Traveling to Klamath River

Jennifer at Pacific Ocean near Klamath River

There are some California attractions that folks visit constantly such as Yosemite or Death Valley, not realizing what other beauty they may find in this diversely wild and gorgeous state.  One overlooked place is the Klamath River, well north of Eureka, heading toward the Oregon border.  The river meanders through inland California and Oregon, finally descending and plunging in to the Pacific Ocean, making a devine site to witness.

When driving north on Highway 101, you have arrived when you cross the Klamath River Bridge with the welcoming of two golden bears posted on each side.  Once across, you enter the town of Klamath, a very small, isolated hamlet.  A few miles up the road, turn left to discover the historical, cozy Requa Inn several miles back off of the road.  It’s a charming place to stay, perched on the hillside over the Klamath River, only a few blocks from where the river enters the mighty Pacific Ocean.  The rooms are bright, cozy Victorian retreats making for a romantic getaway or just a place to rest your tired body from the churn of civilization.    ( http://www.requainn.com)

Requa Inn

Once in the area, there is a multitude of hiking destinations surrounding you. You can hike in the beautiful Prairie Creek Redwoods State Park with miles of quiet, undiscovered coastline and beaches, scads of forested trails and beautiful park roads running along the sea or tucked away in the forest. My favorite hike was a walk through Fern Canyon in the slowing dripping drizzle. Simon and I dressed according to the weather, putting the hoods of our rain shells on our heads, scarves around our necks and went for it. The trail was sensational with basalt walls extending upward supporting fern growth in the various crevices. It was also enjoyable to walk through the redwood forests and along the coast watching the sea crash in on the sandy beaches with their interspersed protruding rocks. Within the park, there are various meadows where one can see Roosevelt Elk grazing, resting and foraging. They lazily meander around in the sometimes brightly flowered terrain. Take some time at Del Norte Coast Redwoods State Park. There are numerous redwood groves descending down to the quiet beaches backed by the songs of the pounding ocean and seabirds flitting along the shore. Don’t forget Enderts Beach! In addition to everything else to do, drive down through Humboldt Lagoons State Park on Highway 101 along the serene ocean shores and stop at the various lots to take peaceful, invigorating walks on the lovely beaches.

Klamath River

Take a long weekend away from San Francisco, San Jose or Sacramento to enjoy the delights of what this extraordinary part of our state has to offer.

Pacific Ocean near Klamath River

The Art of St. Petersburg, Russia – The Russian Museum

Tsar and Ministers, Repin

Palace Square where Bloody Sunday occurred

Simon and I had been traveling in Eastern Europe, deciding to fly from Warsaw, Poland to St. Petersburg, Russia in the summer of 2009.  It was a wise choice, given the amount of art, architecture, history and beauty that this stately city has to offer.  For the most part, Russian history is full of autocracy, cruelty toward the citizens and hardship.  Out of all of those difficulties came some very rich and enticing art.  To the right is a painting of the last Tsar of the Russias, Nicholas II and government ministers mostly appointed by him.  It was painted by Ilya Repin, a magnificently talented and prolific artist who died during communist times.  This painting gave me the impression of statesmen thinking that their places would remain static in Russian society.  Ironically, change was coming with the early twentieth century revolutions.  The Tsar who sits superciliously as the head of state could not anticipate that only a few years later he would be forced to abdicate.  He and his family would be arrested, later murdered during the Russian Civil War and his ministers would also face similar fate, being executed or needing to flee the country.   “Bloody Sunday” was one event, sparking the revolution with eventual overthrow of the unjust regime.  Peaceful, unarmed demonstrators marched  to the Palace requesting that the Tsar improve working conditions for the lower class citizens.  The Imperial Guard shot into the crowd, killing and wounding a large number of people.

The Barge Haulers

“The Barge Haulers” created by Ilya Repin also hangs in the Russian Museum, the painting implying that the young man in the center will soon look like his companions due to the hard, abusive work.  Another Repin painting that I found inspiring was “The Leave – Taking of a New Recruit”.  In this painting we see a young man being made to join the Tsar’s military, leaving his village and his wife most likely to fight battles.  Many Russian soldiers died in wars, never returning home and if they were lucky to come back, they were still kept under the Tsar’s power with no new freedom for their sacrifices.

The Leave - Taking of a New Recruit

Sergeevich Zhuravlev created the painting “Before the Wedding”.  Here we can clearly view a very unhappy bride  forced to marry someone of her parents’ choosing, not to her liking.  I can’t imagine being cajoled into marrying someone about whom I could give a flip!  Zhuravlev was an advocate of democratic reform, thus under surveillance by the Tsarist regime.

Before the Wedding

Being trained in military tactic and participating in battle campaigns, Vasily Vereshchagin graphically painted war as he had seen it.   He was badly wounded in one battle with the Turks, while his brother had been killed.  Afterward he began painting battle scenes while residing in Munich, Germany.  I’ve displayed one of his paintings that profoundly affected me, hanging in the Russian Museum. The Russians are deceived into believing that they had won the war, but in the foreground we can see piles of corpses from both sides, so who actually won?

Vereshchagin - Turk - Russian Surrender

Arkhip Ivanovich Kuindzhi was the son of a Greek derived shoemaker, but lost both of his parents at six years of age.  He had to work at a church building site, grazing domestic animals to support himself.   He had the good fortune to study at the St. Petersburg Academy of the Arts, specializing in the emotional expression and  illumination of nature as well as the pursuit of beauty.  I’ve included the painting “Nocturnal”, only one of his paintings on display.

Nocturnal

Konstantin Satvitsky was the son of a physician who demonstrated an interest in art early on in his life.  His parents died in his teenage years, giving guardianship to his uncle, who sent him to boarding school.  He later attended art school in St. Petersburg where he was known as a realist painter.  “To the War” hangs in the Russian Museum, moving me emotionally, so I’ve displayed it here.

To the War

Nickolai Ghe was born to a Russian Nobel family of French origin.  He studied at Kiev and St. Petersburg Universities in the Math and Physics Departments.  In 1850, he gave up his science career, entered the Imperial Academy of Arts in Saint Petersburg, where he won a gold medal for his painting.  This provided him with a scholarship to study abroad and later he settled in Italy.  The painting, “Peter I Interrogating his Son, Alexei” is one of Ghe’s many paintings. Peter the Great is infamous for the killing of this son.

Peter the Great Interrogating his Son, Alexei

Ivan Aivazovsky was of Armenian descent, growing up in the Crimea.  He entered the St. Petersburg Academy of the Arts, graduating with a Gold Medal. Although he is mostly known for his seascapes and coastal paintings, he also worked as a Court Painter for the Sultan in Constantinople (today’s Istanbul), visiting the city on eight different occasions.  He was the most prolific painter of his time with 6,000 works at his death in 1900.   I am presenting his most famous painting “The Ninth Wave”.  The shear energy in this painting held my attention for quite some time.

The Ninth Wave

To end, I am including a photograph of “The Church of Spilled Blood,” a monument to Tsar Alexander II, assassinated on this spot.  The project was funded by the Imperial family and thousands of private donations.  This Tsar had been known for his reform policies, including freedom for the serfs.

By Jennifer Horton Chadwick

The Church of Spilled Blood

A Texan in Peru

Machu Picchu with Wayna Picchu in the background

I have feared telling this story, because after all of these years, I have some distress when speaking of the matter.  However, if I can teach anyone out there, something about themselves in relationship to their environment, it’s worth feeling what I do. Quite often, our passions are caught only in a small fleeting period, when other times our lives are routine without much thought with us only responding to the society in which we live.  In those small windows of opportunity, we can either act on our passion, living life in full ardor or ignore what we feel, behaving as prisoners to the programming we have learned from our cultural background, not ever knowing why we might be soulless.

Many years ago, I was traveling on my own on the western side of South America with a multiple destination plane ticket.  My adventures were full of new experiences, but not emotionally charged until I came to Aguas Calientes, Peru.  That’s when everything turned my vacation upside down, and I didn’t know how it quite happened.  Isn’t that how life is? It seems to hit you in the face when you are least expecting it to do so.  Because of a lack of adequate seating, I was standing in the exist area of the train that travels from Cuzco, Peru to Machu Picchu.  It was crowded with hot, sticky bodies stuffed in a small grimy area with no place to move.   I felt someone from behind fondling my breast, so I took my elbow and jabbed him, awkwardly moved out of the area, discovering that this fellow had used a razor blade for slitting my purse from below.  Because I left, I was spared the agony of loosing any valuables, but remained very anxious and upset about the matter.   I had never had a predator stalk me as though I was his prey, and it was a disconcerting situation to know this person was only a few bodies away. I was thinking that I should have chosen the alternative my new found British friends had offered, hiking the Inca Trail with them.  We were more or less following one another around, instead of me hiking, we had decided to meet each other again back in Cuzco.   I’ve never been one to like roughing it without a bath.

Finally, the train pulled into the station, I fervently poured off, since it had been a deplorable ride seeming to take much longer than it had, the only agreeable part of the trip being the low cost.  I had another hurdle to tackle now, having no reservation to stay in the town, and it didn’t seem the place had a bundle of  accommodations.  I was very young,  not so good at planning my trips at that time, so here I was with no place to stay.   While I was walking down the train track in the middle of the verdantly green and humidly misty jungle, I observed several figures coming toward me in the opposite direction.  There were some Peruvians, but strangely one lanky white guy was among the group.  They came closer, and now I could see them perfectly.

Jim was speaking Spanish with the other guys, these men seeming to melt away into the landscape with my arrival, so perhaps that was planned.  He was a very amusing sight to see, especially after the train fiasco with his 1950’s style hat, barefeet and thick chestnut colored straight hair hanging out from under the cap, well below his ears.  His intelligent eyes were large, green and piercing, while his long khaki colored pants hung down loosely below his ankles.   He began talking to me with a Southern American accent as though we had been acquainted, although I had no idea from where he came.  His speech was refine and educated, and I decided he was probably my intellectual match.   He walked next to me conversing about the usuals, finally asking me where I would be staying.  I retorted, “I don’t know yet.  I’ll have to see what I can find.”  His grim answer was, “You won’t find anything here.  It’s fully booked up.”  He silenced me, and my eyes must have become like large startled marbles.  Then, he said, “I’m staying with two friends, and if you have a sleeping bag, you can sleep on the floor in our room.  It’s not that great, just a few bunk beds and a mattress.”   I didn’t like the idea of staying with a stranger, but didn’t want to take the gamble that he was wrong about the accommodations, so I agreed to the arrangement.

Aguas Calientes

We moseyed over to his sparse accommodation upstairs in a typical Peruvian Highland building.    I entered the room finding two guys not seeming as though they would be friends of his given their somber appearance and inability to crack smiles.  Neither one of them seemed at all interested in me, other than to give me lip service, but apparently felt fine about my accommodation need.  My presence didn’t concern them,  I was obviously unimportant, but I could play the part of audience to their persistent southern-accented monologues,  discourses about what each one knew of Peru.  I didn’t want to create any animosity with these two information-divulging robots, since they could toss me out on my butt with no place to sleep.   Under different circumstances, I would have told them I could read a book if I needed such information.  Wouldn’t it be more fun to dialogue with each other instead, but maybe, they were incapable?  Jim was perceptive enough to see the discomfort in my face, so asked if I wanted to have a drink in the town’s small bar, located in the train station.  I left my bags in the room, knowing that the Texan robots wouldn’t even touch them, since anything of mine was surely beneath who they were.

