Lost Paradise: My Story about L.A.

"The whole place is a glaring, gaudy, nightmarish set, built upon the desert." (Ethel Barrymore)
There are very few things that are more intrinsically American than a drive through the desert. Just long, empty roads, unfolding like slick, enormous snakes, winding through thousands and thousands piles of emptiness.

There is hardly any American roadtrip movie ever made that does not include a long and hot ride through the middle of Nothing, USA, and more specifically the Southwest. Where else in the world do you have millions of miles, it seems, of perfectly paved roads connecting emptiness and no one?! Even bad, actionless roadtrip movies go through the desert. Because the desert always speaks for itself while it makes room for any possibilities.

Driving through the Arizona desert, somewhere between Salt Lake to Las Vegas

The most talented painter of the Southwestern desert is, in my opinion, Charles Bowden. I do not possess an iota of his brilliant talent and mind to even attempt to describe it, so I'll quote:

“The Southwest is a place where everyone slips their moorings and just drifts. The cities and towns are ugly, the populace footloose, the crime frequent, the marriages disasters, the plans pathetic gestures, the air electric with promise. There is so much space and so much ground that no one can for a single moment doubt the basic American dream that it is possible to make something worthwhile of life. Everything a desert tortoise is – calm, a homebody, long-lived, patient, quiet – the people of the Southwest are not. […] The landscape comes from the far side of the mind – black slopes, blue sky, burning sun.” (“Blue Desert”)

How you know you have reached the end of the Last Frontier and possibly of the world. When settlers and trail blazers have named new places everything there is to name a place they run out of inspiration or sense for what to call the last one. So, they just string some random letters together and they come up with Zzyzx Rd. 

The only thing more impressive than getting lost in the desert is coming across a huge metropolis springing out of nowhere in the middle of it, a huge chimera of a lost dream. Las Vegas is such a chimera. And so is Los Angeles.

I think that no matter where we are from, we are all a little bit fascinated with LA. It's an undeniable platitude to say that this city is at the very least intriguing for all of us. Some of us love it, some hate it, some are puzzled by it, but we all can tell at least one story that started there. Movies alone are great ambassadors of this.

As for myself, I feel like I grew up with Los Angeles as a distant constant in my life. My whole existence has been dotted with LA stories, movies, and music. Like the decorated chest of an old vet, little pictures of LA, old and new, are forever engraved on mine. 

When I was too young to even know how to read a map, I remember my dad telling me that his friends' daughters emigrated to the States and now they live in Los Angeles. He reminded us every day that we should aspire for that: that one day, we would grow up and move to LA. It was never “move to the USA”. It was always “move to LA.” And this LA was established in our young minds as this place people go to that offers wide open possibilities and opportunities. A place where you work your butt off, string a few dollars and live paycheck from paycheck, but you get to live next door to the very privileged, and get to absorb the culture it offers endlessly. That place where miracles happen and lives are made.

Later, in my teens, I saw “Pretty Woman” for the first time. We could not afford a VCR, so some of our friends invited us over to watch it on tape. Our friends' son was about 10 years older than us and he commented on the opening as well as the closing scene of the movie which shows this homeless (I think) guy who says something like this: “Welcome to Hollywood. What's your dream?! Everyone comes here. This is Hollywood. The land of dreams. Some dreams come true, some don't, but keep on dreaming ...” (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4GuWouH2RMY) Our friends' son said “this is the definition of LA and the definition of America. It's a place where you are free to dream." Some dreams come true, some don't, but they make up the fabric of the real world, just like a McDonald's burger. I continued to live into my young adult years to still wish that one day I will reach that land.

Later on, during my college years, I watched “Beverly Hills 90201” - another “American made” dreamsical piece, another story of people starting up in the world, trying to find an identity in a big, foreign city, right next door to “plastic” people.

We had arrived

In college it is when I also discovered the music of The Doors and Janis Joplin – listening to them, watching them took me back to no other place but LA. Again. Like a perpetually spinning record, LA kept coming again and again into my life. I dreamed of one day walking the sidewalk on Venice Beach and listening to the sounds of the homeless bands there. Watching the standstill traffic on Hollywood Boulevard, and watching the roller-skaters gliding gently on The Hills “until the sun comes up over Santa Monica Boulevard.”

Then, it was the religious watching of The Oscars ceremonies, complete with the red carpet interviews, every year – even when I lived in Romania and had to get up at 3 AM.

During my whole 42 years of life LA and Hollywood have been part of my life. There has been something, at every point in my life, that connects me, albeit remotely and most times virtually, to this chimeric place, rising from the middle of the American Southwestern desert. Like a giant cobra, dancing in the heat. Appealing and wild. Scary and so seductive, at the same time.

But till a couple of weekends ago, I have never seen it in real life. Although I have been in the US for close to 20 years now, my travels have not taken me there. After driving in 111F delirious heat through the Mojave Desert from Salt Lake City and then from Vegas, we reached LA one early afternoon. On a Saturday.

The proof that the heat was no joke.

I know I will not do much justice to tell you what it felt like, and what all these landmarks I have mentioned look like in reality, so I won't even waste my time or yours. I will just make a brief list of 10 things that will stay with me, as a vivid testimony that my eyes have seen this, my skin has felt this, my pores have absorbed this dreamy, raw, real, dirty, loud, busy, wide, smelly, green, balmy (at an almost constant 75F), claustrophobically agoraphobic, surreal, shameless, shameful and intoxicating city.

1. We have parked our car on Sunset Boulevard, and walked around Whisky a Go Go. Call me  a hippie if you want, but this was my number one must see. We did not care for the bands playing during the weekend that we were there, and wanted to explore other parts of the city that evening, so we didn't go in. But just to see the building, with its historic marquee and hear the sound of music coming from inside was breathtaking for me. I could only imagine Jim Morrison walking through the door, on the way to his first concert there. Or last. What is the difference?!
   
