THE METRO

I have this perverse desire to ride trains and subways or even buses instead of rental cars or taxis in a new city. This year for Thanksgiving, I am meeting my son in New York City (the first time for me). I arrived at JFK airport and of course, I could have apped up an Uber or Lyft or even a regular taxi to Manhattan’s 5th Avenue where I am staying but I have developed this ritual of taking public transportation from the airport when I land in one of the world’s biggest and busiest cities.

Honestly, before today I didn't really understand why I like the train/subway/local bus option. It hit me as I was riding the E Line from JFK’s Air Train’s Jamaica Station that the reason this option makes sense to me is how being thrown with individuals who live and breathe and work and procreate in the town I am visiting helps me quickly evaluate any peculiar cultural traditions or traits that might be useful to ‘blend in’ with the locals.  I’m a traveler, not a tourist, and I would rather not stand out like Dorothy in Oz but rather blend in with the Munchkins.

I think the first time I really recognised the train was infinitely preferable to a taxi was during a train ride from Narita, Japan, to Ueno Station in Tokyo many years ago.  I vividly remember a young Japanese mother with two perfectly dressed and matching twin boys who, tired after a long trip, had piled up on their tidy and perfectly dressed mother to take a nap with arms and legs akimbo on the bench beside her.  A Nat Geo moment. And a subtle cue for me as I maneuvered and enjoyed my way through Japan’s precisely groomed environments.

On my way from Milan’s airport to Milan’s Retiro area by train, I met another traveler, a young American woman, who was taking her first ever trip out of the US. She had chosen the local option out of financial necessity but had learned very quickly the art of sharing public transportation with the local. We mutually affirmed this fascination with local transportation was NOT crazy but rather a wonderful tool for travelers.

Of course, I had called my hotel ahead to ask about transportation from JFK to Manhattan. After being provided with a list and costs of taxi and shared ride services and after a bit a prodding, the front desk person volunteered that the train/subway combination was not only possible but likely more time efficient at the time of the day I would be entering Manhattan. I’m pretty sure she even used the word ‘express’ and mentioned she had used this option every single day when she worked at JFK and it cost around $14 return. This sounded really, really good after being told my cost for a taxi or even a shared ride would be closer to or a bit above $50. Honestly, I would rather drink $50 instead of ride in it, particularly at the prices for one glass of wine in Manhattan.

Mistakenly, however, I took the EL (or Local) instead of the EE (Express). But was it a mistake or was it a hint from my subconscious that the best way to get over any anxiety I might have (and, yes, I get anxious in really, really big cities) upon entering the urban jungle is to get close and personal with the locals. There is no closer or more personal place that a crowded subway. And from Jamaica Station, I had aound 20 local stops to live through before reaching my lofty station at 53rd St and 5th Ave near Rockefeller Center.

I had already noticed the abundance of accents and languages as I strode through Terminal 8 of JFK to the Air Train. I’m pretty sure I heard German and some language that might be Indonesian, definitely Spanish and perhaps some Swedish. I heard Jersey and Wisconsin, South Carolina and Missouri in the mix, too. A cacophony symphony. I noticed a lot of the non-English speakers actually DID know some English as short phrases or words jumped from the phrase book to their conversations. Subway was definitely one of those words.

I also noticed a literal potpourri of eye and head shapes, colors and facial features. I noticed black men holding their children close and perhaps a MesoAmerican father trying to gently settle an argument between his bossy eldest daughter with her much younger, sleepy little brother. I witnessed a Hispanic mother grabbing her two rambunctious boys in a hug in order to remind them their voices were happy and laughing but loud. I saw a German couple semi-attentively (as parents often do) listening to their talkative adult son as he went on and on about something - what I don’t know because he spoke in German.

As the Subway left Jamaica Station and rumbled underground through Jamaica, Queens, and Astoria, more passengers climbed on board than got off.  Initially, I had had plenty of room on the bench seat I shared with a somewhat imposing but really beautiful young very dark black man dressed in what looked sort of like raggedy clothes but undoubtedly were the highest and most costly fashion in hip hop. He wore heavy silver rings (costume but intricate nonetheless), one with a lion of flowing mane, another with a skeleton head with a weird skull cap with spikes (some game demon perhaps?), another skeleton worthy of Dios de la Muertos (a Hispanic cultural appropriation?) and lastly a ring of simple crosses. He was very tidy and polite in general. He smelled of weed.

The darkly Hispanic woman on the other side spoke very little and looked like she might have just left work. She had that tired, I have to get home so I can work some more getting dinner ready for my kids and then tidy the house kind of look that I see in so many faces of working women. She was in her zone and definitely wanted to stay there. That was fine by me because I didn’t feel like talking, I was in my listening and observing mode. I love to be the fly on the wall sometimes and no one pays any attention to a little silver-haired white lady who wants to be ignored.

