My Colbert Questionnaire

Sure, I'll bite—because it's fun. And even though I didn't watch The Late Show (except randomly on FB shares), I will miss Stephen Colbert. I also fully anticipate that he has something up his sleeve that will delight us . . .  I would say all, but we know that a good 30 percent of this country does not begin to understand or even want to care about Colbert or his humor or those to whom his humor appeals. So anyway, here we go:

1. What is the best sandwich?

"Best" is difficult to define, but I do know that if I go to a restaurant and it's lunchtime and tuna melt is on the menu, that's what I order.

2. What was the first concert you attended?

Jethro Tull, with Steeleye Span as opener, 1973. SS's Gaudete knocked me for a loop. It was Tull's "Passion Play" tour. 

3. What is the scariest animal?

I was not exactly attacked by a mama javelina in Arizona once, but man, yeah, she was scary.

4. Apples or oranges?

Apples. Crunch.

5. Have you ever asked someone for their autograph?

Jean-Claude Killy, the skier, at a restaurant in Beverly Hills. It would've been about 1969. I have seen a few other famous people (Ronald Reagan, Laurence Fishburne, Sean Penn, the Dalai Lama) at various venues, but I was no longer an autograph seeker. Not that I ever really was. I think my father was more interested in that autograph than I was . . .

6. What do you think happens when we die?

What Keanu Reaves said.

7. Favorite action movie?

Die Hard. (Me and George Clooney and Ethan Hawke, just sayin'.)

8. Window or aisle seat?

Window.

9. Favorite smell?

Petrichor.

10. Least favorite smell?

Oh please.

11. What is your earliest memory?

I'm afraid it was when in nursery school I peed my pants and had to be sent home. Though you know I'm sitting here searching for something better. Like, I really wish I remembered being terrorized by the emu at the Healesville Wildlife Sanctuary in Victoria, Australia, on my third birthday, when it did its best to pluck the red ribbon out of my hair, but all I have is stories to that effect. . . . (And I'm making up the red detail there.)

12. Cats or dogs?

Both. We have (had: our beloved Milo, 15, died in January) both, and they both bring different joys. I'm not going to choose. Currently, the cats are trying to be dogs. Well, one of them is. Really hard.

13. If you could only listen to one song for the rest of your life, what is it?

Mozart's 21st piano concerto. 

14. What number am I thinking of? (Often Colbert's number is 3)

18 (that's my number. I don't care what Colbert's is)

15. Describe the rest of your life in five words.

Curious, relaxed exploration, appreciation, connection. (At least, that's what I'd like to aspire to. To quote at rather more length from a blog post of March 2016,  I hope to "keep expanding, exploring, leaping, trusting, risking, trying, while always seeking my center.")

Still thinking about travel

We have some old friends visiting, from Denmark: Jan, a Dutch naval architect who works at the Mærsk Mc-Kinney Møller Center for Zero Carbon Shipping, and Catharina, who is communications officer for vaccine-preventable diseases at WHO (though both are about to retire, at the end of June). We met them at UC Berkeley in the 1980s, and Catharina grew up in California, so this place is well known to them, though they don't visit very often anymore. 

We've spent the past couple of days wandering our local habitat, yesterday through Monterey, along Cannery Row, and into Pacific Grove along the shore; today Elkhorn Slough, a tidal estuary just north of us, and neighboring Moss Landing, a little fishing harbor. To me these places are, well, just local places—not not special, but . . . well, they're not like wandering the Langelinie in Copenhagen and bumping into the Little Mermaid, which Jan and Catharina can do any day they feel like it (and I'm betting they very rarely do). 

And so it's been very heartening to me to experience their unbridled delight in the spots we've been encountering—it's like seeing my world through fresh eyes. Which is something I rather need, given how depressing my world has become. (Yes, that's a political comment.) They are so happy just with the weather! And yes, really, it's been perfect weather—not too hot, not too cold, some sun, not too much.

Today, at the slough, we lingered on a bench, and then on a pier, just watching the bird life—a greater yellow-legs, a long-legged shorebird, something I hadn't seen in a while; a whole herd of (Brandt's?) cormorants and brown pelicans and great egrets dashing back and forth in a watery inlet, probably after baitfish; acorn woodpeckers flitting in and out of a nesting hole in an acorn-studded dead pine. These birds are unusual for J&C, but even for us, having the chance—or rather, taking the time—to simply observe them in a leisurely fashion, what a treat. Then at Moss Landing, we stood for a good twenty, thirty minutes watching, mesmerized, as maybe seventy sea lions lounged and battled and bawled and shlumped right over one another in a sandy cove, all punctuated by the insistent cry of a seagull settled into the top of a piling, and by a circling ballet of more sea lions, fins and tails raised in a thermoregulating salute, in the water. It was quite the sight, and quite the cacophony. 

Yesterday, we ducked into a shop selling alebrijes, fanciful carved wooden animals intricately painted in bright colors, and later encountered a seventeen-year-old Sulcata, or African spurred, tortoise out for a stroll near the Pacific Grove bike path (her name is Sunny; her owner is Gary). 