   
   
   
   
   Whisky a Go-Go on Sunset Boulevard.
2. I have always wanted to see the stars on Hollywood Boulevard (is there any human in the whole world who doesn't know about these?!), but I never imagined that the very first star I would come across with would be … The Doors. This is not made up. Right as we were coming out of the subterranean parking lot, the first thing I saw when walking my first steps on The Boulevard was The Doors star.
   
   
   
3. I think “Pretty Woman” made Rodeo Drive famous, too, and the movie does it justice. Stores lined up like forbidden fruits, so posh and upscale you feel dirty and low class, no matter who you are. I walked into one, just to see if I felt different, and I did: like I was breaking into a house that wasn't mine. They have a hostess and a personal shopper and an assistant to check you personally out at the end – all personalized, all yours. I don't think I have seen enough dollars in my life to afford something from one of these places. But it was good to put some real pictures and a palpable experience into my brain.
   

     
   
   

   

   
   
   
   Cars, people, billboard, and road signs on Rodeo Drive.
   
   
4. Another thing that I believe defines a place is the food. California always stands out for me in freshness. Especially when it comes to veggies and fish, they seem to do a good job, just about anywhere you go. I also look for what really a place has to offer that is singularly theirs.
   
   The fish tacos on Venice Beach, at On The Waterfront Cafe (http://www.waterfrontcafe.com/) did disappoint, I must say. It was one of those fish sticks businesses, which was disheartening because we were on the beach. However, the guacamole was better than the one I had in Mexico or anywhere else. Californians know their avocados. At least. And you had a taco and a cold brew on Venice Beach. How much more picky can you get, right?!
   
   
   Street food on Hollywood Boulevard, outside the Chinese Theater.
   
   Although a (local) chain, Creme de la Crepe (http://www.cremedelacrepe.com/) was amazing. It had a cozy, small boutique eatery kind of feel, very French and very fresh. Where can you get warm fresh French baguette for breakfast with a serving of homemade strawberry jam?! As my husband said “that jam was not jam, it was the strawberry!”
   
   
   The very inviting, very French Creme de la Crepe Restaurant
    
   We ate at Dinah's (http://www.dinahsrestaurant.com/), too which is a local emblem, we found out, having appeared in many movies (google it to find out). They had a collection of vintage radios and you really feel like you stepped back in the 50's when you walk through their door.
   
   
   
   
   
   
   Dinah's Restaurant in Culver City.
5. Speaking of Venice Beach – it is everything you see in the movies, except not as swallowingly huge – bright, busy, eye-popping, gregarious, loud, fast, sandy, and smells like a cross-between sun lotion and stopped up public toilet ... We walked for about a couple of miles (one in either direction) alongside homeless people, artists, t-shirt stores, palm readers, beer patios, walls covered in murals, cafes wreaking of pot, and (very) high end small apartments sprouting almost right from the sand.
   
   Venice Beach has a timeless quality about it. You have the feeling that this place has seen pretty much everything there is to see: from sex on the beach to murder, homeless folks dying in DT spasms, from Flower Power beauties clad in leis, from "couples, naked race down by its quiet side" to the police chasing riots and putting away protesters. The history of Venice Beach, no doubt, can be captured in one family album's worth of time, but it would be a thick and diverse album. You also have the feeling that the story of Venice Beach is far from being wrapped, yet. 
   In a city that has almost exclusively million dollar homes, I wondered how much an apartment on Venice Beach would cost. I researched this: a one bedroom apartment was listed at 1.85 million dollars. Now, why would you spend this kind of cash in a building two feet away from people peeing on walls and drunks throwing up 24/7?! I suppose because you can and you only live once. LA is nothing if not the American Sybaris.
   
   
   Parade of flags on Venice Beach, with the Romanian flag to the right. Somewhat of a full circle. 
   
   
   

   

   
   

   
   

   
   

   

   
   

   
   

   
   

   

   
   

   
   

   
   

   

   
   
   

   

   
   

   
   

   
   

   

   
   

   Venice Beach visuals
6. Remember that movie with Michael Douglas, “Falling Down”? His car breaks down in rush hour LA traffic, and he abandons it where it's at and starts walking across the city, all mad as hell. I always thought “yeah, right, Michael! Who does that? Who leaves a car abandoned in traffic?!” Well, I am here to tell you that LA people do! We were on this severely backed up highway, just a few minutes (normally, but there is nothing 'normal' about LA traffic) from hour hotel, in a high-rise residential neighborhood, and there was this car flipped completely upside down in the middle of the road. The traffic was backed up for miles and we were not going anywhere. Some people pulled on the shoulder or in the median, stopped the car, took their backpacks, put in their iPhone earbuds, and off they went. All I could think of was that they must live nearby in the many flat buildings we saw around us, and they could just walk to their homes and come back later for the car?! Very strange indeed. And traffic was, by the way, where we spent about 30% of our time in LA. 
   
                                    
   

   
   Traffic on Rodeo Drive
7. Possibly the most recognizable landmark of LA is The Hollywood sign. I wanted to ensure that I would not leave this city before I took one shot, at least, of it. I am not sure what it is – it is nothing but some huge, horribly industrial-looking letters, kitschily displayed in blinding white paint on top of a random hill. They have nothing of the reverence and history of Louvre and The Tower of London, and nothing sacred and awe-inspiring like Notre Dame or Westminster Abbey. And yet, they are, to me, as pausing, and as reflective. They bear in their name and symbolism the essence of this city: LA would be nothing without the world of Hollywood. America would be a very different country without Hollywood, as well. And to so many LA is America, still.
   