Several stops down an elderly Asian man came aboard the now full subway car.  I still had a bit of seat turf on either side of me and could scoot closer to well-dressed hip hop dude (a steel post was between me and tired mama) but I felt pretty comfortable with my little bubble of extra space on either side of me. The elderly Asian hopped from one foot to another, not really catching my eye but all the while letting me know he REALLY wanted to sit. I scooted over. Weed dude didn’t comment. Or move.

Since my space had already been invaded I took my chance to really look at other passengers. The New York Subway is not just a single ride from one point to another but it is the actual transportation for many, many New Yorkers who do not own a car and maybe don’t even know how to drive. Why should they? They’ve had pretty reliable albeit sometimes imperfectly working public transit (my Metrocard didn’t open the gate and after several tries a transit worker just opened another and told me ‘come on through’ like it was pretty common for the gate to malfunction) since 1903. So just like the guy at the end of the car toting a room air conditioner on a dolly, life goes on in the Subway and people transport whatever they need to transport. It’s the urban version of a chicken bus.

Somehow, though, all these small interactions remind me that basically we are all cut from the same cloth and have many of the same needs. We are busy people and we need to move ourselves, our loved ones and our things from one place to another in whatever way is available to us. We have family, we love them and we share our lives with them everywhere - even on the New York Subway, one of the oldest and busiest subway systems in the world.

Next time you enter a big urban jungle, try local transportation if it is available. Give yourself permission to escape your safe bubble in your rented car, your taxi or shared ride. Watch the locals and by the time you get to your hotel or accommodation you will already have found that common bond that helps a traveler engage with a new culture. The rest of your trip will be so much more relaxed because you know everyone there is just like you even though they might look and speak differently. And THAT is what I consider the wonder and the essence of traveling.

#publictransport #NYMetro #NewYorkCity

GAIA AND ME

I love the Earth. Not in the tree-hugging, bleeding heart liberal way that most people would think when I say that even though I’m probably that too.  But in the I absolutely love the tremendous beauty and solitude and danger and power and inspiration and solitude and don’t fuck with me attitude of this huge old Earth of ours. I love it so much I have half a mind to call it Gaia, imbuing it with the personality of a Goddess so powerful that Zeus’s Olympus is just a puny little mountain lean-to  compared to the Goddess’s glory.

Somehow Mother Nature (I call her Mother for short) and I have been buddies for many years. I kind of think of Mother as one aspect of Goddess Gaia. When I was younger, my best friend was a big old weeping willow down near the very intermittent creek on my folk’s property. (This is where the tree hugging comes in.) I LIVED in that tree. It was often so much less chaotic than the house on the hill where my Mom, Dad and my 4 other siblings lived. Tree was my sanctuary. 

I’m pretty sure that old tree had a special relationship with Mother because after I fell out of the tree at the lady-old age of 15, my Dad chopped it down to the nub, taking out on the tree the anxiety and upset he could not take out on me. I was pretty hurt from the fall and Dad felt the someone – or in this case something – should be punished for my sin of not wanting to grow up into a young lady that would want to maybe I don’t know join a sorority at college or wear pumps. But months later after I recovered from both the fall and my Dad’s executing my best friend, I made my way down the hill very carefully to grieve for it and tell it I was sorry. And where the trunk had been, a tiny healthy brightly green sapling had sprouted. I figured it was Tree’s way to let me know it had forgiven me and the Mother’s way of saying she was kind of sorry things got so out of hand.

In my mind, which in the wilderness tends to be befuddled and clear all at the same time, Mother Nature may be an aspect of but unlike Gaia who I’m a little afraid of and the Mother and I have a special deal. Whenever I am out in the wilderness, bad things just do not happen. The sun shines or if it is snowing like shit something incredible happens like a herd of bison cross my snowmobile’s path and a big old bull looks me right in one eye (their eyes are kind of far apart) or the most glorious rainbow appears or no kidding that day, the bad thing just morphs into one of the best days of my life.  I think Gaia likes to tease me a little when I get cocky just to remind me of her power.

I’ve been spending more and more time wandering by myself lately and my next excursion on foot and with my home on my back is a trip to Isle Royale, the largest island in Lake Superior and a National Park. Somehow I feel so much less anxiety camping down some dirt road all by myself or backpacking solo into a peaceful forest undoubtedly full of dangers than I do at my local Mall. I can trust the wilderness to be just that – the wilderness. The wilderness has no malignant feelings and just is. As long as I prepare for what I can, chances are I’m going to have a great time and come out with praise in my heart and my head for the Mystery that lets Gaia exist in this huge cosmos.