Here are some pictures I've taken.

A porcupine alebrije

Gary and Sunny

A yucca flower with buzzing bees

Ed Ricketts on the rec trail

The slough—so peaceful

The mob of hunting waterfowl

A few of the sea lions (and that noisy seagull)

It's been a little bit like being on vacation—and is making me feel slightly less curmudgeonly about travel (see my last couple of posts). Because although I like being a "tourist" in my own neighborhood, I really love exploring new places, and feeling that fresh delight of strangeness and discovery—which I've also been getting a glimpse of from Jan and Catharina. Gotta find your teachers where they are.

Travel-bis

I said yesterday that my traveling days may be over, but of course I have a list of places I'd still like to visit. Starting with Dubrovnik, Croatia, which I've dreamed about ever since the Los Angeles Times Magazine featured it on the front page oh, fifty-five years ago (when Dubrovnik was still in Yugoslavia). I may still have that photo stuffed away in a file drawer. Yes, I would dearly love to see Dubrovnik.

Also:
Prague
Cape Town
Rio, with a hike up the hill to visit Christ the Redeemer
Angkor Wat
Barcelona
Tbilisi

I'd like to walk the Offa's Dike Path bordering Wales and England. 

I'd like to go back to Japan, which I last visited in 1982, and before that in 1965, and spend a few months wandering through all the islands. 

Oh, and yes: Namibia, where I have been, but I didn't get to the sand dunes. I'd love to see the dunes.

What's interesting, really, is thinking about what's influenced me—to want to go to some places, not others. Why aren't I eager to visit, say, Monterrey, Mexico, or Nairobi, Kenya? Mainly, maybe, because I don't have any pictures in my head of those places? 

Though yes, I'd love to go on a safari in Kenya. 

All this makes me wonder about my fellow Americans, more than half of whom don't even have a passport. 

To spend your entire life in just one place? (Because let me just project here: I doubt the people who don't have a passport have traveled very far even in their own country.)

Weird. Seriously.

Then again, the fact that so many of my fellow countrymen could vote for the current president is beyond weird. I'm pretty sure they (the billionaires excluded) don't have passports.

And there's my political rant for today. 

100. Travel

A couple of months ago—just after our illustrious leader's attack on Iran, when I anticipated that oil prices would be rising—I booked some flights, for two trips, one to Europe to visit family in Norway, with a side trip to Berlin because I've always wanted to go; the other to Brazil, for a tour scheduled for August. The Brazilian flights were all on American, so I could book them directly with the airline, and even select seats. The European flights—eight in all, as things have stacked up—I arranged through a broker, because they covered several different air carriers. 

Shortly after I made these bookings, I saw a news story saying that Lufthansa (one of our European carriers) was canceling twelve thousand flights because of anticipated chronic aviation fuel shortages. And a few weeks ago, indeed, I received a notice that one of our flights, from Berlin to Oslo, was being rebooked—four days later. Well, um, no: we had no intention of spending most of our two-week trip in Berlin. It's Oslo we are especially invested in visiting. So I directed David (who's got phone patience) to find out if there were other options—including, potentially, simply canceling that leg and taking the train and ferry. We're in no rush, and we enjoy slower travel; we could just spend a little less time in Berlin, then proceed in a leisurely fashion to our destination. But if we did that, he was told, we'd have to rebook the entire trip. Well, um, no—wasn't there another option? Turned out, yes: fly on the originally scheduled day, and stop in Copenhagen. It's a short layover, so it's risky, but at least it's (somewhat) predictable. 

And there things stood until today, when I decided it was time to book seats on those eight flights. Which I did through the original broker. And there was no problem: except—and this isn't a problem, but it is an annoyance—we were forced to pay from $20 to $139 per person per leg. Simply to book seats. Total bill: $957. When the pleasant agent suggested Travel Protection, for only $357, I thought: all this is so tenuous as it is, it's probably a good idea. Now, I tend to think of all insurance as a ripoff and a scam, but anymore, not to have insurance can end up being unacceptably risky. (Just think health insurance, especially in this benighted country.) And fortunately, we are comfortable enough that an extra $1,300 for what started out as already a rather expensive outing doesn't send my heart racing. 

All that is a long-winded way of saying, my traveling days may be coming to an end. I already hate a lot of the travel circus—TSA, nickel-and-diming simply to bring a suitcase, the ever-shrinking seating, the lack of any amenities, always being in the last group to board the plane. But now, with Trump's stupid war, airfares will only be rising and rising and rising. And even if I might be able to afford it, it irritates me no end. (Thank god, Trump's stupid passport emblazoned with his portrait seems to be by-request only, because there is no way I would ever own such a piece of trash. I briefly considered holding my nose and using that as my illustration here, but fortunately I found Michelle Obama's passport instead. Much better!)