Evening was now settling down, as we entered the canteen. We found a table in a private corner of the primitive thatched-roofed building using rustic wooden beams for support, illuminated only with lantern light, creating shifting shadows on the flat aged wooden deteriorating planks used as flooring. After receiving long needed drinks while enduring the humid heat for some time, we began to converse in a way that two strangers always do when getting to know each other.  We had spoken about our trip, where we intended to go and our personal lives at home.  He had only finished medical school in San Antonio, Texas a few months prior to now, and he learned that I had been teaching visual impaired students in Boston, having attained a master’s degree in counseling psychology in North Carolina the previous year.  I would soon continue with my studies wanting to become a psychologist, expressing no set imminent plan.  The conversation went on for hours, the words having marginal importance, but the energy level between both of us was electrifying with eye contact like two magnets sucking each other together.  I found myself wildly attracted to a person who I had never met in my life, feeling perhaps it was the same for him.  I was never afraid to express myself, what I may feel internally, but I had been encouraged to do that from childhood, and didn’t know what made a complete stranger tick.  Even though his emotion was pointedly fervent, with my own perceptive abilities, I felt him pulling himself back from our hasty harmony.  At one point, he temporarily chopped me off with the announcement of his bisexuality.  I didn’t understand what that meant except that maybe he only liked girls sometimes.  Within seconds, he could see that he had broken the flow, now returning to the same level of interest in our interaction, abandoning his recent surprising confession.

After some hours, we retreated to the makeshift hotel room.  It was extremely late, past midnight, and both of us had plans to see Machu Picchu the following morning, the visit lasting all day.  I had trepidation about returning to the room with the thoughts of discovering male lovers.  After Jim’s announcement, I assumed all of them physically liked one another, and I was fearful of behaviors I had never encountered in my life.  However, when we entered two logs laid in their beds, quietly slumbering away.   He jumped in to his fairly wide cot, and I took up residence on the floor in my cozy sleeping bag.  After he tossed around for some minutes, he asked me if I wanted more comfort in his bed.   I thought for a few seconds, figuring he probably wouldn’t bother me if his current mood was an attraction for other men, specifically his roommates.  I concurred with his request, wanting to sleep and could only do so if I was reasonably comfortable.  There was just enough room for both of our bodies, and I soon fell asleep with no advance on his part.

The next morning I awoke to the sound of his associates clanking around in the room, packing up for the day’s walk to the ruins.  Jim was only just waking up with the dabbled sunlight on his face streaming in from the speckless window panes.  The three of them would soon go off to explore the site, while I was happy to venture out alone with my handy Machu Picchu guide, absorbing what I could about the place.  I didn’t expect an invite, because after all, it was a planned guy’s outing.  Besides, I wasn’t too keen on the company of the two mechanical men, always feeling that it’s better to go it alone, rather than waste time with those projecting negative behaviors, not making me feel particularly chipper.  I waited for all of them to bail out of the room, then I showered, dressed and ventured out myself.

After climbing up the steep hillside, I finally arrived at the magnificent ruins.  They were stunningly beautiful with their construction on the very apical of a lushly green mountain, vast with their intricate decaying building sites, ascending up the mountainside all around me.  In the distance, I could clearly see other mountains jetting out from the landscape.  There are many theories about why the Incas built Machu Picchu, but none of them can be validated.  However, it is known that it was assembled around 1400 AD, about 100 years prior to the conquistador invasion.  Luckily, the Spanish never found it, possibly due to the inhabitants’ deaths caused by small pox prior to their arrival, so many of the ruins have remained pristine for visitors to appreciate and admire. After spending a good portion of my day enjoying this beautiful monument to Inca past, I  attempted another interesting challenge, climbing to the top of Wayna Picchu, a small mountain, acting as a backdrop to the ruins.

Ascending up the path required some courage on my part, since the trail was extremely narrow with not much room for mistakes.  On one side, I had the mountain to brace me, on the other only shear drop off.  I slowly ambled up the path, finally finding the top, discovering the climb had been well worthwhile.  I was alone on the pinnacle of the world with a fairly narrow place to sit or stand, and if I turned in any direction, distant mountains loomed in the glorious sunlight.   Could I speak with omnipotence in this hallowing, gorgeous place?   I didn’t expect anyone else, so I took off my upper body clothes, baring my breasts to the warm sunlight.  I don’t know how much time passed, though I felt paradise without the motivation to leave so expeditiously.

With the sun starting to droop down in the sky,  I knew it was time to depart, although regrettably so.  I would never forget this experience for all my years surviving on the planet, but began the sojourn down to the village.  Predictably, the path to the ruins was hair raising, but I descended unscathed and then, easily continued down to the village.

When I arrived, I immediately saw Jim sitting on the side of the train station quay, seemingly relaxed in the last of the golden sun rays.  Once he saw me, his demeanor completely changed, rising to greet me, then asking emphatically, “Where have you been?  I was becoming concerned.”  “Ole, I was in communion with nature up in the hills,” I exclaimed with a slight smile.  He peered at me with a puzzled look,  finally responding, “I was able to find some tasty food and wanted to know if you cared to share it with me.”  I replied quite affectionately that I would love to join him.  We found a nice grassy spot for consuming his treats,  continuing the conversation we had the last evening. I couldn’t tell you about what we had spoken, but I knew that the connection once again was more than what we said.  I presented my incredible tale about the climb to Wayna Picchu with him appearing somewhat interested.  I then asked if they had made it up to the point, and he indicated that the sojourn was regrettably not part of their day, but they had encountered other fascinating sights.  Finally, I stated that I needed to clean up, asking if there was anyone in the room.  “Oh no, the guys went out for some drinks,” he remarked.  “I’m going up to the hot pool to have a bath and wonder if you would like to join me after finishing?” I glanced at him and without a thought agreed to meet him at the springs.

After I was done in the room, I trekked up to the hot springs, by the rising moonlight. When I had left Jim a half hour earlier, it had been dusk, now nightfall was blanketing Aguas Calientes, so I had to use the celestial sky light for following the path, finally making it to my destination.  At first I didn’t see anyone in the glistening, moonlit waters, so I called for Jim.  He answered me quickly from the warmth of the soothing pool. I was eager to join him in these comfortable conditions, but when I rummaged around in my bag, I discovered that I had forgotten my swimsuit.  I explained my frustration to him, thinking that I would have to run back to the room, but he told me that he didn’t have anything to wear, so why should I be bothered.  He didn’t think anyone would show up there after sunset anyway, so I agreed to completely disrobe, sliding into the water’s abyss.  I could see him clearly now coming closer to me with a satisfied look like a male bower bird, finally attracting a female to his self-constructed cache.  It had been a relaxing, but tiring day for both of us, so we didn’t say much.   He decided to put his arms around me, I was receptive to his affection having felt an emotional and social connection, and perhaps now it was time for a physical one.  In foreign lands with intense stimulation, you can be deceived, believing that days have past within a twenty four hour period, and this described my interlude with Jim.  He must have felt the same as me, but I never thought he would express it so hurriedly.  If he hadn’t approached me, I probably would have been too shy to do the same.   It was an intense encounter lasting for several hours, but finally we were becoming tired, deciding to return to the room to sleep.  We dressed and traveled down the path with his arm around me.

Prior to arriving at the room, he asked me if I would like to return to Cuzco with him via bus the next day.  His friends were staying in the village another day doing some more exploring of Machu Picchu.  I thought that was a jolly good idea, since I hated the damn train, the vehicle with its insipid grimy robbers.  We entered the room finding his friends sleeping soundly, and we did the same in the comfortable wide cot with its sparsely decorated surroundings.  We both snuggled under the one thin sheet and sleeping bags forming a cozy union with arms around each other.

When we arose the next morning, we were alone, the others having ambitiously begun their exploration earlier in the morning.  We both begrudgingly left the cot,  packing up to begin our journey back to Cuzco.  This was Jim’s expedition, taking full reign, since I wasn’t sure of the detailed agenda for the trip.   When we departed from the room, he had all of the plans well under his control, anticipating that his friends would be staying there that evening and later paying the bill.  On the only village road, we found a truck in which we would be traveling in the back to another mountain town where we would find a bus back to Cuzco.  I didn’t relish the ride, knowing it would be dusty, having an aversion to soiled suitcases, clothes and hair, but it was still better than taking the train.  I jumped in the back with Jim and a few other Peruvians, then we began the travel toward our destination.  Jim mostly interacted in Spanish with the driver and our trip mates with me accepting it was to receive information about our sojourn.  I remained quiet throughout the trip, uncomfortable with the mode of transport.  It would have been fine without a dusty road, but better conditions were no where to be found.  The truck stirred up clouds of the unwanted particles, and I endured the annoyance.   Even with the irritating ride, I could view beautiful landscape, the Quechua people with their llamas and women working in their bowler style hats all around, so I came away from the experience forgetting about some of the discomfort.

We approached the intended village, hopped out and although I had offered to pay my share, Jim handled the modest bill.  We were in the front of the bus station, so only had to linger until the correct one appeared.  It was a small wait, so we sat on sturdy cartons that had been placed along side the building, our dust covered luggage close by.  We continued to converse, but I felt Jim pushing me away as he did in the tavern during our first night’s encounter, not so much in his words but between them and with his eyes. Finally, a bus arrived that we could take making a connection to Cuzco, so we jumped on, sat next to each other in the smallish seats, our conversation continued, but his distancing did not stop.  He was speaking at a more intellectual level again, not so intimately or affectionately with only occasional eye contact.  Finally, as though he couldn’t wait to say his piece, he told me my personality was political.  Well, since I’m not interested in politics very much or never was, I assumed he referred to my enthusiastic openness about living, experiencing life’s wonders.  I have always said what I felt with little fear of doing so, and perhaps that bothered him.   Did he want me to acquiesce to him, becoming more subdued, and if so, that wasn’t possible for me.  I could never compromise my freedom to anyone’s self perceived power.   Then he struck with words again announcing that we probably didn’t have much in common, his words making me think our entire companionship had become nothing more then a sordid extension of the “one night stand,” the hunter’s full intention of seducing, taking power and destroying, or perhaps I was an American commodity, tossed after it had served its purpose, but with his more profound depth, it would be bewildering if he was truly like that. His assaulting words sharply stabbed me, but  I retorted with nothing other than minor annoyance, saucily remarking that I didn’t see what pursuits he had other than medicine, Peru and Spanish.  He abashedly claimed that those subjects were his entire repertoire of focus.  Although, I replied with silence, I was hoping that his recent exist from medical school was the rationale for his narrow interest range, but if not with no new growth occurring, how austere his life would become.

Our arrival in the connection point village came quickly, the place where we departed from the bus to wait for the next transport.  We didn’t speak much, but I was in turmoil internally, feeling emotional churn, like a working cement mixer.  I couldn’t tell you what he thought, if not anything at all consciously.  Once again, our next transport arrived with us both quickly hopping on the rickety bus.  When it was in full motion, descending down the mountain to Cuzco, I abruptly realized that I had left a small colorful bag full of souvenirs behind.  I exclaimed to Jim what had happened with his responding not to worry, it was gone, there was nothing I could do, not demonstrating concern for my recent loss.

Cuzco at Night

We continued down the mountainside into Cuzco for about fifteen miles, finally arriving in the center of town.  I was pleased to come back to town, the trip had been tiring, and Jim was continuing to distance himself from me.  He wasn’t the first lover who had given me the jilt, surely wouldn’t be the last, yet it didn’t set well with me, and I wanted to return to my safe, comfortable hotel where I had left some of my luggage with the proprietor.  I left Jim in the bus station, giving him the details of where I was staying if he happened to want to see me again.  He obligingly took the information, but I wondered if we would meet another time after the laconic conversation on our trip.

