatures}

The iguanas...

Oh, my word! 

I'm not exaggerating in the least when I say Bonaire is crawling with them.

There are all sorts of lizard-y creatures on the island but the iguana is king here.

This is the fellow who lives at Villa Lunt. It's hard to tell, here, but he was about three feet long (including his tail)...not a huge iguana, but no small thang either.

We were sitting at the table under the pergola, lunching, when he came creaking out of the leaves and rocks to beg for food. This iguana was actually a performer...he worked for his scraps...and when it looked as though we were not going to sacrifice anything from our plates, he proceeded to nimbly climb this shrub and hang there, looking over his shoulder at us. 

The kids gave him orange chunks and he seemed satisfied with that. 

These are the lizards of Karpata.

I was sitting on the ground in the shade when they started coming out in a line in my direction (also to beg for food).  First three, then six, then finally I think we ended up with eight or nine altogether. I stayed seated, never dreaming they'd be so desperate for almonds that they'd be nearly in my lap!  It was thrilling and nerve-wracking, all at the same time. (Most thrilling experiences ARE, wouldn't you say?) 

Sunning...
(The yellow rock is the name of the dive site.  All designated dive sites are marked by these yellow rocks.  They're by the road, usually.)

This was the big old boss iguana at Karpata. I think it looks like he's wearing lipstick badly, but my sister will probably think "blood!".  And he's got bloodshot eyes. *shivers*

I like the way this picture shows the toes...
He was serious about the almonds, too.

Goats are everywhere, much like the iguanas. 

They're tough.

This picture was taken in Rincon.  I love it because it sums up Bonaire village life so well!

They stop traffic. Tourists take pictures. 

Astonishingly, I didn't get many pictures of the donkeys on Bonaire!

The first part of the week, I thought "I'll take pictures later. They're always out." but when I went looking for them...SERIOUSLY looking for them....they were not to be found.  

This is the last evening, after a long day of last minute touristing, no donkeys...

All of a sudden, from out of nowhere

DONKEYS!!!!

But my camera wasn't set for the low light and relatively high speed, AND we were still driving, so here you go:

I actually kind of like the action in this picture because it captures the feeling of the moment exactly! Slam on the brakes, find the camera with everyone exclaiming about the donkeys, off into the night...

The Farmer's Wife Abroad {History and Habitat}

When one thinks of a Caribbean island, most generally the mind pictures lush green foliage, sandy beaches, palm trees, lagoons and so forth.  Bonaire blows all those illusions to pieces!  Here is the natural landscape of the island (not seascapes...those come later):

 It was very dry when we were there, so perhaps the island would have been greener on a better year, but you can see that it's quite rough.  The mountains in the background here are covered with the same sort of foliage and plants that you'll see in the next picture.

 That's cactus.  It's growing among greenish scrub bushes that look nice and soft in photographs, but in reality are covered in wicked thorns. (I got one of the thorns in the side of my foot when trying to catch a sunset photo, and they are WICKED.)

 Again, same evil shrubs and scrub bushes...

 Bonaire is basically a big igneous rock, with lots of beaches that have formed from the ocean bringing in dead coral to shore.  (The place was crawling with lizards. It was almost impossible to take a picture without getting one in there somewhere.)

This is the bare land on the east side of the island where the first picture was taken. It's wicked rough.

The coral beaches were mostly all like this.  I took a picture with my foot so there'd be a reference to the size of the bits and pieces.  I could (and did) go barefoot on them, but it was picky going, and hard on the feet if they weren't all calloused up.

So that's what the Spaniards and Dutch explorers found when they discovered Bonaire.  The Spanish were looking for gold and silver, so they basically dismissed it as a useless place.  They couldn't grow anything to speak of there, so they captured, enslaved and deported all 2000 Amerindian inhabitants, making it a deserted useless island (in their opinion). Eventually they'd use it as a penal colony for their convicts and tried to raise cattle there...more for hides than meat.  

The Dutch and the Spanish fought what is now known as the Eighty Years War from 1568-1648 and in the process the Dutch conquered and re-settled the ABC islands (Aruba, Bonaire, Curacao).  They built a fort on Bonaire and proceeded to use the island for salt extraction and exportation, using slaves from Africa. (This fact is a point of great shame to the Dutch, still. But it is what it is, and they were certainly not the only country in the world doing that at the time.) They also sent their criminals to the island and used them to "mine" the salt as well. 