   We drove up this steep hill (Muholland Highway) through a very posh neighborhood, to get closer to The Sign. The streets were almost Italian in width – extremely tight and with cars parked everywhere. Lots of “do not park” signs and “stay away from my gate.” But we managed to reach the closest point to it, and I jumped out to snap my shot, my husband frightened someone would shoot him for stopping on this narrow lane, guarding the car. Another bucket list item crossed.
   
   
   The Hollywood sign, as seen from Mullholland Highway
   
   
8. The Dolby Theater, home of The Oscars, star attraction of the Hollywood Boulevard, although done up in red regalia and about half a trillion natural white roses, for a multi billionaire's daughter's wedding, was old, drab, and very dirty. Emphasis on very. It definitely did not have the posh allure that E! portrays in their broadcasts before the ceremonies. Hollywood Boulevard was wall to wall of people that day (a Saturday of all days!), very similar to the Vegas strip on a torrid day, or New Orleans during an exhaustingly humid afternoon. I kept thinking I have waited 30+ years to see this theater and all I wanted to do now was get the heck out! I felt about seeing The Dolby somewhat similarly to what I felt when I saw Buckingham Palace – the shine, the glamour, the stones and glitz are missing in real life.
   
   
   

   
   

   
   

   
   
   The Dolby Theater
9. You go to cities like LA, and New York, and Paris, and London for their history, but also for their art. You are almost always guaranteed to see an exhibit or ten that hub really important and remarkable artistic works. We only had two days in LA, so we could not afford the luxury of time to visit all the artistic venues it hosts, but we did visit The Getty. It was the best time spent during the whole time we were there – and this was surprising to us. The complex is not only a masterpiece of modern architecture, its location is also key, atop a hill with the entire LA bowing down at its feet, but it also collects beautiful works of art, amongst which: 17^th century oil paintings, a collection of pastels, even, which were amazing in detail and elegance and quality of preservation, old Irish photographs, Greek and Roman statues in a state of impeccable wholeness, Louis XIV furniture, and some of the most elegant gardens I have ever seen. But the one exhibit that really shocked me was the one on concrete poetry. I will let you google it yourself and find out what that means, because it was news to me, ashamed I am to say, because I am, after all, a literature major. It was truly a mind-opening, enriching experience.
   
   And this is ultimately why I travel, right?! The good and the bad and the different all blend in to create an experience which is like no other, stranger and newer than my stomping grounds that I see daily, and that much richer.
   
   
   

   

   
   

   
   

   
   

   

   
   
   
   Concrete poetry and gardens at The Getty
   
10. The last thing that will forever stay with me was probably the most shockingly ubiquitous: the smog. I have read about the California smog for decades, but I have never seen the LA skyline quite so mucky, desolate, and gray in any of the movies, pictures, or friends' albums. I have never shot a skyline more desperate, and more disarmingly desolate. If it were not for the hub-bub of the traffic, I would have thought we were in a town after the atomic bomb has fallen and everyone has died. 
    
    I was shocked that the fog never lifted in the three days (some partial days, too) that we were there. Like a hopeless burka, it enveloped the city into darkness, in the middle of an otherwise calm and cool day, hiding its beauty away. The vibrant city I was hoping to find was alone, stranded, smelly and remote, with only the sick and threatening warmth of a human burning oven … 
    
    Despite the dirt and the filth in the air, the mighty city of LA borrowed something from the mighty desert that surrounds it, and the dirty polluted “air felt electric with promise”, secrets; you almost can hear its heart beating bloody and unapologetic into another day …
    
    I commend you to cut through the smog, though, and dare to explore. Driving around Beverly Hills, with the posh lawns, giant palm trees almost snapping they are so tall, and thoughtfully diversely architectured homes is a treat you don't see anywhere else. The hole-in-the-wall eateries are worth the traffic fight. But unfortunately, what will stay with you, the 'overall' summarizing picture of LA, from afar, will be the skyline – and that is a sad sight. Saddest I have seen in a long while. It is sort of ironic: California is always a leading force behind recycling, anti-pollution, renewable energy, and the likes. And its most iconic city fails to live up to those efforts.
    
                                    
    
    

    As you enter the state of California, from Nevada, you see this immense solar power plant. The giant mirrors intensify the sun rays and multiply its power million-fold. It looks amazingly intimidating and powerful, and yet ... it's just the sun. The intensity of the heat around these few miles of road is the highest I have ever felt in my life.

I could not help but pause at the irony of this picture: the LA skyline.

People of LA are happy and content, but also tired. They are not the pawns walking in robotic gestures of the metros of New York City, hurryingly staring at the pavement. They walk slower, and smile more. They are making up a perfect and customary American mosaic adding to it their different backgrounds, cultures, skin tones, music, accents, and attire. They are not boring, for sure. Nothing about LA is remotely boring. Just a bit lost, and a lot sad, and tired. But there is this life you feel the pulse of very clearly as you watch lights coming on across the metropolis, and the sky dipping behind the hills into another night. This energy that makes the heart of the city beat, in the dark cloud of smog.

As I look back at LA, I hear Jim singing:

Well, I just got into town about an hour ago
Took a look around, see which way the wind blow
Where the little girls in their Hollywood bungalows
Are you a lucky little lady in the City of Light
Or just another lost angel?
City of Night, City of Night ...
L.A. Woman, L.A. Woman
L.A. Woman Sunday afternoon
(...)
Drive through your suburbs
Into your blues, into your blues (...)
I see your hair is burnin'
Hills are filled with fire
If they say I never loved you
You know they are a liar
Drivin' down your freeway
Midnight alleys roam
Cops in cars,
The topless bars
Never saw a woman...
So alone, so alone
(...)
Motel, money, murder, madness
Let's change the mood from glad to sadness
(…)

(The Doors: LA Woman)

And now, many moons after I heard this song for the first time, I actually know what he means. 