After getting my room arranged with the kind, helpful senora at the front desk of the charming small hotel, I took time to drop my bags off,  hurried back to the bus station, caught the first transport, returned to our final connection point where I left my bag prior to returning to town.  It was a lonely trip back absent of Jim, but I wouldn’t allow myself to become melancholy.  At present, I had a goal and knew that I would soon see my British guy friends, also free traveling around South America with adventures to tell of their own.  After all, I couldn’t alter Jim’s psyche, having done nothing negative enough to merit his rejection.  If he was to be my friend and lover, I deserved his kindness and respect, not dismissive, disregard, when I had been intimate with him less than twenty four hours earlier.  I felt divided, one side missing our impassioned union, the other experiencing disappointment with the uncivil and undeserved behavior.  I remained in consuming thought, not noticing we had come to the desired bus station. Finally, I was aroused by the driver announcing our arrival, so scurried off the bus with a handful of others and went inside the station, miraculously finding my beautiful bag where it had been left.  I snatched it up with absolute delight, hoping that I now could return to Cuzco.  I was rewarded with a bus trip back down the mountain.

As we approached the town, it was now evening, so I was able to view the twinkling lights of the streets, homes and businesses from the distant road where we were traveling.  It was a delightful sight, alluring my senses with its warmth and charm, after I had sat in the dark for the last half hour.  I departed from the bus with my bag in hand, strolled triumphantly toward the hotel, picked up a bit of food at the local tienda  and lastly entered my room.  I hadn’t noticed prior to leaving that the proprietor assigned me a very comfortable, colorful room where I revered in spending my time.  It had pristine white washed walls, displaying colorfully Andean handwoven decorations and a rustic open wooden beamed ceiling with one interestingly adorned bed placed in the corner of the room, all which were softly illuminated.  Other furnishings were spread around this fairly large, but cozy room.  I ate my freshly bought food and immediately snuggled into the warm, cushy bed.

The light streamed through the open wooden shuttered windows as I awoke to the sound of knocking on my door the next morning with Steve’s voice calling to me.  I quickly arose, opened the door to gaze at his glowing, effervescent face, framed by his longish blonde hair and wide blue eyes peeping at me.  He immediately hugged me as though he hadn’t seen a long lost friend for a century, his slender body wrapped in comfortably worn jeans, green tee shirt with Jesus sandals for footwear.  I gladly let him pass into my room, even though I was only in my night clothes, but he didn’t even seem to notice my general appearance.  He and his friend Jerry had successfully hiked the Inca Trial with lots of vivacity.  He sunk down in one of the agreeable chairs, conversing energetically about his and my adventures.  I asked him where Jerry was, and he indicated with a woman they had met hiking.  Evidently, the two had hit it off well, now going to breakfast together, leaving Steve to visit with me.

I had met Steve and Jerry at a tourist attraction in Lima prior to coming to Cuzco.  We had made a plan to meet again here at the youth hostel where they were staying, it had worked perfectly, because before traveling to Aguas Calientes, we had spent some time together, and now they were both back at the hostel.  After leaving his wife in Berkeley for travel on his own, Steve met Jerry during his tour in South America.    He was married to a woman he had met in Kenya, doing civil engineering work, and she was studying linguistics.  They had lived some time there, supposedly fell in love and were married. Steve followed Annie to Berkeley, but found that she mostly ignored him after they settled down with him feeling lost so far away from the United Kingdom.  He had taken this trip to escape the boredom that he felt in California and confusion concerning the marriage.  Ultimately, I guess we both knew what would happen in his case, but we didn’t need to approach the painful reality of his situation today.

As we sat conversing, Steve eventually wanted to know the details of my journey to Machu Picchu.  I spoke in concrete terms about what I observed there, my hike up to the apex of Wayna Picchu and the danger involved.  It took me awhile to recount my experience with Jim and our fervent, licentious interaction, but after I did, I also divulged the events of the previous day’s trip to Cuzco.  Strangely, Steve asked me where Jim lived in the US, and I responded, “Texas”.   With inspiration, Steve’s reply was, “Aren’t they kind of conservative there with the men playing the dominant role, and women being more reticent?”  I thoughtfully acknowledged his ideas, reporting that I didn’t know, since I hadn’t ever been there.  “If it’s true, Jen, you don’t fit that bill, since you’re kind of smart and free spirited, and if he likes you, he’s probably a bit confused.  You aren’t exactly the stereotype with whom he’s been programmed to relate,” Steve asserted and continued with,  “It’s bad enough we live in a competitive society, buy into it and then, can’t relate to one another, because we worry about whose better.   When we attempt to form relationships, it causes angst if our mate is anywhere close to us in achievement level with that problem most likely being exacerbated for him given his background.”  My only words were, “I only want to relate and love, not concern myself with the psychological games,” but Steve retorted with, “unfortunately, you have no choice in that matter, since they’re not your games.  Jen, even if nothing comes out of your affair with him, you’ll only be chafed in the short run, but what will his life be like long term, when he’s bright with maybe having those beliefs.”  I looked at Steve with consternation, since these concepts had never been presented to me.  “I guess I should be more careful about falling for someone whose from a culture contrary to my own,” I murmured.  “You think more like I do, like a European.  Didn’t you live in Sweden some?”  he inquired.  “Yep, I sure did, and I guess I was influenced by life there with an inability to change my way now,”  I acknowledged.  We stopped that line of conversation, I got dressed, while he waited in the lobby, reading a newspaper, then we went to the market, grabbing some delicious food  for breakfast.  The streets were full of brightly dressed, indigenous Quechua people going about their daily chores, scurrying around red tiled, white faced Spanish style buildings with a backdrop of lightly vegetated hills.  It was a bright, sunny cool day in Cuzco, perfect sweater weather, my favorite climate.

After we finished eating and meandering around town in morning sunlight, we made our way back to my room, plopping in comfy chairs, gabbing away.  Finally, Steve told me Jerry and he would be leaving that evening on the bus, heading north with his final destination to California.  He wanted to exchange contact information, details that would keep us in touch after our little adventure.   I furnished him with the request, he did the same for me, then asked where I would be traveling next, and I divulged to Bolivia traveling around Lake Titicaca.   “That should be great fun, Jen.  I wish I was headed your way, but I have to make some decisions about my marriage,” he affirmed.  I agreed about his responsibilities, but felt blue with his departure, anticipating our lack of camaraderie in the next day.  It was good to have made a friend with whom I could share most of my thoughts, having him completely understand my point of view, even if in the short term.

It was getting on in time about 2 PM with Steve and I laughing about everything, when I heard a sharp knock at my door.  I opened it finding Jim standing there, asking me how I was doing.  I was shocked to see him after what had transpired the previous day.  There was an uneasy silence for only a moment, then I quickly filled the gap by politely introducing him to Steve, the Brit about whom I had previously spoken, while we had been together in Aguas Calientes.  We all spent a little time small talking with Steve breaking up the dialog, indicating that he must be going, since he had to pack, readying himself for the bus ride.  We hugged heartedly, both Jim and I wishing him happy travels.   He closed the door with his exit leaving me alone in my room with Jim.

After we were on our own with complete privacy, Jim put his arms around me giving me a kiss.  I suppose that might have been his method of apologizing for the previous day’s events.  I was compliant, wanting to be patient with him, hoping that perhaps our relationship would continue, because admittedly, I was completely enamored.  We sat in physical contact with one another on the single bed chatting for sometime.  What I was least expecting to hear finally surfaced with him telling me again that we had little in common.  This time, I wasn’t silent with him, but blared out passionately, “Then, why did you come here?  Do you like to torture me?  What do you mean, we have nothing in common?  Do I have to be the same as you?”  He was thoroughly surprised at the vehemence of my words, saying nothing to me, looking down at the bed covers.  He once again hugged me, letting the subject drop, continuing our conversation as though nothing had transpired.  Given his discomfort, I let the episode pass, knowing full well there were unresolved issues in his affection for me.

Time passed quickly with both of us becoming hungry, deciding to venture out for a bite to eat.  We found a small shop to sit, chat and consume whatever looked interesting on the menu.  At that point, I confessed to Jim that I should probably leave the next day, traveling toward Lake Titicaca, and noticed that he encouraged me to do that, indicating that he and his friends were also departing for Iquitos, a town that sits on the Amazon River.  It was difficult for me to hear the inevitable reality of splitting up, going in separate directions, but it was the only choice.  I don’t think his goofy friends would have wanted me tagging along, and I didn’t have a desire to visit the Amazon River just yet in my life.  Then, he asked me if he could spend the night, leaving when I checked out of the hotel the next day.  I was happy to spend my last evening in Cuzco with him, as I was already used to sharing a single bed.

We returned to the room that night, spending our time enjoying each other physically, emotionally and mentally, falling asleep with no worries and very relaxed.  When we awoke in the morning with the sun peaking through the crystal clear windows, it was comforting to be with each other.  We spent some final time together prior to me checking out, heading for the bus station, but then the time came for our last farewells.  He had taken all of my contact data, and I had his.  Then, holding back tears, I gave him a final kiss and began walking to the station.  It was a empy, dreary day for me, but somehow I was able to recover from that parting.

When I returned to the US, I never heard from Jim, and when I finally sent him a Christmas card from Colorado while studying in a psychology graduate program, he wrote informing me that he had married someone from Texas.   Subsequently, I  discovered that he later divorced the person.  Maybe, there was some truth to what Steve had stated in my room, while we were in Cuzco.  Jim might have been in conflict with his own cultural programming and the ability to accept who he likes, with me not fitting the image of what he thought he needed.  Evidently, he returned to Texas accepting the social parameters of that society without any questions.

Jennifer Horton Chadwick

Where are the Bellbirds of Eden?

Bell Miner (Bellbird)

While traveling down the coast from Sydney toward Wilson’s Promontory, east of Melbourne, Simon and I decided to stop at Eden to catch a glimpse of the infamous Bellbirds (Bell Miner birds) or so we thought. Eden is tucked away in the southeastern corner of New South Wales, fairly remote from any sizable town. It’s a lovely little spot to stay for a couple of nights if you are wanting isolation and quiet with its capacious lagoon bordered by a human made boardwalk, making a pleasant path on which to stroll.

We pulled into the local Best Western and registered with already having made reservations earlier. We asked the owner and desk clerk about viewing the Bellbirds. She grinned, replying that she would be happy to tell us where to travel to hear the Bellbirds, but not to expect to see them. She shared her thoughts that the birds were very intelligent, easily hiding themselves from any human observation, and she had lived there her entire life, never viewing a Bellbird. I listened with respect, but thought to myself – nonsense! How can a little bird out smart me, a large sentient primate and enthusiastic birdwatcher?

Cocora Beach

We spent the night at the quiet and well maintained hotel, arising for breakfast and then departing to Cocora Beach to visit with the Bellbirds. We arrived in a small parking lot and strolled some distance to find the Bellbird forest. It wasn’t difficult to discover where the birds stayed, because the little bell sounds were everywhere. The forest cathedral created a thick canopy for a roof with plenty of medium level shrub plants, and its floor was a bedding of natural litter. From every direction high in the trees, we heard the sounds of “bing, bing” like little bells heard in a church procession or perhaps at the corner of city blocks during the Christmas holidays. We didn’t know if we were actually hearing the birds or the echoes from their voices. Where were they, if not everywhere? We remained silent with binoculars looking throughout the various eucalyptus trees. I stood like a statue without movement, then penetrated deeper into the woods and laid quietly on my back in the leaf litter to observe these cagey little creatures. Never was I able to view the illusive Bellbirds. They must have insidiously watched me, since every time I moved in the direction of their sounds, silence would ensue. Then, I would hear their jingling voices in another area. We never saw any movement, not even the stretch of a wing. I was humbled by their abilities to mask themselves! We left without ever seeing a Bellbird, only the wonder of their beautiful voices!

Bell Miner birds are in the honeyeater family and the passerine order of birds. This species is endemic to Southeastern Australia living near the coast or in gullies near foothills, often at the edge of rainforest areas. They remain about 8 meters from the ground floor and seldom permanently leave their selected habitat. They live in large colonies and aggressively defend their territory from other passerine birds, making sure they completely exclude them. They feed on insects, specifically psyllids and also will consume the nectar from eucalyptus trees. By the way, judging from my picture, someone was lucky enough to take a photograph of one of these cunning little birds.