Until the middle of the 1800's, it was illegal for any European originated people who were not slaves or criminals to live on Bonaire. Ironically, it's now a popular place for wealthy Dutch and American people to build houses and live several months out of the year. 

Eventually, slavery was abolished. The Dutch gave the slaves the choices of either staying on Bonaire as free people, going to America, or to the Netherlands.  A small bunch actually did decide to stay there and their families still have holdings of land on the island....but holdings that look much like the scrubby cactus-y photos.  

During World War II, Bonaire was used as a place for oil tankers to hide out from German submarines, but some WERE sunk and Antillian servicemen died in the process.  I didn't take a photo of the memorial in the Plasa in Kralendijk, but I saw it and paused to read the little information plaque.  

Now Bonaire is mostly a place for scuba divers and conservationists.  Cruise ships stop and tourists stroll around the capital city of Kralendijk (pronounced "CRAWL-en-dike"). According to the information in my little tourist flyer (where most of these facts have come from), the island is 112 square miles and there are 19,000 people living there, although many of them are seasonal inhabitants.  There are really only two "towns"...the capital "city" that I mentioned, and the tiny village of Rincon (pronounced "RIN-cone").  The people of Bonaire very carefully balance the preservation of their habitat with the hosting of tourism. It's an economically "poor" island that's making the most of their resources.  They still export salt in massive quantities, but their real living does come from people like I traveled with who want to see what's in the ocean NEAR Bonaire.  

The Farmer's Wife Abroad {Part 3}

 I'm not going to tell ALL the Newark Airport stories, because you'd completely lose interest in my whole trip and abandon the Chronicles for the Pioneer Woman's blog. Someday, though, you need to hear the story of Luis the Mexican janitor and also of the mysterious setting up of a stage through out the night by many different characters, none of whom seemed to have any knowledge or connection with any of the others. And the complicated ordering/payment/pickup experience of ordering a simple, generic $12 breakfast sandwich at 5 a.m....modern convenience and technology gone TERRIBLY wrong.

It's astonishing, really, what stories one observes when there is no other entertainment at 3 a.m. in hell.  I mean, Newark.


After several gate changes throughout the night and early morning, we finally departed at sunrise....six people from Montana that looked like we'd just pulled in from a four day commute on a Greyhound bus. We boarded amidst a full cabin load of happy, excited, WELL RESTED AND FED scuba diver groups who were chattering and laughing with their cute little carry on luggage and clean tee shirts.  I wanted to hate them, but I didn't have the energy.

Fortunately, the illicit coffee had kicked in enough for me to realize that we were taking off near the Statue of Liberty!  There she was...right out my window! (At least, I THINK it was the Statue of Liberty.  I HOPE it was the Statue of Liberty, because then another life goal would have been met, along with having and using a passport.)

 Upon boarding the plane Doc, Jenny, David and Yulena went promptly to sleep. This is a terrible phone picture of about halfway through the 4 1/2 hour flight from Bonaire to Newark. It was pretty much how everyone (except the fresh scuba groups) made the flight.
Except me.  I couldn't sleep for anything.  I was flying over the ocean!  To a foreign island!  Where they promised me there would be flamingos!

I cried when we finally made the final descent and I saw Bonaire for the first time.

I made it to the island.

(In retrospect, I know it was weariness and relief, but at that moment it seemed quite sentimental...)

The Bonaire Flamingo Airport is no-frills.  

It's a good introduction to the island.

Bonaire itself is a no-frills place. Nothing fancy. No one has the opportunity or means to get too big for their britches here. 

We walked directly out of the airplane into the hazy, moist heat.  

Got ourselves down the stairs attached to the plane.

Began the longish march to the airport, wondering to ourselves whose bag would be the one sent to the Netherlands mistakenly, because one bag is ALWAYS lost. 

Guess what?
The Flamingo Airport really and truly is charmingly painted pink! (This picture is all tippy because I was trying to take a photo without impeding traffic while balancing an overloaded carry on and purse.)

 Even the tile walkway is pink!

"Bon bini na Bonaire" is the Papiamentu phrasing.  Papiamentu is a sort of Creole-y language that's really only heard on Aruba, Bonaire, and Curacao.  It's a crazy corruption and integration of all the languages of all the nationalities who have "owned" the island through the years.  (The airport is a converted military building as it turns out.  They're currently building a NEW airport to accommodate the number of flights that are coming in, growing every year.)