The dream, as all dreams, was worth having for 30-40 some odd years. And it's good to meet your dream. Even when it wants.

Click the picture to access the album that captures this trip. The true beauty of The Getty gardens and art, details of Hollywood Boulevard, more Venice Beach life, and more await ... 

The Wonders of Modern Travels

PS: and yes, I realize that the word 'modern' in my title has become outdated the second I typed it. 

How many times do you go through the day and think “Oh, brother! I wish I would have come up with that idea!”?! I know I do about half a dozen times! I had one of these moments the other week, when on a trip to DC, I had my first Uber experience.

My more worldly friends will chuckle, but yes, I am a provincial. Always have been and even now that I live in America, I still am. Provincialism is something that speaks to me, and probably runs through my veins. Sort of a weird melancholy that you only understand that you like to hang on to, kind of like the passe, moldy smell of country cottages.

So, although I am more worldly than most people living in Utah, I am still a small town girl. And yes, Uber has been around for a while, but I never needed it. Out here, in the West, we are in charge of our own driving, in the remote place we live. Anywhoo … forced by circumstances at the time, I had my first (and second) Uber experience.

The whole concept of the deal blew me away: you install this app on your phone, and you spot the “Ubers” in your area. You put in the address that you want to go to, and you are given several options of Uber vehicles close and far away from where you are (the phone detects where you are, you see, if you activate “Locations” on it). You choose one car, and you are given their distance from you, their name, and make and model of the car you are waiting for. It might be more, but I was not the one placing the request and this is all I was given when I asked how it works.

While waiting, you know exactly what car you are looking for, and you can watch on a map exactly where they are at the moment, how far, etc. I wondered, in one of our instances of using Uber, whether we'd all fit in one car, as there were seven of us waiting. The person summoning the Uber (I am still new to this: do you hail a Uber? Call (up) a Uber? Order an Uber?! Not sure.) told me to relax: “we are getting a Uber-X, they know we have 7, so we're all going to fit.”

Once you are picked up, it feels kind of like you are in a cab, only a cleaner, more comfortable cab. No weird and doubtfully working credit card machines strapped with duct tape to the back of the passenger seat, no faded ID picturing an angry chauffeur with an unpronounceable name hanging from the rear-view mirror, no antiquated meter, mounted crooked on the dash. It feels like you are in your friend's car and they're just giving you a lift on their way somewhere.

Our Uber-X was a GMC Yukon and yes, we all fit in it. The inside was pure luxury: all leather, smoky windows, nice smells, and incredibly clean – it was definitely a newer car, not your usual run down cab in a large city. The driver was wearing a suit and white button-down shirt, with no tie. Our passenger in the front seat was having a cold that day, so the driver promptly pulled out a box of tissues and gave her a bottle of water to take for the road. I have never had that kind of service from a cab driver in my life, in any country I have ever traveled.

Sonja, the driver of the second Uber (a Volkswagen Jetta), was super friendly. One of our passengers was from Raleigh, and Sonja talked about her cousin who lives there and how she probably should take some time off to visit her down in Raleigh. It was like watching old pals catching up. She was friendly, without being intrusive, which is my favorite kind of strangers, but hard to find.

We gave the wrong address first to Sonja, so, the person who called the Uber had to rectify that: with a few taps on her phone, she corrected our destination address, and the address updated immediately on Sonja's phone, sitting on the cradle on the dashboard. And I mean immediately: the second our friend hit “Update” on the map on her phone, I watched Sonja's phone refreshing and the map finding the new address. At the end, we all said good bye and moved on with our lives. I asked my friend who was going to pay for all this. She said “the app takes it out of my credit card.” No money, no tips, no dirt, no fuss, really. Just a ride.

I am sure you can worry about hackers breaking into the Uber database and stealing the credit card numbers, but I don't much worry about such things. After all, we're all Amazon shoppers, right?!

So, yeah, I was pretty blown away about it all: the convenience, the speed, the ease of the process, the courteousness of the drivers and the comfort and the politeness they offer with their service. And just the idea of this service, from the ingenuity of the app to the seamless process of knowing your driver, and what car you're getting into before it happens, the map system, and everything – would you have wanted to come up with that?!

And I must say: the phone has come a long way since Mr. Carson allowed it into the pantry. 

The Longest Shortest Flight. And the Life Questions It Bore

Besides making me chuckle and making me feel like I am looking into a mirror (she is born one day after me, after all) Anne Lamott's books always make me evaluate my life. They always make me ponder upon such things like “where am I?”, “where am I going?”, “have I made the right choices so far?” (in case you are wondering, they are all “right” choices), and “are my thighs the right size?”. You know – the important stuff.

But this one time in particular, recently, I was reading an Anne Lamott book (“Some Assembly Required”) on a flight from Montreal to Toronto and I was not only forced to ask the questions, as usual. I was forced to answer them, too. After all, I had plenty of time. That plane was not going anywhere.

So, by now, you probably think I am crazy, because the flight from Montreal to Toronto should not be long enough to ponder one's existence. Oh, but you are mistaken. Pilots and airports lately can make the shortest distance seem never ending. The Toronto airport, as big and international, and “key” as it might sound, had only ONE (it calls for all caps here) runway open. ONE. That was it. When we arrived in the Montreal airport, several flights to Toronto were canceled because of early morning fog. Then, later flights (ours included) were being delayed, because they could only fly one airplane in at one time, and let one fly away, after that one. Given that Toronto is a super busy and super international airport, there were tens of planes queued up to land and take off.