Jennifer Horton Chadwick

Pyrenees Friends and Lovers

Saint Girons

Employment as a school psychologist became tiring over the years, so  I took a break, attending a graduate program in International Business, having an exchange student component.  By the time, I embarked upon  this endeavor, I had already been well-traveled, relating to the curriculum, more than I could the role of a psychologist.  As I attended, I applied for the Paris semester exchange and was accepted.  I decided to finish the program there, skipping the spring semester at the home-based graduate school, so in place of the humdrum USA campus,  I journeyed to France, enrolling at The University of Nice in the South of France to improve my French-speaking ability.   Although interesting, after a month of classes, I grew very disenchanted with the regimentation of their program. Admittedly the overall daily experience was entertaining when I considered the amusement with wacky French acquaintances who worked in the local service industries, hanging around the bars and cafes in  British overrun Antibes, and attending a party or two with other students.  However, it became less interesting as time passed, particularly with an unfulfilling language program.

Mont St. Michel

I decided to leave, doing some traveling around France.  Buying a France Vacances train pass, I packed my bags, and saying farewell to my friend, Mark and some of the students that I had met in the program, I departed.  I had limited time for the enjoyment of France prior to returning to Paris to finish my education.  With this constraint,  I explored various places, staying in the auberge de jeunesse where ever I went.  It had been off-season, so it was easy to find accommodations.  My itinerary included lovely La Rochelle,  Blois, which was the entrance town to the Loire Valley and all of the fantastic châteaux, Brittany with its beautiful rugged coastline, but with gentle waters and rustic seaside villages and St. Malo where it was easy to find transport to the castle island of Mont St. Michel.  There were all kinds of characters with their own personal stories who I met along the way.  I managed to go to Bayeux to view the tapestry created by William the Conqueror’s wife, commemorating the Norman conquest of England.  After visiting that,  I rented a bicycle from the inn where I stayed, pedaling out to the Norman beaches where I observed gobs of grave sites for those who had died in the D-Day invasion.  It was so quiet and peaceful in those places at the time, but how had it been with the invasion? At the completion of that experience, I ventured down to Carcassone in the southwest of the country, where I hiked to the immense ancient castle and stood on the top of one of its steady walls, just in time to enjoy the dazzling sunset. What an experience to be on a building with history dating from Roman times.

Carcassone Castle

I had felt very timid about speaking French along the way, hesitating to converse with native speakers, for fear that I would be viewed as an inept foreigner.   I was successful at gettng my needs met, not wanting to dialog much more than for the basics.   After the sojourn, I returned to Toulouse, sleeping in the local auberge, where I met Dominique, a French mountain climber and job seeker.  She spoke a little English, but was willing to speak French with me very slowly, both of us hitting it off immediately.  After spending some time interacting, she inquired if I desired to come traveling with her.  I still had a good three weeks, before I was required to return to Paris.  I immediately jumped on the opportunity to join her.  We had connected so well, why not enjoy the camaraderie, having found so little of that in my life.

Dominique was a petite, thin lady with blonde boyish cropped hair.  Her radiant blue eye were atypical of the average French person, who usually had darker colors.  Although she was a small person, every bit of her body was composed of muscle with no room for excess fat.  I guess mountain climbing or hiking had kept her undeniably fit.  She had an open-mindedness about her that I adored, with an absolute free spirit.  With a recent doctoral degree in regional planning and with  “le chômage” (unemployment), she was traveling around France in her little Renault attempting to interact with officers in various towns in her discipline.   She was fatigued by the venture, deciding to take some rest with me in a small Pyrenees town,  Saint Girons, not far from the Spanish border.   Even with the communication barrier between us, we could converse better than if I was with someone from my own culture, both of us speaking the language perfectly.

Pyrenees Scene

We traveled south from Toulouse with me noticing the slow change of landscape from urban sprawl to exquisitely beautiful contoured countryside to finally sharp, distinctive, bucolic and verdant mountains.  Our rural path was less traveled than most French roads, a joy to feel, touch and experience.  We communed with the peacefulness, only our voices piercing the silence.  After traversing sixty or so kilometers, we found ourselves in the quaint, naturalistic and beautiful hamlet of St. Girons with a lazily moving stream trickling through the center.   We easily located the auberge on the side of a graceful, deeply green, vegetated hill, then entered the very French Pyrenees-styled building with its thatched roof and registered.  We were placed in a basic accommodation but with plenty of style and your popular bunk beds, allowing us to open the windows on to a lovely refreshing garden with fragrant smells and a pallet of  beautiful color.  The room was white washed with a rustic dark wooden ceiling, sparse in the category of furniture, but the high ceilings gave the feel of a warm medieval common room.

Both of us wanted some rest and nourishment, so after dropping off our bags, we ambled over and entered the large cafeteria styled room, observing that there was very little human presence.  In general, the auberge was not housing many people, those that stayed there being all French-speaking citizens with me being the only American present.   Dominique and  I ordered an auberge-style meal but with a few courses, which for sure, is typically French.  We ate, interacted and finally dragged ourselves back to the room, proceeding to settle down in the beds until the next morning.

We were awakened by the sounds of buzzing bees, sweetly singing birds in the overhanging trees with the bright warm sun infiltrating the room through the large paned window. While I was showering in the dormitory style bath, Dominique prepared for our day of hiking in the surrounding hills.  We caught a quick croissant, a cup of coffee and bought a French style lunch at the local shop, consisting of cheese, pate, a baguette and some fresh fruit and of course, we had a sumptuous bottle of red wine from Bordeaux.  Then, we were off to a preplanned a hiking destination.   When we arrived at the spot,  it was surprisingly beautiful, lushly vegetated, having sizable trees and colorful wildflowers everywhere.  After packing up, we began our ascent up the path, Dominique being a serious hiker, but was respectful of my obvious flatland origin, slowing to keep pace with me.   She spoke seldom unless it had some meaning or was of a philosophical nature, unlike so many Americans who speak continuously, conveying little meaning in their words and only monologuing about their own life’s circumstances.   After several miles of this type of hiking I grew weary, with Dominique still having an abundance of energy, so I discovered a lovely meadow where I could relax, enjoying my surroundings and composing poetry, while I waited for her.  We parted, she springing like a shot up the hill.   Sitting in this open area of the forest was pure joy, having the colorful late spring wildflowers all about, the intensely green trees in the background with the rich warm sunlight in my face, so I drenched myself in this glory for a couple of hours, until Dominique returned to our spot, invigorated from her hike, ready to share the lunch that we had bought in town, prior to us continuing down the hill.

The day seemed to pass unnoticed, it being a marvelous one, but now we returned to the auberge to relax, drink some more red wine and finally, have a bit to eat in the cafeteria. While enjoying our dinner, we were approached by three French guys – Henri, Patrick and Alain.    They soon realized that I was a foreigner with a unique accent and limitation in fluency.  Dominique developed a serious conversation with them that lost me with its quickness.   Although, I didn’t understand the content, it was comforting to be among this group, given their relaxed, peaceful and gentle natures.  When I expressed myself, they were genuinely interested in the content of my words.  We retreated to the exterior garden to converse more, but were joined by a different sort of person – Etienne, who ultimately broke up our mellow dialogue.   When he spoke, it was a stiff, rigid language filled with anger.  I didn’t understand the content, but could easily ascertain the tone.  It silenced our leisurely discourse, and when Dominique spoke to him, she was answered with sharp comments.  I didn’t understand the discussion, but knew that this man was frustrated by his life.  Dominique later revealed that he was from Orleans, but had lost his job, now feeling disenfranchised from society.  He was living at the auberge, attempting to write and sell his material with things not going well.  When I tried to speak with him, he had little interest in my foreign accent or my limited language ability, demonstrating rage with me.  This intrusion terminated our group symmetry with all of us departing to our rooms for the evening.

I was awakened by Dominique’s rustling around in the room the next morning.  “What’s up, Dominique?”  “Jennie, I must return to Toulouse for the day.  Do you want to stay or come with me?  I have an appointment there with an official that may be able to help me with my job quest.”  “Oh, it’s okay.  I’ll stay here and hang out.  I ‘d like to walk around the town a bit.  It’s so beautiful”  “Ensuite, C’est bien.”  In the next ten minutes, she was off.  I decided to enter the kitchen for some breakfast prior to my town adventure for the day.  While I was chumping on my croissant and fruit dish, one of the guys from the prior evening came to my table and sat.  Of course, he spoke no English, but obviously wanted to communicate with me, so he patiently listened to my French and spoke slowly.   Patrick’s eyes were deep dark wet pools that exuded warmth and kindness.  Given his wavy thick dark brown hair and olive colored complexion, he belonged to this region of France, perhaps he had been Basque in origin,  and his rustic dress had the charming mark of the area.  I wouldn’t say that he was stout, but stocky and from mountain walking, he appeared to be fairly fit.  He patiently listened to me attempt to communicate.  After some time, he asked what I was doing for the day, and then inquired if  I would be interested in taking a walk in the hills.  He claimed to know a very beautiful spot that I would enjoy and didn’t have anything else to do with no work schedule for the day.  I hadn’t asked, but assumed that he was in some sort of trade business.

The next thing I knew, I was on the back of his lofty motor bike, traversing the winding roads, set among green gently sloping peaks.  The spring air felt invigoratingly fresh on my bare arms and legs with the sun rays creating a sense of warmth upon this otherwise chilly ride.  We soon came to a lovely spot with a beautiful emerald green lake set as a backdrop to our own area of activity.  Patrick parked his trusty machine, and we ascended the wooded slope on a firmly developed path.   Surprisingly, the terrain leveled, and we found ourselves strolling together side by side.  Somehow we were able to communicate quite well even though there was a language impediment.  I probably knew more about Patrick in the first couple of hours that we spent together than many French people did who spoke to him on a daily basis.  His background was completely different than mine with little formal education and an innocent upbringing in the mountains.  He had not been corrupted by the riggers of an industrialized, competitive society.  How I envied his nativity and natural simplicity, since he had a genuine spirit with a lovely wildness that I found contagious, awakening my own sensuality, my spirit shining ardently.   How could I express myself honestly without compromise, exposing my own emotional vulnerability?  I had spent years feeling alone with an inability to unleash my own passions, being emotionally wound as tightly as wire on a spool, yet internally burning fervidly.

We came to a clearing with a stream trickling nearby, most probably emptying into the lake down below us.   Unlike my previous trip with Dominique, we both decided to sit together near the flowing water, making a place for ourselves in the tall grasses. Patrick lazily laid down propping his head up on his arm.  I sat nearby appreciating this quiet, serene and peaceful place, enjoying it with another human being, who demonstrated similar tastes in his environment, his dark brown wavy hair glistening in the natural light, and bright happy eyes exuded kindness.  We must have spent a couple hours conversing, sharing ourselves and eating the treats and wine we had brought along.  We didn’t notice the time passing, the sun dropping into the landscape, creating a kaleidoscope of color. We finally knew that we needed to depart for the auberge. Dominique would wonder where I was, and we didn’t want to ride on the bike in the dark.

Upon arriving, Dominique was sitting in the garden, enjoying the last remnant of our precious daylight, being back herself for only a short while, but did inquire about my absence.  I filled her in on the events of my day with her seeming quite pleased that I had had an enjoyable time.  We decided to stroll over to the cafeteria to take a meal.   Henri, Patrick and Alain were already there, so we joined them.  There was lively conversation that later transferred to the garden where we all enjoyed plenty of bottles of wine.    My discourse mostly centered on Patrick, while Dominique spoke freely with whoever would interact.  We were probably a bit loud, but there weren’t many guests staying at the auberge. As time passed,  I became weary from all of the day’s activity, excusing myself from the impromptu party, returning to the room for some sleep.  Once I crawled into bed, I remembered nothing until morning.