This trip is a bit of both solo backpacking and group canoe/camping trip. The group part is early in the trip so I have several days to recover from trying to be at least just a little of that pump-wearing but paddle-wielding lady my Dad so wanted me to be. Although, honestly, most of these people already know me and they know I’m like Abbey’s cactus in Desert Solitaire – I just need a LOT of space to grow. They don’t expect me to wear pumps but they have yet to witness the depths of my introversion that I am so careful to nurture at appropriate and solitary times.

The days following the canoe trip will be all mine – and Gaia’s of course. The east end of the Island, where I will spend the first few days of my backpack, is all rocky trail and boreal forest. The western end, where I will alight after a brief ferry ride from the east side, is all old-growth hardwood forest. The kind they used as a model for the Ent Treebeard.

I have decided to use this solo trip as a test trip for a new way to backpack using only my hammock and a rain tarp for shelter. I figure if it doesn’t work out I can always sleep on the ground in my sleeping bag, zipped up on the ground in my tent hammock, rolled up in the rain-proof tarp to keep out the moisture. Either way, I’ll be in a place with lots of friends – the trees. I’m sure they probably group remember my long enduring friendship with my Willow. I’ll be fine.

In the meantime, ramping up for the trip, it’s fun learning an entirely new way of rigging gear. I’m refreshing my memory on my knots (hammock rigging takes a lot of knots) and hoping sleeping in a hammock will prolong my backpacking days now that the arthritis in my hip feels particularly painful after a night on the ground. I’m cross-checking my gear for double duty plus all the gear I will need for only the canoeing or the backpack. I’m checking websites and Youtube for the weather and to make sure I have all the gear I need and the most important will be available on both sides of the Island in case I run out of or lose what I brought. I swear gearing up for a trip is almost as much fun as the actual going for me.

We are so privileged. We get to sleep in warmed or cooled homes, step into clean bathtubs with reliable hot water raining down upon us. Our food comes from packaging instead of from the end of our bow or our rod. Heat for cooking comes from a high-tech tiny stove instead of a carefully placed gathering of slightly damp limbs and branches which have been coaxed into a friendly fire.

Somehow, as I pack, I feel the Mother hanging out with me and I think Gaia is watching all my preparation and gently reminding me that Mother Nature and I have a deal. As long as I treat their precious Earth well, Gaia and the Mother will be on watch.

#hammockbackpacking #aging #gaia #nature

MAYBE I NEED EIH ANONYMOUS?

I’m thinking what I’d really like is to meet some other people with my same heart condition. People who have been active adults cut down to size by a heart attack they never in a million years thought they would suffer. I would like to have some dialog with those people to see if we could piece together some answers not so much about our conditions (researchers have provided SOME stuff on that) but how they cope, how they continue to be active, and if they, like me, have chest pain sometimes so severe they think about going to the ER even though they have just paid off that last visit (and subsequent admission) there. You know, kind of like AA except for people like me living with Exertion-Induced Hypertension.

I’m not what you would call a scaredy cat. Just ask my friends. Tomorrow, I leave for a 4-day journey by myself to witness for myself the chaos in Yosemite created by twice the normal snowfall. I swear I’ll just be doing a small amount of hiking, checking out the ruined bridges and the flooded trails but I spent a good part of the day calming a friend down by teaching him how to use an app that lets me ‘ping’ my location to him every once in a while (as long as I have wifi).  He worries about me.

Sometimes, I just want to forget I have ‘conditions’ in my life. The most serious, the heart condition, means that I have to be extra careful about doing things I used to take for granted – like moving heavy furniture, lifting heavy boxes, going all out at High Intensity Interval Training. That sort of thing. 

Last weekend I spent the better part of three days lying around recovering from the move of the last bit of my heavier belongings from one house to another. I even called in a few of my troops. Mostly they are strong, independent women like me. Except a decade younger and sans heart condition. They get me but they worry about me; they fussed at me when I tried to lift something, reminding me that’s what they were there for. And I kept feeling older, and older, and older. I paid for that episode with an attack of what I think is unstable angina for which the docs can’t seem to find a reason (except all that heavy lifting) – or any help - for.

Truth. I AM older. I’m your average active 64-year-old. I’ve lived an active life that has given me all kinds of bad knees, sore hips, bruises, a dark spot on my leg from a kayaking accident, a bad neck from a head-on collision when I was in my indestructible 20s, blah, blah, blah. I was seriously counting on adding a few more of those ailments to my story repertoire but my heart clearly doesn’t want to cooperate. Its early warning signal is always that boring unstable angina followed by a few days in bed.

Unstable angina. My nemesis. Nothing stops me in my tracks like unstable angina. For one thing, once the pain starts traveling from my heart around my chest under my left arm to my back, down my left arm and up my neck, visions of lying on the cold floor of my bathroom trying to yoga breathe my way out of a heart attack enters my consciousness.  Seriously, having a heart attack by yourself with your phone in another room, without meds or help takes a whole lot of freaking courage. Or cussidness. Not sure.