We boarded the plane in Montreal and waited for the go from Toronto that we could leave. We waited for an hour, I think, on the ground, in Montreal. Then, the pilot let us off the plane because there was no sign that we would be given the OK to approach Toronto any time soon (the flight is about 35-45 minutes, if that!). We waited at the gate for another hour. Then, we finally boarded and we flew towards Toronto. We're all giddy with life and anticipation by then.

And we make it, we are told, to the capital of Ontario, but we cannot see land. We are all en-wrapped in clouds, and we are hovering. We can really feel like we are not moving forward, but just going around in circles, or just hovering. And we hang there. For another hour and a half, or more. A flight of 30 minutes took about two and a half hours from gate to gate. I have flown over the Atlantic many a times, but a flight never seemed so long as this one. When you're thinking you're there in a spell and you're not, the seconds linger and extend like balls of warm chewing gum between a finger and a thumb … So, then, during this time, with nothing to look at but sleeping people all around me, I am forced in mandatory confinement, just me, myself and Anne Lamott. Pondering life and meaning of it all.

Many a things came to my mind. Things I am happy about – like the fact that I made it on this other side of open heart surgery and I lived to tell the tale with only two or three maybe brain cells missing; like the fact that I have shelter, and a job and food good enough to eat at the end of every day; and the fact that my husband is there to catch me every time I fall, on my face, or otherwise; the fact that I had just visited my nephews who take my breath away with possibility and unbounded dreams; the fact that the war has not started just yet.

But then, there were the dark thoughts, too. Things I am not so happy about. Like the fact that some days I feel physically exhausted with putting up an appearance anymore – to live in Utah as an 'outsider' will do this to you after seven years. For those who know me well, you'll wonder why I bother with the appearance, since I never seemed to get the hang of it before. I am not sure I do now, either, but I have to earn my living, so putting up an appearance it is; or at least trying my damnest to do that. Some other things that I questioned during my confinement were: I miss my friends, I miss North Carolina, I miss the Ocean, and life is too short to not have what you want nearby, especially when you could, theoretically. I also am tired of having no friends, no real friends, close by … you know the ones you could call in the middle of the day on Sunday and just go out to the drive-in for ice cream, or something …

I never live for regrets, so being here in Utah for the past seven years has not been a bad thing at all, but it's like a circle that never completed. It's missing a big chunk of it, and it's starting to collapse into itself.

Then, I questioned my job, my role on this planet. I have felt a book, maybe several coming to me over the years, but now, that I have literally seen death, I should get the memo and the ultimatum that time is precious. And books are not written from the grave. Lots to think about it here. Huge sigh!

Like any Lamott book would do, it made me reconsider and redefine my relationship with my parents. As always, there is a lot of complicated “stuff” there. Lots and lots of love, with many a disappointment mixed in. But to quote my mom “it's a sad day when your kids judge you.” But what if they don't leave you any choice but to judge them? What if they can't see that? I know, I know … there is always a choice … blah, blah, blah – it does not make it easier, because we're human and they raised us smart and questioning, so we judge them … I know now not to let their lack of care for themselves make me cry and make me lose sleep. It's still hard, because, like I said, there is lots of love and lots of wanting them to live forever, but … I cannot pity them anymore. That is just it: my pity meter has gotten stuck on empty. And the refill station has closed for business. I hope for the best, but I have a life, one fragile, solitary life of my own to live, too … so I won't poison it with my frustration to their disregard of theirs. But it hurts, and it bleeds, and it makes me sad …

When we made it to the other end of the runway, I felt like I used to feel after confession: like all my worries were left behind me, washed away by some divine hand. And it's only going to be the straight and narrow from here on out.

Doubtful. But one thing I know for sure now: when in doubt about your life, impose some kind of confinement on yourself, and focus on something that centers and anchors you. Leave those waves alone to wash you clean of good and bad. And just remain solid, pure and unmoving – like the Gibraltar rock. Just cleanse your system and restart. With all the thoughts cleansed, your mind, your heart, the core of your being will be ready to fill up again with new possibilities. And just like that: restart. 

After the smoke starting clearing - above Toronto, ON

Another April 9th

As some of you who know me well know - April 9th has always been a tough day for me. I have written about this before so I won't bore you with it. 

However, this year, I remembered this poem which I have run into a few months ago, and it made me smile. 

It made my heart fill with a painful joy it made me sigh with relief and gratefulness, like when you realize everything you ever thought to be true about yourself and the world was just an ugly dream, and the only thing real is this second. Right now. Feel your wrist and count your pulsations. That's it. Now, go spend them with that stupid grin of happiness smeared on your aging face. Go. And never be sad again, as long as you are on this side of dirt.

Good News (Marina Tsvetaeva)

Alive and well!
Louder than thunder -
Like an ax -
Joy!
...
Stunned,
Awed.
What instead -
Cry?
...
So, am I alive?
My eyelids closed,
Breathing, I call -                                           
Do you hear?
...                 
Dead - and risen?!
Just enough for a sigh,
A stone from the sky,
A crowbar
.
On the head -
No, up to the hilt
A sword in the breast -
Joy!

 

 Thanks to my grandma, maia, the official bloom of April 9th will forever be the narcissus. 

Jungle, Ruins, Tacos - in One Word: Mexico

“How about vanilla, senora! Good, Mexican vanilla extract? You want some? Good price!”

“Christmas ornaments? Good price? 20 dollars US” - said a grandpa in Costa Maya on our way back to our ship.

“Senora! Senor! A hat? How about a hat! We have great hats! Good price!” - a teenager chased us down on our way to Tulum.