So much of present-day life irritates me, but the skyrocketing prices, which were completely avoidable had we had a president who wasn't intent on his own self-aggrandizement, obsessed with his "deal-making," are giving me pause. Especially since I anticipate a distinct devaluation of the dollar not too long from now—also because of Trump—so who knows how long we'll feel "comfortable enough." One other uncertainty in there being David's health, because if his cancer does "wake up" and, eventually, do him in, I will lose a significant income, what with his pension and half of his Social Security, as well as his health insurance, going away. 

But see my post #99 the other day. I also refuse to live in fear. I do not have any control over any of this, and I'm doing my best not to worry. If push came to shove, I know I/we would survive. (Well, I'm pretty sure.) I'm also trying my best to celebrate what I do have. If I have to give up traveling far and wide, I am still fortunate to live in a pretty spectacular place. There are riches of the mind right here in all the books I own. I don't really need anything beyond what I have right here, right now. 

I would miss traveling, but I'm also fortunate enough to have traveled, starting when I was three. But there are plenty of alternatives, right here—including just setting off by car and exploring this continent. Not a bad idea at all. I mustn't forget that.

And ha! I made it to #100. It only took me a year and twenty-four days. I will go back to unnumbered posts. Take the pressure off!

99. Steady on

I could have titled this entry "Sad," because that's what brought me here. Feeling sad, bereft even, at the disaster this country has become. But . . . I can't do anything about it. I can vote, and that's it. Yes, I can get out and protest, but that's for show; it doesn't accomplish anything. If the majority of people in this country are too ignorant or Fox News–informed or selfish or rich or whatever, if they really want a baby dictator and they're going to keep voting for these sycophant Republicans because it's somehow going to make their lives better? . . . well, I can't do anything about that.

But I can take care of myself. 

Today on my afternoon five-mile walk, which I try to do at least four days a week, I listened to Ezra Klein in conversation with Pema Chödrön, and it lifted my spirits. Really, all we can do is be right here, right now—which was sort of the gist of their chat. 

It reminded me, too, of the Serenity Prayer—which I've only ever heard an abbreviated version of, via Alcoholics Anonymous; not realizing it was coined by Reinhold Niebuhr. Here it is in full:

God grant me the serenity
to accept the things I cannot change;
courage to change the things I can;
and wisdom to know the difference.
Living one day at a time;
Enjoying one moment at a time;
Accepting hardships as the pathway to peace;
Taking, as He did, this sinful world
as it is, not as I would have it;
Trusting that He will make all things right
if I surrender to His Will;
That I may be reasonably happy in this life
and supremely happy with Him
Forever in the next.
Amen. 

Me, I don't hold with a God. There's obviously an order to life, but I don't believe in a "creator." Something happened there at the start—miraculous, sure, okay—and whatever it was, it kept going. But as far as I'm concerned, it's simply organic. In the above prayer? I'd cut it off just before "Trusting." Because whoever this "He" is that might make things right? He's not anywhere to be seen. (By the same token, though, if you believe in God, I have no problem with that. I hope your faith makes it easier for you to be in the world.)

Taking this sinful world as it is, not as I would have it.

That's Buddhist acceptance. Non-suffering.  

But that doesn't mean you don't push back. You can't just accept the bullshit. Which brings me back to my starting words. 

I don't accept what Donald J. Trump, or his minions in Congress and throughout government, have done to this country. I don't. But all I can do is vote.

And so: in the meantime, I will vote, in June for a gubernatorial candidate for my state; and otherwise I will continue to try to maintain a positive presence in the world. It's the least—or maybe the most—I can do.

Book Report: The Testament of Mary

10. Colm Tóibín, The Testament of Mary (2012) (5/1/26)

Several years ago, my sister-in-law Patty recommended this book to me as something not to read as a book but to listen to—in part for its narration by Meryl Streep. But I don't listen to books. So there the recommendation sat.

Then I happened to spend this last week with Patty and a good friend of hers, in Ashland, Oregon, and somewhere in there we all talked about audiobooks. And this one came up again. 

So today, on my seven-hour drive from Ashland home to Monterey . . . what better form of diversion than The Testament of Mary? Which is just over three hours long—and I managed to finish it off just as I arrived at Williams, halfway and with gas stations galore. Perfection!

And yes, what a good book, as delivered by Meryl. It's Mary mother of Jesus's story late in life, about two of the disciples coming now and hounding her (she's plainly rather fed up with them) for her story, and then she just gets into storytelling mode even without her auditors—she simply wants to remember her son, how he took up with "a group of misfits," then left home and began to perform miracles, and the final days, with the Crucifixion. In all of these, she's hovering in the background, or witnessing, or hearing a story secondhand and relating her take on things, her connection to it all. 

But even so, she's a force of her own. 

It's a literary Pietà, about memory and devotion, the worldly and the divine. And about a very real woman, who lost her only son.

I'd quote some of the writing, which is beautiful, but . . . I don't own the book. That's one of the things I dislike about listening: my mind is much better able to digest words on the page than words that float into my ears. This one might be a book I'd read—again, so to speak—to be able to really slow down with the passionate language and imagery.