The flamingo...right before I got the stamp in my passport book. (The stamp ALSO had a flamingo on it.  We were veritably wallowing in flamingos. It was glorious.)

All the bags made it!

Miraculous!

The Villa Lunt caretaker, Marc (who Ivan believes is distantly related to Luis the Mexican airport custodian) met us with rental cars and led us through Kralendijk to our home for the week.

(Marc is his own post.)

To be continued....

How to Travel Incognito

Travel reads are TRICKY.

Well, they're tricky to me.

I don't want to take anything too heavy, figuratively or literally, because I'm generally overwhelmed by flight numbers and liquids allowed in my carry on.  But I have this terrible self-consciousness about fellow travelers looking at my light read and writing me off as a bimbo bumpkin....isn't that awful?  I mean...who CARES, right?!  

Don't answer that.

For Bonaire, I chose Bemelmans. 

He's the author of the children's book(s) Madeleine. (Oh, my favorite! "In an old house in Paris that was covered in vines lived 12 little girls in two straight lines....")  What most people don't know, however, is that he wrote amazingly good travel and food books.  I would never have known this except that about 10 years ago, the Garfield County Library was doing a discard on books and my friend the librarian who knew of my French obsession set a Bemelmans book aside for me.  It was entitled Bemelmans: My Life in Art, and originally I simply looked through it, studying the funny line drawings that seemed to be done by a sophisticated 10 year old. Eventually, though, I couldn't help but read a page here or there....and then another....and then the dry wit and shrewd observations of human nature dragged me into his writing.  I was smitten with Bemelmans, beyond Madeleine; beyond Paris, for that matter! 

Knowing of the nine hour layover in Newark, I briefly considered hopping a train into New York City to visit Bemelmans Bar where this remarkable man illustrated the walls during a visit there. (Don't tell my mom.)

I didn't. 

No one would go with me and NYC alone seemed a little TOO adventurous in the middle of the night. 

Even when faced with nine hours of layover in Newark as the alternative.

So I searched Bemelmans titles.

How in the world could I resist How to Travel Incognito?!?

Brilliant!

And it truly was. 

As we were winging our way over South Dakota, Canada, and Lake Erie, I was reading about Monsieur Le Comte de St Cucuface who is a French aristocrat fallen on tough times post-WWII, making his way by shmoozing high class morons at parties, reselling cigarette cases, and playing the snooty game in which image is everything and can take the place of actual factual money.  Bemelmans encountered him on a train, later becoming an intrigued sidekick and acquiring the persona of Prince of Bavaria in the process.  

Somewhere over the Great Lakes, the story ventured into air travel with a Maharajah, a luckless stewardess, homicidal inflatable life raft, umbrella-with-a-hidden-knife, and eventual gain for Comte Cucuface.  I was laughing to myself, almost to tears, and HAD to share this excerpt. Perhaps it was extreme weariness, perhaps it was the somber quiet of the airplane cabin in which everyone but me was asleep, but it truly was one of the funniest things I'd read in a long time!  

Ivan had the misfortune of looking my way just then, and I said, "There's something I have to read out loud."

Eh....okay....the only escape was the lavatory and he didn't think quickly enough for that. 

And so it began:

"The plane left Paris on schedule and stopped for refueling in Ireland.

The stewardess was busy in her pantry dishing up curry upon plastic plates when the even rhythm of the motors suddenly changed.  A signal light flashed on, announcing: "No Smoking. Fasten Your Seatbelts!"

The stewardess left the pantry and went forward to the pilot's compartment. When she returned, her face was calm. With her reassuring air-hostess smile, she went from chair to chair and repeated that all would be all right, if the passengers would remain calm.  The plane had developed engine trouble, she explained.  The pilot was returning to Ireland and hoped to make it without mishap.  But there did exist the possiblity of an emergency landing at sea.  

A few minutes later there was another signal from the pilot and the hostess went forward again.  She returned with the co-pilot and very efficiently they took from a wall locker a deflated yellow raft, capable of supporting the passengers as well as the crew.  When unrolled in the aisle, the raft reached the length of the cabin.  It was the most modern, self-inflating type of raft obtainable. 