Anyway, this isn’t about that heart attack. It’s about the unstable angina. The thing is, this diagnosis of Exertion-Induced Hypertension is kind of new and not a whole lot of stuff has been written about it by people like me – the ones who have it. Actually very little has been written by anyone not in the research field– hence this blog post and its sharing on my Facebook page for Exertion-induced Hypertension.

So what I want to know is whether any of those people sharing the same diagnosis has this unstable angina and if they also feel frustrated by their cardiologist suggesting that since nothing shows up on the test, it’s probably just one of the other 16 reasons someone can have severe chest pain. I’ll bet that cardiologist does not have a very clear vision of lying on that cold floor for an hour thinking he was going to die next.

I’m absolutely sure there are other people with other conditions that also have the same worries and concerns. I’m sure that at least some of them seek out the experiences of others to make their lives better. I’m hoping that my public FB page will spur others on to add comments and thoughts about their own experience with this particular heart condition. You don’t have to be embarrassed. It’s not like we have an STD, you know.

In the meantime, I hope my friends and family read this and spread the word. I know they are eager to help me. My mates have all pretty much asked the question “So you could have a heart attack on this backpack (or hike or trip or whatever)?”. And they pretty much have agreed to take me along anyway after I’ve shrugged my shoulders in a definite “I don’t have the foggiest clue”. Just think what a little more information would mean to me and to them.

Now that I have decided I might like to and could possibly wake up to many tomorrows, I’d like to hone in on how I can safely do that. So, send me your suggestions. I’ll even rub lavender on a live chicken (as long as it doesn’t hurt the chicken) all the while drumming a jungle beat if it seems like something that could work. Otherwise, I’ll just keep on religiously taking my life-keeping medication which works to keep me safe until the next dose all the while I may be doing a few unsafe things. And my mates will mostly tag along with me when they can, knowing I’m not going to be silly about it. Mornings are my favorite time of day and I like sunrises just as much (maybe more) than the next gal.

#exerciseinducedhypertension #livinginsteadofjustnotdying #feelingsorryformyself #heartcondition

TIME TO LIVE?

Two years ago, I was a relatively fit active 62-year-old engaged in regular cross-fit sessions with a personal trainer. I was making progress on my goal to lose weight and increase my fitness level. During one of my sessions I had a coughing fit strong enough and long enough to cause the session to be ended. Several days later I had my first heart attack. A couple of days later I had another heart attack (in my doctor’s office) followed by heart surgery.

Two stents were permanently placed in my heart and I was diagnosed as having ‘unstable plaque’, the kind that sort of bonds with your artery walls and makes them weaker wherever they bond. My artery literally exploded inward, causing two blood clots to form and then travel down to block the entry point into my heart. Several weeks later, my new cardiologist ran additional tests and diagnosed me with Exercise-induced Hypertension. I learned that my love of hiking, biking, training, kayaking and all that love of outdoors stuff could literally kill me. I learned that in order to continue with the things I loved to do, I had to also learn to moderate, to slow down.

That hit me hard. As an active person, I didn’t want to slow down. I started training again through the hospital cardiac rehab unit. It had a little scale which was supposed to remind you of your exertion level so your workout didn’t tax your newly injured heart. Trouble was my exertion level was so far under my blood pressure level once I started cycling or walking fast on the treadmill, I had no way of knowing I was entering the danger zone. I started wearing a BP cuff and taking my BP at random intervals in order to see if I could tease out when my BP had risen to dangerous levels. Initially, my doc and I decided a systolic BP of no more than 190 was the danger zone. Later, after several months of recovery, we moved that up to 200. For months my BP cuff was my best friend whenever I hiked or trained at the gym.

Even though I have tried my best to keep fit, I felt my heart was a time bomb and that every time I accidentally exceeded that 200 BP mark, I was chipping away at the time I have left in this lifetime. Even though the decision was not particularly planned, I eased back on my work and went into self-imposed ‘semi-retirement’. And played. Oh, how I played. I have traveled widely, spent 8 days backpacking in the Sierras, ridden a camel across the dunes of the Sahara in Morocco, climbed down into a dormant volcano on Maui and have continued to participate in the annual charity bike race in my home town.

I’ve been doing that for two years. ‘Living life to the fullest’ all the while honestly expecting an early exit from this wonderful life.

I can do stuff, even travel to remote places, but I concentrate ‘on the insurance’ so I can get home.