“Tacos, senora! Good chicken tacos, senora. They are recommended, senora! Lunch time. Would you like some tacos? Tito (that was our guide in Tulum) said you should eat here, senora!”

We knew that was a lie, because Tito has given us a 20 minute spiel that if we were to eat anywhere in Tulum, we should “ONLY eat at this place with a beautiful, authentic Mexican name, called 'Frosty's'. This is the only place with nice, honest people. You go somewhere else, they tell you it's chicken, and it's actually iguana meat, or God knows what else. You should only eat at 'Frosty's'!” - so we knew the kid was lying.

Mexico felt like we were trying to dodge a massive rain of locusts jumping in front of us and tempting us to buy pretty much everything. Except the locusts were humans, 5 feet tall and taller. Very persistent and very brave to bully a pretty sizable American crowd into buying virtually everything.

Mexico reminded me a lot of Turkey: people live for commerce and if I were to describe this interaction in one word, both for Turkey and for Mexico, the word would be “haggle.” Everything is not only for sale, but also open for discussion about how much it should cost.

Aside from that, Mexico was a fun stop for us. The Mexican riviera in Costa Maya, Cozumel and Playa del Carmen resounded with local music as if the whole area was on vacation or partying for the most important life event. It was Spring Break for many people in the States and Canada, so it could have been an extra special time of the year, but something told me that music is just a permanent state of living for Mexicans. 

 

Costa Maya

People are friendly when they look at you as a bottomless wallet, and they turn around pretty quickly in forgetfulness right after you say “no” a few dozen times. Mexico was the only place where our guide himself tried to sell us something, which left a little bit of a bitter taste in our mouths.

But aside from the very aggressive merchant culture, Mexico was a happy place, sunny, delicious, full of history and natural beauty!

On our first day, we docked in Costa Maya. After about an hour ride by bus, we were dropped in the middle of the Mexican jungle, to see the Mayan ruins at Chacchoben. Chacchoben is not as famous as Tulum or Chichen Itza, so it was the least touristy journey through the jungle. 

 

At Chacchoben, in the jungle, we saw these two trees, one growing around the other. Our guide, Izichiel (our guide in Chacchoben), said "Only one of the trees will survive. Not both. We don't know which one. It's just like marriage." 

Walking in 95F degree weather (and 90% humidity) through the jungle, at noon, is everything and nothing like I ever imagined. The jungle is green and overgrown, with bushes several tens of feet high, with vines and palm trees engrossing everything. The humidity is palpable, like you breathe water, very warm and stagnant water, not air. The shade is still hot and humid. It offers no reprieve from heat. There is no wind swishing the much vegetation which seems to be closing in on you, like moving walls. There are noises. Very sharp and loud scream-like noises: we asked what they were and were told they could be birds or monkeys and if they are monkeys to leave them alone, 'cause they bite.

We were also told that we could see jaguars or pythons. I put on bug spray because I felt like something was biting my legs, but I did not see what it was. It was just a lot of small bites, sharp like needle sticks all over my skin on my legs and arms. The jungle was much as what I imagined, but multiplied by a thousand – every sensation was so much stronger and enhanced because it was happening right then and there.

Although the ruins at Tulum were breathtaking, because of the whole site sitting on this high cliff on the edge of the bluer than blue Atlantic Ocean and because the jungle was not so much overgrown there, the ruins of Chacchoben were amazing because of their remoteness and in the way they were nestled in the heart of the jungle. We walked on these dirt paths through the jungle and we saw the “town hall” space, where the Mayans were gathering for special events which seemed to have been built around the vegetation of the jungle. We saw multiple buildings (in ruins, of course), and several temples built throughout the city. We learned that the temples were solid hard inside, not hollow – just layers and layers of stone, cut in rectangular shape, with what, we're not sure to this day, and stacked in pyramid-like formations.

Chacchoben is probably as old as 200BC with the buildings having been finished around 700AD. We climbed one of the pyramids, and it was steep with tall steps between the levels. When we reached the top, there were yet other temples at that elevation, still, built on top of the first platform we just got done climbing. The whole place feels like a conglomerate between rocks and jungle vegetation, intertwined with each other. 

 

Climbing a pyramid in Chacchoben.  

 

When finished climbing, yet another pyramid atop the first one - in Chacchoben 

 

Growing from the jungle floor, amongst the ruins - the "town hall" area in Chacchoben.

On the second day in Mexico, we docked in Cozumel, and then took a boat to Playa del Carmen, and then a bus onward to see the Mayan ruins in Tulum.

Tulum felt like the resort where the Mayans were going when they were on vacation. It is one of the newer Mayan establishments, with its civilization peak in the 13^th and 15^th centuries. This shows from the condition the site is in: it is mostly well preserved, with some architectural details still intact. 

 

Temple with standing columns in Tulum. 

The site is perched on this tall cliff, on the shore of the Atlantic Ocean. One of the temples is called “The Temple of the God who Descends from Heaven”, and the whole place truly feels like that: like some sort of outer world deity descended on this sun drenched plateau and built this amazingly perfectly planned community of temples and abodes. 

Temple of the God of Wind, at Tulum.

The temples here reminded me of Greek temples – with large columns in front and enormous porticos, only these are made of rock, not marble. 

 

Temple in Tulum, with portico and columns. 

The grounds are almost exclusively taken over by iguanas. It's impossible to shoot any inch of this place and not find a creature in it. They are everywhere, including the roofs of newer buildings. 

 

Iguanas on the thatch roof of a public bathroom in Tulum 

 

Really hot iguana in Tulum. We learned that they hate shade, rain, or cold, so they were soaking up the sun that day. 