The stewardess, who had been recently transferred from an overland route to the transatlantic service, had not yet become familiar with the lifesaving apparatus and in her haste pulled the wrong cord, the on which caused the raft to inflate.  In less than a minute, this instrument of safety had become a menace.  At first it looked like a small yellow pig, then it was the size of a seal and a second later it grew into a whale. It bagan to move forward.  The pilot was pinned against the controls, the co-pilot and the stewardess were gently lifted and pressed against the ceiling.

Puffing and hissing, the raft continued to inflate. The monstrous bag moved slowly toward the tail of the plane, in relentless pursuit of the passengers who had fled from their seats.

The Maharajah and the Maharanee kissed their children, embraced each other and bowed to the members of their staff.  In the night mare of these last moments there seemed no longer anything to do but meet the end with dignity.  The bodies of the distinguished passengers were now being mauled and flattened, without the slightest regard for protocol; arms, legs and faces were pressed together like the truffles and meat in a pate maison."

TEARS of laughter, rolling down my face as I attempted to read this quietly aloud to poor entrapped Ivan (who must have felt a bit like one of the entrapped passengers in the story).  

You'll have to get a copy of Incognito to find out how it all works out, but let me just say that from that moment on, whenever the very calm air stewards and stewardesses were demonstrating the yellow inflatable life vests on subsequent flights, it was all I could do not to start snickering at the remembrance of this passage.  

Next trip you take, be it plane or train, bus or car, I enthusiastically recommend How to Travel Incognito by Ludwig Bemelmans. It's light, intelligent, and you'll sound very smart saying "LOOD-vig BEM-ell-MAHNS" when someone asks you who the author is. 

The Farmer's Wife Abroad {Part 2}

If you look at a map of the routes United Airlines flies, and imagine taking a flight from Denver to Newark, it seems a pretty straightforward path.  See Example A:

But it turns out, NOBODY WANTS TO GO TO NEWARK. (This is the potential title of a book made up of dreadful travel stories that may be compiled at a future date.)

It took us for stinkin' ever just to get out of the Denver airport. 

The baggage was slow being loaded. 

There were passengers from a connecting flight that we needed to wait for.

There were other planes in front of us.

The pilot forgot to brush his teeth, so had to exit the plane to do so. 

(Not really, but it was starting to seem that that sort of thing was happening)

When we finally DID get out of Denver, the sun was beginning to set behind the Flatirons and this was the view from my seat...

(I know. There will be die-hard Denver Broncos fans that will point out the colors of the sunset match their team colors...blah, blah, blah. Years past I would be able to say something in retaliation like "Yeah, but just just like the sun, your team is going DOWN."  Not this year. *sniffle*)

Now then.

Back to the flight.

Look at the map one more time and trace with your finger the route from Denver to Newark.

Did you happen to go through Canada or over any of the Great Lakes?

No?

Well, WE did. 

I can only assume the pilots were trying to end up in Quebec instead of Newark because

NOBODY WANTS TO GO TO NEWARK. 

And I'll tell you why.

(You knew I would, didn't you?)

The Newark Airport is some sort of crazy, discombobulating, scuzzy, coffee-less/food-less/soul-less landing place after 11 p.m. until 5 a.m. the next day.  

We straggled off our "international" flight from Denver around 11:30 p.m., EST. There were about 3 stores or eateries open, but no one really felt like eating 8 hour old pizza. (Except Doc, and he got a screaming deal on it.) 

As Jenny found a place to nest with the kids and charge various devices, Ivan and I headed to have a glass of wine at the one likely place, Oeno Wine Bar. The only reason it was still open, I discovered after ordering a $15 glass of Chardonnay, was because of the MLB World Series playoff game between the LA Dodgers and New York Mets.

(Incidentally, the Mets won, 3-1, in which case the three Mets fans stood up, stretched, exited the joint and the lights started dimming.)

(But SERIOUSLY...who goes to a WINE BAR to watch baseball??? It would be like going to a steak house to watch opera. It can be done, but probably shouldn't be.)

So that was midnight. 

We only had nine hours to go before our flight left for Bonaire!

Nine of the longest hours of my life.

Don't tell my mom this (because she'll react as though someone just called a 23-19), but...

I slept on the nasty floor in a corner of one of the seating areas, with my head on my purse and my sarong for a blanket. It was only for maybe 20 minutes...long enough to get chilled to the core and want a cup of coffee desperately.

There's no coffee to be had in the Newark Airport at 2 a.m. 