When I awoke, I was by myself in the room.   While I was wondering what had happened to Dominique, she moseyed through the doorway with ruffled clothes and hair.  She indicated that she had drunk plenty of wine the previous night, ending up with Henri for the night.  “Do you like him, Dominique?  He seems friendly enough.”  She nonchalantly commented, “He’s okay for a little bit of fun in the bed.”  “Do you plan to see him again?” I laughingly responded.   “It depends upon my mood, I suppose.”  He clearly was her entertainment for the evening, but there were no strings attached.  I could only hope that he felt the same way that she did, although I never quite understood how individuals could engage in intimate relations without the slightest regard for one another.  It was more like dogs fornicating in the garden than a passionate act.  Oh well, I didn’t tell her what I thought, but so often, the same thing happened in the U.S. with males on the hunt for “one night” hits on females.    I suppose it was some sort of psychological conquest game, but certainly not one that required any sort of intelligent use of time, the mechanized performance seemed completely boring to me.  Where was the passion and the romanticism in such acts?

Dominique and I decided to have a walk around town, finding breakfast food along the way.  We walked about sharing thoughts, observing the beautifully rustic buildings all around us.  The stream running through the village was full of life that morning, the water flowing swiftly, but quietly over the stones along its bottom.  We stopped for a croissant and French style coffee in the local boulangerie.   It was gloriously relaxing, yet stimulating to interact with this gorgeous, yet simple little town.  We had so little that was required of us, but yet we felt so busy and occupied.   After spending the good part of our day, visiting the local market, investigating the contents of various shops and eating an assortment of items merchants were selling in their stores and in stalls, we decided to return to the auberge.  I had bought a beautiful scarf to wear around my neck with my bohemian wardrobe, Dominique finding a great bargain on hikers’ socks.  It’s part of the French psyche to find “good deals” and “sales”, making  a “bon achat”.

When we returned to the auberge, we encountered a new resident, Nicolette, who would be staying for awhile.  She was involved in the horticultural industry, attending a training seminar in this area of France.  She looked exactly like someone involved in plants, dressing rather plainly for a French lady with a tee shirt, vest and a pair of well worn jeans. Her natural light brown hair was neck length, rather unkempt with token plant matter sticking to various parts of her clothing from the day’s activities.  She drove a small motor scooter, carrying all of her travel belongings.   Nicolette had a laid back, relaxed and pleasant personality, making time spent with her enjoyable.   After we talked for some time, she decided that she liked me, confessing her thoughts with “Jennie, tu es tres gentil, et je suis heureux de rester à l’auberge pour autrefois.”  I was very flattered, being content that she enjoyed spending time with both of us,  looking forward to our afternoons conversing, drinking wine and consuming good foods.  Nicolette had such a quiet, peaceful demeanor and voice.  It was going to be a pleasure interacting with her.

At our auberge dinner, we once again exchanged conversation with our three guy friends – Patrick, Alain and Henri.  It was a lively dialogue with Patrick shifting most of his attention to me.  Nicolette was staying alone in the auberge, so happily joined us, and even Etienne behaved in a more docile, conversant mood.  After dinner, we again continued our festivities in the garden, Dominique dividing her attention between Alain and Henri, while Nicolette decided to center her focus upon Etienne, who knows why.   Anyway,  Patrick had some work to do that day, so was curious about how I entertained myself with Dominique.  He asked if I wanted to come to his room, since he had some pictures and works of art he had been wanting to share with me.  I accepted his invitation, both us strolling into his little castle.  It was remarkably personalized as though he planned to remain there for some time, he having revealed that it was the cheapest place in town, given his absence of money.  He was hoping to obtain a more steady work schedule, so he could afford his own place.

He brought out numerous pictures portraying various members of his family, nuzzling close by me, creating a more intimate association.  It seemed to be the French way to express interest in their familial background, and it was interesting to look at how he was connected to others, since my own background was rather fragmented in that regard.   He had a story to tell about each picture with me attempting to comprehend his words as best as I could given my language impediment.  One other hobby proudly displayed around his cozy room was woodworking, included in his personal art was everything from rustic wooden tables to chiseled wall hangings of local birds.  He was obviously quite talented.  Time passed with us thoroughly enjoying each other’s company with an uncanny ability to share similar ideas even though our upbringings and cultural experiences were completely different.  Finally, it had become late, both of us deciding to end the evening.  I meandered back to my room only to find Dominique fuming about Alain,  apparently, deciding that she disliked him.  I never quite understood why she felt that way.  She kept telling me that “je le deteste”.  I guess that she had her reasons.

When we departed from our room in the morning, we received another interesting surprise, three Englishmen staying next to us.  They told us they were teachers from some obscure part of the United Kingdom, on holiday, bringing along their bicycles to enjoy roadside pedaling in the Pyrenees.  Unfortunately, we noticed they were also auberge pedaling around the halls and into the recreation room with an obviously noisy flare.  They seemed very content to hang together, making silly comical jokes, amusing only themselves.  We noticed that the only interaction they had with French people was teaching the children to count, so score could be kept, while they played ping pong.  They didn’t understand French with it not seeming to concern them.  After all, they were on school holidays, being in France was only a vacation for them, a form of entertainment. Dominique told me that they were like the silly school children that they taught.  How could they teach kids, when they weren’t much more emotionally developed themselves? Perhaps, water does seek its own level.  How many tourists did I see who may have traveled around, but did little to truly interact with the culture around them?

Time seemed to drift slowly by with the same group remaining and only a few transient travelers passing through.  We spent hours chatting in the evening or taking walks, visiting interesting places during the days.  I didn’t notice that I was beginning to understand my French friends’ language more thoroughly, and I think they could comprehend what I was attempting to communicate as well.  Nicolette remained at the auberge most of the time that I was there, her visit being extended, so we could appreciate her continued passion for plants.  We conversed regularly with me welcoming her help in the discovery of my own love of the vegetated world.  She drove a cute little motorcycle to her seminar/work site everyday, having clothing and hair which was usually tussled and a wonderfully naturalistic appearance.  I loved her spirit, lacking in need for man made synthetic goods, speaking softly with a peacefulness that conveyed her general self acceptance and understanding.  She shared a free spirited philosophy like mine was and most definitely still is.  It’s better not to take on a materialistic world if one needs to be a slave to the “givers” of that lifestyle.  If accepting man made manufactured products means the demise of one’s own individuality, then perhaps it’s better not to fit into that notch, striking it alone.  We need to clear our minds of cultural clutter brought on through societal media, what’s considered mainstream by a banal and obtuse general population, allowing us to foster independent reasoning skills and  the development of our own unique thoughts.  I won’t be an audience for someone else’s empty, verbose banter.   I guess both of us were quiet revolutionaries.

Foix

The following day Patrick came to our room inquiring about my availability for a ride in the mountains that day.  Dominique thought it was a great idea, deciding that she would spend time with some French people she had met casually in the town.   It was fun to see his attire, since he looked strikingly French with the a low cut tee shirt,  maroon scarf around his neck, black vest and cap that was distinguishably French.  His wavy black locks sprang out from around the hat.  He appeared more attractive than ever to me, so how could I deny his request.    I slipped into my motorcycling clothes, grabbed a sweater and we were off.  Patrick must have known I would come, since he had already bought lunch for both of us, not failing to bring along a couple of bottles of richly red wine.  We started our journey riding through villages and gracefully verdant mountain landscapes.  Patrick had an idea of which I wasn’t aware, a plan involving a visit to Foix, a lovely small town not too far in kilometers from Saint Girons.  With the mountains between the two towns, it would take us longer than what the distance implied.  It was a thrilling fun ride, hanging on to Patrick, sitting on the back of his energetic motorbike.  Finally, we made it to the rusticly, charming town with a châteaux at the hilltop, the apex of the community.

Prior to ascending to the châteaux, Patrick insisted that we take some Pastis at a local outdoor cafe, a wonderfully anise-flavored liquor typical of Southern France.  We found just the place to sit with some shade from colorful umbrellas near a cobblestoned road with minimal numbers of vehicles passing the cafe.  Soon we were brought two glasses of the gorgeous liqueur, so we settled down in our chairs to enjoy the treat.  I decided to disrobe from my motorcycle outfit, displaying a low cut contour fitting red knit blouse and the curvature of my upper body figure.  He didn’t have any surprises with the lower half, since I had already been wearing my well worn jean shorts.  I positioned myself in such a way that there was no doubt that I wanted to seduce him, the bait being swallowed.  I was now in my mid thirties, well able to handle matters regarding my own sexuality, schooled well by precocious men that I had known along the way, giving me my present acumen.    I was sending out my own set of pheromones as a queen bee would do to her perspective drone.  Patrick on the other hand was not so worldly, leaving it up to me to lead the endeavor.  His innocence was  charming as was his youth, being several years younger than I was and of mountain provincial heritage.  He didn’t suspect that I had any plan, since with my less than fluent French skills, I didn’t seem that advanced in my own formal and informal education.  We continued with our interaction, our eyes and attention solely on each other.  Finally, we sipped the last of our drinks, and although we were feeling light headed from the alcoholic content and the soothing warmth of the sunshine, we decided to venture up to the castle, walking side by side.

The chateau presently serves as a museum, but has a long, intricate history tangled with the medieval nobility and acting as a fortress against potential invaders during the Merovingian era.  In 1000, a castle was constructed in place of the fortress with the first count of Carcassonne bequeathing it to his oldest son, Bernard Roger, the Comte de Foix, who used it as a private residence.   Patrick had seen it ever so often, but wanted to share its beauty with me, his foreign love interest.  We explored every nook and cranny inside and out until we were both saturated with information.  At times, using slow more simplified French word, Patrick had to explain to me what some of the more sophisticated writing on wall plaques was describing, but that added to the experience, giving him the ability to more intimately communicate with a slight air of superiority.  Finally  after strolling through the last brick lined internal tunnel, we decided to exist, advancing into the sunlight.

Patrick had been to the castle several times, so knew of some places to sit in the grass for basking in the sunlight and taking our lunch.  We readily found a private little patch for a couple of hours with our attention completely focused on one another, needing complete concentration to process the labored French that we used to communicate.  Although, Patrick admitted that my speaking and comprehension ability had improved significantly from the time we had first met.  His deep, warm black eyes were completely fixed on me, and I was absorbed in him and what he had to say also.  At that moment, he was interested in what food we would share, making the encounter an intimate experience for both of us, not wanting it to end too hastily.  He began speaking about his background, from where he came and not surprising to me his Basque inheritance.  I asked him if he spoke any of the language with him replying, “some”.  The language is not related to any of the Indo-European groups, believed to predate the spread of others throughout the continent.  Patrick felt that the Basque people should have their own separate country, but realized that he might never see that happen while he lived.  His parents and siblings lived somewhere in this region, but he wanted to strike out on his own, attempting to develop independence financially, socially and emotionally, letting the auberge be a starting point.  I didn’t tell him much about my background, not wanting him to know my level of education, my professional life or the multitude of travel experiences.  I had often had bad reception if the male gender thought I was too hoity toity for their tastes, so I continued to let him think that I was a simplistic foreigner, helpless in a strange land called France. Although I had never been a stage actor, I had become a life actor, modifying my own self expression to accommodate the psychological agendas of those with whom I associated, but at least in this case, the individual’s behavior, Patrick’s demeanor was kind and with reverence.