I’ve learned some things in the past two years that I don’t think I would have learned (or would have had to learn) without those heart attacks. A little before the one year anniversary of my heart surgery, I climbed Machu Picchu Mountain in Peru. By then, I had learned my ‘safe pace’, resting a lot on the way up, paying attention to my breathing, even asking people whether my face was super pink. I got to the top where my son was waiting to congratulate me. A victory to be sure. About a month later, I climbed Donahue Pass in the Yosemite and shared a pack of Oreos at the top with all the others who had made it to this famous Pass. A little more victory over my heart condition. I learned I can do a whole lot of things if I plan accordingly and take my time, resting often to let my blood pressure go back down before exerting myself some more. It’s my ‘insurance’ that I can get back to my car on my own.

I love to travel and one of my friends, who works in the funeral industry, knowing I love to travel to remote places across the globe suggested I take out a policy which would retrieve my body from anywhere in the world, with the insurance company being responsible for all paperwork hoops and costs of retrieval. I seriously thought about this, even though I am perfectly fine with the idea of being buried or burned or whatever in the traditions of the country in which I might die. I called my son to tell him even though the policy was very reasonable (about $500 one-time fee), I was okay with the idea of being ‘buried’ in a foreign country. His response? “Get the insurance Mom.” Not a plea, an instruction. I realized funerals are not about the dead but those who are left and I bought the insurance.

I also never, never, never leave the United States without traveler’s insurance from a reputable, rated company that offers medical evacuation to a facility that can handle whatever problem I might be having. There aren’t really a lot of cardiologists in the Sahara Desert or Antarctica where I plan to go next. There are websites that rate the insurance carriers and even the policies available. If you like to travel, you don’t have to give it up but you need to put the cost of travel insurance into your travel budget.

I always carry my medication in little plastic packs you can get at your drugstore. I take my meds mostly twice a day and so I might have 20 to 30 little packages to carry but this way I can count the packages and make sure I have remembered to take my all-important artery opening medication both morning and night. I also take photos of my med labels for customs (never had to use this though) or more importantly a health facility in another country. Finally, I take a few extra days’ supply in another bag just in case my bag with the main supply should be lost or stolen.

All of these measures are my ‘insurance’ that I can take care of myself while being really far away from home and doctors.

Recovery is more than physical

About a month ago, I decided to take a self-imposed ‘retreat’ in the mountains and spend three days by myself in thought, assessing my progress and what I wanted to do with the next two years of my life. I realized that even though I feel ‘recovered’ from my two heart attacks and surgery, I had not yet recovered from that sense of impending doom and death. I asked myself “Do I want to continue to live this way or do I want to do something else?”

This is perhaps the most important question I have had to answer since that fateful July day back in 2015. I’m ok with the idea of no longer living, although I am afraid of the pain associated with dying. But am I ok with actually living in this doom existence? After three days of contemplation and a nice long 7-mile hike up a mountain to see a beautiful, gushing spring, I decided to hell with doom. I want to live like there are many tomorrows in my future. #spendingmysonsinheritance really was funny at the time but a little fatalistic under my circumstances.

So I have gone back to planning on having to have enough retirement saved up to live into my 70s at least. I’ve decided to accept income opportunities even if they mean I might not be able to keep up with travel schedule I love so much. OK, maybe this plan will go into effect next year as I have all these reservations for 2017 travel already made you see. But the point is I am moving forward on LIVING instead of reconciling myself with DYING. And maybe, just maybe, recovery is just beginning.

#excerciseinducedhypertension #heartattackrecovery #livingwithheartcondition



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KASBAHS CASTLES AND CAMELS

Right now I am in the bar at the Xaluca Dades in the High Atlas Mountains. I can hear the winds screaming across the empty high desert and can feel the building sway under the force of the wind. Beautiful, magical Maroc. So different than the hustle of Central London.

We had planned on attending the famous Festival of Roses tonight but the winds will be keeping us in. I'm sure none of us really mind. We are all a bit weary after the hectic schedule of the last couple of days in this wonderful country.  And several of us have been traveling now for a week or more, taking the opportunity to visit somewhere else on the way to Africa.

Athena and I could see the sparse desert landscape from the window of our jet as we came closer and closer to experiencing the smells, sounds and sites of Magical Maroc. I have been here before. Two years ago I came to see this place and to visit my friend who now lives in Maroc with her partner, a native and proud Amazigh. Massine was overjoyed to be my guide, preparing a travel itenerary that frankly made me fall in love with his beautiful country.

Now I bring seven friends with me, meeting me here in Marrakech from Tucson and several places in Europe. These are travelers, like me, and no matter what happens, I am confident that they will find mystery and magic here instead of the inconvenience of a fierce desert wind or a canceled backpack. In Maroc, the next thing - no matter what it is - has the real possibility being exactly what should be happening next. That is its Magic.