I don't care if you're Batman or the Queen of England or Tom Brady, you won't be getting coffee.

You'll get lots of things....like "lost", "dirty looks", or "ignored", but you won't get coffee. 

(Ivan and I set off on a grand discovery tour around the concourse and got all those things. At one point, we encountered a custodian with a piping hot cup of fresh coffee. I asked him in a quavery, desperate voice where he'd managed to find it and he gestured toward the window..."Out thay-ah. Sorry."  Also, I think we may have set off an alarm in a weird, open kiosk that didn't look like a kiosk, but we'll never know.)

Finally (and this is by now only three and a half hours into a nine hour layover), a kid in a black hooded sweatshirt who was hanging around the central food court asked Ivan if we needed anything. Ivan replied rather hopelessly and glumly that we were seeking coffee and the kid said "I'll get you some."

(I'd like to say at this juncture that I believe in angels from God, and I believe this young man was one of them.)

As we were following him through the maze of stands, a rather stout black woman  pushing an empty (as it would turn out) coffee canister stopped our young savior and asked where he was going. He told her he was fetching us coffee, and she said something to the effect of "Ain't no damned coffee made 'til 5, fool." to which he said, "Yes there is. I made some."  I got the distinct impression that this was not his job or place, but like I said, I'm pretty sure he was an angel sent for me. (Because Ivan doesn't drink coffee, you see. He was just in it for the active distraction from sitting in the waiting area for 9 hours.)

Black Hoody led us to a closed coffee stand, went behind the counter, grabbed a big cardboard cup and asked if I wanted regular or decaf.  I almost wept with gratitude. 

"Regular, PLEASE and thank you so very, very much!" 

"No problem."

After he handed me the gorgeous beverage, I asked how much and he said, "I'll be right back" and vanished into the maze of stands again. 

So there I was, standing next to the counter with my contraband cup of joe when another traveler with the same haunted, hungry eyes approached and asked where I'd managed to get the life-giving elixir. I gestured with my head to the other side of the counter, "Back there. Some guy got it for me and now I'm waiting to pay him." 

The traveler said, "Where is he?!? Where did he go?!?!"

"I don't know!"was the truthful reply.

"They said there was no coffee until 5 a.m.!!!"

"I know."

"But YOU have coffee!"

Indeed. 

(Dear reader, you may be thinking that the Christian thing to do in this moment would be to grab another cup and split the booty with the other desperate traveler, but I will confess that although the thought flitted through my mind, I immediately and selfishly rebuked it, hoping my Newark story would not include being mugged for 10 ounces of caffeine that may or may not have been stolen. Let him find his own angel in a black hoody. Or something.)

After a short time, the other traveler gave up and left the scene. Moments later, Black Hoody angel reappeared, said "I got the code. Follow me." which I did unthinkingly. He led me about 10 paces to a pay kiosk, entered the super secret pass code (I should have paid more attention to THAT), took my 5 bucks, deposited it, carefully retrieved the 50 cents in change and handed it back to me. 

"Thank you. Thank you SO MUCH! I can't tell you how much I appreciate this!"

"No problem."

And he vanished into the airport. 

The Farmer's Wife Abroad {Part 1}

October 9, 2015

A large part of adventure and travel is discomfort.  

No one ever tells stories of easy flights, acceptable food, or calm touring. It's always the nine hour layovers in Newark, roaches on the wall of the villa, or bumpers being torn off the rental car that get the air or page time, right?  This travel adventure of mine is no exception.  

And on that cautionary note, we begin.

I'm going to skip the whole check in the airport in Billings, flight to Denver in 45 minutes part.  There's absolutely nothing remarkable or interesting about any of it, except to say that my traveling companions had twice the luggage I did, being scuba divers who were spending a week on a Caribbean island.  

I was traveling with Ivan and Jenny Jasper, their two kids David and Yulena (twins, age 10), and a gentleman I only ever knew as "Doc" who was a family doctor from Sheridan WY. (Truly, I never did find out his last or given name. Ivan seemed to think he looked like a tall Ernest Hemingway, but I didn't see that resemblance. He certainly wasn't as rough as Hemingway, and his sentences were much longer.) 

We had what seemed a longish layover in Denver, but in reality it was a just-right layover...enough time to buy a good snack, stretch our legs, and regroup before flying on to Newark.  Even so, I couldn't take much of the sitting and waiting, so I told the others I was going for a stroll to stretch my legs and took off down the concourse. 