Driving through the Mexican countryside offers a similar journey to the ones we experienced in other Central American countries (Belize and Honduras): lots of poor neighborhoods, lots of decrepit infrastructure, but lots more opportunities for commerce which is a Mexican trait alone. At every corner, you'll see a taqueria, a merchant of some sort, a club, or a boutique. 

 

Taqueria in Playa del Carmen 

 

Gorgeous wooden bar in Costa Maya 

Tito was not right in the sense that we didn't need leather cartouches with our name written in Mayan to feel like we visited Tulum, but he was right about the food at Frosty's: the fish tacos were indeed delicious. I have heard that in Mexico they do not drench every dish (including a taco) in cheese – that this is an American thing. And that is correct. The fish and chicken (for my husband) tacos came with white rice and black refried beans on a plain tortilla with one whole slice of tomato and one slice of avocado. No other 'surprises' in there, no Spanish rice, no yellow rice. Just plain ingredients, but the combination of it all was outstanding: fresh and tasty. They gave us salsa fresca with our home-made corn chips, but warned us that “this is ay-yay-yay salsa”. And indeed they were not lying. I took one forktipfull of salsa to taste and I thought my tongue touched sulfuric acid and the spot that touched the fork would be a hole. I was not sure who in the whole wide world would have a stomach for that kind of salsa. Tito, however, explained to us “that any breakfast should have rice and beans and should be really, really hot. This is what makes a good breakfast – the heat.” 

 

Fish tacos at Frosty's in Tulum. 

Despite of the aggressive “buy it all” style of Mexico tourism which could be a deterrent when you are not a shopper at all, I wanted to stay longer, and I wanted to go back as soon as I have another chance. There was something welcoming and friendly about it all, and something very mysterious, in need to be discovered, little by little, like peeling an onion, about Mexico.

I was amazed at who the Mayans considered to be “the upper class”: it was the warriors and the scientists. As a culture, they were obsessed with astronomy, so their temple grounds are all aligned with the stars and the planets, and they all have meaningful stories behind why each building is placed where it is. They considered astronomers, mathematicians and doctors to be the upper class and they gave them the best homes. Amazing: 2000 years ago, the Mayans revered science. A certain someone who has lots of power now in our world has not gotten the memo yet that scientists know. Made me wonder if we all lived in vain all this time.

There was a joie de vivre about Mexico that stayed with me days and weeks later: everything is a party. Life is a party, although life is very serious, too – they are very serious about their history and about their families and making a decent living for them. But they also play their music and make a joke or two, every chance they get.

Life, talk, good food, history, pristine nature – this was Mexico in a nutshell.

 

This  pretty much summarizes our Mexican experience. Click the picture for the album depicting this trips.

I Have Found the Garden of Eden. Its Name is “Belize”

Our ship docked on Harvest Caye (pronounced 'key') - a private island that belongs to our cruise line, Norwegian. We walked the long pier to the island, in a melty hot early morning. The sea was calm, and the mangrove forest was unperturbed, hovering over the Caribbean Sea as if afraid to touch it. Only the tippy toes of the roots were barely scratching the crystal blue waters. Pelicans floated lazily in the cove and there was no wind, really. Just a calm, warm air, and quiet. The promise of a hot day. 

 

Pelican along mangrove forest, on the Caribbean Sea 

We walked around the small island, while we waited for our (smaller) boat to take us to the Belize mainland. Everything around us was pristinely green and tellingly tropical. The smell in the air was of blooms and perfume. Palm trees of all sorts of species and banana trees lined the narrow alleys in the park of Harvest Caye. The vegetation was robust and lush green. It was like a tropical or a rain forest – just green and exuding steam.

The thatch roofed bars and souvenir stores were elegant and clean. No sign of 'cheese' really, in Belize. All the touristy stuff is subdued and elegant. Never too much of anything, never anything too loud. The land and the forest rein supreme. Everything else is built within it, where it fits. There is a sense of peace and non-intrusion of the man made construction because of this layout.

Our boat took a while to come, so we waited patiently while listening to island music and rock and roll. We boarded and chose to be on the upper deck. Little did we know that we had the craziest toothless captain there is. He drove that thing, with 100+ tourists on board like a maniac, jumping waves 10 feet in the air, or so it seemed, with us rolling from one end of the benches to another trying to stay on the deck and not be flinged into the ocean. I was afraid for my life on that thing and how I did not throw up, with all the seasickness I usually feel, I have no clue. I think only sheer fear kept me surviving and wishing for another day on land. The only thing that rested my fears were all the other staff: they were laughing and were calm and composed, enjoying the ride as they were bouncing left and right and up and down on the boat. I figured, they knew the captain knew what he was doing and this was “business as usual.”

Once we reached the land, more thatched roof cabins and gazebos welcomed us. And more flowers. Flowers like I have never seen before – just growing everything like weeds.

We boarded a bus next, which was going to take us to a spice farm which is also a botanical garden. Our guide, Raf (short for Rafael), was a funny and intense man, who told us that there is no “yes” in Belize. The proper way to agree with someone was “Ya, mon.” Sounded a little Jamaican to me, but I could not argue with the guy who told us he is Mayan, and still believes in human sacrifice. So, 'Ya, mon!' it was.

Belize is an English speaking country, a former colony, so everything you see is in English. Belizean English sounds similar to Jamaican English. Just like the staff on the boat, all people we met were calm and always smiling. They have a laissez-faire attitude about everything. Nothing is ever a rush, nothing is ever a panic. It's a lull of a life, seemingly, all under an understanding smile.

Our bus trip took us through a rural area, very small villages, and lots of banana plantations. Raf told us it's mango season, so some people were selling mangoes on the side of the road, from thatch-covered tables transformed into ad-hoc booths. The roads were surprisingly great, nothing like the potholes we muddled through in Honduras. There are road signs, too, in Belize, and speed limits, too, unlike Honduras, as well. 