After we finished our meal, we had a good rest, then decided to meander around the town for awhile prior to departing for St. Girons.  We strolled down some of the quaint, cobblestoned roads with colorful stucco-sided and red tile roofed buildings, lining their narrow borders.  The sun peaked through in various crevices warming our bodies and spirits, Patrick affectionately putting his arm around me, snuggling close by as though we were united in some spiritual way, even though our cultures and languages were remote from one another.   My physical characteristics were completely dissimilar to his with my blonde hair, light skin and  green eyes markedly contrasting against his shining black wavy locks, olive complexion and deep dark rich eyes.   We shared a wonderful interlude of time browsing around the town, but then decided to straddle the motorbike with final destination to Saint Girons.   I hadn’t thought about my school responsibility in Paris, nor my future in any sense during this interval with Patrick.  Time and commitment had no meaning to me for I was in some sort of insulated bubble seeming to stand still with no past, nor future, only a static world.   In fact, time had become my immortal enemy, robbing me of happiness, robbing me of my youth, robbing me of my past well defined identity.    I wanted to remain in this place, fearing any alteration, knowing that I would only descend from the vertex of this idealized ecstasy.  For the first time, I realized that I had no home, no place to be, no spot on the land where I wanted to hang my hat, yet for a short time, I had found Midi Pyrenees with my tantalizing Basque companion.

We found ourselves traveling on the bucolic rural road enveloped with a canopy of deciduous trees, absorbing the fresh air from the mountain environment.  It seemed as though we had not driven so far, when Patrick pulled off the side giving me a surprise, since I didn’t expect the stop.  He told me to follow him to a wonderful place, so we could continue basking away near a gurgling creek among the thick vegetation.  We reclined on his well-worn blanket for some time listening to the environmental sounds around us, the stream trickling by as it ran to its unknown destination, the leaves and branches crackling as the light wind passed through them, the various melodious birds serenading us, perched high above in the canopy and other noises of wildlife scurrying about with their routine lives.  We conversed very little in this theater of the wild, but listened and observed what we could.  Finally, Patrick embraced and kissed me, and I returned the affection for his sincere rugged charm was beyond anything I had experienced in my life.  We spent some time appreciating each other in this way, and then he asked me if I would spend the night with him at the auberge.   I could see no reason not to comply, so I affirmed his desire.  After all, how often do two people meet, connect and share intimacy in our isolating, mechanizing and depersonalized hectic complex world.  We were two individuals less lonely for our acquaintance.

The day was passing in front of us, sinking into early evening when we decided to mount his motorbike and head back to Saint Girons.  It had been an exhilarating day,  beyond what I could have anticipated.   I held on tightly to Patrick as we whizzed through the cool evening air, now blanketing clear skies, earlier providing us with warmth and an enchanting sun drenched day.  Upon arrival, I immediately went to the abandoned room and cleaned up a bit, prior to taking dinner in the auberge hall.  There was no hint of Dominique, but I was sure to find her chatting away at dinner with the normal gang of French people, seeming to permanently hang around the auberge as the center of their social lives.  I ventured into the restaurant, finding what I expected with Patrick already there in social form, giving me a welcoming smile, and I immediately fit into the group conversation.  We ate, drank wine, and socialized for hours, which included our comfortable retreat to the garden.  Finally, I told Dominique I would spend the night with Patrick, noticing a twinkle in her eye and an impish smile.  She was all for romance, even having an exterior tough shell; She was a true lover at heart.

Patrick and I entered his room chatting with comfort and delight about everything that we somehow had in common.  It was now late evening with the lights of his room projecting a cozy warm glow, providing a backdrop for our dancing silhouetted shadows against his large, pained window, reflecting our sanguine forms. “Patrick,” I expressed with copious emotion, “I have felt so lonely.  I didn’t understand that, until I had spent time with you and don’t want this to end.  It’s a shelter for me, a shelter against the cold rain and winds, a shelter against the bitterness I feel when approached by someone who doesn’t care about my well being, only wanting something,  and since I have no money, they suck my spirit and sexuality, providing nothing in return.”  He earnestly gazed at me and replied, “Jennie, je ne comprends pas Anglais.  S’il te plait, dites-moi en Francais.”  I answered, “J’essayerai, mais il est compliqué, Patrick.”  “Tu parles français bien mieux maintenant.  Tu peux converser avec moi.”  I smiled with confidence at his approval of my improving skills and proceeded to tell him how I felt.  He caressingly embraced me, confiding in me that he knew my feelings of loneliness, his being the same.  After these emotional admissions, Patrick turned down the lights, I lifted my loosely hanging light hair, asking him to unzip the back of my blouse, which he did with delight, kissing my neck as he descended.   We piled into his bed, embracing one another in ecstasy, physically melting into union and of course, some idle chatter.  I confessed to Patrick that I couldn’t stay in the Pyrenees forever, having to push forward to Paris, eventually returning to the United States.  He acknowledged my honest thoughts, stating that we should enjoy our days now without discussing my departure.

Many more days and evenings were spent in the company of Patrick, but time began to run short, creating an emotional conflict for me.  I discussed how I felt about Patrick with Dominique and my need to finish my MBA degree in Paris, having studied for several semesters prior to now, this period being the last of the hurdles.  “Jennie, how will Patrick feel about you when you speak French like us?  You’re already improving.  He thinks you’re like him, a simple mountain boy, who lives to put food on the table, wanting to buy a small abode someplace locally and then raise a family without much thought or exploration of the big world outside of the Pyrenees. Your French is very basic now, so he thinks you are of his same background.  He isn’t sophisticated enough to understand the nuance of language development and with its limitation, thoughts are trapped internally.  What happens when the limitation disappears, and all of those rich experiences burst forth like an erupting volcano?  I even have to tone down my own accomplishments with them, but you, you have traveled around the world. You have mastered numerous educational plateaus.  What will happen to your budding romance as he observes who you truly are?”  I listened to Dominique earnestly.  “He’s been fun for you, a reprisal from our cold, impersonal world, but there’s another life for you.  Don’t stay here, only to see what’s now beautiful, begin to sour.  I’ll leave here soon also, so let me put you on the train for Paris when I go.”  I knew her opinion was the best choice, a choice that a caring friend would express.  “If you still pine for Patrick after completing your degree this summer, return to Midi Pyrenees and embrace him for all that he is.”

I spent several more days with Patrick, Dominique and the others, and then Dominique finally asserted that it was time for us to leave.  On the day that I was to take the train, I ardently embraced Patrick and he returned the affection, with me declaring that I would think of him each day while studying that summer.  I gave him my details, where I would be staying in Paris with him gladly accepting them.  Then, Dominique and I loaded her car with both of our belongings, she expressing her farewells to everyone we knew, and then we were off to Gare de Lestelle, where I would catch the train.  Upon arrival, we conversed for a while until my train came.  Then, prior to my departure, she helped me load my bags, and when the time came for me to board, she gave me a hearty hug and afterward we parted.  She energetically waved from the platform as my train leaped forward, heading toward Paris, until I could no longer see her.  It was emotionally painful to leave such security, such comfort behind me, but I knew, as Dominique had said, it was the only choice to take, although I felt so raw, so distraught, not knowing what lay before me with the summer studies.

Paris

Once I arrived in Paris, I settled in to my quarters, consisting of a pleasant room, overlooking a beautiful garden, containing thick vegetation and tall trees.  I often received love letters from Patrick that summer, helping me to cope with the intense study time and the unpleasant, competitive students with whom I was forced to congregate, due to our mutual academic goals.  Patrick never came to Paris to visit, a city that would have overwhelmed him, and although I thought I would return to Midi Pyrenees after the completion of my education that summer, I never did.  I realized that Dominique had a valid point and didn’t think it was constructive to continue a relationship that would die without too much age, so I returned to the USA, taking my place in an industrialized society, hoping to find a small bit of what I had had in Midi Pyrenees.

Jennifer Horton Chadwick

Jen’s Beaded Jewelry

Under the Sea

I’m switching tracks now and have decided to display another art form that I love – beaded jewelry.  There are numerous stores in my town that teach workshops, or it’s easy enough to find patterns to use as a basis.  I don’t usually create jewelry from scratch as I do with writing, but take off on someone else’s original design.  In this article, I’ve included some of my favorite pieces.  I hope you enjoy them also.

The first sample is a necklace that I created through a class taken at Sew Beadazzled in Willow Glen, California taught by Phyllis Martin-Rennie.  It’s a type of spiral peyote stitch that has the same repeating pattern from start to finish.  Phyllis calls it “Under the Sea”.  What do you think?  Does it look like a mariner’s necklace?

Four Bracelets

My next example is of four bracelets that I made within the last year.  Three of them have components of peyote stitch.  The stitching on the far right bracelet is another variation of spiral peyote, while the far left bracelet makes use of large beads with twenty-one peyote stitched disks.  Both of these bracelets took hours to complete, but it’s a relaxing pass time.  The multiple-colored bracelet with the large attached beads is known as free-form peyote stitch.  As long as you use that particular stitch,  the sky is the limit.  You can make anything that you want as I have.  Lastly, there is a green bracelet containing Swarovski crystals strung using illusion cord that I created from a pattern out of the current “Beadwork” magazine.

Earrings, Brooch and Rings

The brooch,  earrings and ring photo mostly make use of cabochons. The majority of these stones I found in various stores, but the blue one in the ring was a piece of stained glass that I melted down in my kiln and let harden.  The stitching is a conglomeration of many forms and is sewn on to Lacy’s backing fabric.  If I had it to repeat, I would have used a soft leather as backing instead.  I used the ladder stitch to make the band for the cabochon ring.

The Blue Rivoli Bracelet

The blue Rivoli Swarovski crystal bracelet was the most labor involved.  It’s a combination of plain, flat peyote stitch for the band and the same stitch, but sewn around the outside of the Rivoli stone.  I had also used drop beads on top of the band to give it more accent.   I started it through a short seminar that I had taken with a young lady named Michelle Mai.  She is an excellent beader and is now going off to college to study chemistry – a rather strange combination of interests!

The Blue Pearl and Seed Bead Netted Necklace

The blue pearl and seed bead necklace was started in another seminar conducted by Michelle Mai.  It was also a labor intensive project that took me a couple of weeks to complete.  I made use of 8 mm pearls as focal beads and the rest of the necklace was completed with size 11 seed and hex beads using the netting stitch.   I have enjoyed the necklace all summer wearing it when ever I have a chance with our wonderful mild sunny California weather.

Free Form Peyote Stitched Necklace

The free form peyote necklace is another project I created using a technique that I often employ.  I enjoy the stitch and ability to do what ever I want with the design.  It’s one of the more creative methods used in beading, and in this case, I was able to include various sized beads from small size 11’s to vary large ornamental ones sewn on the top of the necklace.  In the middle is a cabochon around which I peyote stitched.  I got started with this project through my favorite shop, Sew Beadazzled.  I’m sure I could follow patterns easily enough from books, but it’s so much fun to get together and share with other beaders!

Cloisonné and Painted Enamel Necklaces

For my last hurrah, I’ve included two samples that are obviously not beading, but are unique in their methodology – one is, a very  ancient enameling form and the other is painting on enamel.  I had taken a once a week, eight week workshop from Sandy Bradshaw of the Palo Alto Art Center.   Cloisonné involves the use of small silver flat metal borders to contain melted enamel.  The metal is positioned on the project to make various designs of items or abstractions, and the hardened enamel is dropped in each pocket.  This enamel is melted in the kiln within the metal borders, and then this same technique must be repeated several time over again until the layers fill to the top of the silver.  Painting on enamel is a bit simpler.  You only have to design your small picture and then go to work.  I chose to make two birds on the branch.  I had some difficulty with one of the birds, but still like the project and wear it once in awhile.

I hope you enjoy looking at my projects!

Jennifer Horton Chadwick

The Animals’ Ark

The animals needed to save themselves,
So they set out to build a grand boat.
While working night and day,
They had high hopes it would stay afloat.

You see, the humans were destroying the earth,
So the wise animals knew how to row.
Powerful rains were on their way.
The animals chose not to lay low.

The humans blindly toiled all day.
Their world had met no changes,
Continuing to suck the resources
From an indefinite number of ranges.

Power and greed they owned.
No true God was on the way.
Discover the humans would
That the earth would make them pay.

They laughed at the active animals.
Why do these strange fools work so?
As always, they should live for us.
Climate changes would finalize this show.