At the end of the concourse, rounding the corner just ahead of me, was an elderly lady in very classy clothes, taking her carry on and purse for a walk on an airport cart.  I still have not learned the traveling rule that one does not talk to just everyone one encounters on the journey, so as I rounded the concourse and was about to pass her, I said, "Are you talking a walk for exercise?" (being concerned that perhaps she needed help across the airport and having time to do so).  Why, yes, she WAS, although she was a bit embarrassed to be caught with what looked like a walker. I confessed that I was stretching my legs as well and asked if we could share a few yards as it's much better to walk with someone in that sort of place.  

We exchanged the usual pleasantries and I asked where she was bound. 

"Boston, Mass. to visit my old friend who is house bound, now." 

I was so tickled that I stopped walking and nearly did a happy dance!  

"That's my favorite city! I love Boston!", I exclaimed. 

"What do you love about it, dear?", she queried, quite interested in my response.

Well, we really didn't have the time for all that I love about Boston, but I quickly rolled through Fenway and the Red Sox, the Museum of Fine Arts, seafood twice a day, Engine 8 Ladder 1, the Freedom Trail, Make Way for Ducklings....

When I took a breath, she laughed and revealed to me that she'd grown up in Boston (well, NEAR Boston, in Quincy) and that she loved many of the same things. 

As we walked and visited, she asked where my destination was on MY trip and I told her I was going to Bonaire to cook for scuba divers.  At that, SHE stopped walking and nearly did a happy dance....she had been a scuba diver back when scuba diving wasn't all that popular, in the 1950s.  In fact, when she was on a trip with one of her pals, she'd gone snorkeling and sent her husband-to-be a telegram informing him of this thrilling activity; he was concerned and asked everyone in his office if this was a decent thing for a young woman to be doing, as he had no idea what the word even meant! 

By the end of our little encounter, I had a new friend.  If I'm ever in Cheyenne, WY, I'm to look up and stay with Mrs. Joanie H.  We must report back on our trips over coffee.  (I need to do it soon, though, because she's 93 and only has about 10 more years of good health, according to her.  This is quite true, and I must tell you that I almost fell over at the revelation of her age.  She LOOKS about 75, I promise you, and shows no signs of allowing Father Time to place speed bumps on her current path.) We said our goodbyes, bade each other safe travels, and reluctantly parted ways.  I wish now that I'd taken her photo.  

As I boarded the plane for Newark, I thought to myself that I wanted to remember that someday I'd be telling MY life adventures and stories to people who came to visit me in the nursing or retirement home, or to whippersnappers in the airport, and I need to live a life worth telling.  

"I just KNEW your house was magical!"

This was the statement my friend Amber exclaimed yesterday as she and her kids visited us for the first time.

Now, my house is a lot of things....dusty, rather cluttered at times, quirky, warm, small....but it has never once occurred to me that it's in any way magical!

As I picked up and puttered around this morning, I tried to think of what might make it magical.

Perhaps it was the fact that she was greeted at the door by a pirate who was heartily informing the visitors of maps and buried treasure in our yard.

Maybe it was the sparkly pink flamingo sunglasses resting next to the tiara adorned teapot.

Or the conversation over the lunch table sincerely examining the feeding habits of foot trolls.

The dragon pictures scattered about the house?

Our dogs' thoughts that are narrated by everyone in the family, as though translating for a foreign cousin who wants to participate but doesn't know the language?

The coconut happily hanging out with the homegrown tomatoes on the counter?

Or maybe it's the dust bunnies with cardboard box houses that the kids created...

I don't know.
Maybe it's not magical, it's just "crazy" and she was politely reluctant to use that particular word, bless her heart!
But she mentioned the magic more than once, so something struck her deeply (besides the garlic in the pizza...).

I would hope that some of the magic would be how delighted we are to have guests, how they feel loved and appreciated, that the hugs we greet them with are genuine and deep.
I hope some of the magic in our home is the humor and safety to discuss any and everything, no matter how frivolous or deeply difficult.
If only some of the magic here is the wonder of being surrounded by a library's worth of good books and the beautiful art of my talented friends and family!

My greatest wish though, is that the true magic of our house is love.

*sniffle*

I think the reason people wear dark clothes in the winter is that they're mourning the end of summer.