The first night, we stayed out of bustling Marrakech in a kasbah far away from the city lights. The approach to Kasbah Le Mirage has the potential to be offputting to the traveler not yet used to Maroc's extremes. The setting of the kasbah is above what we Westerners calls a 'wash', in wide open land on the edge of a small settlement with a mix of newer houses and older kasbahs gently eroding onto the desert floor. It is not uncommon here to witness an obviously brand-new building with a very old pise wall leaning against it. The old is being replaced with the new as those loyal to the past make arrangements to turn the beautiful, spacious old kasbahs into hotels with the conveniences expected by Westerners.

It is not at all uncommon for your Fiat tourist bus to drive right by a man leading a donkey piled high with this year's alfalfa crop. But Maroc, like many emerging economies, has an entire generation of young citizens growing up with the internet, solar power, leggings and free education. I fear that the Maroc I know will not be here for the next generation and that, in my opinion, would be tragic.

Maroc has already given us so much hospitality and adventure, even in the few short days we have been here. Our first night, so romantic out in the desert, long after dark and in a beautiful, renovated kasbah we ate our first meal as a group. For all of us, delicious cooked prunes providing the sauce for the tangine meat of the night was a first. Such a wonderful surprise.

The next morning, after a Moroccan breakfast, we headed up into the High Atlas, driving over Tichka Pass, a winding and sometimes rather terrifying but now nearly paved road up and then down into the Dades Valley, one of the largest of Maroc's many desert valleys. On the way up to the pass, the desert gives way to trees further up the mountains as mountains have given way over the centuries to villages of reddish clay stuctures blending into the hillsides that are the same color. This reddish clay, immediately reminiscent of our own desert adobe, is mixed with straw and is called pise'. Many of the oldest structures are beginning to crumble as families no longer live in large family collectives called kasbahs. Nevertheless, those that remain draw the visitor into thinking about what has been lost as we witness what has been gained.

Our second night in Maroc was spent in Kasbah Asafar, a true family kasbah not far out of K'Laat M'goun and perched right above the enormous Valley of Roses. Six of us were supposed to leave the next morning on a three-day trek starting right at the kasbah but circumstances caused a change of plans and we packed up our equipment and other clothes, moving to Kasbah Awayou, further up the Valley of Roses the next night.

Kasbah Awayou, more popular with the trekking set, had a familiar feel for me as I watched the other trekkers prepare for their own adventures. Our 2-night trek was reduced to a 12-kilometer day hike at this point, but a day hike covering seven miles of river, irrigated fields, ancient villages and one absolutely beautiful gorge that necessitated a half-hour walk in water.

We began our hike trekking up to a plateau, led by our very experienced and knowledgeble guide Hussein, then over the rock to another valley where we continued to encounter locals of all types - people as well as livestock like donkeys and mules. We walked along the tops of embankments which held irrigation channels for the verdant and productive fields of barley and turnips and onion and other agricultural products, through villages much , much older than any of us. We finally came to the Gorge, a narrow red-walled place that reminded all of us of our own Arizona and Utah red canyons, the rock strata folding each successful strata.

We walked with a young Frenchman named Francoise, agreeable enough to trek with five women over 50 and one in her late 30s, one with a heart condition and one just having completed chemotherapy for cancer. Tough women. No whiners here.  Nearly at the end of our trek, we said our goodbyes to our agreeable Frenchman and walked the last few kilometers back to our tour bus which whisked us to our present hotel, the Moroccan equivalent of 4-star lodging, the Xaluca Dades in Boumalne Dades, hanging off the cliff above the city. From my balcony, the lights of the city twinkle below while the stars twinkle in the dark sky above.

Tomorrow we begin our journey into the Sahara Desert.

TUBES, TOWERS AND TOURS

If I were to give you any advice today, it would be to NOT lose your debit card while traveling. That is, if you are like me and use your debit card for cash while you travel so you don't have to carry cash, definitely don't lose your debit card. If you do, make sure you are traveling with someone who hasn't lost her debit card and has made sure she has not only enough money to her trip stuff but also money for emergencies. That way, you can BE her emergency.

Thank god for my friend Athena. She is paying for everything with the absolute faith I will pay her back.  Honestly, is this what it feels like a kept woman?

Being a kept woman for ME means I really pay attention, even more than usual, to every penny Robin is paying on my behalf.  Like the fare on the Tube from the nearest tube station to the Tower of London. Like lunch, dinner and even the water we bought to help us with all the walking we were doing. You really need a lot of water to flush those tired muscles when you walk all over London.

London is such a walkable city. Robin added up the kilometers on the map and figured we probably walked about 6 miles yesterday.  My legs and feet attest to the fact that we walked on hard concrete (not that scrumptious, forgiving dirt we usually are walking on) for at least that many kilometers. I am actually relieved because I have had no had time to train for the backpack in Morocco's High Atlas Mountains that comes next. Now I feel just a little bit ready.