The boat was finally ready.
The long voyage would be quite rough.
They braced for signs of
Human civilization’s demise, so tough.

Animal workers took inventory.
Each species with their mate took ship.
What to bring and food they knew.
These animals shot from their hip.

Then the day did come.
No warning had been there.
Strong rains completely hit.
One could see it every where.

The humans did not know their world.
In biology, they remained quite blind.
Within apiaries, these bees did buzz
And kept working with nothing in mind.

Torrential floods swept them away.
The animals could hear their loud yelling.
Their buildings smashed to the ground.
The animals would know history all telling.

Once the roars of the human world
Had been silenced by these seas.
There wouldn’t be anything left
Of these past self important bees.

No mental games would be played,
With no queens, no kings, no bosses.
No malls were left, no cars to drive.
The animals couldn’t count the losses.

Earth grasped their absence.
Now they couldn’t multiply like rats
Depriving other animals of their places.
All alive could take off their hats.

Perhaps the earth recovered grandeur.
Fungi, animals and plants could share,
Since humans had taught them well
About such things as habitat despair.

The animals rested with hope
That oceans again would subside.
Patience had been harnessed
Through the hard, entire rough ride.

The day finally did arrive
When they unhinged their thick sturdy door
And swarmed from their mecca of safety.
They couldn’t ask for anything more.

The earth now did look barren.
Oceans had purged it so clean.
The animals had made their plans,
Fertile seeds would make them less lean.

They would start with the planet again
And toil it so to heal.
A beautiful home they would have
And sign it with a seal!

Soon the land flourished again
And the animals loved their new lives.
All was in harmony and balance
It was joyous to see a world that thrives.

Did they remember the humans?
Maybe, their ancestors had said.
But frankly, who could care
That species had long been dead.

The world again could breathe
With no invasion by the species of one,
Who didn’t feel a care
For the life or the land under the sun.

By Jennifer Horton Chadwick

Encounter in Merida – A Story from the Past

Uxmal

Warm tropical fragrances of marketed fruits and grilled meats floated upon the thick air at the quaint bus station in the heart of the Yucatan Peninsula.  Small dark people scurried around busying themselves with what was typical for a weekday in this warm, humid, highly vegetated land.  Bugs larger than Rhinoceros beetles buzzed around with no trepidation about their place in space.  Their hard dark shells made it seem as though they would find flying cumbersome.  The station was soaked in a homey, cozy feel, not atypical of Spanish or Latin American edifices.  It was rather small with a red tile roof and off-white stucco siding.  The cement floor was well worn, but kept clean, so I felt comfortable standing there, engrossed in my novel, waiting to take a bus to one of the multitude of Mayan ruin archaeological groups in the area.  Today, I would venture to Uxmal.  It was exciting to travel on one’s own, living for the day’s experiences and sensing the freedom to wander where ever the wind blew, even if loneliness crept to my side.

Casual, colorful clothes draped over my body.  I wore a turquoise, snug thin- strapped top and a long Mexican style colorful flared skirt.  Although bright and alive, the clothes were also functionally cool in such a warm climate.  My long hair draped down over my shoulders not showing the perspiration from the heat of the day.  Although I was of light complexion and hair, I melted into the scenery anonymously.  That’s what I preferred with my background of watching obnoxious foreigners behaving as though they were on a stage for the native peoples.  While I visited, I hoped to pass time as one of the general population.

After some time, a stranger came to me while I was not looking.  He interrupted my reading to ask his earnest question.  “Senora, A donde va este autobus?”  I responded attentively, “A las ruinas, Uxmal.” “Y bien, quisiera ir alli y a que hora sale el autobus?” Once again, I answered, “En quince minutos.”  As he spoke Spanish, I knew he wasn’t Latino, since his pronunciation  of Spanish words was a strange accent to my ear.  He was not a native English speaker either.  I asked, “De donde esta usted, Senor?”  “Yo soy de Francia,” he said with a grin, and I politely remarked with a giggle, “Disculpame, pero no hablo francés.”  He retorted in English with a pleasant French accent, “but Mademoiselle, you don’t have to, since I speak perfectly good English.”  I smiled sincerely.  Here was a stranger in the bus station with a certain charm that I instantly adored.  He was a refined but rugged looking gentleman.  He must have loved to be in the outdoors, although he had an educated presence.  He was of medium stature with broad shoulders, very light skin, but darkish well maintained medium length thick hair and radiant blue eyes.  “And where are you from, Mademoiselle, with your perfectly, beautiful English?” I coquettishly answered, “From California.”  He had hooked me, and I knew what the next question would be.  “Are you alone?  How will you appreciate Uxmal with no company?”  I quickly exclaimed with a smile, “I was waiting for you, Senor, and are you alone?”  “Yes, I am very alone.  Thank you for your invitation.”

Soon the rickety bus came.  We entered, took two uncomfortable seats together and for a brief few minutes said nothing.  I didn’t know this stranger’s name, nor he mine.  I guess he was thinking the same thing, since he blurted out, “I’m called Paul from Haute Normandy in France.”  That discovery put him from Northern France, the land of Mont Saint Michel, the beautiful water bound castle.  “Who are you, Mademoiselle?”  I dreamily exclaimed, “Jennifer.”  “Is that a typical English name?”  No, I don’t think so.  We comfortably settled into a light, interactive conversation.

Scenes from Merida

Paul had been traveling as I had been around Mexico, discovering what he could on his own.  He had been in a Spanish language school,  like me for several weeks during the summer.  This was the last of his vacation and so was it mine.  He was trained as a mechanical engineer in France, but had spent the last year playing, working in Club Med.  He was able to practice speaking English, Spanish or whatever language passed his way.  I also wondered how many women he had charmed during his playful year, but I didn’t pry.  His past wasn’t my concern, since he was providing me joy and pleasure at this moment in time.

The decrepit bus finally made it to Uxmal.  I had bought a small book about the ruins.  Together we explored the site and shared the book outlining the history and probable uses for what was left of the decaying stone buildings.  It was a gloriously clear day, we peacefully basked ourselves in the warmth of the bright sunlight, appreciating the hours we could spend absorbing knowledge about a civilization that existed years away from our own time and place.  There wasn’t anyone else in the world that I would rather share this moment with than Paul.  It was as though a kindred spirit had washed up on the crest of a strong wave.  He came from no where, but yet our souls fit together in a grand jigsaw puzzle, putting me in a luminescent dream from which I didn’t want to awaken.

Paul’s demeanor seemed to be everything I appreciated in another human being.  Through our dialogue, I discovered that he was intelligent and wise, yet his body language was that of a gentle, humble individual.  By listening to fragments of his conversation, I could ascertain that he had plenty of adventures and was well traveled, but didn’t boast much about himself.  In fact, during our bus trip, he preferred to center his conversation on my interests and virtues.  For the time, I had become the focus of his interest.  What a strange way to discover such an interesting spirit.

The day was over, marked by the red ball of light falling into the landscape.  We arrived back in Merida when dusk had enveloped the city.  I couldn’t get enough of him, but my pride wouldn’t let me push beyond my façade.  I restrained myself, watching carefully what I expressed.  In contrast to me, he boldly asked me to dinner, but sheepishly confided in me about his poor finances.  He owned no credit card and couldn’t foot the bill.  I gladly offered to pay, since in Mexico, meals were cheap and for me, the company was so much more.

We found ourselves in a cozy little restaurant with candle lit tables in open air.  We consumed food and wine, conversing head to head with no external distractions.  How could I talk so much to a complete stranger, having him connect with mostly everything I said?  After all, he was culturally as far removed from me as the average Mexican was.  The waiters could see what was budding, smiling warmly as they served us.  Finally, we finished, paid our bill and were off.  We strolled around charming Merida with its lovely, colorful colonial buildings and tree lined streets.  For as hot as it was during the day, it was comfortably cool in the evenings.  We heard some raucous, loud Latin music in the distance.  I had drunk plenty of wine and with a light, airy feeling asked Paul if he wanted to dance.  “Oh!  I’m not so good at that, but if you want, why not?”  We gravitated to the open air dance hall, proceeding to magically glide around the floor with close embrace, sagaciously observing one another while occupying space not too far from where the salsa band played.  I guess it wasn’t great dancing, but who cares since without a doubt our movements exuded sensuality.  We didn’t  notice if anyone else was present and why would we given the potent magnetic electricity hanging all around us.

The hours were ticking by and both of us were tired.  I asked him where he was staying and wasn’t surprised when he said no where.  He had just arrived in Merida in the early hours prior to meeting me.  Although I didn’t ask, I knew he desperately needed to conserve money.  Without any hesitation, I bravely spouted, “You can stay with me.”  He awkwardly accepted.  However, I told him that I would wrap myself in a sheet from one end to another.  He warmly teased, “Is that your chastity belt?”  Of course, I just smiled.

Effortlessly, I had nestled into a medium priced, colonial style hotel with a large courtyard tropical garden.  Lush vegetation of hibiscus, geraniums and medium sized fruit and tropical trees occupied the lovely forested center.  I could open the cast iron glass windows on to this oasis with nothing between my room and the greenery.  In the morning, I was serenaded by a chorus of unknown local birds.  The room was coated in stucco covered off-white paint, with projections of local art decorating the spaces.   One stepped upon a lovely red tiled Mexican floor.  In the evenings, it was better to use the rustic lanterns, rather than electricity, since its light was no more luminescent and much harsher to the eye.  The room contained a large pine, walnut stained Mexican style bed with contrasting sparkling white sheets.  There was an assortment of other furnishings including a splendid wardrobe, but all in Mexican walnut style.  It was a charming comfortable place to stay on one’s own for a brief interlude of time.

We entered the room together.  Paul snuggled down in one of the stuffed Mexican chairs, with us dialogging for some time.  I was very comfortable, even though I had only known him for less than twenty four hours.  Finally, he said, “Where’s your sheet?  I only see the one on the bed.”  “I guess there isn’t any other then.  I don’t feel in a distrustful mood.” We finally poured into the same bed, not sleeping for quite a while.  How odd to be spiritually, intellectually and emotionally attracted to a Frenchmen from the bus station, being a union of souls for that small point in time.

How heavenly it felt to wake up in the morning listening to beautiful avian voices and seeing Paul, the Frenchmen.  These types of encounters would annihilate the massage and relaxation business.  “Jennifer, do you want to spend the day with me again?” Paul expressed quietly and humbly.  I just smiled and nodded my head.

Time  roared by in Merida and finally, Paul needed to leave.  He had a prearranged bus ticket to the border of Mexico, entering Texas.  There he would meet a friend who would house him several days, and then he would return to France.  I was beginning to tighten up, but still wanted to appreciate our little bit of fleeting time. We shuffled to the bus station with his one bag in hand.  These were our last hours together, and I had no idea whether I would ever encounter him again.  I am sure he must have wondered the same.  We had exchanged details, but with countries between us in a time with primitive communications who knows where fate would take us.

The bus station was waiting there.  We entered, and Paul’s transportation had arrived.  We talked, embraced and talked some more, with him finally entering the bus.  We dialogued from the window, but it was time for the journey north.  I held back the tears, because I knew this was a part of our meeting.  It was a cruel destiny, but I was ever so glad to have met him, sharing my life.

Emotional electricity marked our separation.  “Tu seres toujours une partie de moi, Paul”  “Tu apprends le français rapidement,” he smiling retorted.  “Tu es touché mon coeur,” I responded.  With a serious smile he reaffirmed my thoughts with his words, “Mais, Je sens la même chose, Jennifer.”  I watched his face slowly disappear into the distance in the first class Mexican bus.  I can only imagine what he had felt, having to venture north to Texas without knowing much about where he was traveling, only having a small amount of funds to get where he needed to be.  He had arrived on a wave crest, but as all seas retreat, so did he.