 

Banana plantation

The homes we passed looked very poor. Just simple abodes, and very rundown and old. The houses were made of brick and most of them were covered in stucco. Some were made of wood and the roofs were made of straw or palm leaves. Although it was a week day, there were lots of people just sitting around, looking at traffic and talking to each other. Mostly women and kids, and some older men, too. 

Through the villages of Belize

The banana plantations were interesting – they cover the bananas in bags, to make them grow faster, Raf said.

We arrived at the spice farm at around 11 AM or so. The heat wave was just about to hit. We felt like we were dropped in the rain forest – the vegetation was thick and sweating, wrapping us up in a blanket of warmth and dew. And the smell … oh, my word! I have never been in any place on the planet where the air smells just like when you bury your face in a bouquet of lilies or freesia, or any other flowers with a strong aroma. You did not have to look for a bloom to smell this. It was out there, in the open. With every breath, you inhaled perfume.

The Visitors' Center was a wooden construction – think log home meets mahogany island architecture. They had a few things for sale, but again, not overwhelming and not 'in your face' touristy kind of sales. People were quiet, subdued, welcoming and very happy looking. 

 

Beautiful Belizean wood carving in Harvest Caye park 

They boarded us again, this time on an open air tram, to take us through the spice farm. Our guide explained all the vegetation that we were seeing and how most of the farm was especially laid out, and how some of the plants and trees were not native of Belize. The American owners of the farm (from West Virginia) brought all sorts of spices and fruit trees from the Pacific islands, and India, and they planted them alongside local tropical fare. The tour through the farm was not only incredibly picturesque because of the beautiful vegetation, but it was educational, too, as the guide explained to us how certain plants grow and how they pollinate and how much work is really involved in extracting the spices from these plants.

We learned, for instance that the vanilla blooms are hermaphroditic – they contain both male and female parts – but they are incapable of self-pollinating. So, the farm hands have to uncover the female parts of the flowers with a toothpick and touch the male parts to the female parts, in order for the pollination to happen. This must happen within the first 24 hours of when the flower blooms, because after 24 hours, the flower dies. This ensures that a vanilla pod is created and the pod is the only part of the plant from which the vanilla extract is produced. No wonder that vanilla is the second most expensive spice (second to saffron). 

 

Vanilla bloom and pods

He picked a cocoa fruit for us and I was surprised to see that it looks much like a coconut. My husband tasted the pulp inside it (which is white) and he said it's a bit bitter but it does not taste like cocoa. It always amazes me how things we know and love today came to be: what made people think for the first time that which part of what fruit or plant is consumable? Just amazing. 

 

Cocoa fruit 

There were tons of trees that didn't produce but after so many years. Others that produced for 4-5 years and they were done after that. So much patience, so much effort, so much know-how to extract such coveted goodness. This is why it's doubly important that we do not destroy what is left of our green planet! It takes a long time to regenerate!

We learned that the pepper plant is much like kudzu: it's a vine, and the pepper grows in bunches, like grapes, on this vine. The white and black pepper come from the same plant – the difference in color comes from the different ways of handling the peppercorn: one leaves the ripe, outer layer on (the black) and one removes it (the white). 

 

Belize's many blooms 

We also found the black orchid, which is the national flower of Belize. This is by far the smallest and most delicate orchid I have ever seen in my life. I never knew before, but orchids grow on trees, much like a lichen, or a parasite plant. My brain still has trouble using the word “parasite” and the word “orchid” in the same sentence, but there you go. The black orchid is easily the most delicate bloom I have ever seen. The color is a deep purple, or … black.

In the rows where they didn't have fruit or spice trees and plants, they planted bushes and flowers “just for beautification”, they said. Just to make it “pleasant”: hundreds of rows of bougainvillea, azaleas, wisterias, lilacs, water lilies and lotuses. There was no corner without a bloom! The place was called “spice farm and botanical garden”, but being in the middle of many other forests, it seemed like part of the country and the natural landscape. It did not feel like something designed by man. It was a true garden of Eden, just wild and gorgeous. 

 

One of the many rows of bougainvillea 

My only complaint about the spice farm was that we did not get to spend a whole day there. After a couple of hours and right after our tram tour, we had to board the bus again for our return trip to our smaller boat which would take us to our ship. I could have gotten lost in the rows and rows of trees and plants and taken pictures till my camera card would have run out of space. It was a sad 'good bye' for sure. 

 

The sacred lotus flower 

On the way back, Raf thanked us for visiting his country. He spoke about the history of the country, about what makes them unique in Central America, about how they are a 'free country and free to do whatever they want'. He encouraged us to come retire there, where the retirement age is 55, taxes are low and everything is beautiful. He also told us that only Americans come and buy land in Belize. His family, who is Mayan, they don't believe in buying land, because we don't 'own' the land. It belongs to the earth, and we're just 'renting' from it. So they live on it, borrowing it, but they don't sell it, they share it with their families for generations. He pointed to the Mayan mountains in the horizon, and he said “the land between here and the mountains is all Mayan land, it belongs to the people.” There was an air of confidentiality in his tone, as if we were just let in a big secret.

We had very little time when we came back to the boat to do much of anything else. We were so exhausted from hopping so many means of transportation that day. But it was all worth it. To experience another land, so different than ours, and so mysterious and painfully beautiful and raw was humbling. To be so privileged to do it in peace and to be welcomed with respect by another nation is something we always take for granted when we travel abroad but something that we should always be grateful for. If we had gone to Belize 500 years ago today, I am sure things would have been significantly different.

 The national flower of Belize: the black orchid.
Click the picture for the whole album of this trip