Today, we learned a bit about the London tube. It operates much like other underground subway routes whether in Paris, DC or possibly New York. London's tube stations were quite tidy and well organized and the blend of diversity on individual cars was absolutely astounding. All of Europe and much of the Commonwealth lives in or around London. The wonderful cacophony of accents and languages from all over the Globe is a symphony. Mostly, everyone looks like they are happy to be there and if they are helping you or serving you,they seem genuinely happy that you are too.

Yesterday, we spent a good portion of the day at Kensington Park, not unusual since we are both tomboys even at our ages. Today I spent the early morning retrieving my passports (one of which was already replaced), my canceled credit cards (not replaced but alternative arrangements made) and most importantly, my business card holder that I use to carry my driver's license (still there!), my health card, my insurance cards and that I would truly miss because I bought it at Coach and I love its expensive, leathery smell.

Anyway, the rest of the afternoon we spent touring the Tower of London. I think both of us thought the Tower might be toured in an hour or so but the 'Tower' is not really one tower where Bolyen was incarcerated and in the shadow of which she lost her head, but an enormous castle complex basically built between 1078 (no, that is not a typo) and 1399.  The Tower has served England's succeeding kings and queens well (sometimes because they used the Tower with the phrase &Off with Her/His head&). The monarchy has lost some of its bloodthirstiness these days. I hear Charlie is even an organic vegetable farmer these days.

A couple interesting side notes. If you look at Henry VIII's armor displayed with other monarchs' armor, the codpiece juts out like there would have been something rather spectacular to protect there. Personally, I always wondered how five successive young women could be infertile while Henry obviously was not (because he was King you see). I will attempt to post my picture of said armor if it fits into the frame of this blog entry.

If you have a chance to visit the Tower, it is worth sufering the crowds for the Beefeater Tour. The Beefeaters, properly named the Yeomen Warders, are the oldest bodyguards of the British Monarchy, established in 1485 by Henry VII. They have to have retired from the British Army, Royal Marine or Air Force to serve at the Tower. I'm not sure whether they are picked for their senses of humor (oh yes, they are funny) or whether the chance to ham it up with impugnity is such a draw that they become humorous. Nevertheless, it is well worth joining the throng.

We had intended on visiting the Tate Modern this afternoon but realized we would have so little time, it might be better to wait for this treat until we swing back through London on our way home from Morocco. As we were walking back to the tube, I saw what looked like an extremely old church, pictures of which my son Dan might like being as he is studying to be a Minister. Robin is interested in old buildings, too, having renovated several herself (not old like, you know, London old but more old like the Colonies old.)

All Hallows by the Tower was originally founded by a bunch of nuns in 675 CE. Yes, that makes it nearly 1350 years old. That is REALLY REALLY REALLY old. It was first built by Catholic Saxons only to be turned into an Anglican church about 200 years later (possibly because of the Catholic Church's inflexibility on divorcing - or beheading - a supposed infertile quieen? ).

After using my mother of a minister-to-be superpower, a wonderfully informative docent showed Robin all the goodies the church had yet to deliver to us, including an exceedingly interesting history of the church's constant rebuilding after a succession of things like an ancient ammo magazine exploding and causing a massive fire and severe damage from things like World Wars. Parts of the walls date all the way back to its Saxon foundation while the 'newer' parts of the building were built with as much as the original structure left intact as possible. One thing the docent failed to tell us and that I found out in researching this blog entry was that John Quincy Adams, yes the US President Adams, was the only US President to marry on foreign soil and it was right there at All Hallows Church in 1797. It's all in the Marriage Register right on display in the Museum attached to the church.

By the time we got out of the church, Robin and I both had just enough energy to figure out how to get back in our neighborhood on the tube, get some delicious dinner at one of the numerous Lebanese restaurants on Edgware Road near the Marble Arch and walk back to our hotel.

It is clear to me that we do not have enough time to sample even 10% of what London has to offer. I really do need to remember to take more time in these short-stay cities, cities I pick because of cheap airplane tickets at the time I want to go somewhere like Morocco that you can't get to direct from the US. I'm such a sucker for lure of staying several nights in some city I've never been on my way to somewhere else and then wishing I had maybe stayed a little bit longer.

Well, London, tomorrow we leave you for even more exotic adventures but I think I'll break a tradition and come back to see you again. Like on my way back home actually. Robin promised we could go to the Tate Modern then.

A FOGGY DAY IN LONDON TOWN

Yesterday afternoon, the first day of our four-day stay in London, while Robin and I shared a local Stout and Lager in the Mayfair Chippy Shop, I decided necessity may be the Mother of all invention but calamity just might be the father of experience. In other words,  losing one's brand new Passport between the airport and your first night's hotel forces one to become an expert on US Embassy Citizen Services in Central London. Stout and Lager can offer one great insights I discovered.