The once comfortable bus station lost its fragrance and vitality.  I had been on my own all summer, yet never felt more alone then I did now with my dream fading.  Perhaps Paul had mostly needed me for financial security during an uncertain time in his vacation.  Whatever his motivation he had brought a gift of joy to me.  I would be always thankful for that with our meeting changing my life in some small way.  It was time to awaken, returning to a world I didn’t or could never understand.  I would return to the North with power grabbers, status seekers and name droppers, not being a future that enchanted me.

Jennifer Horton Chadwick

Harley Goat Farm Tour

On Sunday, August 22nd, we decided to take a two hour tour of Harley Goat Farm in Pescadero, California, a little historical town within a few miles of the sea.   It was a beautiful, warm, sunny day making the environment all the more enjoyable.

Our tour guide, Janet,  presented a very interesting lecture about goat husbandry, reproduction, milking and lastly the process of cheese making.  I almost felt like I learned enough to buy my own goats and take on caring for them.

After we finished the tour, we were invited to sample goat cheese in their shop to which I helped myself.  The farm sells four different types of cheese.  There are standard goat chevres with an assortment of added ingredients such as apricot/pistachio, tomato/basil or cranberry/walnut combinations.  You can purchase various shapes including logs, rounds or buttons.  By allowing more whey to remain in the product, they also make a creamier type of cheese called Fromage Blanc.  To this variety, other ingredients can be added including a garlic, parsley and chive combination.    Lastly, they produce feta and ricotta cheese without additives.  All of these cheeses are delicious, and I intend to keep buying them.

In addition to cheeses, they have produced several other products.  Since they have a healthy crop of laying hens, one can buy fresh farm eggs in the shop.  The chickens are used to fertilize the fields, thereby allowing a robust assortment of grasses to grow for the goats to munch.  There were also other products such as goat milk soap and hand creams for purchase.

When we first arrived at the farm, we were able to wait in an area with a brightly colored flower garden next to us.  As it turns out, some of these flowers were edible and used in the numerous cheeses.  Once Janet arrived, we strolled into the meadow where the goats were and heard a goat care lecture.  Although we thought that we were in an arbitrary field with nondescript weedy grasses, it was quite the contrary.  The area was seeded with a multitude of grasses that are appetizing to the goat population.  The goats are moved from one section to another, so that they don’t eat the entire plant.  Instead, they only consume the tips and when removed from the area, the plants are allowed to rejuvenate.   The goats are very friendly, loving the attention they receive from us, rubbing themselves all over our bodies. Their horns had been burned back, because the owner doesn’t want them to injure one another.   It must hurt the goat, but the alternative injuries that can occur would probably be a worse situation.  There were also two llamas in the field that have become the watch animals attacking and killing any predator that thinks that a young female goat would make a tasty meal.

Next, we observed the grain containers.   When the goats become pregnant, their stomachs shrink, because of the developing kid.  The farm feeds them a diversity of grains, since this diet is richer in nutrition and takes less room in their stomachs than the meadow aqueous grasses.   In this way, the animal stays healthy and the milk they produce also remains rich.

We lastly entered the room where all of the cheeses are made.  We were able to see the whey dripping from the bags of milk and the curd being pasteurized within the milk mixture.  The whey is recycled into the goat’s diet, since it is very rich in protein and other nutrition that the goats need.  After viewing this process, we proceeded to a quaint upstairs dining area where we were able to sample cheeses with our tour ending.  We quickly hurried down to the farm shop to sample and buy an assortment of cheeses.

After we purchased our cheeses, we left the shop, drove a very short distance to the deli section of the country grocery store in town and had two tasty sandwiches made.  While we were waiting for them, we noticed  the store carried the delicious Harley Farms products and decided we were in the right place if their sales choice was these scrumptious cheeses.   We ended our day with a picnic on the beach, watching the sun slowly descending toward the horizon and rejoicing over our new goat farm education and yummy cheese experience.

If you’re interested, you can set up a tour via the farm’s website and have an experience as pleasant as what we encountered.

http://www.harleyfarms.com/

Jennifer Horton Chadwick

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An Angry Bull Elephant in South Africa

We arrived in Kimberly to participate in my brother-in-law’s wedding.  I haven’t been one to attend these events much in my life, since I don’t  care about formality.  I usually shun church events, not trusting mercenary man made institutions to glorify their gods.  Yet, here I was at a ceremony. Without expounding about the stressful and uncomfortable wedding events, all I can say is it ended. Simon and I would be departing to explore various sections of South Africa.  The marriage would remain in my husband’s family, but we lived worlds away in a society that knew nothing of this part of Africa.  My home society, the USA would comprehend little about this place.  If they could consider the experience at all, they would only explore it through their own culture and  lives with some degree of provincialism.

We would eventually be traveling to Hluhluwe-Umfolozi Park for wildlife viewing and to rest in the lovely Hilltop Safari Lodge but first wanted to visit other significant places along the way.  We had rented an economical and practical little red Volkswagen, which would take us to our destination without luxury, but with certainty.  There was only one catch – it was a standard shift, and Simon didn’t know how to use it.  I certainly didn’t want to do all of the driving.  Correctly assuming that he could practice proper shifting, we went to Vaalbos National Park northwest of Kimberly, a remote place and  human unpopulated.    It was an amusing experience with the little red car bucking down the orange colored dirt road, three giraffes curiously watching in the background.  They must have wondered about how silly humans can be.  Finally,  Simon grinned at his new found freedom to capably drive this not so powerful machine.

Kimberly and my brother-in-law’s wedding were now melting behind us, and we were engrossing ourselves in another adventure meandering around South Africa.  It was grand excitement to truck down the road in our little car, visiting so many interesting parts of that country, but finally we arrived to our destination reserve.  Our traveling was almost complete with only a few miles more to drive.

We arrived at the park in time to witness  the falling sun, painting a plethora of varying red shades, with the sky silhouetting the dry scrubby landscape.  It wasn’t a barren place, but instead contained thick forests of low level trees and shrubs.  We could observe distant landscapes with the pleasure of beautifully green, thick vegetation surrounding us.  The climate felt on the dry side, yet some rain had to cover the landscape to encourage the hearty plant life.

Our little red car appeared conspicuous against the background of the scrubby green and brown world, the vehicle not being a natural color for this landscape.  This was strictly African with us effortlessly and silently absorbing the environmental culture and sensation. Given that both of us had been on most continents, we knew that some places were not so distinctive, yet others had intense identities, this being a part of Africa with a very specific character.  There was a mystical, bucolic quality that one would never feel in an industrialized nation or in the multitude of cities around the globe.

There are those who ungratefully believe the earth will always provide, but  I worship it attempting to take little.  It allows me to exist, to consume food, to attain prosperity.  For as much as it grants me, it could snatch that away in a flash.  The power of the planet is mesmerizing.  In one swipe, it could, destroy everything that I have achieved and acquired.  I am at the earth’s mercy and for that reason,  I adore, respect and appreciate it.  It is the only god that I recognize and desire to treat it gently, not preferring  to be one of those ignorant, selfish individuals, exhausting the planet’s resources, worshiping some abstract God, probably providing them nothing.   Here I was in the essence of naturalism in Natal Province, South Africa.

Simon started to become apprehensive with having some distance to cover, prior to arriving at our lodge.  We didn’t wish to drive in the Park at night, due to the presence of a large number of game animals.  If we encountered one, we would rather it be while we could still see.  Simon drove a little faster than he probably should have with an arrival of a few minutes earlier only helping with the diminishing light.  We pushed down the well maintained dirt road for some time, red dust spraying up around us, enjoying the wild surroundings, accompanied only by the car engine hum.

As we drove, we observed a small,  sun-backed silhouette in the middle of the road.  At first, we didn’t ponder much being relaxed and drained after a long over stimulating day.  The closer we traveled to this dark image, the larger it became, seeming to swallow the entire portion of the road where it had settled.  Our eyes eventually adjusted to what we were viewing  – an elephant chomping food on the roadside.  Its massive body grabbed the road, while it chewed on grass and tree matter.  There it stood in its colossal splendor, there we crouched in our quandary as to how we would pass.  We transversed the road as we dared without endangering our own lives.  If we threatened this beast, its behavior was at best unpredictable.  It didn’t budge, but kept on masticating its meal, seemingly having no awareness of the small living beings in the red car on its path.  It remained serene as it probably mostly was in its world.  Simon exclaimed, “Oh damn, what next.  We must have the time!”  “Well, he doesn’t seem to want to move too soon,” I remarked.  “Let’s sit here awhile and see what happens,” Simon continued.  Five minutes seemed like an hour with the animal not trotting away from us.

Female elephants live in large groups with a matriarch that dominants all ages in their family from infancy to full grown adults.  Because the lead mother’s female offspring stay with her in the herd, it must be a comfort to have members of the family around her.  Males or bulls remain by themselves, being expelled from the family to shift around and forge for food on their own, making them become temperamental and independent. Anthropomorphizing their lives, the males are lonely beasts.  Although the individual animal is isolated, genetically it’s optimal.  The young males need to find a new group of females for gene contribution, spreading the inheritance wealth.

Given we were viewing a lone elephant, we assumed it was a male and probably rather temperamental, not reassuring.   Since it had been a warm, dry day and without air conditioning in the car, the windows were open.   However, it was a concern, since we knew instinctively that we should conceal ourselves as much as possible from the animal, not preferring to be smelled.  How to avoid observation in an opened red car is a bit of a trick. Finally, it began to meander away from the road into the bush, never lifting its face while ambling off of our path.  When we could not view the animal any more, we powered up the car,  progressing forward.  The elephant had moseyed back in the bush, continuing his relentless feeding venture.  We were able to maneuver close to the small bridge near where it had stood.  From somewhere in the bush, I detected trumpeting, knowing it was from my side!  Simon had very little experience with a manual transmission,  dutifully stalling the car.  The elephant spotted us, resenting our intrusion into its tranquil world.  He made a slow stride in our direction, causing my insides to pound with adrenaline.  I yelled, “Simon, get the hell out of here! In gear and on now!”  That’s the last that was shrieked prior to the impact with the elephant striking on my side, thankfully at the back end.  We encountered a loud thud, but we remained upright.  The animal had not released all of its power, only hitting enough to convince us to expel ourselves from its territory.  It backed off with us surmising it would probably deal another blow.  With petrifying fear, Simon mechanically forced the car in gear, slamming on the gas pedal.  We took off like a shot, realizing that the car had been crippled.  The elephant again trumpeted, but didn’t choose to squander its valuable energy to chase us.  We were dazed in a cloud, not knowing if we were still alive.

The red ball in the vanishing blue sky was pulling itself closer toward the earth.  We pushed on for the lodge, avoiding any more incidences.  We remained silent, and I could only contemplate how precious our lives were.  The elephant was only behaving as any living creature would on this earth, protecting its home, its resources and piece of earth,  its behavior a reflection of those who live on the planet.  It struck quickly without warning or premeditated vengeance.

We arrived at Hilltop Lodge, registered and surveyed the damage bestowed upon the red car with the back end being smashed.  What would the rental car agency say?  We would approach the car situation some time in the next few days.  We felt exhausted.  I guess escapes from stressful weddings don’t always turn out better.

As we approached our cottage, there laid a majestic zebra with her tiny foal in front of it.  How gentle they appeared.  We saucily sauntered around her.  She had spent significant time at the lodge, so felt comfortable with humans,  probably finding it easier to tolerate us than take her chances in the wild, where lions or leopards could devour her.

The next day we met a Zulu ranger in the lot who viewed the elephant encounter car results.  He glanced at us, politely asking with his tribal-South African accent what had occurred.  When we relayed the catastrophic story, he remarked, “Elephants don’t like red cars.”  We proceeded to join him for one of my favorite ventures – rhino walking.  We would shelf the car problem for a couple of days.

Happy Adventures,

Jennifer Horton Chadwick