I've wracked my brain and I really don't know how it happened. Was I just careless or did someone really lift it from the top pocket of my backpack? I'll never know. But I DO know how to access emergency Citizen Services in a foreign country. That's probably worth knowing but whether it's worth $135 and an entire afternoon of valuable tourist time, probably not.

Our trip started out in a rush but otherwise pretty much like we planned. We got to Tucson International in plenty of time, got our boarding passes and had time to unwind just a little before boarding our connecting flight to Atlanta where we would be changing planes for the big jump across the pond.

We flew Delta, a pretty good airline for international travel. It might have just been me, but the Delta crew seemed a little more cheerful than when I've flown with them before. And, more importly on an international flight, the food was actually decent and fresh.

Whenever I travel more than three time zones and the lights are turned off in anticipation you will sleep, I get  little confused whether the first meal is technically lunch or dinner, with the one an hour or so before touchdown breakfast or light lunch. Regardless, 'dinner' was hot ravioli with meat sauce chased down with a small but fresh roll and very generous quantities of free wine. Breakfast (brunch?) on the other end was cold and dominated by various forms of dairy - yoghurt, cheese and cream cheese on several choices of small breads.  Both meals were pretty tasty and definitely fresh.

Probably most importantly, these meals were complimentary as were the pretty nice selection of fresh snacks and booze. I think I mentioned the booze was FREE. The flight magazine listed the wine as a whopping $8 but it was served free. Never mind that I would pretty much only use the chardonay for cooking, it was FREE.  But I will admit while drinking this generous glass of wine,I rather ungenerously was thinking Delta might be serving free booze to impress the new customers it might have after those fliers decided not to fly with that bully airlne United. Nevermind, I have a suspicious nature.

Now on overnightnflights my biggest complaint with frankly all airlines is the practice of 'stacking' the seats so close together that it really IS tempting to pay the extra $40 for the Comfort Seats. The cheap seats on Delta were unbelievably cramped but Robin and I had chosen seats in the middle section with three seats, reservng the two aisle seats in the hopes we would have the middle to share. Booya! Accomplished. We took turns trying to sleep in the two joined seats in a fetal position without freezing our bodies into pretzel shapes but fankly, we were a bit exhausted and ready for some serious nap time when we got to our hotel.

Imagine my consternation when I reached down into my bag to pull out my passport and my credit cards at the Hotel to find they were missing. Yes, missing. Gone. To be fair, I was seriously weary when I left the plane which is why I may have inferred the Express train was our only option to get to Paddington Station which was closest to our hotel. It could also have factored into the loss of my passports and credit cards.

Frotunately, this trip is the first trip I have had  to use the international calling options on my enabled phone. I immediately notified my bank to cancel the cards then tried to use my phone and the hotel's wifi to figure out how to notify the US government that someone else was potentially walking around as me. The website, in my weary, stressed and frazzled condition, defeated me. The Embassy was not far away so we decided to visit the Embassy to see what to do. Obviously, I desperately needed a travel document to leave this country, fly to Morocco and then get back home.

I have always found the stressed little old lady with the gray hair superpower works best in person. I was not so stressed, however, that I failed to observe that our current London Embassy looks very much like it's architect offered the cheapist bid and was constructed in the most utilitarian Modernist style. Although quite large it truly lacks pizazz.

To access this ugly Embassy, you have to approach a security bunker which serves much like the triage station in an emergency room. Got an appointment? Wait outside sir while we check for you. Missing your Passport Ma'am? Can we please see your driver's license or other photo ID?

Well, uh, no. Not even a copy of them. Not even a Costco card. Nonetheless, the guard took pity on me, called Citizen Emergency Services and got me an immediate appointment. My superpowers stayed strong enough to convince him I needed my friend with me to help so after some to-ing and fro-ing, she got to join me within the Embassy. Of course the real reason was that she had to pay for it.

To obtain an emergency Passport, you have to fill out all the paperwork you would have filled out for your original Passport. Your exhusband's name, father's name, mother'maiden name, dates of birth, places of birth etc.  Honestly, some of the information I don't keep in my head. Then you fill out more paperwork listing the circumstances of the loss of your Passport (a little embarrassing when you don't know). Miraculously, after a few more interviews and some photo taking, I actually walked out with an official Passport - a baby one, with just a few pages but with the same cover and a better picture than my last one.

You'll be happy to know the Embassy people actually acted mostly like they work for me instead of vice versa, performing their tasks fairly quickly yet compassionately and efficiently. I felt so good walking out of the Embassy with at least a Passport, I chatted up some policemen to find out where Robin and I ccould find a good chippy shop as we were truly parched and hungry by then. And that's where this story ends, at Mayfair Chippy Shop, a lucky recommendation since the restaurant was once on the top cable show You Gotta Eat Here. Feeling relieved at our success, Robin and I shared a large local stout and lager and some of the best beer-batter fish fliets we both have ever eaten. Robin paid of course.